The mysteriously appearing rubber band

Sometimes things go bump in the night. And sometimes they simply squish a bit under your bare feet. The second situation, while not as alarming, is always an unpleasant surprise. Believe me, I know.

Bare foot meets Thing That Is Not Carpet. The senses take a moment at that hour to figure out what the heck is under the foot, even while the jumping back and gasping is going on. Braced for the worst (as in: Ewwwwww!) I turn on the light. Okay, whew. Not a feline offering of one kind or another. But...what was a rubber band doing in the middle of my room?

Soon they began appearing everywhere. Not simultaneously, like an attack from some sort of alien planet where the life forms were disguised as useful office supplies in order to make their invasion appear somehow less dangerous. But every time I thought I had removed a rubber band to its rightful place, another showed up. They chose different locations. The stairs. The kitchen. Beside the collection of shoes by the front door. I began to examine them with curiosity and, I admit, caution. What if I noticed someone examining me right back?

The whole mystery was becoming a bit peculiar when I came upon a scene that gave me an important clue. Location? My closet. William Cat, blissfully immersed with...you guessed it...a large rubber band. He sprawled next to it, one big paw holding his treasure in place. He patted it. Rolled on it. Picked it up and started to carry it off...until he noticed me and promptly dropped his prize and looked as innocent as a chubby cat can be.

Which really isn't very innocent when he's sitting right next to the evidence attempting to deny any relationship he has had with rubber bands. What, this? Oh, I don't know. How did that happen to get there?"

How, indeed. William might be stealthy, but I was determined to solve the mystery. I tiptoed. I peered around corners. I pretended to be busy with my book while actually keeping track of one round feline's progress through the house. And finally my efforts were rewarded and I watched him deposit a rubber band on the living room carpet.

Once the mysteriously appearing rubber band was no longer a mystery, I realized I didn't want to spoil William's fun. So now when I find one I exclaim ("How did this get here!") and I put it back in a spot where I know he'll find it again. And I pretend not to see him sneak into the room to start the game over again. He likes it and so do I...though I am glad we have reached an understanding about the bedroom floor and innocent bare feet.

At least, I think we have.

Big Doings

In between thunderstorms (one of which took out my lovely pear tree in the back garden), there has been a bit of excitement around here. Now keep in mind, excitement is relative in a smallish town. When I say that a new grocery store opened and that going to this new store was the excitement, please don't laugh.

Or if you do laugh, keep it to yourself. We all find happiness in different ways. For me, that included making an organized list of the staples I usually buy and the prices I usually pay and comparing them to what was offered at the sparkling new Harris Teeter. I had my list printed out and the prices from my regular store written down next to each item. While I lingered here and there and made sure to examine every aisle and as many of the offerings found along the shelves as possible, I did not forget the list I clutched and the data that needed recording.

There was a lady in the checkout lane that somehow found all this amusing, until I asked if she knew her price comparisons. She had to confess that she did not. Mmmm-hmm. I thought as much.

Charlie caught my mood of celebration. He couldn't come along to HT, so to make up for that disappointment I took him up to the Greenway for a long walk.

Lots of sniffings and squirrels to observe and passersby to bless with doggy grins and an extra wag if they offered up a kind word for him. And then...there she was, heading his way. Thick, glossy black fur gently waving in the breeze. Huge brown eyes gazing deep into his own. A tail wag. A head nudge. Charlie was mesmerized by her charms, even when she shook her enormous Newfie head and slobber flew. For the rest of the walk, Charlie was lost in a daydream where he and Hot Chickie Babe galloped through fields of flowers towards lovely shade trees and thirst quenching water bowls. For a moment, I think he even forgot Daisy, his erstwhile girlfriend from the neighborhood down the street. Charlie, Charlie. You dog.

Updates to come on pear tree removal and whatever structure appears to protect my tender shade garden. I'm looking forward to the creation process and to all the other big doings found in simple pleasures that fill my life. May you all be so blessed.

Remembering Johnny

Yesterday's D-Day anniversary celebration brought the nation's attention once again to those who fought so many years ago. There aren't that many World War II vets around any more, and the ones who remain are not always anxious to talk about their experiences. But sometimes they will. Sometimes you get a glimpse of the memories. Sometimes you have the enormous good luck to meet a veteran like Johnny.

We lived in a little neighborhood some years ago that was filled with older homes and quite a few older residents. My morning dog walk excursion took me around and about most of the neighborhood and it was on one quiet side street that I encountered Johnny. Old guy, sitting under a large tree in his lawn chair with an extra chair conveniently located nearby. Just in case, you know, someone wanted to stop and visit. And if the extra chair didn't give you the hint, Johnny just waved you on over and patted your spot. Surely you could chat awhile.

Johnny's gnarled hands rested on a substantial belly. Feet shoved into worn old shoes and legs that didn't always cooperate when he wanted to stand up quickly. Johnny liked to position his chair so he could see the clump of peonies he grew in honor of his wife's memory. When he talked about her, his eyes filled.

"Look at me, crying like an old man," he'd tell me.

But I wasn't looking at his tears. I was looking at those peonies, carefully tended by a man who still loved with devotion.

One other topic brought Johnny to tears. He was in the Navy the day Pearl Harbor awakened from Sunday slumber to the horror of a devastating attack.

"I remember Pearl," he said. "Remember it like it was yesterday."

And then he'd tell me about it. Sometimes his bent old fingers would grasp mine. Sometimes he'd stare out across the yard and I knew he wasn't seeing the trees and flowers and passing cars. He was seeing the pain and the fear and the confusion.

When Johnny talked about Pearl Harbor, he wasn't a stout old man spending his days hoping for conversation and company. He was young and strong and was stepping up to serve the country he loved. As he remembered his friends and the tears ran down his cheeks, he told me he would never forget that day.

Johnny's gone now, reunited with the woman he loved and with the friends he lost. I think of him when World War II anniversaries are celebrated or when I see veterans straighten their shoulders and salute their flag. I think of him when I have a chance to hear another story or share another memory.

And I think this year I'll add a clump of white peonies to the garden and I'll tend them in honor of Johnny and his enduring love for his sweet lady and his blessed country.

Gone, but never forgotten.

A day of remembrance

Today we're celebrating Memorial Day. Sometimes it bothers me when holidays are moved around to conveniently create three-day weekends, but really it's the remembering part that is important. More than the picnics and the games and the swimming, more than the action movies and the cooler of beer. More than the sunburn and ocean waves and packed highways. All of those things? Good stuff (well...not the sunburn). But none of them have anything to do with the real purpose of Memorial Day.

Decoration Day was the first name, and I gather that was because the graves of those lost in the Civil War were decorated with flowers. Yes, the special day was all about the Civil War initially. It was all made official in 1868. Flowers were placed on the graves of both Confederate and Union soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. It wasn't long before all the northern states joined in, but the South wasn't wild about the concept and honored their dead separately.

After World War I the holiday was officially changed to honor all Americans who died fighting in any war. That kind of organized the whole thing. For awhile, Memorial Day celebrations were quite a big deal. And then...gradually...they seemed to diminish. Maybe people were too busy planning their three-day weekends to pause a moment and to remember.

That's what it's all about, really. Remembering. We remember those who served, but more specifically we remember those who served and did not return. They gave their lives for a reason, for a cause, because their country called, because they felt it was their duty, their responsibility, their privilege.

Maybe for us it's all about hot dogs and burgers and potato chips and pass me an icy cold Coke. But for those we are to remember today...whenever they fought, whenever they died...it was about blood and sweat and tears and, yes, the ultimate sacrifice.

So at some point today, put down your loaded plate at the neighborhood cookout and remember the men and women whose crosses line the hillsides and whose spirits live on in every wave of the flag, in every patriotic tune and in every heart of every free person in this fine country. Remember the sacrifice of the fallen and the hope and the courage and the determination of those who continue to serve.

Let freedom ring on this day of remembrance.

Can you see your bubble?

Good message in church last Sunday. Since it applies with or without religious interpretation, I'll do a bit of summary here. But before I do that, look around you. Can you see your bubble?

Unlikely. Don't worry, you aren't supposed to see it because it doesn't really exist in a tangible way. The trouble comes when it exists in an intangible way. Bubbles, in this particular case, are bad.

The idea is that we're born with a bubble of need and selfishness around us. That's okay, when you're a baby. If you don't think constantly about your own needs and make them known in a way that even befuddled new parents can understand (after a few desperate attempts to offer food when the diaper's the issue or to quickly change a clean diaper when loneliness or fatigue are the cause of the determined fussing), then babyhood will be a real challenge. Babies are allowed to have bubbles. Their "me first" attitude allows them to survive and thrive.

Somewhere along the line that bubble starts to stretch a bit. Eventually the baby becomes a toddler and concepts like sharing and taking turns and not hitting the tiny sibling over the head with just about anything start taking root. School, friendships, family life...all expand the bubble. Knowledge, faith, service. Yup. Definitely bubble expanders.

When the person inside the bubble thinks about someone other than himself or herself, the power of those thoughts, of the caring, of the gestures of kindness, support, and encouragement pushes bubble boundaries far, far, away. The tiny self-centered bubble of the newborn ultimately embraces the family unit, and friends and the work environment and the community and...wowie zowie...even the world.

At least, that's how it can be.

But you know, it's not a guarantee. There are plenty of adults walking around whose bubbles primarily contain their own needs. Those needs are so significant in their lives that there isn't much room for anything else. The bubbles just don't grow. How can they, when the person inside can't look beyond what they want and what they deserve and what fun they will have enjoying it all? I guess that might be fun, but I think ultimately there will be a time when the happily bubbled me-centered person wants a bit more.

The trouble with bubbles is that if you go through your whole life catering to your own needs and then finally you are ready to stop and look around and reach out to others, you might find that your bubble did double duty. It kept you surrounded by everything that mattered most to you...and it put a wall between you and everything and everyone it might once have expanded to include. The family you neglected, the friendships you failed to nurture, the connections, the community, the faith. The heart and soul of life, really, shut out for years and then suddenly remembered. But will it be too late?

Bubbles are meant to stretch and expand, to embrace a lovely life. Look around. Can you see your bubble?

Make way...

...for ducklings!

It's been raining here. I'm not talking about the "oh, we had a rainy day" variety of the wet stuff. Nope, this is the rained and rained and rained kind of thing, the rains that last for days, for more than a week, and that never end. Never. The back yard is a bog, the sidewalk is a river and the trees are molding. The front steps are molding. Heck, even I'm molding.

I've looked out every window and I can safely say that there's not a glimmer of sun. Clouds, we've got. Thunder, even. It's perfect weather for sloshing through puddles and trying out a new umbrella and starting a good book. It's perfect weather for ducklings.

Many, many ducklings.


No, these aren't mine. I wish they were. Okay, that's a bit much, even for me. I wish a few of them were mine. Maybe five. Nine? How about an even dozen?

Really. Can anyone look at these darling little quackers and not feel warm and fuzzy inside?



Their current home is at Tractor Supply, that wondrous shop 0' delights filled with bird seeds and pet foods (everything from feline to equine) and useful boots and tools and...oh, the list goes on. I get to go into Tractor Supply regularly because of Wink, William, Midge and Charlie Dog. That was my mission a few days ago. Cat food, back right wall, no delays to keep me from my other errands.

Until I saw the big galvanized tubs in the center of the store. Those were interesting enough on their own (I apparently have a thing for big galvanized tubs) but the heat lamps attached to them indicated that something more was involved. Hmmm. I couldn't walk past without peeking inside. What if there were something cute in there?

What if! Cute and more than cute. All other errands forgotten, I crouched by the tubs and cooed at the fuzzy occupants. A gentleman was scooping some out and putting them carefully into a box. I wasn't sure I should ask his intent. What if he had some nefarious plan? Could I make a mad dash for the box and rescue the innocents inside? I debated a moment. Sure, I could. So I asked.

Nothing nefarious involved. He's got a pond (!!!) and an island in the middle (!!!) and the ducklings will have a fine home. My wistful expression must have been pretty obvious. "If you want a pond, I'll help you out," he told me. "I've got a front loader."

Oooh! A front loader! So now I not only wanted ducklings, I wanted a front loader with which to create a perfectly ducky home. But there was one problem.

"Thanks," I said. "But you'd have to help me out with a couple acres of land, first."

*sigh*

No pond for me. No ducklings, either, though right now a few of them would have a dandy time in my overflowing bird bath. It's all about admiration for now. And I think it was mutual. The little yellow fellow in the back seemed to be giving me a come hither look.

Anybody got a pond?

Sorta kinda famous

I spent a good bit of Friday in a local elementary school, talking to 4th grade classes about the writing process. The essence of my prepared presentation can be summed up in four basic steps: get ideas, write a rough draft, edit, publish. Along the way, though, there's plenty of questions and comments from the kids and that's what makes this sort of thing fun. You never know what they'll say.

Any shyness that might linger (on their part...I'm not at all shy around them) dissipates quickly when we start acting out power words.

Okay, I tell them, let's say my main character is moving from point A to point B. So I write in my story that Character One walked down the street. They look at me. You know, like this. I ask whoever looks the most interested to come up front with me. Everyone shifts and wiggles and whispers. Aha! The energy level just rose. Now then (insert volunteer's name here), walk from here to over there. That's it. Just walk. We all watch our walking volunteer. He stops. Looks at me. The class looks at me. So, what was our volunteer feeling? Silence. You mean you don't know? Nope. A little concern. Will this be graded? Of course you don't know! How could you know? There weren't any power words in that sentence. All I wrote was that Character One walked down the street. What does that tell my reader? Nothing!

Our brave volunteer then gets another chance. I whisper something in his ear. He moves down that pretend street with gusto. What's he feeling? And whammy! The power words fly. We prance and shuffle and skip and slouch and shimmy. We're joyful and sneaky and terrified and exhausted and exuberant. We are all about power words.

It's fun. But the best part by far is when we're simply talking.

Do you like writing? That was my question to them, and most said they did but a couple said they were better at math. One little cutie, though, summed up my own feelings about the writing process quite nicely. Sometimes it's hard, she confided, but then I get sucked in and it's all okay.

Occasionally their questions give me a good chuckle. Do you know Laura Ingalls Wilder? Well, shoot. I read her books, too, when I was a little girl. She died before I was born. Yeah, that's daunting.

But the best comment from yesterday's presentation came from a sweet little miss who asked me if she might have my autograph. She handed me a piece of paper and I signed and added my usual smiley face next to my name.

Thank you, she said, putting the paper carefully away. I have a notebook at home where I collect autographs of famous people. She paused, gave me a long look and added: Well. Or sorta kinda famous people.

No chance of getting too big of an ego with this crowd! I swallowed my laughter and thanked her for bending the famous rule somewhat in my case. It had been a long day, my feet hurt and my voice was fading. But I went home basking in the knowledge that power words had gotten a boost and we all had fun in the process.

Not bad for a sorta kinda famous person.