Halloween Reflections

Yesterday, the elementary school that's catty-corner from my house set up a big Spiderman moon jump. Cars parked up and down the street, and I assumed there was a fall fair, festival, or Halloween carnival going on.

I thought back to the early 60s when I was in elementary school. The school always had a Halloween carnival. There’d be a cakewalk, fishpond, games, lots of food, and the crowning of the Halloween Princess.

One year, when I was in fourth grade, for some reason I can’t now recall, I decided to give it a shot—a surprising choice for an introvert. The way you got to be princess was by collecting pennies. The girl with the most won. For days before Halloween, I had roamed the streets near the school knocking on doors along with a friend who lived nearby. I lived in the country and had but a few neighbors to pester. Pretty much the only way to make a go at the contest was to solicit town folks. So, right after school let out, we’d drop off our schoolbooks at the friend’s house and head out on our mission.

By Halloween, with my friend’s help, I’d collected so many pennies that I thought for sure I had won. I couldn’t really enjoy any of the games, thinking instead of winning. As the pennies were counted, it soon became evident that I had been beat by a classmate—a popular girl from a wealthy family. I don’t remember what I did exactly. I just remember feeling that it was not fair that I had pounded those streets and knocked on those doors. Rightly or wrongly, I believed my classmate’s daddy had brought her title.

Years later, I enjoy this time of year and look forward to handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. But I also know that the little things in life can stick with us and color who we become and what we choose to do with our lives. I never became the popular girl. My mother worked when many mothers stayed home. My father couldn’t keep a job as a glazier, bouncing in and out of the mental hospital. I became dependable, stuck to the rules, sucked it up, went with the flow, and made a point not to cause trouble.

I wonder today what would have happened if I had won that contest? Would I be different? A risk taker perhaps? Popular? No, I don’t suppose so. Not my style. And then I think, I didn’t turn out so bad and my life has been rich enough without the title of Halloween Princess.

But every Halloween I am reminded of how I felt that day. And I know now that the little things are sometimes just as important as the big things.

Giving Thanks

Can it be nearly three months since I last posted? And why today did I decide the time was right to resume writing? I guess I am in a reflective mood, and when I get in those moods, I want to write.

Since the last post in early October I took a new job -- one helping older people get the services they need to remain living independently or in jargon it's called aging in place. I once worked in a senior center, got side-tracked with other matters, and have now returned to a job whose focus is this age group. To me, age is relative. Some of the "youngest" people occupy the oldest bodies.

Through the new job, I am becoming reacquainted with how Thanksgiving (and other holidays) may be observed among older people.

Is there a more iconic portrait of the American celebration of Thanksgiving than Norman Rockwell's Freedom From Want illustration, which was published in the Saturday Evening Post in 1943? A modern version of this scene is still repeated around the country, but I have found older people who prefer to celebrate in their own fashion. Maybe it's a free Thanksgiving meal from a local church, a meal they make themselves, or one delivered by a volunteer.

Some continue to embrace the traditional family celebration, often traveling to be with children or other relatives. Others prefer the comfort of their own homes and say traveling and adjusting to the younger crowd's schedules and ways is too much. Then, there are those for whom holidays are a stark reminder that as we age, we lose loved ones and friends. One of my older relatives tells me she "hates holidays." She humors her closest relations, though, and dutifully goes to the family farm where she grew up to spend holidays with them. I imagine her niece tells her that it wouldn't be the same without her. And it wouldn't.

National Library Week

“Batavia in some ways looks like a town that time has left alone.”
Mayor Jeffrey D. Schielke

Whether it’s a quiet haven for reflection or story time for kids, Batavia Public Library (my current home-town library) is a warm and inviting example of what a public library should be. Grab a cup of coffee on the way in, find a comfy club chair and settle in for an hour of reading.

Libraries have changed over the years with technology driving libraries to provide banks of computers nestled among the books. Yet, the library still has a special hold on my heart.

Growing up in Prattville, Alabama, I’d spend Saturday mornings at the library. I hung out there so much that eventually the two ancient white-haired lady librarians put me to work shelving. It’s amazing how much a curious junior high kid can find out about sex education from medical reference books.

I loved the dusty smell of old magazines like Time, Saturday Evening Post, and Life. They provided me a visual history of the first half of the 20th Century, which I think is largely responsible for my love of history. Given the liberty to poke around at will, I delved into fiction and non-fiction.

Today, we can hold a iPad or Kindle, text a message on our phones, and from our computers download all manner of information. But there’s still just no better place to hang out than the library.

Krystyna

I had seen her only once before—the day when she came into the center to pick up birthday boxes for her two grandchildren and to ask if we could help the family for Christmas. That day I learned a bit about her. The boys’ mother, Krystyna’s daughter, died this year from a brain tumor. Krystyna, a woman near my age, was faced with raising the two young children and their older sister. With a thick Polish accent, she wondered aloud why some in her apartment building always seemed to get the help they needed but not her. “It’s not fair,” she said.

“We can put your name on our waiting list for Christmas help,” I told her, adding, “if we can help, we will call you.” I really wanted to help her. Every time I start identifying like this, I find I am pulled deeper into lives than is wise. By that, I mean I am haunted by a life that is not mine but that I imagine very well could be. That’s primarily the reason I left a social services job at the county a few years ago.

Since that time,I have learned to keep an open heart without becoming too involved. Krystyna was my test. Maybe, it was the grandmother thing. I don’t know.

So, as the time neared to start contacting the waiting list families, I was happy that our donors had been generous and we had plenty of toys and gifts left to give the waiting list families.

Krystyna showed up the first day. I saw her sitting off to the side. “Krystyna,” I called out to her, “is someone helping you?” “They say my name isn’t on the list,” she said. “Let me check,” I replied. As I flipped through the pages of names, I spotted hers. “There it is,” I said. “It’s okay,” I said, “I know Krystyna.”

When she had big bags of gifts at her feet, we hugged. Krystyna told me how the children had been baptized recently. “The priest found godparents for them,” adding with obvious pride, “a deacon!” I know little about their lives. I know she struggles. I know I would do the same if I were in her place. She and I share that—maybe little else—the grandmother thing. Life’s lessons always come at a price. And while I think of Krystyna’s struggles, I know it is best to focus on my own, knowing I can still keep my heart open for the time when the next “Krystyna” comes along.

Merry Christmas!

Making it Better

First, I wanted to share one little thing that happened on my way to work the other day. Well, I shouldn't be stopping by Dunkin Donuts; but when I went through the drive-thru lane and after ordering a coffee and blueberry muffin, I got a surprise. I pulled up to the window to pay and the cashier said, “You don't owe me anything. The person ahead of you paid for yours.” The lady in the red SUV was long gone. Now, that has never happened to me. I had a big smile on my face though, and it made me think about what a better world we would have if we had more like the lady in the red SUV.

And then when I opened the e-mail this morning from Idealist, my earlier experience took on a greater meaning.

What is proposed (the short version) is:

In one sentence: It’s time to build a global network that will serve and support all those people who want to make the world a better place, online and in person.

The key to doing this is to bypass all those specific issues that can overwhelm and divide us, and instead focus on three challenges that affect all of us:

1. There is often a big gap between our good intentions and our actions.
2. Our problems are connected, but we are not.
3. The world is full of good ideas that don't spread quickly enough.

What we need, then, is a network, a movement, an ecosystem that will:

* Make it easier for people and organizations to move from intentions to action.
* Connect people, organizations, and resources in every possible way.
* Find good ideas wherever they are, and distribute them as widely as possible.

If we can do this, and do it well, most of our local and global challenges will be easier to deal with.

So, I have signed up. I need a mission. Maybe this is it. Maybe we could stop saying, "That's a shame. It shouldn't be that way." Maybe, boldly, we could actually make it better.

Happy Saturday from the Land of Lincoln my cyber-friends.

A Childhood Memory

I remember this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. Mother recited to me often. I found this page in a Dover Publication and thought it appropriate for a summer day.

Treasure Island might be more respected and popular as far as a RLS work. I recall reading that book for myself. Of course, this Baby Boomer will always have the Disney version of the tale in my mind. But, it is The Swing I recall when hot summer days take me back to my childhood memories.

A Blogging Anniversary

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. Helen Keller

I’ve been blogging for three years now. The first post (July 31, 2006) was one day after my 54th birthday. Here’s what I said back then.

And here’s where I am now. I have a real job working for a nonprofit organization helping needy elders, children and families. I still wonder how much time I have left. It’s been over five years since the Big C visited me.

I still ramble way too much. I can have the attention span of a gnat. My head is teeming with untested ideas. I don’t write here as often and regret the loss of time to cyber-visit with readers. To recap, since 2006, I have moved from Alabama to Springfield, Missouri, and from Springfield to Batavia, Illinois. My marriage of nearly 37 years ended last summer. Lots of other things happened of course, but I’m saving those stories for the book.

So, the past year has been a year of transition, self-discovery, self-sufficiency, and soul searching. While I see the glass half full, I wouldn’t mind if it were completely full. As I flit from one great notion to the next, I do feel progress is being made, ever so slowly.

The best is yet to come!

Revisiting Spring

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Sheltered from the still chilly north wind, the bright daffodils surprised me the other morning as I headed off to work. Yet, there they were as if overnight they sprung to life, brave little souls they were tucked safe against the south wall of the house.

I think of daffodils as the first harbinger of spring. Maybe I should credit my fifth grade teacher for my love of daffodils since she required us to memorize poems, and I think that was when I first read William Wordworth’s “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” more commonly and appropriately called the “Daffodils.”

Today is sunny and soon less hardly plants will venture forth. I can barely wait. As the life contained in dormant seeds and bulbs begins to push its way up toward the light and warmth, so shall I.

Toys for Tots and Hard Time Reflections

As I shopped online for toys for baby Nic’s first Christmas, I came across an old childhood favorite, Careers. Oh the hours I spent playing that one with the cousins. I will teach Nic to play cards and board games and I promise to be more patient with CandyLand than I was with Nic’s dad.

Well, shopping and thinking about toys is something I haven’t done for so long that I’m kind of out of practice. My venture to Toys R Us last Sunday was a great disappointment. I felt so out of my element. I prefer to shop online and the toy I ordered from Amazon arrived in a couple of days.

Toys are a large part of my life at work too as they pour in as we prepare to fill the wish lists of the kids in our Christmas program. The folks at Toys for Tots where we get a lot of toys from are reporting that donations are down, and yesterday we got far fewer than last year. It’s been a struggle at our non-profit. We don’t know yet what the end result will be, but it is safe to say Santa is adjusting to leaner times.

Which all leads me to wonder, what course of materialism have we set ourselves up for? Have we built up our children’s expectations too high? Have we lived too far beyond our means for far too long?

I remember Mom talking about the Great Depression and being thankful to get oranges and peppermint candy canes at Christmas time. She knew the meaning of doing without. We Baby Boomers and our Generation X and Next offspring really do not yet know that lesson.

Mom’s Okie family fell on hard times and headed off to California when the Dust Bowl hit, wiping the topsoil needed for healthy crops off of their little hardscrabble farm. They got as far as Arizona. The kids old enough picked cotton alongside Granny and my grandfather. After a time, they loaded up the truck and headed back to Oklahoma and got by with the help of family. Not until WWII did things turn around. Mom went off to work for the government in Washington, D. C. and the country rebounded.

So, dear gentle readers, while I reflect and ponder these questions, I still am encouraged by the true spirit of Christmas. I see it everyday in the people giving to those less fortunate. Officemates who give up their traditional gift exchanges in favor of helping others. School kids who emptied their piggy banks and delivered an envelope stuffed with dollars and coins. Scouts, Key Clubs, Rotary Clubs, Kiwanis, Lions, churches of all kinds, businesses, individuals. They are coming through.

As one donor said to me, “I am doing ok—at least for now.” I like that. Me too—at least for now

Favorite Childhood Christmas Presents & Memories

As Christmas approaches, I was thinking about what were my favorite childhood toys.
My first memory is of Tiny Tears. She cried tears and wet her diaper and I loved her. I must have been about four or five when she came into my life one Christmas. She became the favorite doll until that more sophisticated Barbie stole my heart.

But rooting around in my mom’s closet one pre-Christmas Saturday, I discovered that Santa has lots of help from you-know-who, and Christmas anticipation was set back a notch or two. That is until another Saturday right before Christmas.

During the week, Mom worked her secretary job at Maxwell Air Force Base, commuting 20 miles from our home in the country to Montgomery. Saturdays became her days for grocery shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, errands and trips to JC Penney’s to try on what seemed like hundreds of dress as I tagged along.

When I was growing up, downtown Montgomery was THE place to shop. Pre-Selma to Montgomery march, pre-shopping malls and strip shops. There were two five and dimes. A trip downtown usually meant a visit to S. H. Kress where you could find all manner of cheap stuff, some of it not made in China. Sometimes we’d get a blue-plate special at the lunch counter—the white lunch counter. Even as a child it didn’t make sense to me. Why was there a separate entrance marked “colored” at my pediatrician’s office? The water fountains, the lunch counters.

But I have digressed, dear gentle readers.

On this particular post-Santa Claus-enlightenment Saturday, Mom and I headed to Montgomery Fair Department Store. Yep, the same place where Rosa Parks once worked as a seamstress--work that wore her out so much that she refused to move to the back of the bus that fateful day that launched the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

I already knew my big present that year was going to be a bike. As I nearly raced down the stairs to the store basement and laid eyes on it, I could hardly believe what I saw—a pink and white beauty with handlebar streamers sure to fly once I mastered the art of bicycling.

Christmas was yet to come this year but no Christmas since could match how I felt that day. I learned to ride the J. C. Higgins bike with Grandpa Parsons’ hands supporting my wobbly first efforts. He held on and as I gained momentum, he knew when it was safe to let go and I sailed off, streamers flying.

I invite my dear gentle readers to share favorite childhood Christmas memories. Send me an E-mail and I’ll post your responses or leave a long comment.

Awake

Awake—Omar tells her
But she sleeps and
Barely hears my voice

I’ve been spending a few minutes this morning purging. I don’t mean the definition associated with bulimia nervosa. Sorry for that image.

Yet, it might be somewhat appropriate in a subconscious way. I have thought about writing about some things that have happened in my life in the last year, each time backing away for whatever reason.

This morning as I set out to clean up the files on my computer, I found constant reminders of a previous life. Reminders of good times--photos of trips to Italy and celebrations of family events like birthdays and my son’s wedding. Amidst these pleasant occasions, I opened a letter laying out problems to be dealt with or ignored. Then a poem. Work files that hold no interest for me now. Sketches not of my making. Remnants of another’s life intertwined yet with mine but no longer of my concern.

As I choose what should be deleted, I keep coming back to the letter. Only now after weeks of contemplation, do I begin to evaluate the truth, casting away blame on one level but not another. I decide to keep the letter as a reminder to awake.

Where a Fully-Read Book Might Take You

If you read yesterday’s post, you will recall that I recently completed reading a book. As a woman who has endured, survived and suffered through way too many changes of late, I see why Joan Anderson’s The Second Journey The Road Back to Yourself caught my eye.

I fully intended to sit in one of Batavia Library’s comfy chairs and read a bit of the book, which I did. However, when it was time to go, I took the slim volume along with me. You see, Joan Anderson had 10 years earlier lived out one of my fantasies when she left her everyday life and spent a year by the sea in a journey to self-discovery. I haven’t read that book, but there is a part of me that wishes I could go off to some isolated natural environment and contemplate exactly what course and direction I want to steer the rest of my life. I don’t suppose younger readers will get this. They are too busy raising families and building careers and time is way too short for this sort of self-indulgent exploration. While time is not endless for them, it is indeed not quite so pressing an issue as it is with the older among us.

It had been 10 years since Anderson wrote her first book, the bestseller A Year by the Sea, and she was again ready to explore how her life was evolving. Anderson writes,

Now, as part of my ten-year inventory, I reflect on what is outlived in my life today. I’ve known for some time that holding on to anything ruins it, as does clinging to old ways, outdated ideals, worn-out relationships, and lifestyles that have run their course. As a culture, we seem to prize permanency. Certainly the familiar is comforting. But the way we were is not the way we are, and why would I want to still have those parts of my life that have lost their zest? Perhaps one of the reasons I felt so compelled to come out here today was actually to witness massive change. None of us can control the way life passes: we can only adapt.

Before writing the second book, Anderson again found herself at what I call loose ends. The first book propelled her into a notoriety of book signings and retreats and a newly found status as a guide or mentor of women seeking self-discovery. By all accounts, she was successful. Yet, her busy life was not all that she desired, and thus, the author set out on the second journey, a journey that this time included a visit to the mystical and remote Scottish Isle of Iona.

Maybe when I write and publish my book, I will be able to jet to my island of self-discovery. She writes:

The call to a second journey usually commences when unexpected change is thrust upon you, causing a crisis of feelings so great that you are stopped in your tracks. Personal events such as a betrayal, a diagnosis of serious illness, the death of a loved one, loss of self-esteem, a fall from power are only a few of the catalysts. A woman caught thusly has no choice but to pause, isolate, even relocate until she can reevaluate the direction in which she should head. Should she stay the course or choose another path?

But alas, many of us inhibit our capacity for growth because the culture encourages us to live lives of uniformity. We stall, deny, ignore the ensuing crisis because of confusion, malaise, and yes, even propriety. Yet more and more, I come in contact with women, particularly in midlife—that uneasy and ill-defined period—who do not want merely to be stagnant but rather desire to be generative. Today’s woman has the urge to go against the prevailing currents, step out of line, and break with a polite society that has her following the unwritten rules of relationship, accepting the abuses of power in the workplace, and blithely living with myriad shoulds when she has her own burgeoning desires.

Anderson’s book got me to thinking anyway. And I actually finished a book. Not too bad for a woman who has endured, survived and suffered through way too many changes of late.

Some of my New Year’s Resolutions are Green

Ah yes, it is fashionable these days to wrap yourself and your home in green. Sustainable is tossed around here, there and everywhere, and I actually understand more about what that means than I did a few months ago.

Husband is on the sustainability council at Drury University and produces a newsletter for the group. He playfully points out “no trees were harmed during the production” of the electronic newsletter. In addition, he’s like a hawk with the recycling at home recently. We have paper sacks of paper and a plastic bin for the bottles, cans and plastic that our waste hauler picks up every other week. And I can’t sneak a non-energy-saving light bulb by him even if it is to rid ourselves of the old-style bulbs. If it’s up to him, our next car will be a Prius. He is fully on the green bandwagon. We are even recycling the Christmas tree, which Bass Pro and a local Boy Scout troop will take to Table Rock Lake to help the fish habitat.

Well, I’m getting there with the recycling, which leads me to my New Year’s resolutions. I have to give credit to The Daily Green for the inspiration after I read “7 New Year’s Eco-Resolutions for 2008.”

On Annie Bell Muzaurieta’s list:

1. “It’s time to clean out, and stop the crap collecting,” she says. You go girl! This is on my list too. This problem is vastly aggravated by the habit of shopping for recreation. Keep thee out of shopping malls and centers, so says me.

2. “I will avenge my phantom load.” She’s talking about computers, cell phones and other electronics that continue to use energy while plugged in. She suggests using a power strip and turning that off when the devices aren’t in use. I suppose I could shut the computer down. Okay, I’m adding this one too.

3. “I will be smarter than bottled water companies and drink for free what they are trying to sell me.” This does not apply to me (note the sound of me patting myself on the back), and I am therefore, leaving it off of my list. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that a small bottle of water should not ever cost $3. Also, the skeptic in me wonders if that Wehrenberg movie theater water fountain was REALLY “Out of Order” the other day.

4. “If I can remember to TiVo “Dancing with the Stars,” I can remember to bring my own bags to the grocery store.” Annie, I think I want to try this one. There are plenty of cheap eco-friendly bags for shopping instead of the plastic ones offered by merchants. Of course, if you shop less frequently, you may be like a pack mule loading up for the trek home.

5. I’m deviating from Annie’s list now to my unique set of enviro-issues. A dirty little secret is thus revealed dear gentle readers. I take long and I do mean long showers. I hearby resolve to save water, energy and time with shorter shower-time.

6. And in general reduce, reuse, recycle and conserve.

What else can you do to green up your new year? The sky’s the limit. Get the bike out of the garage and use it instead of the car. Offer a friend a ride if you are both attending an event. Plant a tree. Replace an old furnace with a high efficiency Energy Star make. We did this and Springfield's City Utilities offered us a $250 rebate. Use compact fluorescent light bulbs, which use 66% less energy and last 10 times longer than regular bulbs. You’ll save an average of $30 in energy costs over the life of the bulb. Buy as local as possible. Use old t-shirts and towels instead of paper towels for cleaning chores. Put up a clothesline. Wash with cold water whenever possible.

And on the subject of New Year's resolutions in general, is it silly to come up with them at all as some have suggested? Alex Epstein of the Ayn Rand Institute doesn’t think so. He writes:

This New Year's, resolve to think about how to make your life better, not just once a year, but every day. Resolve to set goals, not just in one or two aspects of life, but in every important aspect and in your life as a whole. Resolve to pursue the goals that will make you successful and happy, not as the exception in a life of passivity, but as the rule that becomes second-nature.

If you do this, you will be resolving to do the most important thing of all: to take your happiness seriously.

To expound and expand on the Epstein message regarding passivity, I would like to encourage us all to think about how we can make life better for others too. I resolve also to get up off of the sofa and test my passions with actions. Hope you will too. May the new year bring you hope, joy, healing from emotional and physical ailments, peace and much love.

The Uncarved Pumpkin

Halloween is a bit strange this year. Will I carve a scary jack-o-lantern face on the small lonely pumpkin sitting on my front stoop?

For years it fell to me to guide first my older son and then the younger one in this annual family tradition. Because of hungry squirrels eager to chow down on our pumpkins, we always waited until Halloween afternoon to commence the carving ritual. I never brought in the pumpkin soon enough for it to warm up, and it was always cold when I cut the top off and delved in to remove the seeds and goop, sometimes up to my elbows if it was a large pumpkin.

I don’t remember exactly how old sons were before they were entrusted with a knife. Kids wielding knives scare me as much as kids wielding paint brushes. I never asked them to help with painting projects, but I did eventually pass my pumpkin-carving baton to them.

The last several years, I took the role of pumpkin purchaser and then watched as younger son learned to do a fine job without incident. After he finished, I’d admire the work, search for a candle and we’d set the creation out by the front door so the trick-or-treaters knew we had treats for them.

Alas, with College Boy away this year, I may leave the pumpkin uncarved. My heart just isn’t in it.

All Creatures Great and Small: Do Squirrels Matter?

Scott was upstairs talking to me after school while I worked at the computer, when he looked out of our office window and noticed something floating in the pool. “Is that a frog?” he asked. Then, answering his own question, he said, “No, it’s a squirrel!” Before I knew it, he rushed downstairs and out the back, quickly grabbing the skimmer. He scooped up the tiny animal from the vastness of the pool, and I helped him free the baby squirrel from the netting. We weren’t in time. The little creature had drowned. I could tell it bothered him. I wondered what mama and daddy squirrel would think. “Ah,” you say, “squirrels probably don’t.” I’m a sap. I like to think life matters. Even a squirrel’s.

My Favorite Childhood Books

I noticed someone over at amazon.com had compiled a list of nostalgic books from her childhood, and it prompted me to think back to a time uninterrupted by television, video games, cell phones or responsibilities.

My mom read to me from a book about dolls that would come to life after everyone had gone to bed, but I’ve long forgotten the name of the book. She read me Peter Pan, Treasure Island and poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson. We had a set of grocery-store encyclopedias. And she joined some kind of club where I got a series of books about history, world events, nature and science.

However, in Miss Sanford’s second grade class I struggled with reading. I hated my teacher. I hated school. If it weren’t for my mother taking time off from her job and coming to school to meet with the teacher, I don’t imagine I’d be writing this today. Whatever, my mom did and I think it was reading to me, it worked. By third grade, I was back on track with a love for my teacher again. Every elementary age kid needs to love her teacher. Mrs. Cox had taught my uncles and aunts and even my daddy. We had history as they say, and she still liked me. Mrs. Powell, Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Kirkpatrick (for the second of three times) followed and all fostered my love of reading.

By now, I was ordering from the Scholastic book club every chance I got and reading for myself, often against orders to “Turn out the light and go to bed!” Seventh grade brought a teacher who read to the class everyday. She introduced us to The Boxcar Children and though I was a little old for that book, it somehow captured my imagination. We did book reports and made fancy construction paper covers for illustrations.

High school rolled around and found me at the little library in Prattville every chance I got, helping the two old librarians shelve books while sampling the contents along the way. I read Catcher in the Rye, A Separate Peace, Main Street, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, A Member of the Wedding, The Jungle, Seven Days in May, Rosemary’s Baby, To Kill a Mockingbird, and for a time silly books like The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis and Maxwell “Get” Smart books. I always wondered why my mom grabbed up a copy of Tobacco Road and said I shouldn’t read it. Instead, I found Valley of the Dolls.

At the University of Alabama, I spent more time on required course reading. Still, I never lost my love of books, and when Jeff came along, Bill and I dove into children’s literature with a passion. Bill was working on his Master’s degree in education at the time. We both instinctively knew how important reading would be. Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, Mercer Meyer books like There’s a Nightmare in my Closet, Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon, Peter Pan, Old Yeller, Huck Finn, the Narnia series, The Boxcar Children, all of Chris Van Allsburg’s wonderfully illustrated books, Judy Blume, S. E. Hinton—too many to name here, but these are the books Jeff and Scott will remember. Bill and I will also remember the closeness we felt each night as we closed the day reading to our sons.

That’s What Friends Are For & Christmas in September

The brown envelop jingled as I took it inside to see what Molly and Frank had sent us. A note explained the contents. “Dear Bill & Sheila, I was put in charge of mailing you these Xmas stockings. Molly and I went to an estate sale and the peoples’ names happened to be Bill and Sheila so we couldn’t resist getting the stockings. Sorry they aren’t filled with gifts. Love, Frank & Molly”

These two long time friends live so far away, and yet they remain so dear to my heart. Can’t you see why?

When I was in treatment for breast cancer a couple of years ago, they drove several hundred miles to see us. Molly came bearing a huge white bunny and lots of funny stories about her life and children. Frank came with tools to do some neglected repairs around the house. “Give me a list,” he ordered. We caught up on our lives and for a brief time my life felt back on track. Molly loved to shop for antiques, and we just dropped her off one day for a couple of hours at an antique mall. They brought me hope and cheer. I knew I'd make it.

And Frank, those stockings are filled. With love, that is.

Southern Summers

Well, if anyone read my very first post you’ll see that I got a DVD set of “To Kill a Mockingbird” for my birthday. We watched almost an hour of the documentary last night before Scott and I switched over to watching “Hell’s Kitchen.” How’s that for contrast? We have two fantastic cooks in the family (Jeff and Natalie) and Natalie is editor of Fancy Food Magazine. So you can see our interest. Plus, Scott had just cooked his first meal (an excellent homemade chunky tomato sauce with penne pasta) as a rain check birthday dinner. Boy, he goes all out for birthdays. But, I digress.

My husband and I started talking about how so different our childhoods were from childhood today. And how ours were more like Jem’s and Scout’s although Mockingbird was set in the 1930s. We’d stay outside as long as light allowed and even then we’d run around playing chase and catching lightnin’ bugs until someone made us come in. Then, we’d scrub the dirt necklaces from our necks and hop into bed. He grew up in Birmingham and I in Prattville. Yet, we shared that about growing up in the South with her long summers of heat and sweet tea and watermelons.

This documentary is a wonderful look back in time as is Harper Lee’s book and the movie. No surprise that the book is one of our most beloved works of American fiction. The South with all of her problems just gets into your blood. Maybe it’s the red dirt, the pines, the kudzu that overtakes a rambled down barn and gives it a green blanket of prettiness. Or washing machines and sofas on the front porch. I just don’t know, but I missed it for so long when we moved away after college and didn’t return until about three years ago.