The Incredible Painter

You know how sometimes when you are in the midst of an event you instantly realize it will become a family moment in years to come? Well, such an occurrence happened to me about an hour ago. For months I have been painting every room of our downstairs. I have become quite the good painter, the tired painter, the I-never-want-to pick-up-another-brush-as-long-as-I-live painter, and today my oldest son described me as The Incredible Hulk painter. I got a little mad. What’s wrong with that? We all have to blow off steam, right?

I suppose I did more resemble a tanker of explosives hit by a grenade than The Little Engine that Could. But it really was the last straw. Room after room, sore knees and arms, blisters even, and finally I have come to the end of my summer painting stint. I had one long wall to go in the dining room. I had cut in already. (For you amateurs, that’s the brushwork around the ceiling, windows, etc.) The easy part was all that remained. But I was REALLY tired. It’s been two days of non-stop, except for sleeping, painting. Last night I Saran-wrapped my brush, gave kisses and was out. This morning I awoke, unwrapped the brush and took off. So at that moment in time I wanted to be The Little Engine that Could but I was The Little Engine that Couldn’t.

I took a break. I wrote. I got my mind off all things paint. An hour later I returned to the easy last wall. One roll of the roller and I go postal! (That’s probably not politically correct to say but you can all picture me, I bet.) I start yelling. I can’t believe it has happened. “What? What’s wrong?” Three of the males of the house were home at the time. What would be worse than what was happening would be to have any of them attempt to appease me. I do believe I screamed that everyone had better stay away from me. They did. All but one – the bravest of the bunch.

You’re probably wondering what happened. When I left my plastic paint tray for that hour of restful writing the enemy called Air dried the thin layer of paint on the plastic roller pan just enough so that when I began rolling the wall teeny little flecks of hardened paint colored my wall. This had occurred one other time when I was painting my first room here and it drove me nuts. I couldn’t find the source of the never-ending flecks. I blamed the paint, the roller. It took a long time to decipher the culprit.

I knew I had to act fast. I poured the uncontaminated paint back into the paint can and washed the plastic tray. About this time in my tirade my oldest asked if he could wipe all the flecks away. Yes, please. Although, perhaps I didn’t sound so sweet. Next he re-rolled the part I’d done but more flecks came to the party. Of course they did. The incipient air-made creatures! Already they inhabited the roller. I wiped the roller with napkins, poured paint into my freshly washed pan, and finished the wall. I now have a beautiful dining room although a bit of the love-hate-love relationship between me and the dining room exists at the present moment. I need some rest to see it in all its glory.

Afterward my son said, “Do you know you were shaking? Holding the roller up in the air and shaking?” I wouldn’t be surprised. It was then that he likened me to The Incredible Hulk going from mild-mannered me (Oh, wait, that’s Clark Kent, but same principle) to lunatic in the span of a few seconds. But the beast has now quieted, we made a memory and now I have a funny new nickname. He called me The Incredible Painter, right? That's how I remember it.

Have a great weekend, my readers. Stay away from paint. I know I will.

~ Maureen

Serendipity

For the past decade summer holiday weekends have come and gone. My husband and I sit at home at the end of them and wonder where the days went. This Labor Day weekend was different. Friday we went out with our boys and had a lot of fun. Saturday we sweltered in 95 degree humidity at a pig roast and had a ball. We ate, we visited, we watched our boys play in a cornhole tournament. Sunday brought a family picnic where I made a special point to talk to every single person. I mean - what's the point of having a family picnic if you don't talk to your family?

Yesterday my husband and I braved the dark skies to go to the county fair. We basically went there for lunch. Started out with a funnelcake, followed by a corndog, chocolate covered banana, washed it down with a root beer float. Next added a veggie to the gastric delight in the form of a buttered corn ear. Yum! Slushed that with a lemon shake. And then we went home. It cost a fortune but it's once a year.

For the first time in forever I actually hosted a little picnic after I went out somewhere in the day. That never happens because I am always a crazy person running around getting the house and food ready. I would never entertain the thought of leaving my house to have some fun. However, with all the lovely home improvements we have made to our home in the last few months I have gained much more confidence and feel much better in my home. It's a wonderful feeling.

Two hours before company arrived I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. That would never have occurred in past years. The day was leisurely and when company arrived we all had a good time eating and visiting.

My dad used to call it serendipity. You just don't know what will happen unless you try. So I tried and I succeeded in enjoying a very fun long weekend. Now it's back to reality and painting my dining room. Ugh! This morning I looked at every item in the room and asked myself, "Now where can you go instead of being in the dining room?" And then I lugged them all wherever. The dining room is the last major room which needs painted. Back to the grind but with happy memories behind me.

~ Maureen

God, What Do You Want of Me This Day?

The past two days have been quite peaceful and one reason exists for this lovely outcome: I started writing again. It may sound silly but throughout this remodeling project which began in May my primary focus had shifted. I no longer wrote. My excuses were many. No place to write free of drywall dust and noise. I could not gather my thoughts. I had no words in my head. Well, that last one turned out to be a lie because since I told myself that I would write I have miraculously pulled words from my brain each day. And it feels good. Writing is now my primary purpose. Every time I try to go away from it, consciously or not, God gently nudges me back. And thank You, God for that!

I give credit where credit is due. Without the little pushes from God where would we all be? Left to our own devices I shudder to think what our familes' lives would be like. We kicked God out of schools - can't pray - separation of church and state, don't you know - and look what's happened to our schools. If God is not welcome why should He stay? Don't get me started on all the ways our great country's so-called leaders have shoved God aside. If we feel unwelcome somewhere do we stick around? If we are made to feel like the outsider we find somewhere else that welcomes us.

So it is with God. He gives everyone plenty of time and resources to look his way. He's waved red flags right in front of my face many a time. Sometimes I listened; sometimes I didn't. And whenever I didn't listen I suffered in some way. We all do. The smarter ones realize it and do something about it.

I wish you the peace and quiet to hear God's voice today. Ask Him what He wants of you this one day. It's going to be something that you can handle. I promise. Give it try. It's as easy as "God, what do you want of me this day?"

~ Maureen

Smell-o-vision

Hello Everyone - that is, if anyone is still checking my blog! It has been over a year since I have written. Many reasons. None of them really all that great. But here I am again. In cyberspace with you. My site is in need of an overhaul. I know that. The other blogs associated with this site are hopelessly out-of-date. Don't bother clicking over there unless you're in the mood for retro fun.

I have had one of those "Why did this have to happen to me?" moments and wanted to share.

First of all, me and mine have been living through a complete remodeling of our first floor. And we are doing the work ourselves. So far we have demolished our kitchen and bathroom and put up new drywall. We have only one bathroom. Truth in disclosure compels me to write that someone else did do the drywall. However we are all so sick of living in an unfinished house we can hardly stand it.

About three weeks ago we saw light at the end of the tunnel and are now on the downside. New kitchen, new paint, new windows, new carpet. Which brings me to this afternoon. I have been a bit of a slug lately. I am tired of painting. The painting belongs to me exclusively. Why? Because I don't trust any of my men to do it as neatly as I do it. Not conceited - fact! So this afternoon I tell myself I must paint. Another day cannot go by without my painting something.

I get the supplies and settle in the bathroom. And I do mean settle - all more-than-120-pounds-of-me (Writer's license, don't you know!) I choose to paint the woodwork on the floor all around the toilet. It's the most difficult and I am going to tackle it. So down I go onto the floor. Sometimes I paint with my left hand because that's the hand that can reach whatever spot needs slathered with paint.

And all the time I am doing this I smell pee. Why can't the grown men in the house have better aim? I mean really! This is a brand new bathroom. Let's step up - literally and figuratively. I continue in my contorted fashion until my paintbrush finds what I will call a short curly hair. I wanted to puke. On I went careful to paint as neatly as I could. The linear feet of painting was less than 11 feet but it took me at least an hour.

I struggle up and go into the kitchen to check my dinner. It's all burned up, billowing smoke inaugurating my new kitchen. How freaking special! I have not been cooking very long in my new kitchen and never once have I remembered that I now possess a range hood with an exhaust fan. I think I'm going to make a sign. Maybe that will register in my brain. "You have fan, Moron. Use it!" So I turn on the fan and open the windows. And I look at the 12 burned up brats that really are a favorite of ours accompanied with sauerkraut that's been simmered in the pan drippings. No pan drippings here. Chunks of carbon.

I simply give up. There may be a Plan B but I'm not instigating it. Pizza Hut $10 carryout sounds good to me. Hubby can do that. I come in here to complain to my friend Julie via e-mail. Everyone should have a Julie friend. I don't know what I would do without mine. As I write to her I think of you, and want to share my ridiculous tale with you. I nearly forgot my password it has been so long since I've written. I finally remembered it and was good to go. The fingers are typing, the smoke is filtering out of my house. But from where is that strong smell of smoke emanating? Oh, it's me. My clothes and my freshly cut and washed hair all reek of smoke. But at least I don't smell like pee!

~ Maureen

Well-loved Faces

If God has a purpose for every one of His creations, what is His purpose for me? Sometimes I wonder. God has definitely opened up a whole new chapter of my life forcing me out of my old routine and into a new, dealing with the day-to-day worries associated with my parents’ recent move into assisted living. It consumes me. My parents are always on my mind, and when I sleep I often dream of them. It’s hard to get away. But maybe that’s because God doesn’t want me to get away. He knows how much time my parents have left on this earth; He knows what’s coming. And He knows how much I will miss them when they’re gone. So maybe, just maybe, He’s pushing me to spend as much time with them as I can – while I can.

God knows my heart. He knows I can’t say no to the responsibility. Everybody tells me to visit less frequently. My husband, my friends, even the facility staff wonders why I feel the need to stop by nearly every day. But none of them knows what my parents have done for me my entire life. My parents have given me unconditional love since the second I was born, sacrificing, working hard, to form the kind of environment where love flourishes in abundance.

And now, there they are in a new, confusing environment. No matter how attractive I try to make their surroundings, when they wake up each day they’re not waking up at “the farm,” the home they’ve loved for 38 years – the home they found one day in 1972. I was in the eighth grade and I hated the place! I didn’t want to leave the only home I’d ever known. I had no vision; my parents had immense foresight and the energy to make their dream a reality. Remodeling took one solid year, but once it was complete and we moved in, it was positively a lovely place to live. The farm was home.

As much as I know my parents are where they need to be, they are not “home.” In times to come, perhaps they will begin to feel at home in their two connected rooms, but until then they need family around them whenever possible. If they are no longer able to see well-loved treasures, they need to see well-loved faces. And so, they will see mine as often as possible no matter what. My purpose is clear.

Trust - A Two-way Street

I wonder if moms fully comprehend the immense power they hold in their hands. Once a child is born a mother lives for her child. Her reason to be is forever altered – tipped toward the best interest of the child. No decision is made without considering the welfare of that child. I really can’t remember what my priorities were during the brief B.C. (before children) years. I wanted to get through school, marry and have kids. I guess that was about it back then.

And BOOM…five children in six years, the death of one, and life with four remaining boys followed.

I was never a casual mom. I took the responsibility quite seriously. My boys were my world. And they knew it; they felt it. They were my gift from God, and I treated them accordingly, perhaps because I knew they were only on loan – mine for a short while. God could reclaim what was His; He’d done it once.

We five were like one entity for many years. My husband orbited at work providing the necessities of life, but my boys were mine. A great pleasure and an awesome responsibility. I never asked why God took one child back so soon; I never quite understood what I’d ever done to deserve the other four.

Looking into my boys’ eyes I saw love and trust shining back at me. My sons knew that they could count on me no matter what throughout all phases of their lives. They shared their joy, and came to me in times of trouble. And I thought that was about the best feeling in the world. Until today.

This afternoon one of my brothers and I attended a family meeting to chart the progress which my dad has made since entering rehabilitation after a debilitating fall. My dad is a week shy of 90 years old, and very “with it,” so he, too, attended the meeting. All therapists praised his efforts and detailed his on-going goals to regain the life he had pre-fall. Back and forth we listened and talked for nearly an hour. The goal uppermost in my dad’s mind is to join my mom, his wife of 69 years, in assisted living. This is why he works so hard at therapy. Toward the end of our discussion the therapists asked my dad what he thought would be best. Without hesitation, in a strong clear voice Pop said, “I trust my son and daughter completely to decide what is best for me.”

A definite Kodak moment.

My mind has not completely wrapped itself around the immensity of trust proclaimed in that one short sentence. It’s one thing when day-by-day we gain the trust of our own children. They’re little. Babies are born as trusting beings counting on their parents to care for them. So if we moms do it right, we do gain our children’s trust. But to have the man who gave life to his children put his life back into his children’s hands is the greatest gift he could ever give us. As with my boys, I can’t seem to figure out what I ever did to deserve such a father. Pop is my gift from God, and I will treat him accordingly because I know he is on loan – mine for a short while.

Blessing vs. Burden Mindset

The Monday after Mother’s Day, I hit a wall. I couldn’t wake up and stay awake – I just couldn’t do it. I had been running on empty for so long visiting my parents at their new “home” every day, talking to nurses and aides and therapists of all sorts. Running everywhere; doing everything. Signing papers I never wanted to think about let alone sign. DNR were merely three letters to me a month ago. But oh the difference a month makes. Do Not Resuscitate…two people I love most.

Family meetings, dispersal of a lifetime of memories as well as the garden variety of possessions and plain old junk. How long will this take? It boggles the mind. Never have I been more grateful that I’m not an only child. And never have I been more grateful that my parents took the time and made the sacrifices to make their family what it is today. The part of me that is them is getting me through this difficult time.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday I just couldn’t seem to get it together. My reserves were clean spent. My burden mindset held me tight within its clutches. How could I keep going? I couldn’t do it anymore. And I wasn’t very happy with God. How could this be happening? What did He expect of me? How much does one person have to take? I wasn’t exactly Pollyanna before all of this.

I’ve never quite mastered the mom-of-four-men role yet. The mom-of-four-boys was my forte for years – my reason to wake up in the morning. But then they all grew up. And as they grew their messes grew proportionately. Their little problems were bumps in the road of life 10 years ago; now each is responsible for their own life-altering decisions. And I can’t help them. Letting go is my primary mom role right now.

And letting go is my secondary role with my parents. I know it. And I hate it. Every time I think of my mom alone in her new room I want to cry. Yet every time I visit my dad he is remarkably improved. Pop is working his hardest at physical therapy each day because he is thinking first of his wife’s well-being. He knows that once they can be together in one room that my mom will feel better. He’s probably right. After all, he’s known her since she was 16 years old. For 74 years she has been his best friend.

With all these emotions swirling around in me it’s a wonder I kept it together as long as I had. But long about Thursday I knew I had to rejoin the land of the living – somehow. God knew I was kind of mad at Him. But still I asked His help. No amount of sleep or running away would do the trick. I needed God’s help. And, of course, He gave it to me.

Even though I had been an ungrateful child whose family and friends had bombarded heaven with prayer requests which God had graciously granted, apparently that wasn’t enough for me. How soon I’d forgotten what God had done. My dad didn’t die when he conked his head on concrete. My dad is getting stronger. My parents are as together as they can be two halls away from each other. They are safe and well cared for, seeing each other every day.

And I think I have it rough! But that’s me. I require reality checks, and never once have the checks been pleasant. It amuses me to realize how much I complain to God about my boys-turned-men. Who does God complain to about me?

I needed the blessing mindset. Walking through my parents’ house I spied so many treasures that mean the world to me. But where on earth will they fit in this already bulging house of junk? Lack of storage has been a much-preferred lament for years. Suddenly the light bulb brightened above my head. God showed me the way. He gave me the guts to tell my dear darlings that they WILL comply – or else. And He gave me the needed energy to devise and begin implementing the plan. I feel differently because it’s not me against them; it’s me and God against them. I know God’s not against my kids, not really. He’s just “for” what’s right. And part of what will make this whole situation better is working together to improve this house. The “ending” of my parents’ home is a new beginning for my home.

I’ve always felt that I’ll never truly grow up until I don’t have my parents any longer. They’ve been my rock since Day One. So I can’t reject these last lessons of maturing even though I’d rather fly away to Never Never Land with Peter. So I stay and plan and do and take one day at a time recognizing all the small as well as great blessings God bestows on me even during my most troubled times.

Nice to Be Back

It's been such a long time since I have written on my blog. Thank you to all who have prayed for me and mine. My dad has steadily improved, and both parents have moved into Assisted Living. My Marine is doing great. The past month has both flown and dragged. Falling into bed each night hasn't left much time for writing but a couple weeks ago I started my column back up at CatholicMom.com and would like to share with you those columns.

A was going strong writing on this blog every day until the big derailment. So now I shall write when I can but I know it won't be every day. Thanks for reading.

Is Honesty Always the Best Policy?

Where do I begin…to tell the story of how strange a time it’s been? These last four weeks have been a blur. It all began one afternoon when my almost 90-year-old dad fell and cracked his head open on the concrete. How my almost 91-year-old mom had the presence of mind to phone my brother is still beyond me. Yet she didn’t think to call 911 or punch the button on her own I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up-bracelet. There my dad lay in a pool of blood.

Since then our family has seen a hospital stay for my dad, and round-the-clock care for my mom, followed by THE MOVE for my dad into a skilled nursing facility, and my mom into the assisted living side. We knew the day would eventually come. And now it’s here. Luckily, we were somewhat prepared after having toured a place we all liked a few months ago – as much as the word “like” can be used in these circumstances.

So for the past weeks my life has not been my own in any conceivable way, shape or form. I have another life. What I once did, I no longer do. My house is a shambles. We eat out nearly every day. My writing consists only of daily e-mail updates to friends and family.

This is early May when my flowerbeds should all be cleaned out. I should be shopping at nurseries for colorful flowers to stick in the ground. Instead I am hit full force each day with the fragility and mortality of two people whom I love most in all the world. I realize my mom’s forgetfulness is so much more than mere forgetfulness; I watch my dad struggle to raise a two pound bar in physical therapy.

Sitting next to my mom at dinner on Mother’s Day, she turned to me and asked, “Is anything new with you?”

“No, Mom, not much.” Sometimes you just have to lie.

Prayers, Please

Could try to be witty, but am too tired. Please pray for my dad who was admitted to the hospital today after a fall on Monday; for Micah, the Marine about whom I've written whose truck ran over an IED yesterday in Afghanistan leaving him with a head injury; and a little girl in San Diego who is having a medical procedure on Friday. More later, but no idea when.

When it rains, it freaking pours!

Hot Off the Presses!

From the first all-MAMAZINA issue ~ launched online 4/11/10

*Women's Voices Unite*

Just Another Manic Momday
Recapturing the flag
by Moi

Brightly colored ribbons tie up my childhood memories; heavy black damask suffocated my morning. It began so innocently. Did I really want to eat oatmeal for the umpteenth day in a row? No, I did not, but I dutifully boiled the gruel in hopes of raising my HDL. Just needed the finishing touches of Splenda® and yummy fat-free milk. (She said dripping with sarcasm.) Not one drop of milk in the house. The thieves drank every bit. It’s bad enough my dear darlings suck down every ounce of liquid within hours of restocking, but milk for my oatmeal is sacrosanct. Or so I thought.

What I want to do is hurl the pan out the window. Instead I storm upstairs to write. Settling in front of my laptop I connect to the Internet. I connect to the Internet. I connect…$@&%!!!!! Oh, this is too much. Is the problem with the desktop? Plod. Plod. Plod. Down the steps. Unplug the modem. Count to the end of my patience. Plug it back in. Nothing. I glance at the clock realizing a group of friends will be gathering for breakfast at a familiar spot. I dash out the door; I throw off the damask.

Visiting my friends brightens my mood, albeit a temporary measure at best, scratching the surface of a deep set desire to be anywhere but here. Here at home? Here at this stage of my life? Yes and yes. But where to go?

“In ’69 I was 21 and I called the road my own. I don’t know when that road turned onto the road I’m on.”

But I want to know. I’m tired of running on empty. So Jackson Browne and I drive – reminded of a time eons ago, pre-GPS, when I chose a road, any road, and cruised my ’63 Chevy Super Sport convertible for hours until I felt like turning around. Doesn’t take a mental giant to realize that if you stay on the same road you never get lost.

Or do you?

I may not be sure where I’m going, but I do know where I’ve been. And that’s where my car steered me – on a trip down memory lane. 45 minutes later I’m driving past abandoned rubber factories. Goodyear, Goodrich, Firestone, Seiberling, General Tire. No production for years. No more flashing “Go Go Goodyear” sign visible from high atop the bridge. Skies clear of the black, billowing smoke. City clear of jobs and people.

This is my exit. This is my street. OK, I’m getting close. Slow down. Almost there. Girard? Girard! My Lord, I missed my own house! I double back down the alley. The alley I’d crossed a million times running to Mrs. Sutherland’s house to water her endless display of dazzling flowers standing proud in their built-up brick flowerbeds. All the lovely flowerbeds are ripped out. Every one. A big brown fence separates her yard from the neighbor’s.

On my left is the ride-your-bike-all-day-long-in-the-churchyard church. Me and my 10-speed cruised every inch of the gargantuan lot. Surely I wasn’t three inches tall as a child, was I? What other explanation could there be to explain this miniscule blacktopped strip? This is not the churchyard of my dreams. But here’s where Mrs. Starcher’s garden bordered the lot. A child took her life in her hands attempting to retrieve a lost bouncy ball clumping through the prized veggies.

I drive all five car lengths into the churchyard. Yep, it’s still standing – the five foot high “thing” I used to be able to jump up on if I tried really hard. And the forbidden steps leading up to the forbidden church. Some grown up must have gotten smart over the years and blocked the clandestine rendezvous spot of curious 10-year-olds. But the big wide steps in front of the church are exactly the same as I recall. Identical. They look just as they looked for all those slides down the banisters. They must be the exact same banisters.

Five houses made up my little block. And not a fence in sight as I was growing up. Sadly, I barely glimpse my backyard for all the fences this day. I drive around to the front. What happened to the beautiful white porch with the porch swing? And the bushes? And how on earth did the front lawn shrink so much? I played statue tag for hours on the sprawling grass in my bare feet. Do my eyes further deceive me? This cannot be Mrs. Reed’s driveway. Or Mrs. Reed’s house or lawn or porch about which I have written so many stories of my youth. One word comes to mind: Travesty!

Undaunted, I drive to my grade school, past the park where the Cinderella coach used to be. A boy carved his and my initials in the paint. How terribly romantic. Long gone. Junk yard scrap. Boo hoo. Here’s the parking lot where I played kickball. I loved kickball. Happily, this looks the same with only the addition of handicapped parking signs. Come to think of it, I had volleyball practice on this very lot in 7th and 8th grades. Go Tigers!

The windows of the school are boarded up. The little alcove on the playground where Monica, Lorraine and I sought solace from the fast runners, Tom and Jerome, is no more. Enormously tall slide also vanished. I was a chicken, but when I finally got up the nerve it was such fun bulleting down. A two-way street is now one-way, but I persevere to drive the exact route I’d walked home from school every single day for eight years. Like riding a bike, I don’t forget a single turn. Those big condos can’t fool me either. This is really the big vacant lot I cut through to save time. My footprints are imbedded under the foundations. I’m halfway home.

Hoover’s Pharmacy. Did you know that “pharmacy” is a fancy name for candy store? I don’t believe I ever walked past Hoover’s once; I always walked in. Walked in to peruse the cornucopia of penny candy back when a penny bought something. The old man behind the candy counter (He was probably 16 years old!) was incredibly patient with the afterschool crowd of persnickety penny-toting, penny-loafered babies. Sixlets were my favorite.

Past the cleaners was Patterson’s Hardware store. Still selling hardware, but not owned by my dad’s friend, Harvey, any longer. I bought my first bicycle license from Harvey, or more precisely, Mister Patterson. You know, back when being an adult garnered respect from children? Of course, not one establishment remains the same today. Vacant or different enterprises. Asian markets seem to be a big hit. And fences. So many fences.

On I walk…I mean drive…home from school. The special twistyturny bushes are still there. Each day I’d wander off the beaten path, onto the twisty path and back out again. Such fun.

Where is my sister’s handprint illegally squished into the cement sidewalk? I’m close. I know I’m close, but how can I see it from the car? I park and get out searching the small stretch of sidewalk…to no avail. But most of the break-your-mother’s-backs are snow-covered. Another trip for a spring day? I think so. It would mean so much to me to see my sister’s handprint.

Almost home, I pass the Watts’ house. I cannot begin to relate the endless fun enjoyed within those four walls with my best friend, Judy. Here’s the big brick porch we jumped off in the fall – straight down into the soft pile of fallen leaves.

And I am home.

It took forever to walk this mile as a child. As an adult, in a car, I can practically see my house from school. Again I say, I must have been a three inch child.

Two more stops in my looking glass: library and pizza place. The library where I selected my very first library book – Finders Keepers. How I hope the library will be open. I will go in and find the book smudged with my fingerprints. Unfortunately, the library is a daycare center with very high fence all around. Ever the sleuth, I make out the rusty residue from the removed metal letters: James H. Chamberlain Branch. Yep, this is really it; my young mind remembered correctly. How often had I walked through those doors?

Final stop: A Gild Pizza – the best sausage pizza in the entire world – bar none. They haven’t altered their recipe in all these years. My whole life I have been ruined for any other sausage pizza. I make do with pepperoni when I must. You really can’t screw that up. But my first and only pizza love will ever be A Gild Pizza. Today I ordered a medium double sausage pizza, and ate half of it in the car while driving home to my grown up home as overflowing happiness flooded my heart.

I captured the flag! Retrieved my ribbons once more. So what if there are fences everywhere. I’ve been in all those places. Those places belong to me, and I to them. Fences may keep others out, but not me. I’m in every room, all over the churchyard, in the school cafeteria, up in Judy’s attic, and dancing through the puddles in Mrs. Reed’s drive – memories locked in my heart forever and always.

Hey, want to know a secret? Want to know what’s better than a piping hot piece of A Gild sausage pizza? Four pieces of cold sausage pizza for breakfast. LDL be damned!

***Check out the rest of the mag! Many more columns, essays, profiles, poetry, reviews and a special feature on Antigone Rising. www.mamazina.com - formerly Mom Writer's Literary Magazine.

Happy Reading!

Day Three in the Windy City

Day Three in Chicago:

What a lot of food! Last night we had dinner at Ditka’s Steakhouse. When the menu listed “Sides to Share” we should have taken the “to share” part a little more seriously. Very big portions and so tasty! Another bonus was our waiter. Very personable guy who made the experience even more enjoyable.

This morning Mass in the cathedral after another helping of the unsurpassed breakfast buffet at the hotel. Lowkey so far here in Chicago. Hope to actually sight-see later this afternoon and tomorrow. Otherwise I’ll go home, people will ask what I saw, and I’ll have to say, “Not much!” Did see The Bean today – a huge shiny stainless steel structure sculpted by Anish Kapoor. Pretty cool! Odd but cool. PR name is Cloud Gate, but I sure see why it’s nicknamed “The Bean.” Looks just like a huge shiny bean.

I keep taking my life in my hands each time I hail a cab. And I thought I was a city girl! Ha! Not a “big” city girl, that’s for sure. My husband thinks that maybe when we arrive back home I won’t complain so much about leaping up into his truck anymore. I hate to admit it but he is right. His truck is just too darn high, but I will definitely be happier and feel safer behind the wheels of our familiar vehicles on our safe roads without crazy drivers who seem to love to take chances with other people’s lives. Perhaps I have some of the Cowardly Lion in me as well as Dorothy! But better a live chicken than a dead duck!

What will this afternoon and tomorrow bring? Only time will tell.

Windy City - Day Two

Day Two in Chicago began with the most delicious breakfast buffet. Individual ready-to-serve Eggs Benedict huddled to keep warm beneath silver domed serving trays, as well as a chef at-the-ready to concoct any omelet my little heart desired. Smoked salmon, brie, salami with more actual meat than fat, every breakfast mainstay imaginable, as well as fruits and danishes. I had to remind myself that I can return tomorrow to prevent gastric overload today. Mmm…so good.

And now what? A leisurely day ahead. I could read, write, watch TV, people-watch. I could do anything I “wanted” to do as there’s nothing I “have” to do. I’m not used to such leisure. I’m usually doing or going. This empty expanse of time seems foreign. When I left for breakfast the marvelous maid sneaked in, made my bed and cleaned my room. Fresh towels, empty wastebaskets. That doesn’t happen at home.

I can only imagine the hours it would have taken to prepare a fraction of the foods on the breakfast buffet. And the clean up? I am further in awe that all these many buildings with sky-touching floors are filled with people. I’m looking out as I sit on the 11th floor to see three more buildings reaching ever higher. And I see directly into their curtain-less windows. I’m fascinated. Must have a bit of Hitchcock/Jimmy Stewart in me. Rear Window, remember? Voyeur, but in the more cleaned up sense!

This world is so different from mine. As delectable as breakfast was I was not impressed by the surroundings. Too big, too open and too noisy. Every time someone moved their chair in toward the table or pushed themselves back, squeeeeak. Every single time. I was reminded of similar stools in high school. The smart teachers asked the children to bring in tennis balls. Cut the tennis balls in half, secure one on each leg and – voila – no more squeaking. Chicago could learn a thing or two.

I am staying in a ritzy hotel; it’s no Red Roof Inn. But the room, like the restaurant this morning, is cold and stark. Too much chrome, glass and black for my liking. But that’s me. I’m sure others find it chic. I guess I’m more old-fashioned. Which leads me to believe that while taking everything good into consideration so far – buffets, maid service, leisure – I’m with Dorothy: There’s no place like home. And I’ll be happy to return, but, while here in the Windy City I will enjoy all it has to offer such as museums, the aquarium and restaurants to name just a few. More tomorrow…

Must-a Got Lost!

Don't know what happened to yesterday's post. I posted it. Oh well. So I'll post two new ones for you to read today.

Yesterday's:

I’m in Oprah’s backyard tonight. Flew into Chicago this afternoon. I positively love flying on airplanes. Haven’t done it very often which is why it hasn’t lost its appeal, I suppose. How can men shut their eyes, put in earphones and go to sleep? Don’t they realize what they’re missing?

The greens and tans and browns of the earth below. The skinny winding roads. All those boxes of varying sizes called houses and businesses so far away. And the clouds! I can’t decide if they look more like marshmallow or snow. I think this may be why I am not afraid of flying. It’s surreal; Take your pick: either fluffy mounds of marshmallow crème or mountain after snow-covered mountain. What’s to spook?

And I trust the pilot – you know, the total stranger I’ve never met before in my life. I trust him. I place my safety in his hands without worry.

The cabbies, however, are a different story. So far, three rides today, and tomorrow I think I shall do much more walking. Yikes! It’s a free-for-all. Whose got the biggest, shall we say, nerve, wins the road. Now this is spooky.

As I was gazing out the airplane window incredulous at the sleeping beauties I realized that in my everyday life I take just as much, if not more, for granted. The sky at home is no less awesome; I’m just looking up instead of down. The birds that fly by don’t usually get but a passing glance from me. Why don’t I feed them? Why don’t I welcome them into my yard?

And what about the wonder that is found in my children’s eyes? So what if they’re 19-24 years old now? Does that matter at all? Why aren’t they still the daily miracles they were when they were younger…and I was younger? One of my sons has a fleck of gold in his right eye. When was the last time I searched for it? This particular dear child is also the exact height to make it possible to hear his heart beat perfectly when I lay my head against his chest as I hug him. Why don’t I hug him every day come rain or come shine? Why do I let stupid stuff get in the way? Why do I let days pass without experiencing the wonder that is motherhood?

I made these kids (with a little help from their dad) and I know them better than anyone. When and why did I allow the magic to fade away? Much to think about.

How To Find God 101

Psalm 102: 1-3

“The prayer of one afflicted and wasting away whose anguish is poured out before the Lord.

Lord, hear my prayer; let my cry come to you.
Do not hide Your face from me now that I am in distress.
Turn Your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly.”

I love the last few words of this excerpt: “Answer me quickly.” How true is that? That’s what we want. We want our answers given quickly, painlessly and usually in the affirmative. But that isn’t always the case, now, is it? Sometimes our answers are years in the making, and when we finally get the answer it is a big resounding, “No!” And then we must rely on the belief that God knows best. He must, in His all-knowing, all-seeing manner, know that a “yes” would hurt us, would not be right for us.

Hard to believe at times, but true. So on we plod along the path of our journey…toward Him. And as we move forward in this life our eyes mustn’t be focused on God to the exclusion of those around us, or we miss the God in everyone we see, everyone we hear. And we lose the opportunities to touch, to reach out to those in need. We become loners neither helping nor receiving. No man or woman is an island. Those who try to be are the saddest of sad. Miserable and lonely.

The fastest cure if we feel ourselves slipping to the dark side is to help another person in need. Find someone to raise up, to hold up, to praise, to love. Find another person who needs God and you will find God.

Let Go and Let God

Sometimes as moms we just have to let go. And trust God.

We used to think sleepless nights with newborns were hard. How did we survive the sleep deprivation? And juggling two kids, then three or more every waking moment. How hard was that? Going to the grocery store week after week keeping track of them all. Being on pins and needles quieting children during Mass. Visiting everywhere on holidays. Scheduling, ferrying them all here and there. Attempting to be in two places at once when children had special, yet conflicting, events.

How did we survive the school years? All those rules. Then the older years when rules seemed to fly out the window. I don't remember opening the window, but away they flew. We take so much from our children all in the name of love. Yet they take more from us. Just when we think we have a good handle on this thing called motherhood, we are thrown for a loop.

We can't do a thing...and we know it. For the first time in our lives, The Supreme Mom Authority, can do nothing to alleviate our child's pain. We have to sit back and watch. We have to let go. How do we survive it?

Do we survive it?

Quick Hi

Time only for a very quick hi. Hi! I hope all is well with you. More tomorrow.

Happy Days Make Happy Lives

And how was your Easter? I had a great one! Sadly, I am not a person who usually happily anticipates holidays. A bit of a skeptic. Many tiring, long holidays under my belt in the past 20 some years. But from morning Mass, through three house visits to the leftovers before bed, all went well. Unexpected pleasures. Start of a good week I hope!

Happy Easter

Easter Blessings to all!

Food for Thought

Why is it that the dinner we work so hard to make takes our family only minutes to consume? My family and I just finished our Easter meal a day early. And it was good if I do say so myself! With a goodly amount of leftovers. Yum!

Gearing up for the Easter Vigil - all two hours plus of it. Although this Mass is mighty long it tells our story - a story we need to hear every year. I am looking forward to it. Ritual is important. Helps us remember who we are. Just as it was important for me to have my family around our dinner table, it is even more important to sit around God's table and partake of the Food He offers - the Food which took a lifetime to create. And at such a high price! I'll think of that tonight as I receive Commnunion.

Don't work too hard tonight, Easter Bunnies!

Triduum Thoughts

Oh my goodness – not many winks of sleep last night at all. And you know why? Because I’m torqued about the Triduum. Of all things! What is happening to me? It’s become so special. One long Church feast. I like thinking of it in that way. Sadly, I am the only one in my house who feels this way, but one is better than none, right?

Last night’s Mass was lovely. Growing up I never had experienced the washing of the feet, so it’s extra special to me now. I will always remember who washed my feet and whose feet I washed last night. There is a closeness among friends who choose to be at Mass – who don’t feel like they have to be there, but want to be there.

Today is much of the same. I’m watching a Passion mime this afternoon put on by 8th graders that is special beyond words, and then, of course, The Passion is this evening which is probably the most moving thing I have ever witnessed. So I am accomplishing all the many Easter chores today – cookies, pies, salads and more to come – all on way too little sleep. Maybe I can catch a cat nap somewhere in this busy day.

But as I experience the dragging feeling that always comes with diminished sleep, as well as the dull headache which attaches itself to my brain, I gladly accept these tiny inconveniences – especially on this day – this day when Jesus suffered and died for me…and for you. My aches aren’t from nails, and my headache’s not from thorns.

May God bless you today.