Half Cent Watch Night Party

How exciting to prepare for the long New Year's Eve night activities! Everyone would gather in the fellowship hall of the church for a covered dish supper - we were there for set up at 4 pm.

I loved covered dish suppers. There was always Mrs. Putnam's home made tapioca pudding - so light, creamy and fluffy you could eat a barrel full and think you were in heaven. And Mrs. Hayes' home made white cake with coconut frosting - oh, man. And the Mrs. Bearis' pastries were to die for. I have never tasted anything like it since - Hungarian as I recall. And the usual goulash, scalloped potatoes, fresh yeast rolls, real butter, green bean casseroles, Jello, - I can smell the amazing aromas even now, all mixed in with coffee, tea, and Koolaid.

I would eat and eat and eat until I could barely breathe. What a treat not to worry about whether all the brothers and sisters were getting their fair share. This was a smorgasbord of all-you-want. We kids sat at little tables and chowed down while the adults took their time, interspersing eating with conversation.

After we ate, the game tables were set up and we got to play checkers, chess, Monopoly, Parcheesi and other board games with adults! It was so much fun beating them (and seeing them grin because we both knew they allowed it).

Most of the time, I managed to get out of the game playing, unless some adult insisted that I play. I preferred running around and investigating all the little closets and crannies of the grand old building, playing in the sand box, and watching the babies get fed their bottles. I was free to go wherever I wanted and nobody bothered me or worried over me.

Eventually, my Dad would ring the bell and we would wind up our activities and head into the sanctuary to end the old year and begin the new in prayer. We started out with a hymn and a Scripture reading and a short meditation. Then we commenced praying silently and out loud as a group.

This was the hardest part for me. I struggled to keep my eyes open during the long and drawn out praying the adults did. I knew I was supposed to be repenting of my sins and waiting on God to direct me in the upcoming year's activities. But my head would drop down, then jerk up with a start as I dozed off mid thought. Sometimes I knelt, just because I was so tired and it was easier to pretend to be awake from a kneeling position.

The men's voices would drone on and on and on and at some point, I fell deep asleep. All of Mom's poking and pinching could not keep an eager child awake. When at last the praying was over, everyone greeted each other with wishes for a Happy New Year. Mom would rouse us and wriggle us into our coats, pushing us out into the cold night air and into the chilly car for the ride home.

I groaned and cried and stumbled along, shivering and whining. Not an auspicious start to the new year. I just wanted to be snuggled down in my own little bed and left alone. Yet every year I looked so forward to the Watch Night service. In my teens and twenties, this ritual took on much more significance, and now that there are no more Watch Night services, I miss them.

I do my own version of them at home alone, but I no longer wait for 11:30 to begin. I simply make my peace with God before bed, reaching out in prayer and song and Scripture, connecting with the most important person last in the old year and first in the new.

I wish you a great 2011, and a tight connection with the good Lord that lasts you all year.

Where Did the Time Go

I can't believe it is time to head back to New York. It seems as if we just arrived. I haven't had nearly enough hugs and kisses and silly games with my girls. Sugar is still learning how to harass the littlest dog Grace. Not to mention the parrot. But leave we must. Our time is up.

In the predawn gray of morning, I rise, make the comfy bed, and tuck my things back in my black duffel bag. It doesn't take me long. I have learned over the years to travel light. Make do. Basics only, and don't kid yourself that you will actually *do* anything like work or read or projects while you are there, even if you wanted to.

I tiptoe to the bathroom and then quietly make my way to the living room where I awaken Kiel. He grunts and rolls over, resisting rising. Drew is even worse to get started in the morning. Come on, boys. We need to get on the road and underway so we get home before midnight. I pile my few things near the door.

DJ comes out to say goodbye, followed by Katie, half asleep and sweet in her innocence. Kelly slowly wanders in our direction while the boys struggle to get packed and arrange the car and the dog for our long drive. I hug everyone. I hug them again. I whisper "love you's" in their ears and they cuddle their heads on my shoulder.

I want to kidnap them, tuck them in the back seat and take off. But I know I can't. They would miss their Mom and Dad terribly. And I haven't the energy to keep up with their activity. Running, jumping, playing, giggling, painting, romping with the dogs, chasing ducks, turning somersaults - I get tired just watching them!

We climb in the car, pray, and head up the long steep driveway to the street. I look back. They are inside, probably already back in bed snoozing happily, delaying their sadness at not having Gramma and Unc's to spend their day with. And Sugar. They love Sugar. Sugar gazes confused at me, whining quietly. She does not understand.

It is a long and quiet morning. No one talks, no music, no audio book. Each of us wanders in our own world, missing our cuties and recalling the sweet kisses and hugs, the laughter and happiness, packing it into our memories for the long drought ahead. I am already thinking about the next trip down.

The New Mall

Last fall, Tangier Outlets built a new mall in Mebane, NC - just around the corner from where my darling grand daughters live. It is a glorified strip mall filled with the mark-down version outlets of pricey name-brand stores - Osh Kosh and Polo Ralph Lauren and sax 5th ave and such. The complex is complete with covered outdoor walkways and numerous little eating places plus - the big draw for Katie and Kelly - a playground!

Despite the snow and ice that had made an appearance in North Carolina previous to my arrival, we headed out in high hopes of a delightful time. I am not much on shopping (meaning I never have money to spend on such stuff), but the thought of playing with the girls was very enticing.

We drove around and around looking for a parking lot and finally managed to squeeze their big black maxi van into a corner spot. The wind whipped our hair and stung our cheeks with dust as we trudged along the sidewalk to the mall entrance. Ice lined the walkways and we slipped and slithered along despite stepping carefully. It didn't bode well for the playground.

Alas! When we finally made it to the slides and swings, they were slopping wet from snow melt off. The spongy flooring beneath our feet was laced with puddles. Katie cried. She wanted to go down the slide, but it was so wet. Her Mom tried to dry it off enough for her to go down without getting drenched, but it wasn't an entirely dry ride.

Kelly was afraid to climb up, and even the coaxing of the two rowdy uncles did little to convince her to venture forth. The best we could manage was to stand where the sun was shining, away from the awning that was showering down icy cold water, and bounce on the rubber matting. The girls finally allowed us to lead them tearfully away from the uncooperative playground and wander the streets of the mini mall.

We went in a few stores, but in the end, decided to just go to McDonald's for lunch where we found a wonderful indoors playground with a musical slide and lots of climbing apparatus to play on. Not a totally lost cause, but certainly not what we had in mind when we started out.

Hanging With My Girls

I am such a morning person. I know the household I am visiting is not a morning household, so I brought books to read and scores to study and things to keep myself occupied until they arise. I had already helped myself to a bowl of cereal and was deep into my studies when I heard my eldest son arise and let the dogs out while he went to care for the horses. His little farm requires a lot of attention and morning and evening chores are his chosen lot.

I felt it safe to climb out of my room, and I snuck up on him and gave him a big old hug. And so the day began. Sugar loves to play with DJ's dogs and they danced and pranced back and forth, yelping and nipping at each other. I was sure they would wake others.

DJ decided to make bacon and eggs from his duck herd for breakfast. Somewhere along the line Kelly wandered out from the bedroom, looking half asleep, her hair all messed up from sleeping so hard. Speech wasn't part of her awakeness yet and she curled up in a chair, blinking. She must have wondered why we were up in the middle of her night!

But soon she was down on the floor playing with Sugar and her keg of dinosaurs. Dinosaurs are her interest this year. Eventually, she warmed up to me and climbed on my lap with a book to read. The greatest thing in all the world is hugging your grand daughter and reading her a story. I was blessed to get a whole five minutes of it before there was a dog ruckus.

Eventually Katie woke up. She shyly made her way to the table and munched a piece of bacon, watching me with wary eyes. But Kelly's laughter and bouncing around drew her into the fun and soon she was climbing on my lap too. Not to read, but to tell me stories. She is a good story teller.

I love watching them discover new things about the world. Seeing things through their eyes is a treat and brings a brush of youth with it. I plan to hang around these lovely young ladies often - its quite rejuvenating! And now, if you will excuse me, I have pictures to take!

Going West to North Carolina

The wise men went east to find the Baby Jesus. I must go south to visit my grand babies! At least two of them, Kelly and Katie, live in Haw River, North Carolina. I plotted my trip on Google maps with one eye on the horrible storm wending its way up the eastern seacoast. Usually we just go straight south, winding up either on that terrible I-95 corridor, or forced to navigate the tiny Route 15 through mountainous terrain peppered with little villages with their restricted speed limits and traffic.

But the weather forecast showed that even today, Monday, those two routes would still be experiencing snow. Google gave another option. Head west and skirt down the far side of Pennsylvania and West Virginia on Routes 77 and 74. It was more mileage, but only about a half hour more time. Sounded reasonable. Now if we can figure out how to get TomTom to agree!

No worries. It was the first option Tom offered us. The roads were clear all the way until the small stretch of Route 19. For about an hour, though we were still on a divided highway, we had traffic lights and reduced speeds as we drove through business districts. And it was beginning to get dark when we found ourselves in the mountains with light snow sifting down around us. Nothing that stuck on the road though.

In all, a nice drive and far preferable to that congested I-95 thing. Plus we came into the west side of North Carolina and avoided those treacherous unpopulated stretches filled with wandering deer and eighteen wheelers. Even after a full 12 hours of driving I wasn't completely exhausted. Certainly awake enough to hug my little sweeties who danced around excitedly when we arrived.

Half Cent Christmas Stockings

The night before Christmas. Sleeping is the farthest thing from a little girl's mind. After the magical candlelight Christmas Eve service, after the party and the present and the cookies and candy, after the late night hour and the hubbub of setting up the tree and making sure the little hand-made gifts are ready to be given to your sisters and brothers, and especially to your Mom and Dad, a Silent Night, Holy Night is not what you want.

I lay in my full sized bed in my big room tingling with excitement in the semi dark, the street light outside my window illuminating every dresser knob and closet door. I left my bedroom door open and strained to hear the muffled voices of my parents in the parlor beneath just faint enough that I couldn't tell what they were talking about. Paper rustled. Heavy things clunked on the wooden floor. Feet stomped on the cellar stairs as Dad retrieved some tool or piece of wire or box of supplies.

Sleep? Not on the calendar tonight. My sister tiptoed into the room, whispering that she knew what Mom had gotten me and I begged her not to say. I wanted to be surprised. I shushed her and put my fingers in my ears yelling "Nah, nah, nah, nah - I can't hear you!" and suddenly there was Mom threatening to spank us if we didn't get back in bed and go to sleep. How would Santa ever be able to come if we were still awake?

Sometimes I imagined I heard reindeer hoofs on the roof and a cheery Ho-ho-ho. I rolled over to stare out the window, hoping against hope to catch sight of Christmas magic. It was the one night of the year that I just couldn't go to sleep. After hours of waiting and butterflies tickling my tummy and shoulder hunching grinning, I heard my Mom quietly come up the stairs with a rustling package in her hands and head to my youngest sister's room.

I knew. I knew she was bringing up the fully loaded stockings that we had thumb tacked to the cardboard fireplace. Mom had made the stockings herself out of red and white flannel. They were huge. I could fit my whole self into one up to my arm pits. I counted the trips. One, two, three, four - that took care of my younger siblings. The next trip would be into my room. I closed my eyes and lay as still as I could. I tried to breathe as if I were asleep.

I felt the hallway light on my face, heard the little brush of the door against the floor, barely managed not to sit bolt upright. Mom lay the bulging stocking at the foot of my bed away from my feet. I nearly fainted as the wrapping paper crinkled quietly as she let go. She paused a long minute. I am sure she was checking to make sure I was really asleep. I lay dead still, ignoring the itch on my foot and the kink in my back. My eyelids were squeezed tightly shut. I hardly dared breathe.

Slowly she headed back to the hallway. I heard my door pulled halfway closed and Mom's steps on the stairs. Everything within me wanted to reach down and touch the heavy stocking lying there at the foot of my bed, just begging to be opened. But I knew Mom had one more trip to my older brother's room, and I couldn't afford to get caught. Not now. Not with the prize within reach.

I waited, lying ever so still, working hard to control my breathing, peeking through mostly shut eyelids at the open doorway. I saw Mom walk past and head towards my brother's room. Minutes later, I watched her go back down the stairs. Still, I waited, to make sure. To make sure she hadn't forgotten something or decided to come back up to check on us. Long minutes ticked by. It seemed like forever.

Gradually the house quieted. Mom and Dad headed to the kitchen for a late night snack. The heating pipes creaked. The wind whistled around the corner of the cupola. I could hear the regular breathing of one of the other kids.

I stretched my right foot down into the chilliness of the sheets and felt for the lump of the stocking. There it was! I pushed a bit. Paper crinkled. I stopped, fearful that it could be heard and would bring Mom running. No one moved. I scooted down under the blankets until my head was where my feet were, then poked my head out from under the covers right next to the bulging stocking.

I reached my hand out and felt the shapes of the presents inside. My stomach flipped over in excitement. I ran my hand along the side down to the toe of the stocking and felt the round softness of the orange Mom always put in the toe. A shiver ran down my spine. I reached to the opening at the top of the stocking and tried to count how many packages I could feel. Six, seven? Maybe even eight!

One present didn't fit in the stocking at all - a flat, wide package that looked like a huge artist tablet of drawing paper maybe. Ah, the possibilities were endless. I snuggled down in the warmth of the blankets and sighed with happiness. Now I could sleep and dream of the wonderful things I would discover in the morning.

Perhaps I dozed for five or six hours, but long before first light, my eyes flew open and I could scarcely contain myself. I knew Mom would just make me go back to bed if I indulged too early, so I just lay there staring into the dim gray wishing for morning to come. Gone were any ideas of reindeer or chimneys or Santa. Now it was just the unrelenting curiosity of the packages in the stocking at the foot of my bed.

I heard a noise and discovered my younger sister creeping into my room. "Are you awake? Look what I got!" she whispered.

"What? Did you already open a present from your stocking?"

"I opened them all! Come and see!" I followed her into the room next door, and there, strewn across her bed and the floor were the wrappings of her stocking gifts. The empty red sock dangled half off the bed, and the covers were filled with coloring books, puzzles, slinkies, jacks, bubbles, play dough, cookies, gum, combs, barrettes, socks - all the little gee gaws and gadgets that Mom had been collecting for over a year.

My eyes popped out. I felt betrayed. Suddenly, my younger brother bounced in the room, none too quiet, to announce that he had also opened his stocking and dangling a water pistol from one finger, chewing bubble gum. I could smell the sweet fruity flavor. Unfair! I headed back to my own room and shut the door. I wanted to discover my own presents without their constant interruptions and exclamations of "I got one too."

Besides, I still believed Mom would come and shut us down. After all, it was still dark outside. The clock barely registered 6am. I turned on the light and sat on the side of my bed, folded the green and blue flowered comforter over the sheets and began to methodically remove and unwrap each present, spending time to play with each toy and look through each coloring book and really appreciate each gift.

It felt like hours had gone by with all the wonderful presents. Actually, it was more like twenty minutes before my own red stocking lay empty and my bed was littered with wonderful gizmos and toys. At 7am we kids went downstairs to admire the tree and play with our new things and wait and wait and wait for Dad to get up and eat before we could open the presents under the tree.

I love Christmas! It's the one time of the year that my tummy butterflies are most active, not to mention tingling spines and goose bumpy arms. Can't you just feel the excitement?

Half Cent Christmas Tree

We never got our Christmas tree until Christmas Eve. Our windows were decorated with those plastic sticker scenes, our bedroom doors with cardboard cutout shapes of Christmas things like trees and reindeer and snowmen, our outside lights put up. But no tree. That always arrived late on an evening filled with all kinds of exciting events.

Dinner was light and gotten out of the way quickly because of the Christmas Eve service at church. We had to dress up special and trek to the church early so Dad could get everything ready, make sure the bulletin was printed out and the heat on and the fellowship hall set up. The Church sanctuary always had a small tree with very limited and elegant decorations. And there was a huge twenty foot wreath suspended in the arch of the platform where the choir sat.

In the fellowship hall the tree was larger and heavily decorated with tons of ornaments and drenched in silver tinsel. The women of the church were busy with refreshments for after the Christmas Eve service. We kids would run around all excited, poking our noses into everything and making a nuisance of ourselves. Finally, it was time for the service to begin.

We were so impatient to get it over with and get to the party afterwards. Santa (believe it or not) always made a appearance and handed out presents to all the younger kids. We sang carol after carol and read Scripture verse after Scripture verse while I fidgeted and got pinched by Mom for making too much noise and tried to stifle a fit of laughter and swung my feet and got down on the floor then back up on the pew and wished and wished and wished for the service to end.

Finally we were lighting the candles and singing Silent Night. Each little candle had a paper skirt that was supposed to keep the wax from dripping and making a mess. We stood in our pews by the light of the candles, and it was the only time I was quiet and paying attention. There was something magical about the end of the service that even the babies recognized. After the singing of the carol, my Dad closed in prayer and we kids made a beeline for the fellowship hall as soon as the n of the Amen sounded.

We waited impatiently while the adults had their coffee and cake, nibbling excitedly at the buffet table feast. Then we gathered in chairs facing the tree and Dad, dressed as Santa, would come out lugging a big red bag of presents. He called each child's name and handed them a wrapped present. Some kids got dolls and trucks and books. I remember jumping up and down excitedly, waiting and hoping that my name would be called next. The wait was more memorable than the present!

Afterwards everyone was given a box the size of a box of animal crackers filled with hard candy of all shapes, colors and flavors. I sat on the floor with the other kids and sucked a piece of candy and played with my toy while the adults cleaned up. After everyone else left, our family packed up and headed home. Often there would be a gentle snow falling as we covered the few blocks to our house.

Mom would swish us into pajamas and hustle us up to bed. Dad stopped on his way home at the Christmas tree lot to purchase a marked down tree. At 9pm on Christmas Eve, it was a wonder the tree sales person was still there. Dad would gloat over how he only paid a dollar or fifty cents. Some years he got it for free! They were always scraggly bent and misshapen, but Dad knew just how to saw off lopsided and awkward branches to make our tree seem perfect. He always set it up in the formal parlor, far from the bustle of a household overflowing with active children.

We usually got to see it in the holder before we were ordered to our rooms, but there were never lights or ornaments on it because the branches needed time to come down after being cramped together in the cold. Mom and Dad would busy themselves wrapping last minute gifts and putting together anything that required assembling and running upstairs a dozen times to make excited kids get back in bed.

After we settled down and the tree had time to breathe, Dad would unknot and string the lights and Mom would hang the ornaments. There were always strings of popcorn and cranberries and tons of carefully cut and glued construction paper chains to add to the unusual collection of bubble lights and bird ornaments and blown glass bulbs.

In the morning, we would tiptoe down the stairs into the cold front hallway and open the parlor doors, a set of French glass doors with gauzy white curtains obscuring the interior from view. There, shimmering and larger than life stood the fully decorated tree surrounded by a mountain of wrapped presents. The lights shone and the tinsel glittered and the ornaments glistened. It was awesome. To a young girl it seemed like heaven on earth. I hardly dared breath for fear it would disappear.

Dad never got up before 10:00 am, and then insisted on eating a full breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and grapefruit before he would let us gather in the parlor to unwrap gifts. I am sure he took a small delight in watching us agonize about having to wait.

As much as I thought the fun of the Christmas tree was about the presents beneath, I came to understand over time that the glow of the tree that really drew us was the excitement that built up as we looked forward to being blessed by people who loved and knew us, who took the time to make the day special, who understood what would make our little hearts flutter and our day be joyous.

It was, in fact, the fun of rejoicing with my sister when she unwrapped the huge stuffed animal and being gleeful with my brother when he discovered an erector set and the happiness of helping the baby unwrap a rattle. Without the spectators, the gift getting would have fallen flat. A present is just another possession. But a shared discovery is a memory to be cherished.

It is not the beauty of the decorations or the cost of the string of lights or the perfection of the tree that is significant. It isn't even the expense or the number of gifts. It is the love and community partaken beneath the boughs that puts a smile on the faces of people who encounter a Christmas tree. Whether the tree goes up a month before Christmas or an hour beforehand, it is the wait and the agony of anticipation makes the love all the more precious.

And after all, that is what Christmas is really all about. Love.

Half Cent Cookies

I could always tell when Christmas was coming. I could tell because the house began to smell wonderful - like vanilla and almond and peppermint - all the tantalizing scents of baking cookies! Every year, the first Saturday after Thanksgiving, Mom got out her big mixing bowl, the rubber spatula, the cookie sheets and wax paper, the bags of flour and sugar and sprinkles.

And of course, the dozens of red plastic and metal shape cookie cutters. There were cookie cutters that looked like Christmas stockings bulging with presents, like stars and Christmas trees and Santa Claus in all kinds of poses, like reindeer, and a church, and a wreath, a big bow, a snowman, a tin soldier, a nutcracker, a candle, a tree ornament, a present - every kind of Christmas shape you can imagine.

I loved the red plastic ones best - you can see right through them. I used to hold them up to the light and look through them, turning the whole room red. Of course, they were the ones most difficult to work with because they had a lot of detail and the little pieces of plastic that formed the "picture" on the cookie also caused the dough to stick to the cutter.

I loved helping. Mom usually let us climb up on chairs and help measure the ingredients. I loved sifting flour in swirls of snowy white, filling the one cup dry ingredient measuring cup with the sifted flour, tapping it down to make sure there were no unfilled pockets, pulling a knife across the top to make sure we had one cup and no extra mounded up above the rim.

Mom ran the mixer, beating together the butter (or in our case, margarine), milk, food coloring, flavoring and other liquid ingredients, then adding the sugar. Slowly she shook the flour into the mix and pushed it toward the beaters with the rubber spatula. The motor whined lower pitches until the flour mixed in. Mom used a different color for each flavor of dough. White was vanilla (my favorite), green was almond, red was peppermint, blue was orange, yellow was lemon.

After mixing each batch, Mom would wrap the dough in wax paper and set it in the refrigerator overnight to chill. On Saturday, we worked with one colored batch at a time. Mom would flour the big wooden cutting board and her wooden rolling pin, then roll a ball of dough flat with the rolling pin until it was about a quarter of an inch thick. She showed us how to place the cookie cutters on the sheet of dough so close to each other that there was barely room in between, and no waste of the dough.

After setting all the cookie cutters in place - what a festive board of red and silver - she would carefully lift each cutter with the spatula and place it on a cookie sheet. Sometimes the dough stuck in the cookie cutter, and Mom would gently shake the cutter until the dough came out. Sometimes the cutter just wouldn't let go, and Mom would have to dig the dough out, wad it back into the dough ball, wash the cutter and flour it. After the cookies were removed, Mom would wad up the scraps and roll it out again, using every bit of the dough until all she had left was a small lump that would get baked for taste testing purposes.

Into the oven we placed each sheet of perfect cookie shapes, then set the timer. Once the oven was up to temperature, it didn't take long for a batch to cook to a wonderful golden puff. The aroma of cookie caressed the air with delicate scents, making your mouth water and your tummy rumble in anticipation. (There are actually cookie dough scented candles!)

Mom carefully removed the trays from the oven with her handmade potholders and scooped the baked confections onto wax paper to cool. We wanted to gobble one down right away, but we had to wait until they cooled. Meanwhile, another tray went into the oven. After we had a few batches that were cool enough, we frosted and decorated some of them. Mom didn't have a lot of patience for us to get too artistic, but my sister and I managed to at least ensure that the gingerbread boys and girls had eyes and buttons and that the tree ornament cookies got lots of sparkly glittery non pareils.

After the frosting hardened, Mom packed round aluminum pie plates with a dozen or so cookies, locked them in with Saran Wrap and tin foil, and tucked them in the freezer. In a few weeks when our church group went Christmas caroling to shut-ins, we would present each person with a tin filled with the delightful cheery edible tokens of Christmas joy.

And of course, we were allowed to sample! Christmas cookies appeared in our school lunch sacks and the cookie jar in the kitchen would have a full belly for a bit. I came to dearly love cookie baking. Not the long hot work that made your back ache and your arms tired. Not the precision decorating which I was not patient about. Not the self control required to pack away most of the treats for someone else. What I relished was the time my siblings and I spent with Mom doing something that ushered in a joyous celebration.

Cookies don't seem much related to the birth of the Savior of the world. But for me, cookie baking marked the beginning of a happy season when everyone seemed more cheerful and when the special events made life come alive. There was a sense that all was right with the world.

I never baked cookies with my children, and I regret cheating them of the experience. In this day and age of watching your weight and store bought treats and hectic schedules, it seems out of place. The churches I attend don't carol to shut-ins any more. I am sad to lose this great activity and am still thinking about how to create the sense of togetherness and security and community it once provided.

Meanwhile, a few Christmases ago, Mom made all of us kids a quilt. In the center of each red or green square is a cookie cutter shape embroidered in compete detail! What a wonderful reminder of our special times together. I treasure this quilt and display it every Christmas as a reminder that I ought to be reaching out to the lonely and less fortunate especially during Christmas.

Half Cent Intro

I was chatting with one of my professors about my grandchildren and how far away they all live, bemoaning my lack of involvement in their lives. I found myself toying with the idea of uprooting and moving closer to at least some of them, but unable to do so until Drew is done with college - another 5 or 6 years at least. By then I could be dead! Especially if I undergo another round of cancer treatment.

He suggested that one way to be more involved in their lives is to write stories for them. I could share tales of my childhood and be a sort of "grandma through writing." The idea appealed to me, and I gave it some thought. Over the course of the next year, I will dip into memories from my childhood and share them with my grandkids. Since my childhood was over half a century ago, I decided to call them Half Century stories, for things that happened over fifty year ago - Half Cent for short.

So, Katie, Kelly, Ramseyes (and Shiloh) - these Half Cent stories are for you. I hope you enjoy a little glimpse into my past.

Love, hugs and kisses,
Gramma

Sticker Insanity

When my kind friend helped me brush the snow off my car the other day, he mentioned that he discovered when he brushed off his own car that his inspection sticker was about to expire. I jokingly asked him to check mine, and he did. Ack! It ran out last July!!! How could that happen? I had her in to the garage and worked on and nobody caught it there either.

Well, good thing he helped me and we uncovered that little kerflaffel. I promptly made an appointment with my repair guy, but he was unable to take care of it as he was out of stickers. He gave me several other places to call. Same story at each place. We aren't doing inspections now because we are out of stickers and the new ones come in January. You will have to wait.

But I don't want to risk it. After all, I am planning to drive to North Carolina to see my kids, and I want to make sure everything is kosher for the trip. I begin stopping at every place that sports a yellow "We do inspections here" sign. Same story everywhere. Yikes! A crisis. One guy had the audacity to tell me that I had waited this long and two weeks wouldn't make any difference.

I understood his point, but I didn't know before and I do now. Somehow in my mind that makes it unacceptable. I ask him what people do who buy new cars. Surely they have to get stickers. He just shrugged, mumbled something about good luck finding anyone with stickers at this late date and turned back to his work.

In one last ditch effort, I stop at the little repair shop just around the corner from my house. Hallelujah! They not only have stickers, they are happy to do the inspection right away. I wait in their office for about ten minutes, then drive off with my all legal just attached updated sticker and a huge smile on my face. Thank God somebody has a half an ounce of sensible planning.

Year End Totals

I recently discovered that the company who provides my health insurance keeps electronic copies of all the payment statements. Interesting. I have all the paper copies and had meant to do a grand total of what costs I incurred this past year. Maybe it will be easier to track online.

I set up an account and login. Sure enough, there are copies of eveything submitted, what they paid, and what I had to cover. Its a bit clunky of a system, but I figure out how to work it to generate some totals for me. This will be a typical non treatment year in the life of a cancer survivor. The last actual treatment was October of the previous year when I went through the Bexxar infusion. So this year has all been follow up and maintenance costs.

I click and add and columnize and punch tabs until I reach the breath taking total. To remain healthy last year, just for my own care, the bills submitted came to a whopping $82,596! Unbelievable. I really am the six million dollar woman. And the worst part? I just accept it. I am done ranting about the evils of insurance and the system and the medical inefficiencies.

This is how it is. I am grateful for the insurance. I can do little to change the situation. And I am shattered to know that if I no longer have insurance, I will die because I could never pay that amount of money even in ten years. Lord have mercy.

Shooting Myself

The doctor suggested that I learn to give myself my Vitamin B shots. That way I won't have to take time and money to come in for it, and this is a lifelong activity. Sigh. Yes, I can do it. I learned how to give shots when Michael was so sick. We practiced on oranges back then. That is the one real bummer about this - every time I give myself a shot, I will be thinking about Michael and missing him.

I check in at the front desk, then take a seat. The warm sun pours in through the windows and I close my eyes, drinking it in and enjoying the feeling of being cozy. The nurse calls my name and I follow her back to her office. She is upbeat and filled with anticipation for me. "Are you excited?" she asks.

"Not really," I reply, my shoulders slumping. What if I can't get the hang of this? What if I just don't want to stab myself? What if - she interrupts my thoughts with a cheerful "You'll do just fine. Lots of people give themselves shots all the time. I teach dozens of diabetics. It not difficult." Surprisingly, I find myself encouraged and my hope levels rise based on her upbeat attitude and confidence. Thank God for nurses who understand.

She shows me how to cleanse the vial top and the leg site, how to draw the B vitamin solution into the syringe, how to pinch my leg, 1, 2, 3, stab, press plunger, count to 5, withdraw. Piece of cake really. And the needle is so sharp and thin that I barely feel it. Phew! Not so bad. I gather my prescriptions and head for the door. Thank you for making that easy.

In my car, I take a moment to write myself a few notes for next month when I will do it by myself. The nurse told me that if I am nervous about doing it on my own, I can come in and she will watch to make sure I do it right. I might take her up on that. After all, a month is a long time to remember this. It's comforting to know I have that option.

Then I giggle. How many people would offer to watch you shoot yourself?

Exhausted

Why am I so tired? I know I waited until the last minute to begin my Christmas shopping, but I just couldn't manage to free up enough time to think about what I ought to get for my kids and grand kids. After all, I had those relentless paper deadlines and so much reading to complete, not to mention music to conquer.

Now, all that is said and done other than a few more Christmas music events but we are prepared. I begin to make a list. I am terrible at figuring out what to get people. I suppose that is mostly because my kids live so far away and I only get to see them a few times a year. I have lost touch with what they are passionate about, what they delight in, what is most recent in their experience list.

I either have to fall back on what I used to know they liked, or keep asking until I get some clue. I know how frustrating it is to be asked what you want for Christmas when you have no idea yourself. Or at least no idea what the budget is. I tried to tell them that part so they think in the right price range and not in the triple digit area.

Christmas shopping at this late date means battling crowds, ill tempers, shortages, and bad weather. There is no help for it. I determine to accomplish this activity with JOY. I will not allow myself to fall victim to someone else's grumpiness. I will step out of people's way, let them pass, smile when reviled, and wish them well.

Let the pushy broad in the zippy sports car have the parking space even though you are there first. Let the Mom with three kids in tow step in the line in front of you and be willing to wait a bit longer, remembering how it was when your kids were little. Listen sympathetically to the harried store clerk when she really answers your question "How are you?" Better she blow off steam with you than explode on some poor customer.

It takes repeated trips to various malls to gather together the ingredients of a Merry Christmas for my little family. But at long last every person is checked off the list, and the bags of joy await a proper wrapping. It took some commitment to exhibit goodwill in the face of so much angst. But I have to say, not rushing and making a decision to be nice paid off. I actually enjoyed shopping (I know, hearing that from a woman may seem strange, but I have always detested the activity).

Wrapping will have to wait until I recoup energy. I want to enjoy that also and believe me, in the past wrapping has felt like torture. I happily check my calendar. I still have time. AND - bonus! Tomorrow I get my Vitamin B shot. Yeah!

Winter Commencement

It used to be that you could rent your academic regalia for a reasonable fee, keep it all year, wear it for the three events that require it, then turn it back in for a good cleaning. Not so any more. The fee is up and you have to turn it in at the end of each event, paying each time you rent the darn thing.

In a year's time, the money would cover buying my own. That's what I decided to do. But do you think I could manage to get it in time for the winter commencement? No. So I refrained from marching. This time, I got a ticket and sat in the audience. There were about a dozen people I know who were graduating, and I wanted to wish them well.

I managed to find a place right by the aisle where students return to their seats after crossing the platform. I planned to just step out and say my congrats as they passed even though I wasn't with the rest of the faculty. It was enlightening to be surrounded by so much parental pride, not to mention spouses and children. You could almost feel the room bursting with expectation.

I love it when an entire section stands and cheers when their graduate's name is called. Flashes of cameras abounded. Good will ran high and no one minded the occasional baby's cry. Everyone was dressed all up in suits and silky dresses and coiffed to the nines. People treated each other with respect and consideration. Wow. I wanted to capture the ambiance for future use.

As I stepped out repeatedly, the gentleman next to me was amazed. He finally asked me how I knew so many graduates. When I explained that I worked in the Library and that many of the graduates had worked there, he was impressed that I would take the time to come and wish them well. I smiled and never mentioned my faculty status.

Truth is, I would go anyway whether I was expected to or not. We have little enough cause for joyous celebration in our lives. We should jump at the chance to be part of such happiness and good even if only tangential to ourselves.

Winding Down

End of the semester. The last week we usually find hectic angst Monday and Tuesday, a thinning of students and a ratcheting down of anxiety Wednesday, almost barren by Thursday, and a tomb on Friday as students complete tests and papers and head home, sighing in relief at the thought of weeks of rest and relaxation.

Not so this year. The level of activity and anxiety began on a higher note than usual, stretched not only straight through Thursday, but extended from the moment we were open until well after we closed, the 24 hour area staying hopping well into the wee hours.

I wondered about this change, but it wasn't until I looked at the gate counts that I began to understand. Our counts were the highest they have even been since we moved into the new building. And not by some small increase, but by thousands. No wonder. We kept saying that it felt busy this year, and we were right!

Rest well, students. Put your feet up, faculty. Well done, Administration. And library staff? I wish for you a wonderful, calm, quiet and restful break. Come back renewed and ready to plunge in again.

Icicles

Outside my bedroom window a soft scallop-shaped drift of snow dangles over the edge of the roof. The wind must blow in such a pattern that it causes the snow to sift to this particular spot and clump together. It reminds me of a huge marshmallow and I almost want to reach out and scoop up a dollop.

During the late afternoons, the warm sunshine melts the underside of the snow cover and as the water runs down the flashing and drips from the gutter, it forms a long icicle. Indeed, not just by my bedroom window, but all along the north side of our building. Some of these icy tentacles dangling from our roof reach nearly to the ground. I expect any minute a kissing of stalactite and stalagmite formations.

Apparently I am not the only one who thought these frozen concoctions might break off and shatter through someone's window. As I stared at my icicle, I heard the drone of an ATV. One of the maintenance guys zoomed along underneath the roof overhang, brandishing a long pole. Like the knights of old, he charged the row of ice, scattering shards everywhere. Fortunately none clattered through glass and no one was nearby though I have to confess to ducking and closing my eyes as he passed my window.

After his successful joust, he stood in the stirrups of his vehicle, waved the pole above his head and did his best Rocky impression. I had to laugh. I am sure he was unaware that I was watching.

What a far cry from when I was a little girl and my siblings and I worked hard to dislodge icicles from our roof not because we thought they were dangerous, but because we thought it a grand treat to lick them like Popsicles! There is nothing quite like the cardboardy taste of a nice long icicle. Good Lord. It just goes to prove that old adage: You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die, so you might as well start young!

Stollen and Torte

My turn to host the monthly Library staff social event. I want to do something special. I think back to what treat I had in the past found to be extraordinary. When I was in 7th grade, I followed a recipe for an amazing torte. It took me days to bake. First, I made 12 layers of cookie like, thin round cakes. They had the consistency of a chocolate chip cookie without the chips.

I cooled them in the fridge overnight, then whipped up this batch of chocolate mousse and spread a thin layer between the cakes, stacking them up and up. Every once in awhile, there was raspberry jam between the layers instead of mousse. Over the top of this amazing confection was poured a chocolate ganache which hardened to a shell. Sift confectioner's sugar and let the whole thing set until the mousse sinks in to the cake part and the cake part softens up from the rich creamy mousse.

I recall that a thin slice took forever to eat and filled you so full you could hardly move. I can still taste the rich chocolate delight. I look for this recipe, but I cannot find it. All the recipes for torte have regular cake for the layers. Sigh. I guess I will settle for the current idea, but I will keep looking for the recipe of my youth. It must have been in some Betty Crocker cookbook, but even her site did not offer the heart attack causing recipe I seek.

Then, because we have people who don't do chocolate, I decide to also make some Christmas stollen. I used to bake all the bread my family consumed and eventually was able to turn a decent loaf of bread. I haven't made bread in some years now, but I suspect I haven't totally forgotten how to do it. Besides, stollen was always a favorite of mine, though my boys generally weren't enthusiastic.

Time is an issue these days. I have neither the space in my kitchen nor the freedom in my schedule to spread this baking over the course of several days. It is my gift though to actually bake these treats myself rather than to just get them from a bakery. They would be better from a bakery, but less interesting. I measure, melt, sift, stir, knead, warm, coddle, coax and cook in the morning when the boys are not about to interfere.

Generally things go well, and though less than perfect, the concoctions will do. I skewer the layers on the torte so they won't slide apart since I don't have time to let them set overnight. But it will eat just as well. My colleagues seem to like them and the slices disappear with enthusiasm. One person says how fortunate they are that I am German! Except of course, I am not. With family names like Morton and Appleby, I am as English as it gets. My married heritage is actually Swiss, though Gillie sounds pretty German.

Ethnicity aside, I happily slurp with the rest of them and worry about paying for the indulgence later. After all, it is Christmas.

NES Cancelled!

The final class. We each planned to present our paper topics and share our concerns. We even signed up to bring food - I made a shepherd's pie - to share while we listen to each other. The paper is done and ready to hand in. I am looking forward to our celebration of completing the Core classes. All 4 grueling 9.5 hour classes are now completed. We have been catapulted into a new realm of comprehension of ministry and faith. Yeah!

As the day wears on, snow continues to fall, accumulating inches at an alarming rate. My phone continuously flashes winter storm warnings at me. After school activities at Finney are cancelled. And finally, in the late afternoon, my phone rings. The seminary has cancelled our class. I can understand because so many students drive from a distance - some from as far away as Albany and Pennsylvania.

I waited to hear the reschedule date, but none is offered. There is no make up session. We are simply done. No reports. No covered dish supper. No celebration. Just email your final papers to the professor and you are done. I am shocked and disappointed. Oh, I know I will see most of my fellow classmates again. It's not like they are done with their degrees. But we worked so hard to complete the Core.

I drive home both relieved and sad. I hold my own quiet celebration over a steaming plate of shepherd's pie. My prerequisites are complete and I now move on to submitting the required paperwork to begin the D. Min. program. A nice transition. And I know full well what I am getting into. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Independence or Help

Snow. Lots of it coming down all day. From the reference desk I can see the swirling white blizzard burying everything in sight. It will not be an easy, albeit pretty drive home. At last, after a long day of finding materials, going to meetings, solving glitches and talking with professors, I am free to leave.

I bundle up, swathing my face in my warm blue woolen scarf. I pull mittens over my blue gloves, snap down the front of my coat, toss my hood over my head and trudge out the back door through foot deep piles of fluffy stuff and head to my car, a mound of whiteness surrounded by piles of sloppy slush.

I hit the door lock on my keychain and can barely see the yellow lights blinking. I brush the snow away from the back door before opening it to retrieve my car brush and scraper. I begin pushing the light stuff off the roof down the front windshield to the sidewalk in front of the car. Beneath the light fluff is a thick layer of ice.

Suddenly the snow on the other side of the roof is being brushed off. Someone is helping me. My first reaction is (shame on me) - "hey! I am a strong independent woman. I don't need your help. I am just fine by myself. Stop helping me." Immediately on the heels of that thought is - "who is this kind stranger lending a hand? I am so grateful that I won't have to stand here for as long scraping the ice off my now warming car."

We are taught to be independent, to not seek help when we need it, to insist on doing it ourselves. This is so ingrained that we forget how contrary that is to how God planned life to be. At very least, to depend on family, and at best that the whole world be concerned for and help anyone in need.

My friend Bob was aghast that his new condo association intentionally parked cars across their entrance on the 4th of July to keep the riff-raff out when the fireworks across the lake were happening. Bob wanted to invite the nearby community (trailer park too) to come see the dazzling displays right on the beach front. Maybe even throw a barbecue.

Its a delicate balance between offering mutual assistance and not encouraging unhealthy dependence. As for me, I am sitting in my cleared off car warming up and out of the piercing wind much quicker thanks to the kindness of CLC Director who was waiting for his wife. I am most grateful for the unsolicited help. And I will work on the knee jerk reaction of being so fiercely independent.

Final Paper

So. Take all the material we have covered in the last fifteen weeks and write about an issue the church must deal with in the 21st century in light of all the writings we have read, all the issues the church has dealt with in the 20th century, and all the theological concerns we have covered. Whew! Daunting to say the least.

I work back through my notebook at everything we have discussed, researched, written about, struggled with. There are so many issues, so much church history, so much theology. Where to begin? First, a topic. Oh, and make it relevant to your ministry. My ministry? Praying for and with cancer patients? Creating and providing resources that will spiritually support cancer patients and survivors? OK.

So I select virtual community. Nowdays it is common for people to attend church online or via TV and never see anyone face to face. For cancer patients who are too weak, too compromised, too susceptible to germs, a virtual worship service, especially if oriented towards their coping with cancer, might be just the right approach. But I cannot get away from the need for personal encounter, for live community.

Yes, the topic will work. I can consider this question in light of the various topics we have encountered in the course. Now all I have to do is outline the sequence of the paper and fill in the paragraphs. Right. Oh, and draw some conclusions and make some applications and attempt to solve the question posed. Not gonna happen, but I will pose the question anyway. I anticipate about 20 hours of keyboarding brain bending labor. Better get started.

Batching It at the RWC Christmas Brunch

Every year the college hosts a Christmas brunch for all employees. It is a wonderful time for fellowship, for chatting casually with people you normally only do business with, for greeting family members, for breaking bread (and French toast and waffles and pastries and eggs and bacon and sausage and a myriad of delectable tasty treats) together.

There are tee shirts for the kids, family pictures taken near a decorated Christmas tree, canned goods and coats, hats, scarves collections, and gallons of coffee, tea, and juice. The boys enjoy coming every year, always surprised at how many people they know. During the year, they live and move in different realms and think they are isolated from my life, but really they intersect with my colleagues in many ways, from soccer to church and a million other paths.

This year, as the date drew closer, the boys abandoned me. Kiel had marriage counseling and Drew had robotics meetings and soccer. They both wanted to come, but life took them in other directions. I decided that without the boys, I would not go. I, too, had papers to write and duties to perform elsewhere. Besides, what good is a family portrait without the family? I'm not used to going solo.

I headed to my office to work on my paper. I saw people still going into Garlock for the brunch. I remembered past years and the great conversations and thought of my friends over there right now eating and laughing and chatting. What was I thinking? Of course I should go, even if I do go by myself. Why would I deprive myself of friendship just because my boys are out of sync?

I dropped my stuff in the office and headed right back out. The dining hall is warm and filled with tantalizing aromas. The waffle chefs are in full production, the hot steaming irons being manned by the Provost, the Academic Dean and the Director of Student Services. I stand in line drooling. Several people come up and chat while I wait - some of them I haven't talked to in months.

I am invited to sit at three different tables, but I select the one with people I know the least, hoping to get to know them better. Two hours flies by in what seems moments. I don't really eat a lot, but I am woven into numerous conversations. It is wonderful to be part of a family this huge, to be welcomed, to be considered one of the crowd. I wouldn't have missed this for anything.

I finally tear myself away, the paper looming over my head. I grab tee shirts for the boys and head back to the quiet and chill of my office, my heart still warmed by the friendship offered. Nice. Very nice.

Surprise!

Sometimes surprises bring good happiness. One of the women in our Learning Center is getting married. This is a second marriage for her, and a wonderful encouragement for those of us who are older and would like to find someone too. I wondered if she had any idea that the bridal shower was planned. Surely she saw all the extra people wandering into the Library - or at least the huge boxes of pastries and carafes of coffee being carted upstairs.

We gathered together in front of the fireplace, inhaling the wonderful aromas of food while we waited for the suspect to arrive. She sauntered down the hallway chatting with her colleague, little suspecting what awaited her around the corner. "Surprise!" we all yelled. And she was! What a grand time we had querying her about the upcoming wedding and honeymoon. We who deal in ordinary life were hungry for details about special events unfolding nearby. We were eager to gather a bit of vicarious joy.

Perhaps we were all a bit jealous of her happiness on the one hand, and relieved we were not going through the stress of lining up myriad details and dealing with the ensuing changes that would surely hit during the settling in process on the other hand. Between the crackling fire behind us, the delicious cinnamon rolls and coffee before us, and the fellowship of women as only women can know, the morning was delightful.

Though reticent to end the celebration, we all had schedules and piles of paperwork drawing us back to the everyday. We will continue to be happy for our friend and pray that her wedding and upcoming days will go smoothly and bring much pleasure and peace to them both.

New Volunteer

The BOCES program has an office here on campus and we are offered volunteers to help in the library on a regular basis. Our last worker didn't find the work to her liking (they get to clean the computers and keep the books neat and straight on the shelves - very serious and necessary work). She got reassigned to a dining hall in another institution and loves it. I am relieved she found a better situation.

Now we have a new person, and it turns out he is an amazing artist. He brought his portfolio along, and I am seriously considering hiring him to do some artwork for Jairus House. He could surely make a decent living with his brush and pencil skills. Still, there is more to life than just being a one sided individual, and his volunteer work will help him gain job experience and the ability to understand the ethics of working for someone else and doing stuff you really would rather not do in ways you would really rather not do it.

I expect he will chafe a bit under the constraints of this work, but will do it well. The best part about getting him set up was to hear updates on our previous volunteers. They are all doing well and gainfully employed. I am delighted to know that we were able to provide some small supporting role in their ongoing success. Now if I could just figure out who's plate to put the volunteer supervision back on in our reconfigured workforce . . .

Let the Interviews Begin

We have restructured our staff yet again, trying to find a way to increase the system person's position now that we are hiring a new librarian. I calculated and fussed and parsed out the work every which way from Sunday trying to find an amenable work load for each position in my area.

We finally found a workable, yet collapsed solution, mushing the evening supervisor with reserves responsibilities, and trusting that we would be able to find a competent night person to fill the position. Lots of people shook their heads and gloomily announced that the hours were too late, too severe for anyone to want to work them on a regular basis. "You are out of your mind if you think you will get any applications for that job!" we were told.

Yet, lo and behold, before it even was posted, there was interest. I mentioned it to a friend who immediately sent her husband by to apply. Hardly before the ad was up, we had three applications. I am shocked that we got over a dozen solid applicants, several of whom were abundantly qualified. The job market is working for us is all I can say.

We perused each application, comparing them in a chart, and selected the two best candidates. They both look wonderful on paper. Let's see if they are as wonderful in person! Let the games begin.

Online Training Gone Awry

So we have been taking what were supposed to be basic training seminars for one of the library software tools. The advertisement sounded wonderful. Learn how to use this tool better. Yes, good idea. Only that's not what we got at first.

The poor person presenting seemed to be rushed and unorganized. She sent us the wrong login information and we all called in to tell her we couldn't login. After we finally got that settled, she would stumble about trying to get set up to show us how a function worked only to find that she couldn't access the right server or that the search she used didn't give the results she needed to demonstrate the point she was wanting to make.

Several times online attendees would start talking and she would hurry to mute them while doing her best not to lose her train of thought. Once in awhile she pushed the wrong button and the screen went somewhere she didn't intend. Part of the time she flipped from one open application to another and we had no idea what on earth she was doing.

Clear as mud. Not to mention that we never got her handouts until the last minute, and sometimes not even then. Poor woman. I wonder if she had any idea how she came across to her online audience. The company sent around an evaluation survey which I was happy to fill out in all honesty.

So the next session was taught by someone other. And the "other" person was quite knowledgeable and helpful. Except he sent his handout after the fact, but at least we got it, and understood what he was showing us.

Makes you wonder what is happening at that company! Did they spring the teaching on someone last minute, or load her plate so full she had no time to prepare? Was she just over confident? I'm sure she does a much better job at whatever else they hired her to do. And it makes me think twice about "winging it" if I have to do any online presenting. Just not a good idea to aggravate people you don't know and won't meet.

Michael's Birthday

Thirty-two years ago, my troublesome second son made his appearance in the world, much against his wishes. His birth was surrounded by unsettledness, and his life followed suit. Despite all the angst of his little life, despite his illness which arrived about as soon as he did, he was a happy sunny child with a zest for life and a penchant for making friends.

I miss my little rough and tumble son even after all these years. Normally, I try to find time to visit his grave and put fresh decorations there, but in all the hubbub of the past year, I wasn't able to take care of it this year. I know it means nothing to him, but it is important that he remain a part of my life. After all, he is still my son.

I thought of him all day. Often I find some way to commemorate his special day, but this year I am too tired and weary to do anything special. My only response was to pray longer for each of my living sons, their spouses or girlfriends, and their children.

Enough time has passed that the pain of his death is no longer sharp and hurtful. But there is a soft sadness when I think of him, and a joy to know that when I pass I will see him again. Still, I could not resist. At the end of the day, I asked Kiel if he knew what day it was.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Michael's birthday." (Kiel was only a few months old when Michael died). We looked at each other for a moment, remembering. Then I went to bed and Kiel went back to watching a movie. 'Nuff said.

Writing for the Web Workshop

I was an English major the first time I went to college. I do well writing papers. People tell me that they find my writing interesting. So I wondered why I was signing up for a workshop on writing for the web. It can't be that different, can it?

Yes! It IS different. In more ways than I could have imagined. I was impressed by our workshop presenter who helped me learn to think in a whole new way. Few words. More pictures. Fewer words. Different layout. Fewer words. Think about navigation. Fewer words.

As we worked out way through the exercises, I began to get the idea that I should try to be succinct and use fewer words but be more clear. Something to work on. I am not known for paucity of verbiage. Girls in general are talkers more so than most men, pardon my stereotyping. I remember chatting away endlessly when I sat on my great grandfather's lap. How did I know that he had turned his hearing aid off and was blithely unaware of my chatter?

We shall see how well I manage to translate ideas into pithy short sentences. I am learning to use fewer words when I text though. Its just too much work to be long winded on those tiny keyboards! So maybe if I text the web page ideas to myself, I will figure out how to say a lot with little. Another necessary 21st century skill to acquire.

RWC Gala

This year, the music department put on the musical Amahl and the Night Visitors. I wanted to go, but was unsure whether I would have the energy to attend, so I put off getting tickets. I knew the risk of the show selling out. I just figured if I should go, a ticket would be provided.

Colleagues told me they got theirs, and if I wanted one, I better hurry. All the good seats were sold, and there were only a handful of scattered single spots left. I sighed. The idea of having to crawl over a crowd of people to be locked into a seat in the middle of a row where I couldn't get out if I needed to in a hurry was daunting. I decided to let it go. After all, its just a show.

Did God hear the sigh of my heart? I think he must have because my friend came up to me after church and asked me if I wanted to go. She had an extra ticket in the orchestra section - great seats actually - and if I wanted it, I could have it. Who could turn that down! So I joyfully accepted her generous offer.

What I would have missed if I hadn't gone. What talented students we have at Roberts! The story is so familiar, but they brought it new life with their stage business, their comedy, their passion. I cried. I laughed. I loved it. And it wasn't long and drawn out. I enjoyed being able to see my mentor conduct. And was impressed by the beautiful voices of students I see every day. I had no idea.

Thank God for the opportunity to turn aside from holiday business and take time to enjoy life, to appreciate people and to just plain have a great time.

Near Miss

The deer are out in full force these days! After seeing the dead deer disaster yesterday, I was not ready for a repeat performance! I guess the snow is driving the poor deer to find warmer hangouts. Tonight, Kiel was driving us home from Wegmans. We were on Lyell Avenue of all places - no open fields, just houses as far as the eye can see.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a deer flashed in front of our headlights. It was close. So close I could see the texture of the antlers and the frightened terror in its eyes. It slid across the road from the left hand side right in front of an oncoming car, then headed for us, its legs knocked out from under it.

I gasped, held my breath, and braced for the impact. How we managed to miss it I will never know. Grace of God. Kiel was yelling. He didn't even have time to react. His voice was loud in my ears. "Where did that come from? How did we miss it?"

He slowed until he regained his composure. I don't think there was a car behind us. That deer would surely have hit it if there was one. I tried to look back and see if the deer had made it across the road. Darkness revealed nothing.

Shaken but completely unhurt, we drove on home, amazed that we had escaped injury. Thank God for guardian angels. They deserve a bonus tonight!

Dead Deer in the Middle of the Road

The roads are still nice and clear, but the snow continues. I head for work, sad to see the barren fields half brown, half white, the abandoned corn stalks fluttering slightly in the breeze, as if wishing for a scarf to shelter them from the wind.

Suddenly, red tail lights glare ahead of me. Cars slow, then swerve. I creep cautiously forward, craning my neck to see what is going on. To the side of the road, a bright yellow Jeep, lights blinking, front fender dented in. In the center of the road, a dead deer sprawls across the center line, legs bent at awkward angles.

Traffic from both directions must wend their path around the fresh destruction. I am solemn as I gaze at the open eye of the lifeless carcass, hoping the poor thing was not caring for young ones. The driver in the Jeep is on his cell phone as I crawl past. A moment sooner, and it could have been me. I am thankful it was not.

By noon when I head home for lunch it will all be cleared away. Such is the way we handle death. Get it out of sight as quickly as possible. Fix the fender. Pretend it never happened. Get on with life.

Still, it is a loss. I can't help being sad. I will try to be more aware of our furred friends and not just barrel merrily along. Slow down a bit. Take time. Look out for others. Yes. Be gentler. I could stand to pay more attention.

Winter Arrives!

With a vengeance. It was snowing when I awoke, and has continued all day long - that fine sifting down sugary snow that doesn't seem to accumulate on the roads but frosts the bushes and trees and coats the green grass white.

It's not cold really. No sharp wind blowing. Even the birds are singing gaily, as if welcoming winter. We have had unseasonably warm weather for November, and people had started to wonder if winter was ever going to come. Here it is!

If sincerity counts for anything, I believe winter is here to stay. Indications are that it promises to be fairly mild for awhile. No bitter temperatures or icy power outage types of storms brewing in the near future.

My neighbor says if winter stays like this, she can live with it. Of course, she would like it to go away as soon as Christmas passes! Happy winter.

Poke

I hate playing games. It all started when I was a kid and my brothers and sister and I got together on Sunday afternoons to play board games. This was quite illegal as we were supposed to be resting quietly in our own rooms. Somehow that never stopped us.

Being one of the oldest, my game playing skills were a little more advanced than my younger brother and sister, and I easily beat them every game. This made them furious. They would throw game pieces and upturn the board and stomp around and generally throw temper tantrums, disrupting the game and ending anything like fun.

One particular Sunday afternoon, my youngest brother got so mad that he drove a pencil down through my younger sister's head. The blood spurted everywhere and of course, brought my parents running.

We were shuffled off to our rooms, thinking that poor sister was dead for sure. It was quite traumatic. From that day on, I absolutely refused to play board games with anyone. There was no way I was taking any chances on someone getting injured by bad sportsmanship and hard feelings over little pieces of paper and plastic. Competition is not my thing.

Even in school, spelling bees tied my stomach in knots, even though I generally did quite well. Math bees the same. I simply cannot abide seeing someone lose at a game. Just because we are not all equally gifted at the same things is no reason to make someone feel badly.

But I finally found a game I can play with the kids where there are no winners and no losers. It all starts innocently enough. I poke one of the kids with my pointer finger, then run. They chase after me, vying for a poke at me. I can call no poke backs, and then they have to get someone else to poke me.

We have an uproariously fun time racing about poking each other, laughing, and falling over each other in my tiny apartment. What a hoot. And in less than five minutes, its all done. Everyone is laughing, no one is angry, and we go on about our business of washing dishes or doing laundry or whatever as if nothing happened.

Except we are all smiling and the weight is lifted. Go ahead and try it out.

POKE. (no poke backs).

The Invisible Man

I didn't notice him when first I sat down at the crowded table in Panera's. The bowl of steaming broccoli soup and half a turkey sandwich and the cup of rich dark peach tea held my full attention. I was ravenous. I selected a small table in the back area behind the firepit where there was less commotion, though the whole place was hopping. I chowed down for a few minutes on the sandwich until I took the edge off my hunger.

I took a long slow sip of the hot tea, held the soothing liquid in my mouth a few minutes before swallowing, enjoying the warmth spreading through my chilled body. Then I sat back munching a few chips and looked around at my fellow bread breakers. There were couples and families and student groups and singles and business people and workmen. What a mix of community sections. This is a popular place.

As I finished my sandwich, one lone guy caught my attention. He seemed a bit nervous, sitting in the dark far corner, eyeing the lunch crowd. Every once in awhile he got up, went over to the trash cans, poked around a bit, then went back to his seat. A couple of times he filled up a paper cup with water and swigged it down. Odd. No one else seemed to pay him any attention.

It took me awhile to catch on. He was tracking when someone threw away perfectly untouched food. Sometimes an unopened bag of chips, sometimes an unwanted roll. He examined them carefully, then shoved them into his backpack. Curious, I continued watching him discretely, trying not to stare directly at him. While I finished my lunch, he snagged a number of food items including several apples.

I noticed that he was wearing sandals and shorts, peculiar attire for the coldness of the air outside. His sweatshirt seemed thick and warm though. I wondered. He was fairly young with rough calloused hands. What was his game? How long had he sat in Panera's unnoticed, plucking food from the garbage? Was he just out of work? This place was too far from downtown for this to be a homeless vagrant. He seemed cleanshaven enough.

An idea began to form in my head. In the trunk of my car was a bag of clothes I was planning to drop in a Goodwill box. I hadn't gotten around to it. I knew there was a pair of jeans in good condition and a pair of sneakers that looked to be this young man's size. Right outside the window was a trashcan. It might work.

I gathered my lunch remains and cleared out, heading for my car. I opened the trunk and picked up the bag of clothes, walking back towards the trashcan outside Panera's. I made sure to bump against the window repeatedly, making noise about what I was doing, holding up the jeans and the sneakers before dropping them in the can. Then I walked back to the car and pulled out of the parking space.

Discreetly, I nosed into another space with full view of the can and waited. Minutes later, the young man came outside, looked around, then headed to the trash can. He pulled out the jeans and sneakers and a few other things and quickly tucked them into his pack and took off across the parking lot.

Well, now. I wonder if he really needed that stuff or if he was just a rag picker making money off discards. Either way, no one else in Panera's seemed to have noticed him at all. It was as if he didn't exist. Or was invisible. I wonder how often I have missed invisible people in the normal course of a day. Probably a lot.

Decorating for Christmas

I never used to allow Christmas decorations to be put up until after December 6, Michael's birthday. But today Drew asked if he could get the tree out and start. Drew never knew Michael, wasn't even thought of when Michael died. Kiel was only a baby and doesn't remember Michael at all. It is about time I moved on from that tradition. Not that I will forget Michael, but there is no sense hanging on to sadness. So I told Drew to go ahead.

True to his word, he dragged the artificial tree into the living room and set it up. Never mind fluffing out the branches or plugging it in. It is enough to start the ball rolling. And he did bring up the box of decorations. Slowly over the next few days I knew we would pick away at decorating. I am still somewhat done in by the darn chemo stuff, but I am enjoying starting the Christmas season early.

Last year Christmas was so tinged by Dad's illness and passing that it was barely acknowledged. I am sure the boys missed the normal cheer. They never spent a lot of time with their Grandpa. By the time they were old enough to engage in conversation, Dad was slowing down and often too tired to interact with them when we visited. But they respected my emotions and toned the holiday down.

I sense that Drew's eagerness to kick start the celebration is driven in part by last year's quiet Christmas and last year's cancer junk from me. So I am happy to accommodate his wishes. Let's have a joyous and light hearted time this year and keep the lights going. I even managed to hang a handful of ornaments and fluff a few branches while he was flitting about. Yeah! Christmas! Let the merriment begin.

Grumpy Accordian Player

Yesterday on the way in to Eastman Theater, we were greeted by a large gentleman dressed in a ragged hoodie and sporting an accordion, seated on the stoop by the front doors. His case was open and he kept up a constant barrage of verbiage aimed at passersby, in particular, the theater goers.

"Come on, now. Not even a dollar for an old man? Where is your Christmas spirit? You can afford to go to the theater but not to help out a poor musician? Not even a dollar? Not even a quarter? What is wrong with you?"

The commentary sounded angry and unending. Not once did I hear this gentleman play a song. He sponged a chord here and a blat there, but no real song. I wanted to tell him that he would catch more cash if he actually played and was any good. Or at least if he said nice things. There is that adage about catching more flies with honey than vinegar.

Instead, I just walked past him without making eye contact, my ears burning under his condemnation, my ire rising in determination not to be emotionally black mailed into supporting God only knows whom. And that is what brought me up short. Was this man not a child of God, no matter how bleak his situation or how black his character?

Still, I gave the man no more thought while I introduced my guests to the production. It was already a sacrifice on my part to purchase these tickets. Now to be asked to give a generous handout to some unknown person felt too heavy a burden.

He was still there as we headed back to our car, still harassing the crowd with his sarcastic remarks. I hurried past, hearing one woman tell another to wait because their friend got "caught" by the old man's pleas for help. Their tone of voice indicated their disapproval of her weakness in giving cash to the accordion player.

I heard the words tumble around in my brain. How do I know he won't just spend it on drugs and liquor? What right does he have to make others feel bad? Where are the police? If he is really hungry, why doesn't he go to the Open Door Mission? He can get a meal and a bed there. Get out of the snow and the cold. Where did he get that accordion? Does it even work? Does he really know how to play it? Isn't this just a scam? What did he really want the money for? Why didn't he just get a job like normal people? We work hard for our money. Why should we give it to someone who refuses to work?

All the Scrooging ugly words of our culture poured in and out of my thoughts. When I worked at Eastman, we were given coupons for a free meal at the Open Door Mission to hand out to anyone panhandling. I never had to use mine, but I do remember one beggar berating summer lunch eaters about how it was our fault he was in the situation he was in. If we would just help him out, he wouldn't have to beg. A mounted policeman took him away quickly.

So what would it have hurt if I had given the cranky accordion player a dollar? If he misused it, God would hold him accountable, right? After all, who's responsibility is it to help those who are down and out? Isn't he my neighbor? Shouldn't I be concerned at his distress? If the churches were reaching out to the homeless, would I even have encountered this man? Isn't the money I have provided by God's grace anyway? It could be me down there begging for help.

I will admit, I went back to see if the old man was there during other performances, but I didn't see him. I wanted to talk to him, see why he was there and whether I could connect him to someplace that could help him. Maybe the police removed him. Maybe he just gave up because no one was willing to drop money in his case. Or maybe he was an angel just testing the goodwill of the community. I will never know.

And I still haven't resolved my response to these sorts of encounters. I am more likely though to do what I believe is right and be generous, leaving the results to God's grace. If it's a scam it will be found out. Meanwhile, I make sure I am helping the reputable organizations as often as I can. Perhaps my extra change in the Salvation Army buckets and my dollar donations to the food bank through Wegmans this year is a direct response to the grumpy accordion player. Perhaps.

The Nutcracker

"You've never seen the Nutcracker?" I ask in amazement as both my daughter-in-law and my soon to be daughter-in-law shake their heads. We'll just remedy that right now! I call the box office and order three tickets in the nosebleed section. I made the boys go when they were little, but they were none too impressed. And I never took them again. I have often dreamed of taking my grand daughters when they are a little older and can appreciate it, but here is a chance to go that fell right into my lap. I am excited to introduce them to this classic.

On the drive there I wonder if they will find it interesting or be bored out of their socks. I hope they will like it. We park and pick up our tickets, then climb and climb and climb stairs up past the mezzanine and round into a tight stairwell that you could mistake for an attic entrance. The Eastman Theater was renovated last year, and this is the first performance I have attended in the new space with the box seats and all.

I forgot that the old world elegance of the building is striking to people who have never been there. We settle into our seats while the girls look around at the gilded woodwork, the sparkling crystal chandelier, the plush velvet seats, the ornate statues and wall decor. They giggle about sitting where we could be wiped out if some Phantom of the Opera thing unfolded.

We watch while families with young children fill in seats around us. There is excited chatter everywhere, ushers repeatedly telling audience members that they cannot take pictures in the theater. At last the lights dim and the music begins. The girls are amazed that the orchestra is so far under the stage but can be clearly heard.

The production is as I remember it. Fabulous costumes and props, lots of choreography to match the music, and of course, the music! I have always liked Tchaikovsky, and this particular work is enchanting. I steal glances at the girls. They are glued to the stage, drinking in the beauty, mesmerized by the dancing. The story is easy to follow. At intermission, we make our way to the marble bathroom and stand in line waiting our turn. I ask how they like it and am met by enthusiastic nods and excited descriptions of the favorite parts. Yes! Converts!

The second part is as wonderful as the first, and too soon the whole thing is over. We can barely tear ourselves away, the sugarplums still dancing in our heads. On the drive home, I suggest that they keep this tradition going with their children. After all, everyone should see the Nutcracker live at least once in their lives!

Thanksgiving with Ramseyes

I had promised to get boots for Ramseyes the next time I saw him, and this is it. I decide we should try to go today, hoping that the crowds will be thinner on Thanksgiving Day than on Black Friday. We head out. I am happy to discover that while there are some people shopping, the mostly the crowd consists of store employees setting out sales displays for tomorrow. Yeah!

We wander about and finally find the perfect boots for a rambunctious two year old. Mark wants to look at a few things, but Ramseyes is impatient. We suspect he may be thirsty, so I take his hand and the two of us venture off together in search of a drink. It occurs to me that this is really the first time we have been alone except for when he was a baby.

He looks up at me with trusting eyes as we wander farther from his parents. I wonder if he will get scared. But there are too many distractions. Displays of all kinds. Especially trucks. This young man is all boy. He makes truck sounds and reaches his hands out, asking to hold a bright yellow dump truck. How can a Grandma resist?

We did find a drink, but he wasn't too interested in it. People watch us walk past and I don't mind when they ask how old my grandson is. When Drew was little people used to ask me that, not realizing I was the Mom, not the Grandmom. But I was older when he was born, so I understood. This is different. I am happy to be the Grandmom.

I am still somewhat wobbly from the chemo, and soon I find I will either have to sit down somewhere or lean heavily on the cart. We put Ramseyes in and I push slowly, leaning and trying not to let my heavy breathing be heard. Soon we are headed home where Mark will cook our Thanksgiving dinner and hopefully the boys will finally be up.

Mark is a wonderful cook - one of those people who just knows how to make food taste extraordinary. I don't ask where the two pounds of butter went or what is in the gravy. I just eat. It is good. The company is good. And the Grandma and the two year old go to bed early while the big boys play. We can do the dishes tomorrow.

Copycatting

Mark and family are coming for Thanksgiving! Yeah. I look forward to spending some time with Ramseyes who is two and full of energy. Maybe I can scoop up some energy for myself! They arrive with a flood of baggage and paraphernalia, and it takes us some time to figure out where to put everything and still have room to move.

Finally we are gathered in the living room and chatting. Ramseyes watches everyone with wide opened eyes. I am amazed at how quickly he figures out how to do what other people are doing. It evolves into a game. Kiel makes a sound, Ramseyes makes the same sound. Andrea makes a sound and moves her head, Ramseyes does the same. He is quick. He barks like Sugar and even Sugar does a double take!

What fun feeding him movements and sounds and watching him emulate. The best copying he does is when I scoop him up and hug and kiss him and he hugs and kisses right back. I enjoy it while he is willing. I suspect he will soon resist such loving on.

He drinks in all the attention. An adorable little copycat. And fast! So far he has dumped the contents of two boxes of cereal on the floor and removed half the dishes from the lower cupboard faster than flash. No one keeps up with him, not even his Dad. This is going to be a fun weekend!

Gonna Make It

Oh grueling day. I have another round of high school instruction AND a first year seminar class to teach. The day did start out on a better note than yesterday, but I am still exhausted. I realize I cannot stand the whole time students are researching. I will have to sit even if I keep popping up to assist students. Hopefully, no one will think it unusual.

The morning goes alright, and at noon I dash home and rest, not even bothering to eat more than a piece of toast. I am shaky as I head back to work, but I think I can do it. As soon as the class is over, I will lie down in the break room until I have recuperated. I can feel my legs shake as I present information, but my hands do not betray my situation. The kids are engaged and ask good questions. We joke and banter about resources. The time passes quickly. I end up letting them out ten minutes early, and head for the couch. Fortunately, no one comes in the room, and after about 20 minutes, I am OK.

I am most grateful that this evening's class is a short one. Everyone else has their personal spiritual formation sessions, and I did that last time around. Whew! I will be able to go home early. As I head towards home, I thank God for helping me cover my responsibilities and ask him to heal my body so I can get back to work. At just that moment, the clouds parted and the moon showered the road with bright light. Better days are ahead. I will not be locked in this broken loop forever. Right now though, I just have to get home.

Crash and Numb

I peel my eyes open and for a moment, I have to think where I am. Oh, right. Monday morning in my room. I open the Library today. I glance at the clock. Yikes! It is already 7am and I need to be there by 7:30. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and nearly scream. What on earth?

Every joint is on fire. Every spot on my body hurts. My hands and feet are tingling and numb. This isn't right. I'm supposed to be over chemo by now. I urge my body to stand and shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the hot water and slump in the shower, willing the hot water to fix my broken body. My head is pounding, my feet feel as if there are knives stabbing them all over.

Tears roll down my face and disappear into the foggy steam of the running water. God, help me. Please help me. After a few minutes, I will myself to climb out of the shower and dress. Sugar needs walking and I must get to work and unlock the doors. After that I can figure out what to do.

I crawl down the steps like an old woman bent beneath years of arthritis, wincing with every step. Sugar wags her tail impatiently while I struggle to open the front door. She eyes me nervously, wondering what I am doing. I don't even walk around the corner with her. She will have to take care of business right by the door. It takes me precious minutes to mount the stairs and plop her food in her dish.

Never mind breakfast or even a cup of hot tea. I fumble for my purse and head to the car. Driving is easier. All I really have to do is sit. I force myself to focus. It would never to do make a careless mistake and cause an accident. Fortunately, my coworkers have figured out that I am running late and have already begun the opening procedures. I joke about Monday blues and help finish, then head to my office.

I close the door and sit in my comfy chair, lean my head against the wall, and shut my eyes. The protests of my muscles overwhelm me and I give in to it fully. Gradually, the screaming subsides and calms to a dull roar. Better. Better. I move to my desk and open email, sorting through tons of stuff. This will be a grunt work day. I will not trust myself to do anything important. I save tasks of a highly repetitive nature for just such days.

I open my statistics files and start filling in columns from the various reports. All the while I am shaking my head. I am supposed to be fine today. What happened? Haven't I cooperated fully with the work going on in my body? Haven't I turned aside and rested? After all, I blew an entire weekend on recovering. This is not fair. I will not get my paper done. I am not even sure I can be here a full day.

I take care of the calendar obligations, but by 4pm, I know I am done. I head home a bit early after sending my professor an email of explanation as to why I will not be turning in my paper tomorrow. It is the first time in - well - ever that I have not had an assignment done when it should have been done. Can't be helped. The world will not come to an end. But I wonder as I slide into bed how long the siege is going to last.

I guess I will have to count on a longer down time for these maintenance things. Sigh.