Clearing the Dust

Blow the dust off the clock. Your watches are behind the times. Throw open the heavy curtains which are so dear to you -- you do not even suspect that the day has already dawned outside. Alexander Solzehnitsyn


There’s a thick layer of dust over nearly every surface in my home. While more pressing matters have captured my attention of late, today I suddenly realized that I’m tired of dust. Today is going to be the day I attack the dust. Well, first I’m distracted a bit by this post, which is probably the lamest I’ve written in a while.

However, I suppose the dust is a metaphor – a parable in the making.

While there are always pressing matters and I am prone to distraction, there are times when the dust must be cleared before the shine can be revealed.

And like the lyrics from Jerome Kern's Pick Yourself Up, which was composed for the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie Swing Time (1936),

Nothing’s impossible I have found,
For when my chin is on the ground,
I pick myself up,
Dust myself off,
Start all over again. 

Don’t lose your confidence if you slip,
Be grateful for a pleasant trip,
And pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

Happy Saturday Dear Gentle Friends.

Place Matters: Looking for Mitford

The Amazon.com review pretty much hit the nail on the head:

Mix one part All Creatures Great and Small with two parts Lake Wobegon, sprinkle a little Anne of Green Gables and get: Mitford, the pinnacle of provincial life, where homespun wisdom, guarded tradition, and principled faith are the precepts of good living.

These days Jan Karon’s At Home in Mitford is on my car’s CD player each morning as I drive to work. I long for a place like Mitford. Small town. Southern. People care about each other. Know about each other. Not too much drama. Peaceful.

Oh well, this is fiction and I am only on the first book of the series. We will see if I stick with it beyond the first. But, I can see why it captured my attention as I explore my longing for what I call a sense of place – a place where I belong.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation offers a straightforward approach, calling sense of place:

Those things that add up to a feeling that a community is a special place, distinct from anywhere else.

In writing the blog this morning, I discovered that The National Trust for Historic Preservation has a This Place Matters Community Challenge now through Sept. 15 where you can pick a community and vote to support the community. The winner gets $25,000. 

I am throwing my support behind Orion, Illinois and its attempt to save Main Street. The folks of Orion say:

Our small community of Orion is "Rural America at its Finest!" Volunteers with Main Street Orion work tirelessly to avoid the fate suffered by other surrounding communities empty storefronts, shuttered homes, devalued properties, crumbling infrastructure, and shrinking population. Can it happen in Orion, too? Yes, and it has, to some extent.

The way the challenge works is communities "rally as many people around the grassroots issues of preservation in our communities as possible. This means that unlike a traditional voting-contest, participants are allowed to align themselves with one organization, one time throughout the Challenge and recruit as many people as possible to do the same."

Here's how to help Orion. Join me and see if we can help them out. After all, it's the neighborly thing to do.

And I’ll let you know when I get to my Mitford.

Happy Saturday!

PS Here is a Flickr Slideshow about the project

I Wonder

Nothing happens until something moves.
— Albert Einstein

Elder son asked if I had written anything on the blog lately. I said, “No.” And I started to wonder why. Certainly, I’m never short of something to say. However, I am a bit tired these days. Tired of politics for sure, shaking my head at the seemingly impossible impasse at which our two political parties here in the U.S. find themselves. I don’t recall feeling so discouraged in quite a while.

I could rail on the need to address the greater good but find I am fighting an urge to turn inward and tend to my own good.

Remember in the 80s when Looking Out for #1 topped the New York Times best-seller list? I am, of course, dating myself, but I have grown tired of self-help books like Robert Ringer’s as well as the “wisdom” dispensed by Oprah Winfrey. Life’s complicated and if I’m going to figure it out, I’d just as soon trust my own instincts rather than theirs.

I did finally get back to the gym this weekend after letting the excuse of a bad cold sideline me. I’m in better spirits. As I walked at a goodly clip goin’ nowhere (listening to my favorite Chris Isaak CD) on the treadmill, three posters on the weathered brick wall in front of me caught my eye. One said, “Possibilities,” another “Opportunities,” and the final “Action.”

That about sums it up as best as I can see. Life is about action. When we succumb to inaction for whatever reason, I believe we are merely walking through life zombie-like. I think that it’s a worthy goal to be that person of action. It becomes #4 on my list of resolutions.

Split Infinitives and New Year's Resolutions

Never much for New Year’s resolutions, I have nonetheless resolved the following:

1. I will try to live in the now and not the past nor the future.
What is this day like? Can I enjoy it and not worry about the number of days or years that I may have left? Can I banish the ‘what ifs’? What if the car breaks down (oh, I know it will eventually—it’s got quite a few miles on it just like its owner)? What if I get sick, or slip and fall, or lose my job, or become homeless, living out of the car with quite a few miles on it? What will I do now that I am living alone for the first time ever—just yesterday College Boy left for a new college a day’s drive away? What will be my passion? Should I return to school? Should I join a group to stave off loneliness? If I do, what kind of people should I surround myself with?

Can I let go of past hurts? Can I hold onto pleasant memories without wishing to relive them? Can I go forward al a Star Trek with a personal “five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before”?

We shall see. Perhaps, yes, with these fears and old habits verbalized.

2. I will finish reading more books, and subscribe to some magazines and the newspaper.
This is doable. I already read a lot, but since chemo, my concentration has been off and sticking with a book seems like an impossible chore. How many books I have started and put aside! That can change. I am nearly finished reading a book now. Strangely, for a person who majored in journalism, I have fallen away from reading magazines and the daily paper. What a shame! TV is a poor substitute. I resolve to change.

3. I will move forward with creative pursuits.
This is the one resolution I am most excited by, but more on this later.

Three resolutions, about the right number I think. I have a couple of others but they are the rather common ones that we all seem to share and then quickly toss aside. You know—lose weight, eat right, exercise, save money.

Happy New Year! May the coming days be filled with good health, good times, growth, and kindnesses both given and received.

Price-less Gifts

Gifts of remembrance are to quote MasterCard’s ubiquitous tagline, “Priceless.”

When you remember a person’s name or personal preferences, it can make his or her day, thereby becoming a gift completely price less.

The young clerk at the bakery near my work gives me a gift of remembrance each time I stop in. By the time my hand is on the shop door, she is reaching for a chocolate-iced cake donut. “Maybe I will try a muffin one day,” I say, as she rings up the purchase—86 cents. I hand her a dollar bill and toss the 14 cents in change into the plastic tip cup. Yes, I know chocolate-iced cake donuts are not on my South Beach Diet, but how can I resist when I am thus rewarded?

And I am again rewarded when at work I recall a donor’s name as she or he brings in a bag of gifts this busy season. Tom brought in bag of basketballs last Christmas for the kids in our programs, and this year I happened to be at the front desk when he returned with this year’s donation: 10 basketballs. “You must have gotten quite a deal again,” I said as Tom smiled broadly.

My boss says we all wear a big invisible sign around our necks that says, “I want to be recognized.”

I am beginning to understand just what she means.

Seasons Come and Go

Stacked high. Waiting for me to figure out what goes and what stays and where to put it all.


A pile of summer clothes. Books brought out of the closet. You can tell a lot about the books a person surrounds herself with. I don’t have a lot of books now, and so the ones I took when the marriage dissolved have special significance. A slim volume of One Hundred and One Famous Poems inscribed in Mother’s handwriting, “To my dear daughter with love. Mom. Xmas 1969”--Tennyson, Whitman, Keats, Frost, and Kipling, whose “If” is a favorite of mine, are the standards I grew up with.

“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; . . .
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same. . . .

Scraps of paper with ideas for art projects I’ll probably never have time to get to. Fabric. My addiction. Lots of that. Clothes waiting for me to iron them. Who am I kidding?

My place is small. The one bigger closet is about half-filled with my clothes. Art supplies take up nearly the other half, competing with quilts, Christmas decorations I didn’t even put up last year, and a box of photos. You get the picture. Something has got to go.

I’d rather get rid of the clothes than the art supplies. Who knows, I might find a way to have my own studio. Hey, I am old, but I still dream.

Today, I purge. Farewell striped pink blouse. What was I thinking! Socks, I can never wear all of you. Cute black and white Keds, you guys hurt my feet. I will hang on to Mother’s Day cards long ago given and 21-year-old ‘Happy Mother’s Coupons,’ which certify son Jeff will clean the bathroom and make his bed. I’ll even keep another 21-year old artifact: an anniversary card emblazoned with “The Marriage that Would Not Die.”

Triumph and Disaster aside, the lesson here is to make room and time for what really matters in my life and a reminder of what was once upon a time.

Camping Renewal

Last weekend was too perfect for these parts. The cornfields stretched for miles, but with some roll to the countryside, it wasn’t a boring drive to Oregon. No, not THAT Oregon. Illinois has a little town called Oregon and that’s where my drive took me.

Past rustic red barns and horse farms, past a make-shift sign pointing to a blessing of the harvest, past so many road kill raccoons I have to make mention. Solitary but not alone, a two-lane road with so many motorcyclists you’d think they were all going to some big convention. I think, however, they just knew this weekend was one of the few left for their passion until spring.

As each cyclist passed another, they extended their left arms downward. Not being clued in to motorcycle culture, I imagine this some kind of “secret handshake,” akin to the cub scout or boy scout handshake.

On hindsight, this is an appropriate segue since scouts camp a lot and that’s where I was heading. Years ago when my son Jeff was a cub scout, I somehow got snookered into becoming a den mother. Of course trying to wrangle eight elementary-age boys into after-school crafts projects is like herding cats. Bless my friend Molly’s heart, she knew better and passed on the opportunity to lead. Her son Christian, my son, and the co-leader’s son, ring-led the other boys into all kinds of harmless mischief. I had fun but not at the time. Does that make sense at all?

Eventually, Jeff graduated cub scouts and moved onto boy scouts and his dad took over as a leader. At least on my watch, the boys didn’t try to burn down the forest on a camping trip. The boy who a attempted that was, as they say, “troubled.”

So, when Jeff felt it was time to introduce camping to Natalie and little Nicolas, I was at first reluctant. Fifty-seven year old bones don’t like sleeping on the ground in a tent. Ever the boy scout, Jeff offered up an AeroBed, clinching the trip for me. The other appeal, besides being outside on a lovely fall weekend with people I love, was Jeff’s cooking.

By the time I pulled into the crowded campground at Lowden State Park, one former Governor Rod Blagojevich closed last year due to budget troubles, Jeff and Natalie had already set up camp. Sweet! Minor items forgotten and a burnt apple cobbler in a new Lodge Dutch oven were our biggest issues. Small price to pay for stars over our heads, a roaring campfire, S’mores, great steaks, campers’ breakfast, and being with people I love.

She Stopped and Changed Course

With a slight layer of snow on the ground, a mostly flat prairie landscape has prepared itself for winter. Acres of cornfields as far as my eye could see now sport only stubs of the once flourishing crop. Almost overnight, we went from waves of green to stark barren ground sometimes dotted with flocks of Canada geese.

I almost cried the other morning on my way to work. The day, devoid of sunlight, was too much a reminder of the long, cold period ahead. How, dear gentle readers, did this former girl of the South find herself so far North? Do I dream of warmth and short winters? You bet. But most of all, I’d love to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about slipping on icy walks, steps and parking lots.

On the way back from dropping off Scott at school, a beautiful deer darted toward the road and I prayed she would stop before my car crashed into her. A small prayer was answered as she stopped and returned to the barren cornfield and I continued on my way.

I am tired. My days are busy. So busy there is little time for reflection. Maybe though this winter is just the right time—a time to beware of slippery dangers not always apparent, a black ice if you will. Maybe, just maybe, the long winter will bring a healing spring full of new growth. It’s something to look forward to.

Guilt and the Half-Read Book (Part 1)

A week or so ago I noticed a link to an article in the Chronicle of Higher Education. “The Pleasure of Half Read Books” caught my attention. I thought to myself, well, at least I have company.

Blaming everything from mega-bookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble with their coffee shops and comfy chairs to the Internet and Books on Tape (CDs), the author of the article writes,

But if you were to force me to accept responsibility for having given up on reading books to the end, I would trace my habit back to finishing my doctorate in contemporary literature years ago. I realized then that except for books that I might teach or write about, I never had to finish another book unless I wanted to. I wasn’t going to be tested on any book for the rest of my life.

That is as good an explanation as any I know. I have started more books lately than I have finished, but tomorrow I will tell you about one that I did finish. Meanwhile, take William McMillen’s advice,

So don’t despair if you have a half-read book taking up space on your desk. Don't feel guilty about not finishing it just because you are a professor. No one cares, and you shouldn't, either. Just move it over to the bottom shelf of your bookcase and find something new. You’ll feel liberated, trust me.

I Wish the News Had Been Different

I am a writer and used to working with words, but sometimes there are situations where I find myself at a loss as to what to say. I think that I am not alone. I pray I don’t rattle on filling the quiet with annoying attempts to ease the pain of someone who is hurting.

“I’m so sorry this has happened,” seems appropriate, as does “I wish the news had been different.”

Today I wonder what I will say as I write a note to my cousin. It happens all too often and I will always struggle. But I will write.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

The list. We all may have one either written or only in our heads. Here's my list of things I want to do before I die. And as far as I know, I am not doing that right now and hopefully not any time soon for you see I have lots of things left to do.

The List
See Scott graduate from high school. (I wrote this last year and Scott graduated in May of 2007)
See Scott graduate from college.
Be a grandmother. (Nicolas Bryant--born February 23, 2008)
Open my own business.
Succeed in my business.
Return to Italy.
Visit Greece again.
Travel by car to Montana and ride horses there.
Lose 22 pounds and have a BMI of 24.
Own an English Springer Spaniel again.
Run for public office.
See my Oklahoma relatives.
Find a hairstyle I really like.
Learn not to worry.
Perform many random acts of kindness.
Fly in a single engine plane.
Go to Mexico and eat an authentic meal.
Have a birthday party with a Mariachi band.
Visit the Smithsonian again.
See a play in New York City.
Go camping again.
Become a muckraker and right an injustice.
Go to an Alabama football game in Tuscaloosa.
See a really difficult situation to the end.
Help someone through a difficult time.
Drive a Miata.
License a design.
Laugh a lot.
Have more fun.
Spend time with my family.
Paint a picture of a cow.
Become a better photographer, writer, editor and designer.
Earn enough money to support myself, my family and have some left over for the greater good.

And Now, the Rest of the Story

I love to hear from readers, especially when the post concerns them, as was the case I mentioned yesterday. Today, I’m sharing with his permission, the e-mail I received from Chris concerning his Royal Air Force grandfather.

It was with great interest that I belatedly read your blog entitled ‘Remembering Young Lives Cut Short on a Hot Alabama Day’ (dated August 9, 2006). It was particularly interesting as I was with my mother at the time, whose father (my grandfather) was the RAF pilot Frank Marhoff who you refer to in your article. It was quite strange but pleasing to see that someone on the other side of the world, who neither knows our family nor is connected to it, has taken notice of a grave that only one of us has ever been able to visit.

My mother was three years old when her father died in that plane crash and so far she has been the only family member to visit the cemetery in Montgomery, a lifelong ambition which she finally managed to achieve in 1988, some 47 years after he died. In 2005 when I was in the USA to write about the visit of the England national football (‘soccer’) team, I did myself toy with the idea of breaking off from visiting family in New York to fly down for a couple of days, but was unable to get it into my schedule. Maybe I’ll get there one day. I would certainly love to see it as the graves look beautifully set in your pictures.

My mother was interested to see all the flowers around the grave and your explanation of how they are cared for, as during her visit in 1988 the grave looked quite different – either it was before the flowers were added, or it was the wrong time of year, but she was certainly impressed by how it looks now (or at least last year, when you took the photo).

Just out of interest, out of the many graves there, why was it that you focussed my grandfather? I’m always interested in these chance happenings.

Just to fill out the picture a bit in case you’re interested, after my grandfather’s death in 1941 my grandmother never remarried and brought up the two girls referred to in the newspaper cutting by herself. She emigrated briefly (for two years) to Australia in the 1950s, before returning to the UK and eventually relocating to the Cambridgeshire area of England to be near my mother in the early 1970s. She died in the early Nineties. Had my grandfather lived, he would now have four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, plus one more on the way, as my first child is due in January. It’s strange to think that a life cut so short has so much that comes from it. But I guess cemeteries like the one in Montgomery are full of such stories.

I have a box of photos of my grandfather in Alabama and my mother has all the letters he wrote home from before his death. We even tracked down a Pathe newsreel clip that features him briefly during his training in the US. Plus we also have a photograph of him meeting Jack Dempsey while in the States, as featured in the clippings you linked to your blog. At least there are a few things to pass down to my first child alongside my mother’s few early memories of the man. One way or another, Frank stays alive in the family.

Many thanks for writing your article and spending some time visiting my grandfather’s grave.

Best wishes,
Chris Hunt
Journalist/Editor/Author
Web: www.ChrisHunt.biz

And in reply to my request to publish his e-mail:

By all means share the email – the whole thing has cheered my day up. I didn’t post it all as I thought it might clog up your blog with too much information for the wider world. However, I’ve just posted another comment because of a bizarre coincidence. I was looking at the below link with my wife after showing her your blog. After noticing the date on the headstone, she pointed out that it would be the anniversary of his death today.

Being a writer like yourself, I’ve always found the story of my grandfather very interesting – even though it’s a very ordinary story. He was among the first shipment of RAF trainee pilots sent to the US to train to fly, but he didn’t die a war hero, he wasn’t special to anyone outside his family, but he’s always been a big part of our family’s life and history. My grandmother certainly never got over him and my mother still thinks about him regularly.

As a child I grew up fascinated by the photos of him in his uniform on the base in the US and the picture of him with Jack Dempsey. It all seemed a million years away from our lives. My other grandfather fought in the First World War (and lived to tell the tale), but in some ways I thought that the idea of Frank travelling so far away to the US (and being pictured with big American cars in the background, alongside strange looking American road signs) was in some way more alien than the idea of my other grandfather fighting in Ypres. I’m sure one day I’ll write about it myself!

All the best,
Chris Hunt

Note: if you click on this link, you will see a photo of Frank's grave, which was posted less than a month ago. I suppose another story lies in the photographers who post these photos.

Fallen Heroes

Last year I wrote a post entitled, “Remembering Young Lives Cut Short on a Hot Alabama Day.”

I had visited Oakwood Cemetery Annex in Montgomery, Alabama, where Confederate sons of the South rested near the graves of British airmen sent to train at Maxwell Air Force Base during WWII. Yet many more visitors come to see the grave of country music legend Hank Williams than pause at the graves of these fallen soldiers.

This morning, a reader named Chris left a comment about the old post:

It was with great interest that my mother and I belatedly read your blog. The RAF pilot you refer to, Frank Marhoff, was my grandfather. It was quite strange but pleasing to see that someone on the other side of the world, who neither knows our family nor is connected to it, has taken notice of a grave that only one of us has ever been able to visit. I shall email you more fully care of your blog address, but once again, thanks for taking the time to think about my grandfather.

We all want to think that our time here on earth matters—that someone notices that we were born, lived and died. Maybe we aren’t a famous celebrity. We might not have invented a new medicine, flew to the moon or ran for political office. Yet, the human in us wants to know that life is precious and that our time here, short as it is, mattered to someone.

Also During My 19th Year

Part 2
Also, during my 19th year:

18 year-olds gained the right to vote when the 26th Amendment was ratified.

In June of 1971, the New York Times published excerpts of the Pentagon Papers and later won a U.S. Supreme Court First Amendment case when the government challenged it.

A man calling himself D. B. Cooper parachuted from a Northwest Orient Airlines plane he hijacked, with U.S. $200,000 in ransom money (he was never heard from again).

Brian’s Song aired on ABC TV. CBS introduced the Waltons in The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. All in the Family became popular. A Clockwork Orange premiered in December.

Number one songs included: Carole King (It’s Too Late), James Taylor (You’ve Got a Friend), Bee Gees (How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?), Isaac Hayes (Shaft), Don McLean (American Pie), America (A Horse With No Name), Roberta Flack (The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face) and Sammy Davis, Jr. (The Candy Man).

Peace protests continued against the Vietnam War. President Nixon visited China. The Federal debt was $408.2 billion. A stamp rose to 8 cents, up from 6 cents earlier in the year. Minimum wage was $1.60. A gallon of gas was $.36.

In May of 1972, Arthur Bremer shots George Wallace in Maryland.

Federal Express was founded. Intel introduced the microprocessor. Disney World opened in Florida.

And that, my friends, were a few of the things happening when I was 19.

When You Were 19

Today is the 19th birthday of my son, Scott. He’s usually College Boy to you. I am thankful to have him in my life and proud of him, and I think that is probably all I need to say because having a mom who blogs about you may not be appreciated.

But, I thought back to what I was like when I was my son’s age. The year was 1971, and when I turned 19, I had been married exactly 31 days. The photo is of my father and me on my wedding day. I love the background. Our wedding was planned in a week.

That summer was hot and I was looking forward to getting back to school after staying with my in-laws for a month.

However soon, new husband and I were back at the University of Alabama, scraping by in a $75 a month, tiny one-bedroom apartment on 13th Street in Tuscaloosa, close enough to campus to walk. Our furniture was from a shabby second-hand store downtown--the bookcase, two boards and four concrete blocks. My mom paid $1,000 toward my expenses that year and the rest came from student loans and a work-study job. Between classes, we went to football games and free movies on campus, played ping-pong at the student center and studied. On weekends we drove out to Lake Tuscaloosa in our 1963 red VW Beetle, and I learned to drive a stick shift while destroying the clutch. In late November, Coach Bear Bryant’s boys beat Auburn 31-7 and the Tide went on to lose big to Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.

During Christmas break, we watched the new Bond movie, Diamonds Are Forever, with my husband’s mother. But in February of my 19th year, my new mother-in-law lost her fight with breast cancer. Spring saw us trying to help husband’s brother and grandmother deal with her death. On hindsight, I don’t think I was much help. We cleaned out the house and arranged for a lady to come in to check on Grandmother and went back to classes.

More tomorrow.

In the Stillness of Night

One lone camper at the port campgrounds where the floating man cave is docked was breaking camp as we pulled up around 2:30 p.m. The clouds had built up to the point where it seemed rain was imminent, and sure enough, as we got under way a few sprinkles started to fall. “Should we stay near the port?” we asked each other as husband raised the canopy. “Nah,” we both concluded. This didn’t look like a serious storm, and we soon outran the drops.

We passed only a few boats on the way to a secluded cove where husband dropped anchor, and we noticed a quietness we had not heard in weeks. There were no other boats within earshot. Table Rock Lake is a busy and popular spot most weekends. And yet, on this Sunday we nearly had this enormous lake to ourselves.

We sat watching the clouds as the stillness surrounded us until the sun set over the hills and slowly the stars became visible—first the Evening Star and soon, as we sat with our chins pointed upwards, the whole of the sky was covered. How low the Big Dipper appeared! By now darkness enveloped us. Only a few lights from homes overlooking the lake punctuated our darkness. We smelled wood smoke and heard a lone dog bark in the distance.

I thought back to how as a child I was so afraid of the dark that I slept with the light on each night, afraid of danger lurking there in the dark. Yet, tonight, in nearly pitch black with no moon to steal the glory from the stars, I breathed in soft evergreen-scented air and thought how wonderful.

I’m OK. You’re OK.

“Are you OK? You haven’t posted a blog for nearly a week,” kind and dear gentle reader quizzed.

I wrote back, “One word. Doldrums.”

I guess that’s the quickest way to describe my mood of late. No, not depressed. That’s reserved for more serious states, which I’m not going to trivialize by being overly dramatic.

Like a sailing ship calmed by the lack of winds, I seem to be adrift. The dictionary defines doldrums as a sluggish state in which something fails to develop. And yet, there’s tension here like a hot and angry (why, the anger?) boil ready to burst. There I go. That sounded dramatic didn’t it? Change is coming. Change is inevitable. If I rail against this wind of change and her fickleness, what good will that do? Change must be embraced as an old and familiar friend, one who was so charming when I was young and who has grown wise with time and now returns to visit when I need her and sometimes when I don't.

In reality, I’m engaging in a period of readjustment. Four months is too soon for Springfield to feel like home. Six weeks is too soon not to miss college boy although he calls often enough for any helicopter parent. With fall and winter fast approaching, gardening no longer holds my interest. Instead of possibilities right now I see roadblocks. Excuses. And writing? To my ear, the words ring hollow and insincere as if I was trying to fill up a washtub with wisdom for myself one drop at a time.

I’m a nurturer and right now I’m searching. When I find it--whatever it happens to be, I’m sure the mood will change, and the wind will find her way again to my sails.

Somewhere Lovely

I need to be somewhere lovely today.

In my mind it’s about time for a trip to Italy. But as wise readers know, parents of college boys don’t go casually jetting off to the Amalfi Coast like a couple of Hiltons.

So, just for today, I’m wrapping myself in memories stored up from a couple of summers ago when I took this photo on a beautiful, cloudless day in Ravello. High above cliffs overlooking the sea, the Villa Cimbrone is famous for its “Terrace of the Infinite.” Writer Gore Vidal called it the most beautiful panorama in the world and since my travels have been limited, I give him this.

May you find a special and beautiful place to restore your spirit today, if only in your memories.

Like Sands Through the Hourglass

No, this isn’t about Days of Our Lives, the soap opera. Well, it is about the real days of our lives and that hourglass is a wonderful reminder of the sad fact that the meter is running. Jobs, school and everyday chores intrude and consume a good portion of time. Then, we must sleep. Hence, time for reflection, long novels, hikes in the woods and visits with friends and family takes a backseat.

Those times when we can hop in the car or on a plane for a visit become even more precious. That was the case a few days ago when the Springfield Noblitts visited the Chicago branch. We enjoyed our time and hope that we weren’t too much the kind of visitors ole Ben Franklin referred to when he wrote, “Fish and visitors smell after three days.”