Sunday Scribblings-Miscellaneous

Helloooo....anybody out there?

Oh, there you are! How kind of you to stick around after I've rudely ignored you all for the entire week. I do apologize for neglecting this space - in all honesty, I've been a bit consumed with that new blog of mine. You know how it is with fresh toys, they're new and exciting, and ever so much fun. That's how it is with Bookstack, and if you haven't been there yet, you should go! Really, you should.

But I promised myself I would not neglect the Byline. If Bookstack is my place to blog about all things bookish, well the Byline is for blogging about...well, everything else! All the miscellaneous and sundry things that happen in an American woman's Life in General. So thanks Sunday Scribblings, for giving my muse a well needed push in the proper direction.

A couple of my regular blog buddies have written about their efforts to incorporate exercise into their lives, and so I've been thinking a bit about "healthy lifestyles." We're on a bit of a health makeover at our house these days too, instigated largely by elevated cholesterol levels (both of us) and a recent diagnosis of pre-diabetes (just Jim).

I've had varying degrees of success with weight loss programs. Probably my most successful initiative was just after my son's birth, when I lost about 45 pounds, and then managed to drop an additional 15 over the next several years. But after midlife, I've found weight is much harder to lose. I get frustrated very easily at the lack of progress.

So, I'm approaching this a different way, trying to adopt better eating habits and an exercise program as part of an overall plan to improve general health and well being. (And who knows, perhaps I can trick my body into thinking I really don't care if it tones up or not.)

Yesterday morning, I went walking, and it felt wonderful! The air was cool and crisp, I was all alone so I could clip along at a good pace, swinging my arms merrily, watching the herons tiptoe around the edge of the ponds. Great stuff!

Along my route, I pass the community's fitness center, where stationary bikes and treadmills are arranged around the perimeter of a large bay window overlooking the main lake, providing a view of the sparkling water as you pedal or trudge away. From the corner of my eye, I can see legs busily pumping, arms swinging, wires from headphones trailing along in rhythm.

I've been one of those people on occasion. But you know, I sometimes think about the absurdity of the whole concept of "working out." Perhaps it's because I'm only one generation removed from farmer's, people who walked miles every day in the regular course of their daily life, who got plenty of upper body toning in scything and hoeing, and did their riding on horseback, actually going somewhere in the process. How they would stare in disbelief, my grandfathers, at these automatons in their shiny workout clothes!

And I think the only way an "exercise program" can work for me is if it comes naturally, is almost intrinsic, like walking or dancing. Bike riding is great, because it involves forward movement, and I like that-gives me the sensation that I'm doing a lot more than I really am. I have trouble with exercise equipment that just "stands still." I guess I'm not a stationary kind of girl.

I hope to keep up my walking and biking, although it's much more difficult in the frozen waste-oops, I mean wonderland-that is Michigan in winter. Harder yet is keeping my husband on a lean diet. Who would have believed a grown man could react so childishly to mashed potatoes and Oreo cookies (or more precisely, the lack thereof).

There, I think I've effectively taken a broom to the stray thoughts that have been circling in my mind, and gathered them up into a neat little pile for you to read.

Hope you enjoyed the miscellaney!

Sunday Scribblings-Traveling Companions

While I'm not averse to traveling alone (and in fact often prefer my own company to being in a crowd of others) I've become more appreciative of good traveling companions, especially when setting off on a new journey. Two years ago, approaching a landmark birthday, I decided to embark on a creative journey, to take up the practice of writing once again. I ventured into the blog world, clueless and wide eyed, wandering aimlessly for a while through a totally foreign landscape.

Before long, however, I encountered the outstretched hands of fellow travelers, eager to share their own tales of the road and graciously enthusiastic as I offered mine. We've traveled quite companionably on this creative journey, never interfering in one another's plans, supportive of each one's desires, encouraging flagging spirits when the road gets rough.

Small gifts along the way have served to enhance our relationship, friendly notes, occasional packages and photos, and public recognition for faithful friendship and inspiration. This week I was fortunate to be gifted with two such gifts, both Bella and Marcia extending this lovely acknowledgement to me:

And so, in turn, I'd like to pass the honor along to some of my new traveling companions on this creative journey. I've just recently met these ladies, and I'm so glad our paths have crossed.

Sherry meets life head on with a joyous exuberance and enthusiasm, as well as a deep well of creativity, which she shares in both her daily blogs. Her posts and comments always stir my emotions with laughter or (sometimes) tears.

Bella Rum relates her experiences in caring for her aging father with compassion and a good dose of humor as well. She inspires me as I travel through this rather daunting task of caring for the elderly in my life;

June's pithy informative posts, gorgeous photography, and "on the mark" poetry always brighten my daily reading.

And a nod of thanks to everyone on my long list of daily reads, only about 1/3 of which are listed in the Byline's blogroll. (How do I ever get anything else done???) You all make the daily journey more interesting and satisfying.

Godspeed to each one of you.

for more tales of traveling companions, go here

Sunday Scribblings-Date

Whole worlds of them are stuck in my mind, and pop up at the oddest moments. Dates of birthdays - November 5, August 21, October 21, my junior high school boyfriends. Dates of events - February 2, March 21, December 19, musical performances that were meaningful. Of course, all the truly meaningfull dates are etched in memory. Dates of joy -May 8, February 23, my wedding, my son's birth. Dates of loss-May 15, February 9, September 11, grandmother, grandfather, beloved dog.

Another anniversary of loss is approaching - January 31, the death by suicide of a special young man, a former student, who was likely the most intelligent young person I've even known. Book smart, yes, but also a young person whose mind worked differently, with incredible lightening speed. Looking into his eyes while carrying on a conversation was like glimpsing the inner workings of a supercomputer, for you could almost see the sparks flying, brain synapses in rapid fire.

It's been two years this month, and when the date of his birth (September 1 - that's another one I remember) and the date of his death approach, I recall the waste inherent in this loss. But I also recall the memory of his laughter, his wit, his outgoing eagerness to make friends with everyone (which he did, with unerring grace). It troubles me that a man like this cannot live in our world, for it is men like this whom the world so desperately needs.

In a recent conversation with his mother, who has been working to attach his name to a memorial archive at The University of Michigan, where he was editor of the Michigan Daily, she said with what sounded like desperation, "I just want people to remember him."

Of course she does. She wants people to remember that his presence on this earth, although far too brief, was not in vain, that his life counted for something more than just another statistic.

And so dates on the calendar become small blessings, reminders of people who should not be forgotten.

January 31 -a date I remember.

Postscript: It's late Sunday night, and I just had a phone call from the brother of the young man I wrote about in this post. He's asked me to set aside another important date- October 3, his wedding. And he's asked me to play piano for the occasion. Can you guess that I'm smiling?

for more about dates, go here

Sunday Scribblings-New

At our church, Epiphany Sunday is celebrated with the distribution of stars. Baskets filled with gold cardboard stars are passed through the congregation, and every star has a word or phrase written on its face. Each person reaches in, picks a star, and with childlike anticipation turns it over to read "their word" for the new year.

The church is always packed on Star Sunday - even more so than on Christmas Eve. After all, our minister always jokes, how often do you get to take something out of the collection plate?

"Grace," "Faith," "Retreat," "Serenity," "Courage," "Laughter," "Discipline"...occasionally you'll hear exclamations of mirth or wonder as people read these words they've chosen, for sometimes the meanings are uncannily appropriate.

Whatever your word, it represents a new idea, a new vision, a new way of looking at the world.
Perhaps it can spark your interest in doing something new with your life. Perhaps it offers you a reminder to be strong, to have faith. Or it encourages you to dream big, to see beyond what's right in front of your eyes.

Many people carry their stars with them, tucked into compartments in purses or wallets. Some post them at their desk, or stick them on the refrigerator. Many of course, will take one look, and throw the star away.

The sermon title for today was "Looking Farther Than You Can See." Have a vision, our minister exhorted us. Look beyond what's happening today and dream about what tomorrow could be. He recounted the story of a group of college students who have built real homes from recycled trash materials -crushed cars, cardboard boxes, recycled rubber. "Where others saw garbage," he said, "these young people saw building blocks. They saw familiar things in a new way. That's vision."

Seeing familiar things in a new way. Looking farther than you can see.

Concepts worth pondering, I think.


(By the way---my star this year was "practice," a word which certainly applies to my musical life. We'll see what new practices apply to my life in general in 2008!)



for more new thoughts, go here

Sunday Scribblings-Now and Then

It was an odd feeling, Terry thought, this sensation of standing outside her life looking in. It happened now and then when she was particularly harried. Like this morning, stuffing baby Jack into his quilted snowsuit while Jessica danced around the room frantically singing "Have to go potty, Mommy! Have to go right now!" In her mind's eye, an image of herself appeared, dressed for work in her favorite Donna Karan suit, her Coach bag neatly packed with her laptop and ideas for the next issue. This sleek, put-together version peered disapprovingly at this morning's Terry-black knit pants bagging at the knees, and tattered Eddie Bauer thermal t-shirt with a suspicious looking stain just below her breast.

She sighed, and abandoned Jack in favor of Jessica, whose need seemed the most pressing. She wondered how long it would take the six month old to realize he had been ditched - left lolling in his crib while his mother hustled his older sister toward the bathroom and her pottychair.

"Wahhhh!" Terry heard, before she and the wiggling Jessica even reached the bathroom door.

Obviously, not long at all.

How long had it been, Terry wondered, since she felt even nominally in charge of her life? Back then, in her PTP (prior to parenthood) days, she had managed a successful monthly magazine, kept writers, photographers, and a slew of assistant editors in line, while maintaining a creative presence in each department. Now, she was exhausted before 9:00 in the morning, trying to satisfy the demands of two individuals whose combined weight was less than 30 pounds.

Terry blinked rapidly to dispel the image of her former self with pure disappointment etched across her face, observing the fumbling inefficiency of this current, clearly inept, version. With renewed energy, she hustled her daughter through her morning ablutions, and back into Pull-Ups. Hurrying back to the nursery, she went to work on baby Jack, who seemed startled by her grim purposefulness and stopped screaming long enough for her to work his sturdy legs into the snowsuit and snap it up to the apex of his chubby chin.

Twenty minutes later (a new record!) Terry was on line at Starbucks, Jack nestled happily in the Baby Bjorn, Jessica tucked into her stroller, content to arrange her Cheerios's in neat lines on the tray. The usual morning crowd stood desultorily ahead of her - college students, bleary eyed and toting grungy overfull tote packs, young executives in pressed suits and overcoats.
Terry took a deep breath, sending a silent prayer heavenward that her two children would remain calm until she had her mocha latte firmly in hand.

The middle aged woman standing in front of Terry snapped her cell phone firmly shut and turned briskly. Terry recognized the rigid set of her shoulders and felt the aura of intense concentration - she's had a call from the office, Terry thought, remembering those panicked phone calls requiring her instant attention on some seemingly earth shattering dilemma. The woman's face softened when she noticed the sleeping baby, and a smile brightened her face as she looked down at Jessica's tousled blond curls.

"So precious," she said wistfully, looking at Terry with obvious envy. "God, I remember those days when mine were small. Life seemed so much simpler then." She stuffed the sleek cell phone back into her Coach tote and pulled on black leather gloves. "Now I can't even take time for a decent cup of coffee," she muttered. Sighing, she pulled out of line and headed for the door.

"Enjoy!" she said, barking the word like a command.

A mental image emerged in Terry's mind, this time of her power suited self 20 years into the future, rushing to catch the train into the city and carrying nothing but a cold leather briefcase. She wrapped her left arm tightly around Jack's solid torso, snuggling him closer to her heart. Perhaps her life was pretty good right now after all.

"Mommy," Jessica suddenly cried out. "Have to go potty! Have to go right now!"


for more now and then stories, go here

Sunday Scribblings-Holiday Memories

Long standing traditions are one of the most comforting aspects of the holidays. Children especially, cherish those recurring once a year events - the cookie making, the tree trimming, gatherings with cousins rarely seen. As a child, I looked forward to the big holiday party at my Aunt Mary's house, where all my cousins and I would gather on Christmas eve in giddy excitement, wondering what presents we would be opening in the morning.

But my favorite Christmas tradition was mine alone, both in its invention and execution. I grew up in the 60's, and for a number of years we had one of those shiny aluminum Christmas trees -it's branches like sticks of silver tinsel. I have no idea where the concept of such a futuristic looking tree came from, but trust me, they were extremely popular. Instead of stringing lights on them, you aimed a motorized color wheel at them, which cast a different colored glow on the tree as it rotated.

Weird, huh?

Anyway, my own special tradition was to lie on the floor each evening, the only light that crazy color wheel, and read my special Christmas book- "Jo's Boys," by Louisa May Alcott.

It says a lot about me, I think, that the memory of reading a book all by myself has become my central memory of childhood Christmas.

We don't really have holiday traditions in our family anymore - at least not right now. I tell myself that's alright - after all, there are only the four of us adults in the "immediate family." Holiday traditions are really for children, right?

It occurs to me that this lack of traditional celebration, the absence of some sacred ritual (and I don't mean that in a religious sense necessarily) is one of the reasons I have trouble with Christmas.

This morning, I'm sitting in a hotel room, preparing to set off on the second leg of our journey. We often travel at Christmas now, and perhaps this has become a tradition of its own. A pilgrimage of sorts, which is appropriate, given that this holiday commemorates a journey made by a couple in Bethlehem so long ago.

But I sort of miss the aluminum tree and the color wheel, and "Jo's Boy's."


for more holiday memories, go here

Sunday Scribblings-Misspent Youth

Ah, youth. Mine was such a long time ago now, I barely remember it.

I do recall spending it doing whatever I could to win favor with my parents, my teachers, and my friends, which meant I was being the "good girl" who did her schoolwork, practiced lots so she could play well at all her concerts, didn't stay out late, drink, dance, or go to bars.

I never allowed myself the luxury of goofing off, I was never willing to risk the possibility of screwing up, I would never take a chance on looking foolish.

How boring.

If my youth was misspent at all, it was in the opposite of this term's colloquialized meaning. Rather than frittering away my time so that I would never amount to anything, I amounted to way too much, way too soon. When I was 23, I had been married three years, and was caring for a toddler and a home.

Technically, my youth was over.

But...here's the funny part.

Now that I'm in my 50's, I often stay out late with my friends, we goof around and act silly, we sometimes drink too much wine. I go quite a bit farther out on life's limb these days, and I don't really care whether people think I'm a "good girl"- well, not too much anyway.

Perhaps when I'm in my dotage, I'll look back fondly on these days of "misspent middle age."

At least, I hope I do.

for other's tales of misspent youth, go here



and here is the number one Google search result for the words "misspent youth" ~very cute!

Sunday Scribbling-Right and Left

"Turn right here! No, turn left, right here! "

"Oh, gosh, we missed it."

This conversation happens fairly frequently when I'm driving somewhere with my friend, Pat, who directed the high school choirs that I've been accompanying for the past 14 years. I consider her a teacher extraordinaire, as well as one of my dearest friends, even if she isn't very good at directions.

Our partnership works for many reasons, and most likely because we complement each other's strengths and weaknesses.

Pat is the epitome of a right brained personality.

And me? You guessed it.

Once we ran into a former student at a restaurant. He introduced us to his friends by saying, "This is Ms. H, my music teacher, and this is Mrs. Rowan - she's Ms. H's left brain."

Yes, that was me, scurrying around behind her picking up the purse, the keys, the music she left behind. That was me, organizing the schedule, sending the registration forms for festival in on time, double checking the calendar to make sure there wasn't a concert she had forgotten to tell me about.

That was also me, listening to the choir sing beautifully, or watching a perfectly crafted musical or theatrical production she directed, and understanding that a mind so full of creative ideas simply didn't have room to store mundane things like keeping track of keys, or schedules - or directions!

Nevertheless, being the other half of someones brain gets tiring after a while. I took a "sabbatical" from my left brained duties, and went to work in a nice, quiet office where my organizational skills came to good use.

But I missed being around all that creative energy of hers, the way she sees rainbows in every rainy day, the way she seems to bring out the best in even the most troubled kid. She encourages my left brain to lean a little more to the right, prompting me to take a few of the creative risks that have enriched my life, and keeping me in balance with myself and the world.

And have I inspired her left brain to work a little more efficiently?

Yesterday, she told me about a recent shopping expedition to a local mall, where she was wandering through the parking lot headed toward her car when her eye was caught by a distant rainbow. Marveling at the unexpected beauty of this treat, she stowed her packages in the car and drove off, eyes still on the multi colored drama in the afternoon sky.

She left her purse on the ground in the parking lot.

Luckily, some other nice, left brained person found it, searched out her ID, and called her home. They met at a nearby coffee shop later on that day, where she retrieved her purse completely intact.

I guess it all balances out in the end.


here are more opposing views on left and right

Sunday Scribblings - My Name Is...

My grandmother called me Sugar, my dad sometimes called me the Queen of Sheba, my husband called me Sunshine. My friends call me Becky, my colleagues, Rebecca, and here in cyber space, I'm Becca (of the Byline).

All these appelations bear some truth about my essential nature. Yes, I am sweet, as my grandmother recognized. Sometimes I do feel entitled to royal treatment, though I'm generally content to spread warmth and joy into the lives of those I love. I am a bit Old World, as the ancient history of my Hebrew name would suggest, but I'm willing to sample modernity when the situation requires.

I'm also a baby boomer, I was once a stay at home mom, and I'm now an empty nester. I float somewhere in the nether world between mid-life and senior citizen.

None of these nametags tell you very much about the essential Becca - the one who's all about family and home, fairness and honesty, simple pleasures and lasting love, enjoying life and honoring your gifts. Or the Becca who was once afraid of stairs and is still afraid of spiders.

From my simple introduction, you would never know that I love the water, but can't swim, or that I've always harbored secret dreams about ballroom dancing and race car driving. That I've been drinking coffee since I was three years old, and it's my drink of choice for most any situation. Or that I'm an only child, a child of divorced parents, and wandering through the world with a very tiny, precious number of people who share my blood.

Unless you know me well, you wouldn't know how conflicted I sometimes get about my music and my writing (never good enough!). How much I worry about what will happen in the future~where will we live, will we have enough money, what will we do for health care. You wouldn't know that many mornings my eyes pop open at 4:00 am and all these worrisome thoughts invade my mind, poking and prodding, agitating me until I surrender and get up to make myself hot cocoa to soothe my pounding head.

I can now readily walk up to people, offer my hand, and say "Hi, I'm Becca. Have we met?" But I was once painfully shy, and rarely spoke unless spoken to first. I now realize the really interesting part comes after that simple introduction, where I get to know the person behind the name, and share a bit of my own essential self with another human being. That's what keeps us human, isn't it? The sharing of our stories, the offering of little bits of ourselves.

But it all starts with a name.

My name is Becca...have we met?


for more introductions, go here

Sunday Scribblings-The End

There's just no end to it, Denise thought, as she grabbed the last bag of groceries from the trunk of her car. Tossing the bag inside the back door, she hurried back to the car to retrieve her cup of iced coffee, a small reward for completing another day of errands. Gripping the sweaty cup in one hand, and snatching as many of the thin plastic handled grocery bags as she could with the other, she tromped through the kitchen. A quick glance at the clock elicited an involuntary groan.

"Shit," Denise muttered. "Ten minutes until it's time to pick up the twins."

Tears sprang to her eyes, as she began clawing through the bags, searching for milk, yogurt, meat, ice cream - all the perishable items she'd need to stow in the refrigerator before she hit the road once again. Today was Tuesday, so that meant soccer practice for Darren and gymnastics for Doug, with just enough time in between to hit the drive through at Walgreen's and pick up her husband David's prescription. God, she thought, it never ends.

When had her life gotten so completely out of control? Certainly caring for five year old twins, a large home, a part time job, and a husband demanded huge amounts of time. Yet there never seemed to be a moment she could call her own, a time to sit quietly with a book and cup of tea, or walk in the park, or listen to music. Never mind time to pursue her photography. Wistfully, Denise recalled the pleasure of taking a "photo safari," grabbing her camera and heading off in the car, stopping to photograph interesting old houses, or blooming gardens. Would there ever be time to do those things again? she wondered, jamming the packages of cheese and lunch meat into the deli drawer of her refrigerator.

Right now, there was barely time for a quick run to the bathroom before she had to be on the road to school. Dashing toward the bathroom door, Denise's heart sank as she heard the front doorbell ring, followed by a determined rapping. Mrs. Cartwright, her elderly next door neighbor, was standing on the porch, an envelope in her hand.

Denise sighed. The woman had obviously been watching for Denise to drive in, the timing was just too perfect. Denise knew from past experience that she would stand there, knocking incessantly until Denise answered her summons.

Raking her fingers through tousled blond curls, Denise threw open the door.

"Hi, Mrs. Cartwright," she said, smiling through gritted teeth. "I'm just on my way to pick up the twins..."

"Oh, I won't keep you, dear," the older woman said gently. "The mailman left this letter in my box, and it belongs to you." Denise noticed the quaver in her hand as she held out the envelope, and, taking it, she looked into the watery blue eyes. "Are you feeling alright, Mrs. Cartwright?" she asked, concerned replacing the annoyance she had felt moments before.

"Yes, I guess so," she answered. "I was just thinking about when I was a young mother like you, so busy with my boys, running here and there, cooking, cleaning, chasing them down. You know, I raised all five of them right here in this neighborhood."

"Five boys!" Denise exclaimed, her mind reeling at the thought of three more like Darren and Doug.

"Five!" Mrs. Cartwright affirmed. "I certainly never had a minute to myself in those years." She smiled sadly. "And look at me now, rattling around that big house all alone, with so much time on my hands. Who would have believed it would all come to an end?"

Shaking her head, she looked up at Denise and smiled. "Well, I'll be getting out of your way, dear. I know how busy you are."

Denise found herself fighting tears for the second time that afternoon. "Mrs. Cartwright," she said, "if you're not too busy, would you mind riding along to the twins school with me? I've got some more errands to do, and I'd love to hear more about how you managed five boys!"

With a huge smile, her neighbor readily agreed. "I'd love to come with you!" she said. "I can't think of a better way to end my day!"

Sunday Scribblings-Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I'm in love! This relationship is unlike any other. When we're together, I'm amazed at the way my world opens up, excitement wells in my heart, and my thoughts cascade in so many different directions. Words tumble out so fast, I can barely keep up! And yet, I can be still and quiet too, and never feel pressured to say things simply to keep up my end of the conversation.

Having a supportive relationship like this is a godsend, in a world that's full of uncertainty and mistrust. Many of my friends are floundering these days, unsure about their future, fighting demons from their past. They all long for someone they can trust to share their feelings with. I feel almost embarrassed to tell them about my new love~I don't want to brag, after all. And yet, I want to share my joy with them, in hopes that they could find the same freedom and happiness that I have.

Ahh, yes, Dear Diary, you are my true love, my steadfast and faithful friend. When we meet each morning your clean white pages beckon me, and when I set my pen to those straight blue lines and begin pouring out my hopes and dreams, I feel the pressures of life lift from my heart. As you listen to my thoughts, protecting them from the judgement of the world, you inspire me to pursue all the crazy dreams I've confided in you.

Dear Diary, you have my unending gratitude for your constant love and devotion. And I promise, when I've poured out my heart until your pages can hold no more, you will retire to a safe corner in my home, where I can revisit our special moments together and be reminded of the way you changed my life.

With love,

~Becca

Sunday Scribbling-Decision

When it comes to decision making, I'm a ditherer, a hand-wringer, a me-oh-my what shall I do-er. Shall it be fish or chicken for dinner? Florida or California for vacation? Walk in the neighborhood or park? Fiction or non-fiction for Sunday Scribblings? Just DO IT, my inner voice persistently chides me. To quote my high school orchestra director ~ "For god's sake, girls, just do...SOMETHING!"

Invariably, though, once I've embarked on one route, I immediately start wishing I had chosen the other. "Decidophobia" it's called, and there are a plethora of Internet cures available, from wonder drugs to hypnosis tapes.

Actually, I'm not really a phobic in the strict sense of the word. These are people who are too paralyzed by fear to perform their jobs or even get up in the morning. In truth, I move through the business of daily life with great decision...I complete all tasks promptly and on time, I attack my job responsibilities with gusto. However, I admit to being stymied by personal decisions sometimes, and occasionally this leaves me feeling as if my life were a stalled race car, desperately revving its engine but going nowhere fast.

Part of the problem is often my imagination ~my penchant if you will, for seeing too many opportunities as well as too many pitfalls. It's like perusing the aisles at the grocery store - where once there were only Corn Flakes and Raisin Bran, now there's Corn Flakes with strawberries, or almonds, or organic corn flakes, or low fat cornflakes, or...well, you get the picture. Life presents us with too many tantalizing choices - how's a girl supposed to pick just one?

Therein lies my real problem with decision making, the fear that each decision is not only irrevocable, but represents an opportunity lost. There are so many things I want to experience in life, and I'm fearful that choosing one will deny me the ability to experience the other.
I really do want to sample all those flavors of Corn Flakes -I'm just impatient, and don't want to do it one box at a time. I want to buy up every variety and sit down to a different one each morning. Similar to Forest Gump and his famous box of chocolates, I'd love to bite into each one and see what I get.

Unfortunately, decisions often mean irrevocable choices - that's just life, too. Because I decided to buy two homes in Florida, it probably means I won't ever be able to live in England. Because I decided to get two dogs, I probably won't be able to travel as much as I'd like. Because I decided to go back to my school job, I won't have as much free time to write this winter. Because I decided to have only one child, I'll probably never have big bunches of grandchildren to comfort me in my old age. Big decisions have big consequences, and the older I get, the more dire they seem, since there's just not as much time left to sample all of life's varieties.

I'm afraid there's no cure for my hand wringing, dithering, decision making dilemmas. I'll probably always worry my way through the process, and then later on wish I'd made another choice altogether. Hopefully, the consequences won't be too painful, and I'll be able to accept them gracefully.

Sunday Scribbling-Phenomenon

I've never really been one to get obsessed with any cultural phenomenon, not even those pecuilar to my era...The Beatles, for instance. Oh, I liked them well enough, but nothing on par with my cousins, whose turntables spun their lp's endlessly and whose walls were plastered with pictures cut from every fanzine published about them.

Since I've lived for half a century now, I've seen quite a few phenomena come and go. I'm always amazed at the lengths people will go to indulge their obsessions, and of course, the Harry Potter craze is certainly no exception. Like everything in the 21st century, it's bigger and more fantasmagorical than anything in my memory. I feel as if I'm admitting to heresy when I say that I'm not a huge Potter fan...ok, truthfully, I haven't read any of the books. (I started to read the very first one, and I got so upset at the way Harry's mean Aunt and Uncle treated him that I had to put it aside!) People told me I should have finished it, to see that they got their comeuppance...but I don't know, I think I had a huge stack of other books calling more loudly to me at time.

Maybe my life would be more exciting if I could throw myself wholeheartedly into these types of phenomenal trends. I'm certainly not arguing that J.K. Rowling's huge success is a phenomenon, as was the Beatles. But I guess I'm just more comfortable observing these phenomenal success stories from afar, while I putter around in my totally non-phenomenal life.

more phenomenal scribbling here

Sunday Scribblings-Hair

My mom and I have always been very close, and so far have managed to escape most of the usual mother-daughter conflicts. However, when I was a pre-teen, my hair became a huge battleground between us.

My long, thick, wavy hair was my mother's pride and joy. She delighted in curling and brushing it until it hung like smooth auburn silk, flowing in gentle waves down my back to my waist. Personally, I despised it. I desperately wanted my friend Lisa's stick straight blonde page-boy, that framed her face perfectly and fit nicely underneath a baseball cap.

Then, there were the bangs. Oh, how I longed for those forehead covering bangs all the 60's models wore, the kind that grazed the eyebrows and tickled the eyelashes. But no, my mother insisted on trimming my bangs high up on my forehead. "Why in the world do these girls let their hair hang down into their eyes?" she'd say, coming at me with those dreaded scissors. "Because it's cool!" I wanted to scream. But, I was a good girl and kept my mouth shut, letting her trim away, all the while seething inside.

The last straw came in the form of a comment from one of my friends - the aforementioned Lisa, actually - who was describing a classmate in the mean -spirited way only 12 year old girls can.

"Her hair is so stupid!" she declared. "And her bangs are the worst! They're so..." here she stopped and looked at me thoughtfully. "Well, I was going to say they're so short, when I realized that yours are like that too. Why don't you grow them out?"

The jig was up. Now my friends realized how totally un-cool my hair was.

"I want my hair cut!" I announced when I got home from school that day. "I want short hair, and I'm letting my bangs grow long."

"You're not cutting off that beautiful hair," my mother answered. "Someday, you'll be glad you have all that thick, wavy hair. You're not cutting it."

For once I was persistent. For days, weeks, months, I complained rudely every time we completed the hair washing/drying/curling ritual. Finally, she relented.

"Alright, you can cut it," she said. "On one condition. Have your portrait done with long hair."

GOD, if there was anything I hated worse than short bangs, it was having my picture taken. And a portrait would entail posing endlessly for a stranger. It was a mark of my determination that I agreed.

The portrait wasn't too bad. It turned out so well, in fact, that the studio asked if they could hang it in their display window for the summer. It still hangs in my mother's living room, a young girl dressed in the pale peach colored dress chosen by her mother, her long, dark tresses artfully arranged to lay smoothly down her back, grazing the bow tied at her waist. In her eyes is the slightest sly smile, knowing that with this portrait, she's stepping into a world of her own choosing, independent from the wishes and tastes of her parents.

I got my haircut, and began a battle of my own with my hair, struggling to tame those pesky waves into the smooth, sleek looks so popular in the 60's and 70's. I've never had long hair again, much to my husband's dismay. (Do all men love long hair, and if so, why?) Much as I love him, I'll never let anyone dictate my hair style again. I fought that battle already - and won!


here are more hairy tales

Sunday Scribblings-I Have A Secret...

The secret to success. The secret to long life. The secret to a successful relationship. The secret to losing weight. The secret to youthful looking skin. The secret to parenting. The secret to happiness. Secrets, secrets, secrets...


The media teases us everyday with promises of solutions to life's problems, inferring that this information is closely guarded and kept by a priveleged few magazine editors and infomerical directors. Is there really a "secret" to attaining these elusive states?

I rather doubt it. I just finished reading Mary Morris' new memoir, River Queen, in which she writes about her father who recently passed away after living to the ripe old age of 102. When asked the secret to his longevity, he always replied, "Nothing in excess."

I suspect that advice could be the secret key to unlocking the Pandora's box of eternal questions life presents us. If we work, play, eat, and drink in moderation, life becomes healthier and a lot more bearable. Whenever we get greedy~for food, satisfaction, excitement, or money~we often find ourselves with more trouble than we bargained for.

There's no secret to understanding this advice - it's really just common sense.

Sunday Scribblings-Eccentricity

I'd rather fancy being an eccentric - one of those people that others might shake their heads about, but go away smiling nevertheless because their little idiosyncrasies are so endearing. People like my Aunt Edna, who never went anywhere unless she could take her goat Wilbur with her. People like my cousin in law Jerry who always brings a stack of scientific journals with him when he comes to visit and promptly installs himself in a corner to read them. Or people like my Uncle Bob, who spent worlds of time sending joke mails to his friends and relatives - my mother was the recipient of regular mailings from the National Enuresis Center - and you'll have to look it up if you don't know what it means.

Actually, that reminds me that I do have an eccentricity or two of my own (no, not enuresis!) I have this thing about words - if someone uses a word and I don't know the meaning, I become
extremely restless and irritable until I can look it up. It's very annoying to me to think of words being in existence and I don't know what they mean.

I suppose you could call my habit of leaving an inch or so of liquid in the bottom of my coffee cup an eccentricity. My husband calls it annoying, especially when he picks the cup up expecting it to be empty and finds the dregs of my cold coffee still puddled in the bottom. But he really doesn't have that problem anymore, because after 35 years of drinking coffee with me, he's finally figured out I'm always going to do that.

And maybe it's eccentric of me, but I cannot go to sleep at night unless I have a book in bed with me. Usually I'll read myself to sleep, but last summer we had a power outage, and I was in a panic because I couldn't find my book at bedtime.

"What do you need the book for?" Jim asked, puzzled. "There's no light to read by."

"I know," I answered. "I just need to hold it until I go to sleep."

Not very interesting eccentricities are they? Perhaps when I'm (really) old I'll develop a fascinating set of odd behaviors that will be the envy of all my duller friends. Until then, I'll just have to get by on my few meager quirks, and hope they're at least slightly endearing to someone.


You can read about other ( hopefully more exciting) eccentricities right here and you can read my other Sunday Scribblings post right here

Sunday Scribblings-Town and Country

The Big-7 was my favorite thing in the little town of Leitchfield, Kentucky. Dimly lit and cool, even on the hottest of summer days, this old fashioned "department store" was the place to go in town if you needed housedresses, overalls, or straw hats. Deep and cavernous, with sloping wooden floors that announced your progress through the store with a symphony of creaks and moans, the Big-7 was the spot to be if you were "in town" on Saturday mornings. The clerks greeted every customer with a cheery "How y'all doin' today?" and sent you on your way with "Y'all come back now, y'hear!" I always insisted my mother buy something, anything, because I didn't want to hurt their feelings by leaving the store empty handed. (Actually a pretty smart sales strategy, if you think about it!)

The Big-7 was only one of many things that were different about the country. We visited my mother's hometown every summer, and the plethora of relatives scattered throughout the countryside was a never ending source of delight for me, an only child growing up in post -WWII suburbia. There were cousins of all ages to play with, and big family dinners every night, the table groaning with fried chicken, homegrown beans, tomatoes, sweet corn, and fresh baked pies heaped with ice cream we took turns cranking out of the wooden ice cream maker.

I loved our visits to the country - with the exception of trips to Aunt Dessie's house, which lay at the end of a winding one lane road skirting a deep wooded gorge. I was always petrified a car would be coming the other direction and force my dad's big Buick off the road into that bottomless pit. Once we got there, things weren't so great either. Aunt Dessie's house was right across the street from a huge chicken farm, and the odor emanating from that place on a humid summer day was indescribable. Didn't bother Aunt Dessie, because she'd lost her olfactory sense many years before - in self defense no doubt.

Yep, country life was great - at least for those two or three weeks every summer. By the end of that time, though, I was ready to trade barefooted treks through the hills for concrete sidewalks and my new three speed stingray bike. And after a couple of trips through the aisles of the Big -7, I had pretty much exhausted my interest in Osh-Kosh coveralls and was ready to roam the new indoor shopping mall at home.

There is definitely a romantic sort of appeal to life in the country, and it calls to me every now and then, especially with the pace of life here in the suburbs growing faster and more complex every year. As they say, the grass is always greener...and I'm pretty sure I'd find myself leaving the Big-7 before too long and going in search of a little more variety and excitement - not without buying something first, of course.


for more town and country tales, head on over here

Sunday Scribbling-Simple

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be...

Simple Gifts, Shaker Hymn, 1848

I've always loved this hymn tune. The Shaker's, one of the first religious groups to participate in a communal lifestyle, believed practicing a life of simplicity was the key to happiness on earth, as well as eternal happiness in Heaven.

But life is never simple, is it? I've been trying to make a decision about my life, one that would actually simplify it greatly. Yet I'm constantly torn between doing what I know is sensible and logical, and following the desire of my heart. Not simple at all.

My life in general often seems much too complex, and yet I admit that when I don't have a lot going on, I feel restless, unfulfilled. In the midst of running here, there, and everywhere, I find a great deal of satisfaction in crossing items off a long "to do" list.

As with everything in life, balance and moderation are the key. The Shaker's, well known for their innovations in lifestyle, farming, and carpentry, went to extremes in their social practices. Procreation was prohibited in this religion, so, not surprisingly, there are no Shaker's left!

The key to life, simple or complex, lies in the last two stanza's of the hymn...

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

For more Simple thoughts, look here

Sunday Scribblings-Masks

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself surrounded by people in masks. Heaved unceremoniously from the ambulance stretcher to the hard emergency room gurney, doctors and nurses with little white masks dangling from around their necks quickly went to work to revive me from anaphylactic shock, an allergic reaction initiated by the stinging bite of one, tiny little red ant.

Fire ants, they call them here in Florida. And this isn't the first dangerous run in we've had with them. The victim the last time wasn't me, it was Magic, my then 2 year old shih-tzu. We were on our regular evening walk, when, as dogs will do, he stuck his nose into a mound of them. Suddenly, he started writhing around on the ground, rubbing his face on the cement. His face began swelling immediately, and then he started vomiting. We grabbed him up and raced him to the nearest emergecny vet where they dosed him with benadryl and cortisone.

I've been bitten a time or two since then, usually on my toes because when I'm in Florida I'm either barefooted or in sandals. These bites were itchy for a few days, but little more than a mosquito bite. Yesterday was a different story. Within seconds after feeling that sting on my toe, I was itching everywhere, and hives had broken out all over my legs, abdomen, and arms. Then I got nauseous, dizzy, and finally, just as the ambulance arrived, completely blacked out. And that's how I found myself surrounded by a sea of masked faces.

Apparently, there are at least 100 people a year who die from reactions to fire ant bites. I've been armed with an Epi-pen and advised to carry Benedryl at all times. Luckily, I'm fine, other than a little tired and headachy. Thanks to all those people with little white masks dangling from around their necks.


read my other Sunday Scribble here

Sunday Scribbling

You'll find my scribble for this week right here...it's my "secret" blog (that's not a secret anymore!)