Good bye 2010. You have been a good year.

While some might say 'good riddance' to the old year and pray for a more peaceful or prosperous 2011, I have been quite content with 2010.

Although I did not win the lottery (you must play to win) or get picked to introduce Neil Diamond at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction, or even win the Ipod from an Alma Mater (promised if one made a minimal donation-what a sucker I am, but for a good cause), it has been a good year.

How does one come to that conclusion short of reviewing journals (you have to write them to have them to review) or photo albums (ditto)?

I trust that my memory will never shorten to the place where I can not at least scan the year past and get some sense about how it went. And this year went well.

Generally good health within the family; generally secure job positions for same (which gives me generally secure social security); no job offers that I couldn't refuse; moving closer to degree completion requirements (some of which I should be working on at this moment, but no, writing my blog is much more fun...and much less cerebral); generally good weather (no tornadoes, no flooding); no major house repairs (why borrow trouble from 2011); great friends (past and present).

I think that one can have a very good year in most respects and still count it all a dismal failure of a year if the family is in disarray. Perhaps that is why I count 2010 as a success. I love my family. You can not imagine how much fun it is to be around them: as a group, as individuals, with boyfriends or without. If you know anyone in my family, you know they are uniquely wonderful. How could it be that I would be blessed with so many of these extraordinary individuals?

I have no answers but I am grateful. And that's what I think about it.

Lyrics, Schmerics

I have just discovered that I was very wrong. Although I believed it to be true, I have discovered that it is not easy to compose a poem by switching the words to a favorite one, like "Twas the night before Christmas..." I started out okay, "Twas the week after Christmas and all though the land..., then something catchy about retailers and kids with candy canes. It rhymed but did not make sense. Like many a Neil Diamond song.

You already know that I love Neil Diamond and received his latest CD (almost called it an album) for Christmas. But really, down through the decades, I have discovered that his music, like my poem, rhymes but the lyrics have often sacrificed thought pattern and grammar for poetry. This endears him to me.

Some examples:

"She feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China." Google China and you find that China is not the citrus crop capital of the world.

"And no one heard at all, not even the chair...."

"Money talks, it don't sing and it don't dance, but it can walk..."

"Song sung blue weeping like a willow, song sung blue sleeping on my pillow..."

And on it goes. However it is these very lyrics and music that have now placed Neil in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I might say, "And not a moment too soon," but I would be wrong. This honor is years in coming, long overdue and a bruise if not a black-eye on the committee who chooses the Inductees that have not acted until now to let him take his rightful place.

But back to those lyrics for a moment, lest we forget:

It's Love Brother Love say Brother Love's traveling salvation show
Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies and everyone goes
'Cause everyone knows Brother Love's show

From: http://www.musicbabylon.com

Tomorrow I am driving five hours to my twice-yearly seminary Intensive week. Five hours. Five hours of Neil singing "You don't bring me flowers anymore," "Captain of a Shipwreck," and "Kentucky Woman." I am very much looking forward to the drive and may just go the speed limit and stretch it out to five hours and a half.

And that's what I think about it.

Two days before Christmas, 2010. Last week's snow has melted, the ice is long-gone but the temperatures remain seasonal which, for around here, means in the 30s. My holiday decorations are meager. One 3-foot glittery tree in a pot on the coffee table surrounded by gifts in matching wrapping paper set off with huge snowflakes in lieu of ribbon. Frosty bough with pine cones on the mantel. That's about it.

But not quite.

There's a wreath on the front door as we didn't want our neighbors to think we'd become Scrooge-like characters who eschewed the celebration.

And let me mention the "Peace on Earth" and "Joy to the World" signs that hang in all their glittered glory on the wall along with one lone wreath in the entryway. Christmas napkins fill the holder and a bowl of red crab apples sit atop a pantry.

Even though I had planned to scale-back this year, and I have, there still is a lot of Christmas around here.

I seem to have quite a bit of it on my body. I sit here wearing silver bell earrings, a glass Santa necklace, holiday bracelet with Christmas bangles and a silver tree pin. Oh my goodness! I have become the very person I warned myself about 30 years ago. The over-accessorizer, the woman who wears one of everything. To my credit I do not have on a Christmas sweater, thanks in part to grand daughters who have scoured every family closet and Goodwill Store looking for these items in which to become the nerd-iest teen around. If they start looking for jewelry next year, I'll have a treasure trove for them.

Merry Christmas. It is so much more than decorations and accessories and presents. I know you know that. Perhaps you will take some time this Christmas to ponder what it does mean.

And that's what I think about it.

In Jeannette Walls' book, Half Broke Horses, she recounts the life of her grandmother. The historical memoir recounts life in Texas and Arizona during the early 1900s.

Drawn to this book by the prequel, The Glass Castle, it recounts the remarkable life of a woman who would not be defeated by the ruts and storms of life. Time after time through events that might have derailed the strongest of us, Walls' grandmother adjusted and moved forward, refusing to wallow in self-pity due to the unfairness of life or people, always moving in some sort of forward motion with confidence and hope.

It is hope that provides the fuel for moving on, moving beyond or over whatever event has determined to derail our dreams.

Half Broke Horses begins with a harrowing event with three children caught in a notorious west Texas flash flood, clinging to the upper limbs of a tree for safety during a long night until the water receded. When the mother declares that it was her prayers all night for her children that saved them, the author's grandmother remarks, mostly to herself, that she herself had a whole lot more to do with saving her brother and sister than God did.

If you are at all into books, this would be a good one to pick up. It will make you grateful. It will make you determined. For what, you'll have to decide, but it is no story for the 'poor me, life owes me a living' crowd.

And that's what I think about it.

What happened to....

What happened to those convenient metal ice trays? In the 50s it was the only way to have ice cubes at the ready. No one I knew had an automatic ice maker or through-the-door ice dispenser.

The metal handle could be pulled up with a sound of cracking, loosening ice making removal easy. Stackable trays made storage in the freezer efficient. A plastic tub was often used to dump cubes in so that additional ice could be made.

One problem? No one ever filled up the trays, at least not until all the trays were empty and no more ice was available. Or the same person, like the youngest kid in the family, always had to fill up the trays, like it was the duty of every baby of the family to have this in their job description.

In the summer, cubes made from Kool-Aid were a delight. If you had sticks, you made frozen Popsicle treats then you took them outside to slurp on because they dripped like crazy and if there was a little breeze you had to stand just the right way so the spray didn't fly back on your clothes...not that you cared, but your mom did. Sometimes the stick came out but the Popsicle didn't. That usually happened when you didn't wait long enough for the water to solidify.

You can't do that with a side-by-side two-door refrigerator/freezer with an automatic ice maker and through-the-door ice and water service.

And that's what I think about it.

Four hundred artisans under one roof. Two great friends with whom to enjoy Winterfair, the biggest art expo in the Midwest. One suite of rooms. Three nights, adjacent to the largest shopping mall in central Ohio with five anchor stores. Laughter, buying, trying on, more laughter, eating, catching up...we were made for this. It is the one time a year that the car trunk just isn't big enough. I drive five hours to meet them; they drive to this capital city after work and we meet for dinner to catch up and begin our weekend.

My two friends and I worked together back in the days. We had the best times then and loved the planning, programming and public relations that went along with our jobs. On paper I was their boss; in reality, we lived a decade of shared responsibilities...they made me look good to my own boss.

Instead of going over the hour by hour, play by play of the long weekend, our semi-annual retreat, I want to reflect on what their friendship, and by extension other friendships, mean.

"We cannot tell the precise moment when a friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, There is at last one drop that makes it run over. So in a series of kindness there is at last one drop that makes the heart run over," someone has penned. When did our friendship begin.

At first our jobs would take us around the country looking at sites at different hospitals. Then, at some point, we decided that since we were all about to celebrate 'decade birthdays' (40, 50 and 60 - you know which decade I was celebrating), a whale watch off Cape Cod was in order. That three-day journey to Massachusetts opened up a wider world to us and found us in Ireland, China, Australia, Greece, Turkey and New Zealand. Oh did we party on those trips...and shop...and sight-see. Looking through albums of those trips is an instant re-vacation and stress reducer, a retreat from the snow and cold of southern Indiana and northern Ohio.

We have celebrated graduations, weddings, birthdays, new homes, children leaving same, all the life markers that have welded us together, including a friends' death.

Understanding that goes beyond words; connectedness that goes beyond distance; friendship that goes beyond time. Bittersweet parting is soon replaced by the anticipation of the next time we'll be together.

It is good to have friends. It is vital. And that's what I think about it.

In Pueblo County, Colorado a springer spaniel who was training to become a hunting dog, fell 80 feet over a cliff and landed on a remote ledge. Unable to rescue the animal, named Doc, because of darkness, rescuers lowered blankets to Doc to protect him and make him comfortable for the long, cold Colorado night.

Does a dog automatically know how to unfold a blanket and cover up?

The next morning rescuers rappelled down the side of the cliff and brought Doc up to his owners.

I would guess that the owners are now reconsidering what sort of hunting Doc will do, perhaps not in the hills but on flatter ground; perhaps duck hunting. Can Doc swim? Rescue workers from the Coast Guard should be on hand to watch that training.

And that's what I think about it.

A huge dilemma. A lottery ticket worth several hundred million dollars is waiting for redemption. The dilemma? It was purchased at a porn shop. Personally, since it's not my ticket, I chuckle at the dilemma for the ticket holder. What to do?

I often, too often for those of my readers who have access to a DMS IV or later, think about how I would distribute several million dollars won in the lottery. Granted, one must first play the lottery to win the lottery but that aside, I can imagine what it might be like.

First, I would pay my taxes. It is the cost I owe to live in this country and although I am not always or often pleased with the way my taxes are used I pay them with some gratefulness for the freedom experienced in the good old USofA.

Then, I would replace the roof on the house. Oh it's not leaking or anything, just old. It's only a matter of time before it will need replacement so I would get a head start and get it done before tornado season.

I would pay for some college educations for some of my favorite people, including myself and then take them all on a trip, perhaps to Egypt or Indianapolis to see the Colts play. I would give a lot of it away, after all how much does one really need to live the 'good life?'

Or maybe, now that I think about it, I would simply put it in zip-lock baggies and stick it under the mattress, freeze it in ice trays or bury it in the backyard. You can't be too careful with money. Easy come, easy go.

Maybe I would charter a ship and sail the Mediterranean. No, too many pirates.

I would buy a lot of books but then I wouldn't have the time to read them. I would buy a pair of cool boots (I've always wanted a nice pair) and a diamond stud earrings (no, not those, too easily stolen).

Having money presents quite a few hazards. I would need a security system, several banks to hold the funds until I could spend them, body guards (what if someone tried to hold me for ransom?) and a car equipped with a bullet-proof body.

Geez! I think I have just talked myself out of even dreaming of winning the lottery. Good thing I don't play the lottery. And that's what I think about it.

He asked his girlfriend to marry him.

She said, "No!"

He attempted to run her down with his car, hitting two pedestrians, blowing out two tires and tearing up local landscaping.

He sits in the county jail charged with attempted murder, assault, destruction of public property, and really bad reaction to rejection (I made that last one up myself.)

And that's what I think about it.

A friend and I drove to Louisville Friday to see a performance of Madame Butterfly. Puccini set his creation in 1092 in the city of Nagasaki, Japan. The story is of an American lieutenant who marries a former geisha purchasing a home for her to live in while he is out on ship.

Madame Butterfly is 15 years old and very much in love. She renounces the religion of her ancestors to embrace the God of her husband. As a result she is rejected by her family. She is willing to give them up for the love of her life.

A clever law in Japan at the time gave husbands the prerogative monthly to either renew or let lapse the marriage bond. Madame Butterfly is blissfully unaware of this law. Her husband is very much aware.

After he sails, with the promise to return when the robins build their nests, Madame Butterfly waits for him to return. She does not wait passively. She waits with great passion...for three years.

Three years later he returns with his American wife to take his son. Madame Butterfly presents his three-year old son to him and with great anguish over his betrayal commits suicide.

This tragic story was beautifully complimented by a minimal stage set and full orchestra.

I can't say that I'm an opera lover or an opera appreciator...yet. But I can say that this performance was thrilling. Many years ago at my first opera...and there have been mighty few since...the audience followed the, in this case, Italian libretto (words) by reading them in the program. Besides a stiff neck from looking up at the stage and down at the program, one missed so much of the action happening on stage. Not so anymore. Conveniently located over the stage curtain, high above the action, is a screen showing the English translation. One does not have to take eyes from the action to follow the plot in one's native language.

The beautiful people of Louisville were in attendance. Glitz and glamor sat side by side with polyester and pants. Strapless gowns and wool suits; tuxes and sweaters. The beautiful people were sipping wine and 'being seen.' For sure they were being seen by me. I felt like an child being allowed to stay up late and come to the party.

And that's what I think about it.

Another ordinary day. A Saturday of football and soccer, art show and nail fill. Reading by the TV during commercials, keeping up with friends on Facebook and planning the rest of my life.

The plan begins with Madame Butterfly and a trip to Louisville to see this opera next weekend with a friend.

The plan continues with Thanksgiving Day dinner, counting chairs, configuring tables, visualizing serving dishes.

Anticipating a fun early December weekend at Winterfair in Columbus, OH with friends and former colleagues.

My mind jumps to Christmas with a shelf in the closet beginning to fill with gifts while other presents have been ordered to arrive in time for the holiday to addresses a distance away.

In between the big holidays are placed a six-week course I'm teaching titled "Me, Myself and Lies," a Monday night study, a Wednesday morning study.

Overarching all of this is the plan for the second week of January, ten textbooks for the course and papers to be generated from each. This part of the plan is always front and center of my mind.

I really love my life. And that's what I think about it.

There is no such thing as a free cat. These have been my husband's exact words more than once in our married life. The latest feline, Kat Karson, came to us from the local shelter. A big, social cat who liked to be near but not on people. He has lived with us for a year or more.

Two weeks ago we found him, unusual for him, starring fixedly at the bottom of the stove. Day after day he would lay and stare, unblinking and alert. Once a break in routine found him in the front hallway, fixedly staring at the closet door.

We assumed, but what did we know, that he had heard (cat's hearing is legendary) a mouse.

Sometimes he was so transfixed on the oven door that he wouldn't come when called for treats. That's when I knew he was on to something big.

Today the Great Cat Hunter captured a rodent.

The noise of both the mouse and the feline brought my husband out of his den to see what the ruckus was all about. In the hallway he discovered Kat Karson starring down and mewing at a mouse who was laying on his back scratching and pawing the air...I'll save you the description of his injuries. Kat Karson seemed to be waiting for the rodent to right himself from his Topsy-turvy position and continue the game they had started which apparently involved teeth, claws and internal injuries.

My husband took in the scene and sprang into action, picking up the injured animal (this is not an endangered species so no need to call animal control), taking him outside and tossing him over the back fence into the neighbor's wooded empty lot.

The family is very proud of Kat Karson. We are a cat family, but I do not remember an incident of any other cat having performed this feat. For Kat Karson's part, he is still wandering about the house, wondering what happened to his little playmate.

I, for one, am glad that I do not have to obsess, anymore, over the possibility of the rodent getting baked into Thanksgiving Dinner or my entering the kitchen to find tiny little foot prints through the icing on a cake or the corner chewed out of the oatmeal box in the cupboard.

No such thing as a free cat? They can be worth their Meow Mix in dead or disabled rodents.

And that's what I think about it.

This is a blog about fear.

The syllabus was received today for the class I will be taking in January. Ten texts (all ordered thanks to my husband), eight papers due the first day of class, one page of questions that I will develop for my classmates from the required reading and the preparation of an oral argument for or against whichever topic I am given by the professor. My stomach is in knots.

And that's all before I show up for the first day of class. Don't even get me started on what all is required after the week of face-to-face at the seminary. And only a month to finish the post-course work (I had one course where the students were given almost three months to get final papers in).

This course isn't even in my main area of interest although it probably should be since it is listed in the core curriculum.

It is also the hardest course in the curriculum and the one I have put off until most other courses have been checked off as completed. In my deepest thoughts I was hoping Jesus would return before I had to take this course. He didn't...return yet that is, although there are still two months to go until I drive up to the seminary for the week. It could happen.

Any day. Any minute. Any second. In the twinkling of an eye.

And that's what I think about it.

I've been thinking about the number of decisions we each make everyday.

To get up or not, to floss or not, to watch the news of the happenings in the world while we slept or not, greet the people and animals with whom we live or not, oatmeal or eggs....and on and on, and this is just in the first few seconds of the day.

All day, it never ends. Decisions, decisions. And the next day it all begins again.

Each decision infused with the power to change or direct lives, ours and others'.

Multiplied out, let's say six decisions in the first minute of the day, 60 minutes times 24 hours times 365 days...

Well that's just mind boggling, even with my limited math skills that is a mighty lot of decisions.
Somewhere over thirty one hundred thousand decisions a year

No wonder I get tired. You too? The only escape from decision-making is sleeping...after making the decision to nap.

And that's what I think about it.

How do you explain to a teen that happiness is not a God-given right but is something that one chooses regardless of the situation in which she finds herself?

Heck, how do you explain that to an adult?

How often do we hear, "I'm just not happy," followed by a list of things that would make the situation tolerable and, yes, happy.

Almost always the list is filled with actions that others need to take on behalf of the unhappy one to right all the wrongs in her life.

Commentators have long written and spoken about the entitlement syndrome prevalent in this country, and perhaps other countries as well, but every single time I hear it, I start to seethe inside.

When does the age-old adage that parents often remind kids about, "Life is not fair," or "I'm not here to make you happy," sink in?

Unfortunately in some cases it never does and the ensuring generations are raised with the same 'poor me' and 'you owe me' attitudes.

Well buck up. From time immemorial life has been this way. As long as there is more than one person alive on the planet it will be this way.

Deal with it. Decide to be happy. And that's what I think about it.

2:30 AM

Two thirty in the morning and here I am sitting in front of a keyboard wide awake.

Why am I awake at this hour?

Not sure. Some would say that as one ages activity levels decline and the body needs less sleep. That would put yesterday's activity level at about, say, 30 minutes.

Others say that when one's sleep is disrupted at this hour it is to pray, or as others would say send positive thoughts, to those whose time zone has had them up and around for hours.

And so, I think about friends in Afghanistan, troops and non military, particular friends in Ukraine, a family living for a short time in England, a young man living in the Middle East, two young women in countries on the African continent. I pray and wonder if my good wishes and best pleadings will keep some evil from befalling them.

May never know. Actually it's enough to keep them front and center in my mind and let God take care of the rest. Very comforting, really, that I don't have to be God....although I have been accused of trying to play the part, but that story is for another time.

And that's what I think about it.

Trees

The family down the street planted 30 pear trees. They line the drive, 15 trees on each side. When you stand at the road you can look down the tree-lined drive to the house at the end. When put in they towered at about four feet. That was four years ago. Today they top out, fully-grown, at nearly 30.

But not all of them.

The first year, and for most of the second, the white blossoms were lovely (we lived far enough away not to be inundated with piles of flowers on the porch and deck blown in by the wind. Every tree did its part to bloom; every one succeeded.

At that point, about year three, equanimity faltered.

Some continue, to this date, to bloom, green up, turn red in fall and then drop leaves during the winter. All have not fared so well along this horticulturally sound pathway.

Hit by lightning, one struggled for two years to recover. One side of the tree did recover, the other was left bare. This same tree was hit by lightning a second time, go figure, and fell over the driveway, making egress and entrance impossible. This time the trunk was cut down to about four feet, the bulk of the tree hauled away. I figured, "well, that's the end of that." But no, now there are new green sprouts growing from the base of the trunk. This tree is struggling to survive. You can see this tree in the photo, left center.

Five of the current trees are in full red splendor. Seven of them continue to be green and the remaining two have lost all their leaves but not in a healthy way (envision Charlie Brown's Christmas tree). I think they're really dead. Only a few of the trees are the same height although they were all uniform when planted.

Fifteen trees from the same stock, planted on the same day in the same soil. Remarkably different outcomes.

Kind of like people. No two can be expected to grow along the same pathway even those planted in the same soil. Some pathways of life are predictable and welcome and are markers of maturity. Yet people sometimes get hit by the proverbial lightning strike and try to recover but never do. Some look like they might but some unseen force, or lack of unseen force, derails them even after a good start. Some look like they are the right 'size' and all, but suddenly one realizes there never was real life.

My goodness, this blog was just about those darn trees. I didn't mean to make it about life - yet perhaps every thing is about life.

And that's what I think about it.

While shopping with friends we entered a small shop with twice as much inventory that by any stretch should have fit in the store. It was country-themed, not my favorite period of history in regards to decorating my home.

However, to my surprise, right inside the door was a table whose top was decorated for the Thanksgiving holiday.

In the middle of the table, underneath a mound of pumpkins, wheat sheaves and gourds was a lovely, thick 3x5 foot table cover. Love it at first glance. Wanted it at second. Bought it at third.

Muted woven colors of olive, burgundy, tan and burnt orange, I could hardly wait to place it atop my own table.

My 'Aha!' moment came when a friend asked me, "Where are you going to put your rug?" Rug? What rug? Apparently, and now it is very apparent actually, the table runner is in fact a woven kitchen floor rug.

I imagine if I had bought it from the back of the store where the little scatter rugs were stored it might have been of less cost but since I bought it from the country-themed 'boutique' section of the shop, I paid more...much more.

However, as I sit here I can look over my laptop screen and see this lovely 'rug' and perhaps, if I can do it, I will post a photo and you can enjoy also.

And that's what I think about it.

Kicked Out?

There is a story circulating that when my friends and I were in St. Charles, MO we were kicked out of a store.

That is not exactly the way it happened.

We actually left the store as the manager was asking us to leave.

It happened this way.

Two of us were having a conversation in one of the shoppes, with one friend explaining something to the other (what the subject was is of no import and adds nothing to the event). When the explanation was complete the store owner/manager (whoever he was) who had been listening in, said in a loud, condescending voice, "Now do you want me to tell you where you were wrong?"

Let me stop to describe the guy. Six three, 250, 55 years old, booming voice.

My friend simply said, "No," and walked away.

I saw her from a distance looking pale so I went over to her and asked, "Are you okay?"

As she related to me the above little scene, the guy followed her over to where we were and continued his verbal harangue of her. She headed for the door while I, and another of the friends, headed to the checkout line, saying nothing and looking at no one.

But he wasn't done. As she moved toward the door he loudly shouted, "Perhaps you should just leave the store." By this time shoppers had stopped to listen and gawk.

With my limited, but often helpful, social work background, I labeled the guy with a borderline personality disorder which was escalating rapidly.

At that point, the two of us in line simply put down what we were going to purchase and left the store also.

As I told the Chamber of Commerce in my email to them about the incident, had I been by myself in that situation I might have felt compelled to call law enforcement. He was getting that scary.

We were all stunned at the event and wondered aloud and to ourselves what had just happened and had we played any part in it and could the whole scene have been avoided?

I think we did the right thing by leaving. We saved a few bucks when we left our selections behind. We might have indulged him and listened to his correction of our conversation but truly we were not interested. So I suppose one could say we were kicked out of a store. Somehow I am finding it difficult to be repentant about the event.

And that's what I think about it.

I do not know how long wooden decks and porches can go without being stained or re-stained but I had the idea that seven years might be the magic number and asked Jim to put that on his to do list (along with sorting out National Geographics from 1950 onward). I had scant hope of either happening.

Lo and behold, I returned from the aforementioned trip to St. Louis to find the porch stripped of furniture, grill, carpet and potted plants. Everything had been moved to the yard (fortunate, I thought, that the porch was in the back of the house lest the neighbors think we were having a large yard sale).

Yesterday afternoon one of my husband's good buddies, the one with all kinds of tools which probably have one tiny usage, came over with his power washer. Notice the ownership. It was his. Not rented, leased or inherited but he had purchased it for his (and his friends') personal use.

Hours later with muscles sore but with a great deal of pride and satisfaction, the porch was washed. Also the pool deck and steps. The next step is to wait 48 hours for the wood to dry and then apply the stain. And wouldn't you know, as luck would have it, after a late summer and fall of drought, it rained. More is expected today. And tomorrow.

Ah, but two days after tomorrow, the wood will be dry and stain will be applied, then furniture returned to its place and early mornings and late afternoons will find me reading and drinking tea and enjoying the pleasures of outdoor living ala Martha Stewart.

And that's what I think about it.

St. Louis

Spent the weekend in beautiful St. Louis with three friends. Our intent was to shop and we weren't disappointed.

The beautiful Drury Hotel is west of the city and that's where we parked ourselves for the two days, thanks to the arrangements by one of the friends. The hotel is on atop a hill and our room was on the highest floor (10th) facing east. The first morning everyone got up early - 5:30 - to watch for the sunrise...which didn't occur until 6:50. But it was lovely and worth getting up for. Most of us had good attitudes about the hour. I admit I was the 5:30 riser and made just enough noise to get my friends a-stirring. There may have been some inner grumblings for the first hour and when we looked up the sunrise time on our phones and found we would have had plenty of time to sleep in.

Breakfast was compliments of the hotel. Ditto an extensive happy hour with real food, not just peanuts and pretzels.

The friend who drove had a penchant for steering toward exits and we found our Garmin lady frustrated but finding us alternate routes to places.

St. Charles, northwest of the city, is a lovely restored village filled with small shops and restaurants. We spent the day there after a grocery run to Trader Joe's for organic and hard-to- find edibles...and great customer service.

In St. Charles, one of my friends had run out of money and didn't have her checkbook. She had planned to charge her purchase but when she got to the register discovered they didn't take, well, Discover. None of us were around to lend her funds (clever of us, right?) so the shopkeeper, noticing her dilemma, simply said, "Just send me a check." Really, that did happen. In this day and age. And I know what you are thinking and yes, she text her husband right then and had him put a check in the mail.

This same friend had lost considerable weight recently and needed new clothes. Sales were abundant and seeing her delight in sizes that she couldn't ever remember wearing added to the celebration.

We kept in touch with the football scores to rejoice that Ohio State and the Colts had both won their weekend games and received an informative lecture on the state of the woolly bear. One of us had seen white ones so we looked up what that meant. More snow than usual this winter. Some had seen the brown-black-brown ones which means a colder than usual winter. We did not rejoice with any of this information although agreed that it was fascinating.

Back home, while we were gone, one of our sons had ridden his bike over 57 miles in the Hilly Ride in Bloomington, Indiana and one of our daughters had run 13.1 miles in a half-marathon.

It's good to stay connected to people and have friends that you like well enough with whom to travel. I'm looking forward to our next adventure.

And that's what I think about it.

Facebook

Being a member of a social networking site has been an eye-opener.

For over a year I have accumulated friends on Facebook.

And I have agonized with their struggles, rejoiced in their victories, and lived through their adventures.

Headaches, boredom, homework, messy diapers, road trips, dinner plans - all appear on posts.

Similar to email forwarded messages, Facebook fans re-post videos from Youtube and make up statements and expect everyone to jump on board and agree by clicking 'like.' My favorite this week is, "Let's see how many real Christians are on Facebook." The challenge is transparent. You either are a real one and click to 'like' this post, and if you don't, well, the opposite is true and you should start back at the beginning with Catechism because you just are not the real deal and heaven help you (for real) if you should die before you click 'like' and become a real Christian.

Along with the mundane are benefits that would be lost without the site: a friend's photo albums from her new life in England, wedding pictures from a friend in Haiti, engagement pictures from a friend in Italy, the life and times of another friend living in Afghanistan, pictures from Kenya and Zambia posted by other friends, posting about a couple's couple massage in Bora Bora, and the on-again, off-again relationship statuses of my own grand children, important to keep up with so I know how many to expect for Thanksgiving dinner.

In the main, I like Facebook. What I lack is the discipline to check the site once or twice a day only and not keep it up and running and stopping whatever I am doing when I hear the computer ding with a new post. I'm working on that.

And that's what I think about it.

Somehow I lost a season. I mean to say, this week when I retrieved the Fall decorations from the garage where my husband had carefully put them in big plastic bins, one for each season, and removed the seasonal decorations which were in the house, I realized I had skipped a season.

As I looked at the I pastel sit-arounds in the living areas, I realized that they were Spring things: hyacinth wreaths, colorful stripped table runner, dishes of pears, ceramic bunnies hopping down the length of the mantel.

What, I pondered, had happened to summer? And the summer home decor. Was I too busy to switch out the seasons? Perhaps not expecting visitors I simply left what was there alone.

Anyway, today the oranges and rusts of Fall are dotting the house. The mantel is ablaze with pumpkins and leaves. A huge pumpkin sits in the middle of the coffee table filled with greenery and apples. More pumpkin arrangements adorn the library table, breakfront and hutch. A garland of colorful leaves runs along the edge of the TV cabinet.

Halloween towels hang from the door of the oven and harvest hand towels welcome visitors to dry their hands in the bathroom.

In reality the things I have described are not new. Purchased through the years for our homes in Ohio I have loved finding new places for them to be seen here in Indiana.

Still, I wonder, what happened to summer?

And that's what I think about it.

Welcome Fall.

Fifty years out of high school, my husband and I attended his reunion last weekend in Barberton, Ohio. I don't remember but apparently I had encouraged him to go. I'm not sure I encouraged him to take me.

Thursday evening kicked off the weekend with dinner at one of the several, supposedly world-renown, chicken dinner houses. Barberton was settled by those of Serbian and Yugoslavian descent. They brought their recipes to the new world and set up in Barberton. What followed were decades of rivalry over whose was tastiest. Iron Chef came to town last year and declared one winner over all the others.

To serve the entree one places lots of fried chicken pieces on the bottom of a platter-size dish, spoons a hefty portion of hot sauce on one side of the dish and coleslaw on the other. Over all is heaped french fries until they are pushed over the sides of the platter falling on the table, floor, etc. This is a Barberton chicken dinner. Cost about $8. My father-in-law loved to tell the story about taking the family for Sunday chicken dinner after church and paying $5 for all five of them back in the '50s.

The next night was dinner and dancing at the local country club. Dancing was scheduled until 2:30. The last alum was gone by 10:30.

Saturday afternoon the golfers had a tournament and that night dinner at a Sports Bar, owned by one of the grads, and watching the end of the Ohio State football game which they won 73-24, or some ridiculous score.

Sunday morning found us back at the country club for breakfast before heading for home, seven hours away.

Met some real nice people. One told me he had attended his 25 reunion and found the group cliquish and playing one-ups-manship with each other. In 2010 it was the rare alum who was still working outside the home and talk was about retirement and grand kids. The playing field had leveled.

I met a former police officer who still looked like he shouldn't be tangled with, someone who spends much time in Surfside Beach, SC, one of my husband's and my favorite places, a woman who built a pond in her backyard and has butterfly moths visit her flowers. Some still had their hairstyle from long ago, others looked just like their yearbook picture. Many, many were veterans; others never made it back from war. Much hair had vanished.

One story: When ten or eleven, one boy had been target practicing with his rifle, in the middle of a residential area but aiming at and over a hill in a vacant lot. When we was done he started walking home. A police officer stopped and asked him about his rifle and had he been target practicing at the hill to which he readily admitted. The officer told him to get in the car and took him to a home on the other side of the hill. The boy could see the shattered window. Inside there was a traumatized family. He said he was sorry. The policeman took the boy home and before he drove off told him to pay for the damage, about $75. He remembers he paid for the window and that was the end of it.

The ramifications of that sort of event today would be very different. Lawyers, judges, lock-up, police brutality charges, trauma counseling, window estimates out the wazoo, etc.

Met two former English teachers. We lamented on the state of creative writing and critical evaluation of literature in today's school.

Spent time with two wives of alums, one had worked at the same place I had, the other just pure delight as we all three observed the events from the perspective of outsiders.

Next to come is a reunion of that section of this class who went to a certain middle school. A cliquish streak still exists.

And that's what I think about it.

Know what's frustrating? Lying. People who lie. People who think I'm stupid and believe whatever they say. People who have to remember two stories, the truth and the lie. People who try to look good by lying. People who try to weasel out of something by lying. People who never learned the value of truth. People who teach their children to lie for them. Kids who lie rather than work at school. Teens who lie rather than put a little effort into life. Adults who lie to investors. Politicians who lie to get votes. People who lie to sell a car. Those who lie about a product.

Cesare Pavese wrote, "The art of living is the art of knowing how to believe lies. "

I think he was full of it, but then I wonder if there may be a part of every human being that wants desperately to believe one lie or another. Tremendous delusion and more await the person who trains herself to believe lies. Perhaps this person can delude herself to the very end and never, until that last breath, realize the deception that has been part of her life.

What a sad state of affairs we find ourselves in. So sad in fact that the truth is suspect when it is presented to us. We are so used to believing falsehoods and perpetuating them that we cannot distinguish fact from fiction. Again, a sad state of affairs.

And that's what I think about it.

I first noticed it a few weeks ago. The green of summer foliage had faded. I blinked my eyes to make sure I was seeing this change from the Sherwood Forest green to the Bib lettuce green.

I noticed the stalks of corn, green and tasseled, now had a creeping beige up from their roots. Leaves of soybeans were tinged with yellow.

Mums were being substituted for the summer blooms in the yards of neighbors.

In just days the corn was all brown to the top of the stalk and the farmers went through the fields and pulverized and blew it into trucks that took it away. That's when I got my horizon back.

The V-shaped formations that seemed so recently to have been flying north now were headed south.

Cider and pumpkin spice become prominently displayed at the grocery.

Soccer, cross-country and football were in full swing.

And so it goes. The seasons change, coming and going with the most precise regularity and we accommodate to the seeming acceleration of the change. Or we don't.

And that's what I think about it.

I've been pondering deep issues of life. Really, seriously. Not like some of my posts but really thoughtful stuff, perhaps stuff that has no real answers, just opinions for and against and about which one can be neutral but not for long I think before some issue or event sparks life and action.

I wonder how some people can at times or for long periods of time spend their lives in blissful pursuit of escape-artistry that calls itself happiness, or success, or self-fulfillment, or self-actualization (a special kind of purpose I studied in graduate school) without a thought or care about anyone else. Oh sometimes there are kids to think about and spouses, but even these seem secondary to achieving self-serving goals of either climbing higher or deeper until one reaches some sort of perfection. This becomes a life goal, a singular pursuit that blots out the world and its cares.

Often the world does not have much to offer that a person values and blotting it out seems like a sane pathway.

I suppose it gets to the purpose of life and what we believe is the goal of our time on earth.

For one, earth and what we know and can touch and see is the only reality and 'getting out' unscathed as possible is the goal. Becoming a hermit or an introvert makes sense. Just leave them alone and let them grow inwardly and upwardly to meet their own high potential. No one benefits from their growth because it is personal and private and exclusive. Let them succeed and have the resources to purchase and barter. Let them have bigger and newer toys; they have succeeded.

For others, there seems to be some inner tug to make this chaotic world a little less chaotic, a little more palatable, a little better for others, even one 'other.' These folks forge ahead into the fray and do what they can. Sometimes they succeed; sometimes they fail.

These two dichotomous folks inhabit the planet and I believe that each of us has a little of one and a lot of the other inside. These two sides war against each other for dominance in our life.

For me, I guess, the question is, who will care that I have spent time on this planet? Who is better, happier, kinder, wiser because I have crossed their path? What legacy am I writing each day as I walk around in the chaos which can not be escaped?

No answers here. I was just thinking.

We're Number One! We're Number One! Newsweek magazine, certainly credible, in their August 23 & 30, 2010 issue profiled countries to find out which one was the best country.

My first thought before reading the issue was that New Zealand might win. Then I wondered if Canada might edge them out and finally I mused about Tristan de Cunha, a place on my bucket list of places to see before...well, while I still can.

Newsweek rhetorically asks, "If you were born today, which country would provide you the very best opportunity to live a healthy, safe, reasonably prosperous, and upwardly mobile life?" To my delight and surprise, my own ancestral home won the big number one position. Finland. Go figure.

Again, according to Newsweek, "the best countries tend to be small, rich, safe, and cold." That's Finland all right. Especially the cold part.

Newsweek attempted to justify why, not just Finland, but Nordic countries in general, did so well in the Newsweek profile. They write, "The link between freezing and a high ranking becomes more explicable when the following dots are connected: a heated classroom is better than being outside chopping trees, hence education is important; moving briskly is good preventive medicine, thus health is robust; quality of life improves immensely when one must get as close to one's beloved as possible to fend off the chill; the political environment is likewise better when governance is kept simple and equitable because it's too cold to fight in the streets; and finally, economic dynamism is bound to be high among peoples who have learned to combat frostbite with a maximum of movement and the least expense of calories.

"A large portion of Finland's well-being is also the result of its historical reputation for fierceness and diplomacy; it has had to fight and appease both the Russians and the Germans."

The world's best countries, Newsweek continues, "avoid war, they live in the dark, and they maintain a steady state of...productive activity."

And they end up being Number One, the Best of the Best.

We're Number One! And that's what I think about it.

A notice in today's paper invited alumnae of the class of 1945 to attend their high school reunion.
That would make class members what, about 83, 84?

Also in today's paper was today's menu for school luncheons. Selections included pizza, french fries, ranch dressings and other potato selections.

At this nutritional rate it is unlikely that anyone in the class of 2011 will make it to their 65th reunion in 2076.

And that's what I think about it.

We met friends for yesterday's memorial service for Cheryl (see previous post). The friends consisted of: one dad, pastor of a church in Lexington, his six-year-old daughter and his three remaining quadruplets who are four. We were slightly outnumbered I thought.

They had driven the three and a half hours it took to get to the church for the service. Then after a potty break and hair repair we greeted the family.

Then off to IHOP for breakfast before the 1:00 PM service. At IHOP each of the four ordered and devoured kids' meals of pancakes, eggs and bacon and washed this down with orange juice. They never left their chairs, never begged to leave, just colored and drew and ate.

Back to the service. We found seats conducive to a quick exit for dad should the need arise. Each of us sat between kids (thinking back I should have been between Jim and whoever).

The service was lovely and fitting and an emotional look at Cheryl's life in Afghanistan coupled with a song she had written and sung to her teammates there. Many people spoke, lots of people actually, some with more stage presence than others, all with a deep appreciation for the life Cheryl had lived and the impact she had on them.

However, the service, which started at 1:00 PM was not finished until 3:30 PM. Long by any standards.

You are know wondering what the little ones were doing all this time.

First they colored, carefully placing crayons back in the tub so as to minimize noise; the six-year-old, read the program of the service a couple of times, and then after coloring and drawing, they curled up and listened to the speakers. No one fell asleep, no one whined to go potty, no one fidgeted (outside of me and Jim and we were held at bay by the kids' behavior); not one, "Are we almost done?" (except again from Jim who mouthed the words to me over the tops of attentive heads).

Parenting is an art, a calling, a career and a passion. Doing it well takes commitment. Our friends have all of that and this has produced the kids I have written about in this post. Amazing. I can't wait to see what each of them does with their life. And oh, did I mention that one of the kids' middle name is Patricia....she may be my favorite.

And that's what I think about it.

It was a senseless act in a senseless war zone in a country that makes little sense to most of us in the western world. Massacred after spending weeks aiding people with eye diseases and teaching children how to use toothbrushes, something they had never seen before. Selfless humanitarians helping the least of humanity.

And Cheryl was one of them.

She had a eye for photography and made beautiful and rugged Afghanistan come alive in pictures. She had a way with words that could capture emotion. In her last newsletter, dated just before she left with the team for the Nuristan province of Afghanistan, she wrote:

"Greetings from a peaceful and warm Central Asia. Today finds me catching up and reflecting on a busy but rich couple of months...There have been threats and concerns that have come and gone...Life and death have both been tasted again."

She placed a quote from Eddie Askew in this update. It read in part, "Lord, if this is where you want me, I am content. No, not quite true. I wish it were. All I can say, in honesty, is this: If this is where I'm meant to be, I'll stay. And try. Just let me feel your hands. And Lord, for all who hurt today - hurt more than me - I ask for strength and that flicker of light the warmth that says You're there."

Her family wrote, after hearing of her death, "Cheryl loved and respected the Afghan people...She was honored to be included in this most recent three-week medical journey to the remote populations of Northern Afghanistan....The wickedness of terrorism is being conquered through daily acts of mercy...Those who committed this act of terror should feel the utter shame and disgust that humanity feels for them."

My heart goes out to her parents. I remember them sitting in my Sunday school class when they were yet in high school. I remember playing cards with her grandparents on weekends at my in-laws' home. My husband remembers growing up around Cheryl's great-grandparents.

This is a fine family. It is an honor to know them. And that's what I think about it.

While Jim was in Ukraine last week I cleaned out cupboards, dressers and closets.

You might remember, last year while he was in Ukraine I cleaned out the garage and Jim's den. That endeavor was not well-received when Jim returned. I had thrown out some of his prize possessions: three banker's boxes full of used golf balls. This year I decided to concentrate on my own stuff.

And stuff I found all right!

I like to write and over the years have filled many journals. But last week discovered 12 brand new, beautiful ones, some still in their packaging. These were either gifts or purchases, the gift giver or myself assuming that I had some wisdom that needed to be preserved on the pristine pages. The pages continue unadulterated.

I found 43 T-shirts, most of which I sent off to Goodwill and eight pairs of shoes that either did not fit or never did. Cute but painful shoes. Goodwill. Purses from years past, some purchased at yard sales or art fairs, but never carried. One was red and white striped; another had the word Amsterdam written all over it, a souvenir from a trip to the city with the same name. Goodwill.

In the kitchen I found six frying pans, all of similar size and an assortment of 32 glass lids.

I tried to remember when the last time was that I bought jars of spices and then tried to determine how long the freezer was expected to preserve others. They all got tossed.

After four trips to Goodwill in as many days, the worker who helped unload the car each time welcomed me as a friend.

Jim returns tomorrow evening and my reduction of possessions is completed for this week; however, as I look around, the house yet looks full of stuff. How can this be? Is it some sort of optical illusion? Where did all this stuff come from? I blinked and the house was full again.

I don't know what to think about this.

The cat is under the bed.

Several miles away thunder rumbles.

Friends on Facebook bemoan not being able to mow the grass today because of impending showers.

The cat slinks to my side, low moan escaping his throat.

Truly, the phrase scaredy cat comes from this sort of behavior.

And that's what I think about it.

Today my husband packed two suitcases for a trip to Ukraine.

In one there are books in English that I am sending to a foster mother there, pain and allergy medicine for children, baby clothes for friends' newborns, peanut butter crackers, books on economy and accounting for one of the foster dads and various other items.

So far there are no clothes in the suitcase.

He has gone off to weigh this suitcase and the luggage of four other team members who will be traveling with him. One has filled her suitcase with donated baby clothes to leave in an Abandoned Baby ward in Simferopol. I wonder where she is packing her own clothes.

Another has a suitcase full of craft ideas for a kids' camp one day at Project Pilgrim. Where is she putting her clothes?

There are some unanswered questions here. And that's what I think about it.

I learned something important on an Eco-tour to Borneo some years ago.

When you are in a raft on a river and you notice bubbles coming up alongside, if there is one bubble it comes from a fish. If there are two bubbles rising from the river they come from a crocodile. If the two bubbles follow alongside as the raft drifts, the best thing to do is hang on tightly.

I learned something else, too. If you stop to check for leeches on your body under a tree in the jungle, why that is just plain stupid. There are constrictors in those trees and if they are hungry they can drop out of the tree and have you for dinner.

Another thing, in the jungle it is always best to be near to the person with the biggest machete! (See above paragraph).

But even then, that guy may not go after a hooded cobra who rears up from the jungle floor because the cobras eat the rats that eat the date palms.

And that's what I think about it.

Had the best deal go sour this week.

A free apartment for as much as a month right in the middle of Greenwich Village in New York City.

Free.

All I had to do was get there (and take care of the cat who would be in the apartment). Although my husband has always said there is no such thing as a free cat, this comes close.

The former, not the latter, was the problem.

Without going into details, I am stuck in southern Indiana for the time being but hoping the offer comes around again next summer. I am already saving my pennies. And stocking up on catnip treats.

And that's what I think about it.

Had a delicious strawberry soup today. It reminded me of Royal Caribbean cruises menu item where strawberry, peach and orange soups were featured.

Delicious, both the soup and the memories.

We asked the waiter what the ingredients were although we knew the two main ingredients were strawberries and heavy cream.

So that's what made it so delicious. And that's what I think about it.

Had lunch today with one of the friends who spent the last ten days in Kenya (see previous post).

Instead of one night in the bush, five nights were spent in a tent beside a school out near a village of Masai. The group of 26 was split into smaller groups of eight. A van dropped them off and left to drop off the next group at the next village about two hours away. They first team set about trying to figure out how to erect the sleeping tent.

Next a fire was started (it's winter in Nairobi) and that was the source of their heat both for comfort and for cooking. Each had been given a plate and an eating utensil (one of the teams did not have enough plates for everyone so one guy ate on a Frisbee all week). They slept in their clothes and bundled up as best they could against the cool African evening. They never had the chance to change their clothes during this time except to change from outside in to inside out. A comb would not go through their hair because of the dirt. Clean hands? Forget it.

Night sounds included the roosters who started to crow at 3 AM and the Masai herdsmen who were moving their cattle from one watering place to another in front of their tent, and the donkeys. Behind the school was a small patch of shade provided by the building. One day the team was so hot they took shelter in the relative coolness of this small patch...until a Masai herdsman shooed them away because the shade was for the donkeys!

Children as young as five would walk an hour and a half to school in the morning. Each student would bring a piece of wood and present it to the cooks. This provided the cooking fuel to make the students' lunch. School lasted until mid-afternoon. At that point the students walked back the hour and a half to do their chores at home. The older students then walked the hour and a half back to school in order to tutor each other from seven to nine by the light of two oil lanterns. Then they walked home to sleep and then repeat this practice the next day and the next. The late night studying was in preparation for the test these students would be taking in order to qualify for further education at a boarding school in Nairobi.

By my calculations that is six hours of walking to and from school each day. This speaks to the value these people place on education.

I think I am happy that I did not sign up for this trip. And that's what I think about it.

Do unripe bananas have the same vitamin and mineral benefits as ripe bananas?

Why doesn't someone sell those circus side-show mirrors that make you look so slim?

Just askin'!

Sad news to report.

One of the bunnies lies in pieces on the road in front of the house.

(Probably murdered by a Volkswagen Rabbit).

Not even the paws could be salvaged for you-know-what (see previous post).

And that's what I think about it.

Our big living room window looks out over the back yard. There is a 10-foot square area at the base of the window between the deck and the porch. In this secluded area is a bird feeder, a plot of petunias, one rose bush, one snowball bush, and some tiger lilies.

We could not understand why there were fewer and fewer petunia blossoms as the summer progressed but over the past few weeks the green parts have proliferated and the flowers have been reduced to stubs.

The culprit? One very hungry rabbit.

He, or she, has taken up residence in this square patch of ground.

I always believed that rabbits dug warrens deep in the ground; Peter Rabbit did it that way. This rabbit has scratched some of the much away and made a rabbit-shaped indentation on the ground in which he/she sleeps. It's like a four-star hotel with room service being an ever present supply of food carefully planted by my husband.

Tonight as I watched him/her nibbling away on a flower bud, a second rabbit joined in. About the same size, brown and perhaps of a different sex.

So let us now assume that we have a rabbit couple living outside the living room window. What good can come of this? None that I can see.

A dozen little fluff balls hopping around the backyard perhaps; thousands of little bunny parts and pieces scattered around the porch and grass after the inevitable battle with the neighbor's cat.

The good news might be that at some time in the future I could have 56 lucky rabbit feet to sell on eBay.

And that's what I think about it.

Heard during World Cup (futball) commentary:

-splendid strike
-that'll do nicely
-lovely dribbling skills
-a mouth-watering final
-just a whisker away
-a lot of argey-bargey going on
-it's a funny ole game
-that was hardly immaculate
-lovely footwork
-absolute nonsense. Oh dear!
-the referee's being fussy
-The Italians call this cleverness. The Americans call it cheating
-deeply pathetic
-plucky New Zealand
-That would have sent a cosmic shock into a seismic sensation
-These players will go absolutely 'potty'
-When that whistle blows it will sound like a concerto
-They are part of the 'group of apathy'
-They are on the 'boil'
-Just as it looked like it might be toddy time
-We have not seen sustained bedlam
-They should be playing tiffy tuffy in these last moments
-We don't like to see players rolling around in self-inflicted or fictitious injuries
-Amateur dramatics
-I think he falls rather easily
-quite shameful, really
-linking very adroitly

Perhaps the reason why this sport has not caught on with the testosterone-infused American public is partly due to the vocabulary of the commentators. I'm just sayin'!

Tonight two good friends are leaving for Kenya with a group of 15. One of their husbands has been there already a month working with AIDS patients. This group will work along side those who already have earned the acceptance of the people.

But here's the thing: they leave here at 11:30 PM on a bus for a three hour ride to a major airport. There they fly to Dulles International and then on to Ethiopia. From there a short plane trip, more buses and they arrive at their destination. This will take 36 hours!

They were allowed one carry-on (no more than 45 pounds) and half of a tub the size of a microwave oven.

This is why I do not especially enjoy traveling with a group...unless I am the one in charge. No, I take that back, groups stink at travel and I do not make a good group leader or member. Traveling is tiring and tired people often, even those who profess and exhibit deep and mature spiritual development, get cranky. And cranky people get on my nerves.

This group has been forming for three months. Last week the group leader told them (kind of like an 'Oh, by the way...' sort of statement) that they would be spending one night out in the bush. Not a problem for most of them, then added that there would not be enough tents for everyone so some would be 'under the stars' (how romantic, especially when your spouse is 5000 miles away) and to top it off, there would not be enough sleeping bags so people would need to double up (see above comment).Oh yeah, I would have been asking for a refund.

I don't need comfort when I travel...although I can be, and have been accused of being, a real princess at times, but there are some lines to be drawn. One has to wonder just how long this group leader had this information before he told the group. Given enough time most people can adjust to most things. Information is power....enough said.

I predict that they will have a grand time and come back with amazing stories of the people and the culture, especially the music. Any kind of interpersonal difficulty will fade away as the group is overwhelmed with the bigness of the world and the broadening of their personal horizons. I look forward to listening to the stories.

And that's what I think about it.

Heard a country song the other day with the words, "Lover, lover, you don't treat me no good no more."

So does that mean he does or does not...treat her 'good.'

In English class, way back when, we were warned against the use of double negatives, but never had a class on triple negatives.

Either country music is the elite of the grammar world or ......something else.

And that's what I think about it.

A lot can happen in a week. I've been away, actually kind of sequestered in the big metropolis of Lincoln, Illinois at the seminary. Every course I take requires a week of face-to-face time with professors and students. They are all a delight and I love being there but it is getting harder to keep my energy up for day-long classes for four or five days and some evening activities thrown in.

I think I used to have the energy to sustain this sort of schedule for a longer time than a week. If I remember correctly there were mornings in the hills of East Tennessee I would rise early and work in the college kitchen starting at 5:30 AM and then after a day of classes it never seemed like a big deal to stay up until early the next morning "studying," for exams. That worked for four years (Not that my GPA was anything to write home about).

Then there was the graduate assistantship at the next school, assistant to the most insecure, paranoid, wound tightly and needing-only-two-hours-of-sleep a night professor who needed me for more hand holding than paper grading. She was epitome of the Energizer bunny without the soft fuzzy good side.

Then there was Kent State in the 70s, but that story is for another time.

The thing is, at this age, it is difficult to drive five hours and stay in a hotel and go to classes everyday, sometimes beginning at 8 AM and ending at 8 PM although this week was a little easier with classes ending at 5 PM.

And now, to add insult to injury, there is a final paper. There usually is a final paper which is written and mailed electronically after the class. After the last course, for example, we were given two months to submit the paper. This time, we have three weeks. All this during the World Cup in South Africa.

That's what I mean about being sequestered at the seminary. There is a real world out there, a world whose eyes are on Johannesburg that seems to escape the fine folks at Lincoln.

I will attempt to fall back on the methods and madness I learned in East Tennessee. Getting up early, staying up late - but this time I will make every effort to be focused as the deadline creeps closer and closer. But I will make time for watching, along with most of the world, the teams of the world, as they compete in South Africa.

And that's what I think about it.

Here I am in the Land of Lincoln, central Illinois. I drove up this morning to attend a four-day class in spiritual development at the seminary by the same name.

I am in an Executive King room at the Holiday Inn Express, across the street from Cracker Barrel and next door to the Russell Stover outlet store. Life is good.

The room boasts a big bed, six pillows, eight towels, a fridge, microwave, closet, couch, chair with ottoman, coffee maker and coffee table, desk, big TV that gets channels from around the world, Wi-Fi and free popcorn. Life is good indeed. And not to forget the breakfast tomorrow morning that someone else will prepare, serve and clean up.

So what is missing? Well, Jim for one, and Kat Karson for two, although I am just noticing that my allergies have not bothered me since I left home this morning.

The weather report calls for a repeat of the weather that swept through the area last evening when nine people were killed across the state line in Ohio. Oh joy! My favorite thing...aberrant weather.

I wonder if this Holiday Inn has a basement.

And that's what I think about it.

Discovered a new place for breakfast. It's a once-in-a-lifetime place. Not the kind of place that is so spectacular it can never be duplicated in one's lifetime, but the kind of place that once you have eaten there, you promise on the proverbial stack of bibles, never to eat there again.

Such was and is the Boonville Cafe.

The picture says it all.

Welcome to living on the western frontier of the 1800s...or in southern Indiana in the 21st Century. Sometimes it is just so darn hard to tell the difference.

And that's what I think about it.

The new dentist suggested that I purchase a Waterpik and so I did.

After the obligatory 24-hour battery charging I snapped the two pieces together. It looked to be the size one of the army's two-way radios; it was a handful.

I filled it with lukewarm water, inserted the blue (gentle stream) nozzle and leaned over the sink...as per the photos on the instruction sheet. Because I could not actually see the on/off button I faced the devise toward me and pushed 'on.' A shocking, but not uncomfortable, stream of lukewarm water hit me square in the face and dripped down, some into the sink (remember I was leaning over it) and some down my arm and chin and unto my blouse, because by this time I had been jolted to a more upright position and had been blindly poking around for the off switch. It never once occurred to me to put the Waterpik in my mouth.

By the time I had stopped the machine, the sink was the driest part of the bathroom and food particles still remained between my teeth.

I have used my Waterpik three times since. I like to think of myself as somewhat coordinated (after all I did major in Physical Education) but conquering this machine will take some doing.

And that's what I think about it.

Air-conditioning unit died this week.

Not last week when the temperatures settled around a very comfortable 80 degrees, but this week when the thermometer hovered around 90. Great timing!

As the house warmed degree by degree, we opened all the windows in the house, windows that had never been opened. Fans were turned on. These maneuvers brought the inside temperature down to...89. Hurrah!

For one day (we didn't remember we had ceiling fans until day two), there was no sound in the house. No hum of that little motor that runs the air. The silence inside the house created an uncluttered peace. I could clearly hear the birds outside and the breeze through the trees, sounds from childhood before air-conditioning, all coming through the open windows.

On day two the repairman came. He parked out front and walked up the drive and into the garage. He opened the access door to the furnace and turned off the by-pass switch. The air-conditioner hummed to life.

Most amazingly....no charge. And cool air. And humming. Now I can see the birds and see the leaves moving in the breeze but these wonders of nature are now enjoyed optically and not auricularly.

And that's what I think about it. Yes, really, I know what you are thinking. No charge.

Until I was five-years old, I had the longest curliest hair which my mother would pain-stakingly (for both of us, I'm sure) curl by wrapping sections of hair in long strips of cotton cloths.

I also had, until recently, an aunt who although had no children of her own, delighted in knowing all there was to know about child-rearing and further delighted in announcing her knowledge whenever the chance arose, which, in my memory, was often.

And so the two met...my hair and her expertise...right around the time that spring turns into a most-humid and uncomfortable summer. She told my mother that short hair would be cooler for me and much more manageable for my mother.

Apparently my mother did not agree.

Oh, and did I tell you that one of the delights I experienced as a child was spending time at my aunt's home where there was a bedroom for me, cookies for me, the whole of the experience centered around me.

Including the haircut.

I do not remember this. I do not remember my aunt asking me whether I wanted my hair cut or the hair cut itself.

I only remember that my mother did not speak to my aunt for a real long time and curtailed my visits to her home (like somehow I should get punished for this...another time adults made no sense to me).

Six decades later, the family lore contains the tale of the haircut and the beauty of the long ringlets.

(I suppose if those ringlets had been so dang special someone would have saved one in a little baggie tied with a ribbon, but no such artifact exists).

And that's what I think about it.

Solitude and loneliness are two different sides to being by oneself.

When you are lonely you long for companionship.

When you are experiencing solitude you give yourself time to engage in your deepest thoughts and needs without anxiety.

Loneliness compels us toward people whom we expect can meet our needs.

Solitude compels us toward people who will enrich our solitude with their entrance into our lives.

Loneliness scares us.

Solitude is welcome.

Loneliness defines us as 'less than' or 'partial.'

Solitude creates a wholeness that envelops the world.

And that's what I think about it.

A new fad is sweeping the high schools in the area.

Shaped elastic bracelets.

Two grandchildren and I went on a search for them locally and finally, after four stores, found them at a local bookstore.

The bands come in various shapes and are sold in groups, 20 to a package. There are Shapes, Princess, Wild Animals, Pets and perhaps a couple others. One stretches them around one's wrist, but they pop back into their original shape when removed.

I am sporting a gray tiara and a scarlet ostrich on my wrist. I picked them because they were Ohio State colors and because my grand daughters gave them to me.

Grandchildren are great rewards. And that's what I think about it.

Updates:

-no tomatoes on the vine yet.

-rabbits regularly hopping through the backyard with hungry looks on their faces.

-morning glories climbing up the mail box.

-made it through a night of tornado warnings, with no sleep, but with no tornado either.

-allergies continue.

-looking out the back window clouds of light-colored dust course through the backyard and cover the patio furniture. This from the farmer down the road who is getting his field ready for planting. I hope he has a good growing season.

-a friend nicked the tail of a snake while using a weed whacker. The snake coiled and reared up. She was scared. A little garden snake is no match for a weed whacker, just so you know.

-Six tomato plants is too many for two people.

School is nearly out for the summer.

To me this means that:

-the mall will now be crowded all the time after noon.

-the movies will be crowded before 6 PM.

-service at fast food places will decline in efficiency and increase cerebrally.

-the Xpressway will be crowded with teen drivers all the time between noon and beyond.

-more parents will be taking the bus to work.

When I was in school, I hated for summer to come to an end. When I was the mother of school-age children, about August 1 I would be longing for the first day of school to hurry up and arrive. I'm still in that stage, hurry up and arrive so us Seniors can reclaim the mall, the cinemas and the Xpressway. I have officially become an OC, "Old Codger."

And that's what I hate thinking about.

Love Judge Judy. She runs a tight ship in her courtroom. If a plaintiff or defendant thinks they can get smart with her or appear clever, she cuts them down to size.

She cuts to the chase by asking, "Do you take any medicine for any psychological problems?" and "What were you doing out at that time of night if not looking for trouble?" or "You stay out of it. You have nothing to offer to this case. You are a step-parent." My favorite is her asking, "Do I look like I need help up here?" or "Do you think I was born yesterday and they keep me around for my good looks?"

Some who appear before her have called her names, unflattering names, under their breath. Bert, the Bailiff, at her order, removes them from the courtroom. This almost always signifies that they have lost their case.

She has removed minor children from the courtroom in order for them to be spared their parents' and grandparents' bickering with one another. Fathers who won't pay for weddings; friends who repossess cars and many couples who no longer live together and expect Judge Judy to help them split up their property. She makes it very clear that the courts are not for 'live in' couples. The courts are for legally married couples.

I love Judge Judy. And that's what I think about it.

Just heard that as many as 300,000 teachers may be laid off across the country this summer. Student/teacher ratio may rise to 50/1.

One federal legislator remarked, "Schools have got to get used to managing on less money."

Sounds like a remarkably hypocritical statement.

That is the pot calling the kettle black, as they used to say.

Legislators have never had to manage on less money. One has only to open any newspaper to read some of the ways the legislators use their money.

But not to belabor the obvious, I'll just say that's what I think about it.

Every morning presents us with a new slate on which to write our life. Each of us is given the slate and a piece of chalk. Throughout the day we add to our slate, writing the story of who we are for that 24-hour period.

The good news is that every morning we have a clean slate on which to impress our life.

If there is any bad news in this, it might be that we also, sometimes unwittingly or unknowingly, but often, I fear, purposefully, are making our chalk marks on other people's lives at the same time, and they on ours. This is not always bad news but it doesn't take much of an imagination to see how it might be.

Part of our own daily slates are given over to others, not necessarily on purpose but because their chalk is wide and is applied with a heavy hand and overpowers what we ourselves are attempting to write. Our little chalk board can be filled with others' thoughts and opinions so much so that we hardly have room to write our own story.

This is a travesty.

No one should write our story for us.

I like it when friends cross my pathway and make a few positive marks on my slate. In editing my story each evening before bed, I like having their impressions on my daily activities. I hope I have made some happy marks on their daily slate so when they think of me it is with fondness (and also when they think of themselves).

However it is what I allow to be placed on my daily slate that counts and what I place there myself. Each of us is able to set up a Star Wars-like barrier to prevent the negative influences from attaching themselves to our slate. The barrier is not as effective for those internal negative influences that we write ourselves.

This is why we need to choose carefully how we live our lives...because we are writing our stories.

Every person is a screenplay being written. There are characters and plot, crises and resolutions and sometimes, often, happily ever afters.

And that's what I think about it.

Sadly we had our last book discussion meeting last week. Breaking for the summer, our next meeting is in September. I will miss these ladies.

This term we read same kind of difference as me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore, Healing Stones by Nancy Rue and Steve Arterburn and Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. Our discussion of The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis was snowed out.

For Fall, 2010 we will be reading Screwtape, Night by Elie Wiesel; Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls and A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Sipping hot tea and snacking on treats the discussion travels back and forth between characters in the book, the author's purpose in writing and the writing style. At the end of the discussion we go around the group and ask for any final thoughts about the selection and also ask them to rate the book on a scale from one to ten.

There is something very unique and wonderfully special about women who read. I will miss the group during the summer but know that they will continue to read and pass on those selections that they have especially loved.

And that's what I think about it.

This was a week to keep the tissue company bottom line healthy.

Trees are blooming, the cottonwood 'fuzz' drifting over the porch and settling like a crust on the outdoor furniture. Magnolia, pear, dogwood; all blooming.

My allergies are blooming also. Watery eyes, sneezing, scratchy throat and a nose that could win a race against a garden hose in full stream.

I look outside and think about how lovely it would be to sit outside and read a book. I tried that yesterday. I lasted for less than five minutes. Between blowing and sneezing and 'Excuse mes" I had no hand free to hold a book or turn a page. It just wasn't worth it.

For a few days I will enjoy the beauty of the season through the windows of an air-purified home and then venture out once more to gauge the progress of the growing season.

And that's what I think about it. Achoo!

Once again I have located the comma, parenthesis and semi-colon on my keyboard and with copious use of these little symbols have nearly finished my latest required paper for the seminary.

Italics, indentation, pagination, and Endnotes are nearly finished. My head is swimming with references and bibliographies as try to get straight who said what about what and why...and is it that important?

Punctuation is quite a racket; I'd hold it up to the Mafia any day.

People who 'do' punctuation have developed a small, tight, conclave for themselves. And although they use all the same marks and symbols each has developed a style quite unlike the others. This is the trap for students.

And, without belaboring the point, it is the bread and butter for the punctuationist. They make their living making decision about how to, for instance, cite a secondary quote from a magazine that one has discovered on-line. In the style book there are four and a half printed pages on where to place the comma. I have some ideas of my own.

And that's what I think about it.

Spurred on by a daughter, an insurance company and my knees, I purchased a pedometer, those little clip-on devices that measure the number of steps one takes. The first morning I put it on my pajamas before I got out of bed and by the time I got to the bathroom I had walked seven steps and burned four calories.

The second day I did the same, forgot my glasses, walked back to get them and had 15 steps recorded and 10 calories.

I asked my husband if he had tried his. He said his wasn't working right. He'd worn it around the day before but somehow it hadn't measured all the steps he was sure he had taken. Hmmmm. Wisely I kept quiet.

So today we went down to the local YMCA to ask about membership. We already had a gym membership at a popular local 24-hour fitness center. I think we last used that membership, which we were paying premium bucks for, four months ago. Our membership at the YMCA (one of the choices) is a 'free' benefit of our insurance coverage. The price is exactly what my husband was hoping for so he canceled the other dusty membership.

But back to the pedometer. I discovered a dangerous and tempting feature of this little clip-on piece of equipment. If I hold it in my hand and wave it back and forth it registers steps.

I leave it to my reader to imagine how I will use this bit of information.

And that's what I think about it.

On July 12, 2008 I blogged about my brother-in-law. Yesterday he passed away. I invite you to return to that blog and celebrate his life with me. He was really special.

This week we said good bye to Benny Bunny. He had lived years past the two or three years that normal bunnies are promised. Five is old for a bunny.

He first came into our family when his 'mother' was graduating from 8th grade. She wanted a pet. Of all the children in this home, she was the one with the proper level of responsibility to care for another living thing. No one ever questioned whether her pet would have fresh water, a full food bowl or an occasional treat. Her mother and I had gone to the pet store where Benny stood out from the rest because he was by far the cutest with the most distinctive markings.

It was hilarious to watch him hop after the family cat, the cat looking at this creature as if to ask, "Why can't you walk right?" The cat was safe in the kitchen because of the slick floor which Benny would not transverse. The cat hunched his back and hissed when Benny came near. Over the years one phone cord fell victim to Benny's sharp teeth as did a favorite pair of flip-flops.
And one ten dollar bill that was inadvertently left on top of the cage.

Benny spent the weekend at my house one year. We had him in a guest bedroom of course and let him out to hop around the bed a couple times during the day. A few days after Benny's visit we were expecting guests and I went into the bedroom to freshen up the room. I knew the sheets had been changed on the bed so I didn't give it a second thought...until a little voice in my head told me to check under the pillows. Removing six pillows, four of them decorative, I was appalled to find little "Benny droppings." To this day I find humor when I think of what my guests would have thought if they had discovered these on their own.

Last spring Benny's mother graduated from high school and in the fall started her freshman year at a college seven hours away. The family promised to take good care of Benny and they did. But time and age have a way of creeping up on all living creatures, even pampered ones. On her last visit home from school, just a few weeks ago, she mentioned that when she would pet Benny she could feel every one of his vertebrae. She was sad that his ears no longer would stand up straight. She knew it was only a matter of a short time.

Still, death hurts. A person can share secrets with a bunny (or a cat or dog) that can't be shared with a person without ever thinking that perhaps confidentiality will be broken or judgment rendered.

"Grief is so painfully real, regardless of its origin. The love of, and attachment to, an animal friend can equal that of human relationships. Likewise, the loss of an animal can be just as devastating."
~Rev. Joel L. Morgan

And that's what I think about it.