Manipulating Realities

I'll admit it. I'm an incurable escapist.....someone who just can't pass up a good alternate reality. I love to manipulate my environment, putting the unexpected in familiar settings. When I stumble across something that helps me do this, it's a GOOD day. And so, from the land that brought us Stravinsky, Rudolf Nureyev, and Dr. Zhivago, I give you a nifty little piece of escapist programming called Photofunia http://www.photofunia.com/ which should give you quite a few hours of fun.

It really is quite addicting. For example, I took a little picture of my dear hubby and me from our daughter's recent wedding and did a little playing with it. First I decided to put us on the front page of a newspaper. What fun! Wouldn't you love to see us over your first cup of coffee in the morning instead of war images, politicians, or high prices at the gas pumps?

Then I decided to put us up on the side of a building. I figured maybe America wasn't quite ready for us early in the morning so instead we'd greet commuters on their way in to work; remind the younger generation why they're working. Someone's gotta support us Baby Boomers in our golden years.

Well, I got to thinking that perhaps we shouldn't spring that little fact on the younger folk yet. We don't want to encourage a generation of underachievers, at least until their portfolios are well-padded. So I decided that I'd pop us onto the telly instead where we
could be featured on some show about couples that still have that "zing" after 29 years of marriage. It would embarrass our kids but their pets might pick up some pointers.

Pets! Ah, now that got my creative juices going. Why limit the fun to just my hubby and I? Why not expand my horizons a little? So I dug up a picture of my son-in-law and stuck him in the computer. Since I know that he is particularly fond of cats (excuse me a moment while I extricate my tongue from my cheek) I just HAD to put a cat on top of the computer. Too bad they didn't offer a white cat as an option which would have been purr-fect since our daughter and son-in-law share their home with Bailey, a big white cat.

And finally, knowing that my daughter wouldn't want to feel left out, I decided to add a poster
of Laura and I on a street kiosk display under the bright city lights of a town that shall remain nameless. I like to think that we're promoting a cozy tea room next to a quaint bookstore.

Just think, you all can have as much fun as I'm having with this gem of a website. And the beauty of it is that it is a free website. Plus you can not only save your pictures as regular pics but you can also save them as avatars, for those of you who chat on online communities.
Be forewarned though! This is highly addictive.

For Niko and Anika

As I've written in previous postings, my son and daughter-in-law recently went through the pain of miscarriage, not once but twice. This past week, they returned to the spot where they first became engaged and held a private ceremony for the two little ones they've lost.

They were sure that the first baby was going to be a boy (Niko) and had picked out a name for the second baby (Anika), who they were just as sure was going to be a girl. Both of them wrote letters to the babies, which they buried under this little stone. I was privileged to be able to read what they wrote. It was heartbreaking but it was also such a testimony to their love, their faith, and their belief in God's goodness.

It's an impotent feeling when tragedies happen and you're far away. I couldn't physically be there for my son and daughter-in-law as all this was happening, to hold them tight and let them know that things will get better. As the grandmother, I never got the chance to shower these babies with knitted hats and mittens, handsewn baby clothes, and colorful quilts. I never got the chance to read them so many wonderful stories.

But the one thing I can do is give them the gift of the written word. And so, Niko and Anika, Laura and Jason, this is for you.

Storyline
“Why did you do that?” I cry out.
You introduced them,
Made me care about them
And then suddenly they were gone
Before you had even fully developed their characters.”
“Read further,” He says.
“I don’t want to,” I answer.
“It hurts. I want a new story…a happily ever after one.”
He shakes his head.
“Fairy tales are for children. I deal in reality.”
“Then change the reality. Certainly you can do that.
Why do you insist on filling pages with so much suffering?”
“You’re not the first to ask me this,” he sighs.
It was not my original intent.”
“It needs a hero,” I suggest, “one to give them all hope.”
“Oh, he’s in there,” he assures me. “Keep reading.”
“Look,” I bargain, “can you just tell me how it ends?”
“I could, but I won’t”, He states.
“Shortcuts aren’t always the answer.”
“Then what is?” I whisper, “when it hurts?”
He smiles at me.
“Trust the author,” He says.
“Trust the author.”

I Am NOT Competitive!

I headed over the other day to the Colonial Yarn Shop for a class in knitting a shopping tote bag. I saw the sample hanging up in the store and thought it would be a great thing to use in my quest to live a greener life. I already have "green" grocery bags that I keep in the back of my car so I can grab a few whenever I head into the local supermarket to do a little shopping. But I'm not as good about grabbing them when I go into other stores plus I feel a little strange wandering around clothing stores, craft stores, or bookstores with a "Whole Foods" bag.

So I figured that this great bag pattern, available from Oat Couture on the Web and in knitting stores around the country, would be the perfect solution. It's called the "Stow-away Shopping Bag" and is designed so that the bottom of the bag forms its own little pouch for the bag to be folded up into. How neat is that? And isn't it a great idea for Christmas stocking stuffers to help encourage your family and friends to do their bit for the environment? It also only takes one skein of yarn so it is economical to make as well.

I picked up my pattern and my yarn (Knit One Crochet Too's Ty-Dy) prior to class because we had a homework assignment to finish before the first class. We were supposed to have the bottom knitted so that we could just pick up the side stitches as soon as class started and we'd all be on the same page, so to speak. And that's the way it was supposed to work but one of us didn't get the message for whatever reason so when we all showed up with our bag bottoms in hand, one class member hadn't yet cast on.

Now, I like to think that I'm NOT competitive. But all too often I get the bit between my teeth and I'm off to the races. Our lagging classmate happened to be sitting next to me. She needed to cast on and start knitting to make up for lost time. It was simple garter stitch knitting --- pretty mindless stuff that goes quickly. The rest of us had to pick up stitches through two layers of knitting in a square shape. It wasn't terribly difficult; just needed a little concentration while you counted and made sure you were getting your needle through both layers.

I began slowly and methodically, taking my time. To my right I could hear a frantic clacking of needles. My blood pressure started to rise and I picked up the pace as I picked up more stitches. The clacking continued and I could catch the blur of my classmate's hand as she threw the yarn over the tip of the needle to make each stitch.

"She's behind," I assured myself. "Way behind. She'd be going slow, too if she was at this point in the pattern but she's doing garter stitch, for goodness' sake. Why are you getting yourself in a tizzy?"

"Doesn't matter," I muttered between clenched teeth and picked up the pace as I flew around the corner of the bottom piece. It was the principle of the thing, which makes absolutely no sense at all, I know, unless you throw in the fact that I'm a Type-A firstborn child of a perfectionist. There's a place for knitters like me, usually in things like Sheep-to-Shawl contests.


I'm happy to report that the class ended before I went into hyperdrive and I'm back home now and back to my sedate pace of knitting with this project.....mainly because I'm also knitting on five other projects, all in various stages of completion.

IF I had told my husband how I'd felt that night (which I didn't), I know just what he would have said. "It's a good thing you weren't playing cards, or things might have gotten ugly."

When You Don't See His Plan

I have a small dry erase board on my refrigerator where I jot down people and situations I'm praying for. That board has been up on my fridge for years, ever since the kids were teenagers. They brought it home for me one summer from Centrifuge, a Christian youth camp and it didn't take me long to figure out where to put it. Since the refrigerator is the hub of my kitchen and I go past it or go into it many times during the day, I knew I'd be looking at that board often. And as I'd glance at the board, I'd try to pray for those who were listed on it.

Today, with one swipe of a tissue I wiped away the name of my grandchild. "Anika", one little life gone before she had even had a chance to be born. Another dear grandchild who will never run into my arms here on earth. And it just seems so surreal, much as these last weeks have been, ever since we got the news that our daughter-in-law was pregnant again.

Our initial joy was soon tempered with concern when the first sonagram results indicated a yolk sac that was much too big. In my optimistic ignorance, I thought it might just indicate twins. But no, this was an indication that there was a high probability that there was an abnormality with the fetus that would likely result in a miscarriage. And so the waiting began. Hope mixed with concern wrestled with fear every time the phone rang or a sonagram was scheduled or an email popped into my in-box from the kids. What was the news?

As the days went by and Laura remained pregnant I dared to hope that maybe the sonagram had been read wrong. Surely God wouldn't put them through this a second time. So many of us were praying for them and for the baby. Yet the answer that came with my son's call was not the one I had hoped for. The baby had died in the womb. Now it was a matter of waiting for the miscarriage to begin.

My dog comes and rests her muzzle on my lap and looks up at me with that worried look she gets when she senses I'm upset. I pat her head gently and say, "It's OK. It's going to be OK." I believe that and yet the tears drip down my cheeks. I cry for Jason and Laura and the pain they are going through. I cry for David and Joyce and George and I as we grieve this grandchild that we'll never have the chance to spoil. And I cry for Anika. When we celebrate a birth, we not only celebrate the beginning of a life but also the potential in that little one and the opportunities ahead. When we mourn the unborn, we also mourn the loss of all that could have been.

I still will cling to my belief that God's plan is perfect. I don't understand it much of the time but I only see such a small part of it. There is a song that has meant a lot to me over the years and it speaks with such wisdom in situations like this. It was written by Babbie Mason and Eddie Carswell. It's called "Trust His Heart" and the chorus sums up so well what I am feeling and what I know to be true:

"God is too wise to be mistaken

God is too good to be unkind

So when you don't understand

When you don't see His plan

When you can't trace His hand

TRUST HIS HEART."

Male Logic - Lost in the Amazon Jungle

If you've been awake at all in the last year and can read, you've probably spent a bit of time stewing about the state of things in your corner of the universe, your country, and in the world at large. My husband and I have been no exception. Since I'm the more vocal of the two of us, I've probably spent more time expressing my concerns. So he got my attention when my husband came to bed the other night and said, "I think I've got the answer to your concerns over what will happen if our country runs out of oil."

"Oh, really?" I said. "What's the answer.....buy a horse and buggy and join the Amish?"

"No, I just heard on the news that Brazil is now totally independent of any country when it comes to producing their own fuel sources," he stated.

"So what are they doing?" I asked, intrigued despite the late hour.

"They're producing ethanol...."

"From corn?" I interrupted. "Come on....our own country is trying that and look what it is doing to the supply of food to the world's poor and to the cost of food even in our country."

"No, they're using sugar cane to produce it and after they've produced the fuel, they still can produce the sugar," he continued, smiling at me triumphantly.

"Well, that's great for Brazil but I see a few flaws in transferral of that plan to the United States. First of all, there aren't as many places here in the States where you could grow sugar cane. Second, many of the places that you COULD grow it here are in the midst of an ongoing drought. And third, look at the number of major cities in Brazil compared to the number of major cities in the United States. Compare their population to our population. What is a major part of Brazil composed of? Jungle, for Pete's sakes. They aren't going to need anywhere near the amount of fuel alternatives that we would need for our population." I sat back against the pillows and considered him. "I think we need to explore other alternatives like mass rail transit, electronic engines, solar fuel cells, things like that."

"I know their system wouldn't work here," he said. "That's not the point."

"Then what IS the point," I asked. "What's the solution to my concerns?"

"We can always move to Brazil if the U.S. gets low on fuel," he said, and I swear he was NOT grinning.

"What! Are you serious? Just you and me and the 'Boys from Brazil' out there in the Amazon? I don't know. I think we'd have to get pretty low on fuel before I'd consider that. Tell you what, let me sleep on it, OK?" I said as I gave him another long look before turning off the light.

Male logic! It's a scary thing.

If Only It Were That Easy!

Whoever coined the phrase "It's a dog's life", must not have been a dieter. Because between you and me, my dog has it made in the shade when it comes to dieting. Not that she's overweight. Heavens, no! She just has such a thick coat of fur that it always looks like she is about 10 pounds heavier than she actually is.

Now that's Fresca on the left, the white dog who looks like a Chia pet. She's sitting next to her little buddy, Schatze who you've met in some earlier posts. Seriously, the dog has a LOT of hair. And I find that hair everywhere....on the furniture, rolling around on the floors, in my mouth when she jumps up on my lap, and always in my knitting.

The vet makes the same comment every year when I take her in for her yearly shots and checkup. He always says, "Wow, I thought she might be overweight but she's not. There's actually just a little dog under all this hair."

So in the summer months, I usually break down and have her fur shaved down close to her skin to give her some relief from the heat. This causes my son no end of embarassment because he says she looks ridiculous. I think she looks cute. What Fresca thinks is up for interpretation. The point is, after an hour at the groomer's, she comes prancing out looking like she's shed ten pounds.

If only it were that easy for us fluffy human girls. Even if someone shaved my head, I'd still look big. And I wouldn't come prancing out of the beauty shop either.
Yup, sometimes a dog's life looks pretty good. You get pampered, powdered, 10 pounds shaved off you in an hour, AND they hand you a treat to eat as you go out the door. What a life!

No Use Crying Over Spilt Juice

What a difference a year makes! It was one year ago on Mother's Day, that my mom had a mini-stroke in the middle of our church service. I chronicled in my blog the arrival of the EMS crew and the trip to the hospital, the additional mini-strokes she had over the course of several months, and the move from her assisted living facility to rehabilitation center and finally to a nursing home. Since then, it's been a tough transition but we've all made the best of it and Mom has been doing pretty good. The mini-strokes have decreased in frequency and she is getting very good care.

I was a little nervous about taking Mom to church and Sunday School on this Mother's Day but she seemed to be well and I decided that we'd give it a shot. I had told her that I'd pick her up early on Mother's Day and I told the nursing staff that she'd need an early breakfast. The weather that morning was chilly but sunny and things seemed to be on track.

I arrived at the nursing home about 15 minutes earlier than planned, just in case Mom needed some extra help with shoes or grooming. I found her fully dressed, sitting in her wheelchair, and sound asleep drooped over her breakfast tray. She hadn't touched it, from the looks of it. And it was a very good-looking breakfast. There was cereal, scrambled eggs with melted cheese over it, pudding in a bowl, fresh fruit, tea, and a wonderful looking glazed donut. Mom was totally oblivious to it all. Her roommate, on the other hand, was sitting up in her chair, eating away and watching Mom with interest. I guess she was waiting to see how long it would take before Mom's nose touched the cereal in the bowl.

"Ma, wake up," I urged. "It's time to leave for church and you haven't eaten your breakfast yet."

She stirred and murmured, "Can't go."

"Why not," I asked in some consternation. "Are you sick? Do you hurt anywhere?"

"Too sleepy," she replied.

"But it's Mother's Day. Don't you want to go to church and Sunday School? And we're going to have BBQ ribs for lunch....your favorite."

Mom straightened up and opened her eyes. "Will I see Joe?" she asked. (Joe is her beloved Sunday School teacher.)

"Sure, " I assured her. "Here, why don't you eat this donut while I go sign you out at the nurses' station." I handed her the donut and headed out the door.

By the time I got back, she had finished up the donut and was looking for some place to wipe the glaze off her hands. I made a quick detour into the bathroom and wet down some paper towels to take back to her and soon she was spiffed up and ready.

"Here, Mom.....why don't you take a few sips of this orange juice while I get your coat," I suggested. Big mistake! I had just turned around to head to her closet when I heard her say, "oh, oh!" I swung around and there she was, holding an almost empty glass with orange juice down her front, in her lap, and dripping off her wheelchair and onto the floor.

"Oh, Ma...for Pete's sakes," I sputtered as I hopped over the spreading puddle and dashed into the bathroom to grab more paper towels. Back I came and down I went on my hands and knees, trying to sop up the juice before it spread any further. Having accomplished that, I headed back to get wet paper towels to clean the floor so it wouldn't be sticky. Then I turned my attention to Mom's wet clothes. Holy Toledo! She wasn't going to church in those.

"Here, Mom, you're going to have to stand up so I can get these pants off of you. They're soaked. Just hang onto my arm and we'll get you up," I urged.

She slowly struggled to her feet and as her backside cleared the chair, a shrieking alarm started to go off.

"Shit!" I shouted, forgetting myself, and pushed her back down into the chair. "They've got you alarmed. Hang on, I've got to go find a nurse so we can get that alarm turned off. Otherwise, I'm not going to be able to get you up to change your clothes."

The ringing in my ears was starting to subside and I noticed it was being replaced by the sounds of giggling. Mom's roommate was shaking with laughter. "She's a mother. Be nice," I thought to myself as I headed out the door.

I found the nurse and we soon had the alarm disconnected and the alarm pad removed from Mom's wheelchair. I assured the nurse that I could take it from there and she looked a little dubious, seeing as how Mom and her roommate were now BOTH laughing like loons but she backed out and told me to come get her if I needed her.

I pulled out a new outfit for Mom and struggled to get it on her after I'd ascertained that her diaper was still dry (thank you, Lord!). It's hard to get clothes on someone who's a dead weight AND laughing, but I did it.

Mom's roommate, in the meantime, assured me, "Oh, I know this isn't funny but I can't help it. It's just so funny. I can't stop laughing. You should have seen your face," upon which she burst into another fit of laughter. Mom followed in her wake. I carefully moved the bedstand with breakfast tray against the wall, just in case. There was still a full cup of tea on it.

"Come on, Mom...let's get your coat on. We're already late for church. The service started 15 minutes ago and we have a half hour drive to get there. At this rate, we might make it for the invitation."

"Ready when you are," Mom shouted merrily. Her roommate dissolved into giggles yet again. "Oh, no," the roommate gasped. "I've laughed so hard that I think I have to pee."

"Well, you'd better ring the buzzer than for the nurse," I advised her.

"No problem," she said merrily. "I've already wet my pants but I'm sitting on a pad."

I looked at Mom, she looked at me, and we both looked at her roommate. We all started to laugh.

 "Well, I'm glad there's not a problem," I said, "because my quota is I only change one mother's pants a day."

She went off into another round of giggles as I leaned over her to push the buzzer.

 "Happy Mother's Day, Rhoda!" I whispered. "You have a great day now."

I pushed Mom out the door and down the hall.

 "Happy Mother's Day," Mom sang out to everyone we passed. "I'm going to church with my daughter."

Yes, it WAS going to be a happy Mother's Day. After all, what's a little juice between a mother and a daughter?

I Blame It On My Ancestors!

There are people who can kick back and just relax, there are people who are such workaholics that they can't relax for even one minute, and then there are people like me. I can relax...no problem...but I have to be doing something WHILE I relax. I blame it on my ancestors. I have German, Swiss, and Dutch ancestors. There isn't a "siesta" taker in the bunch. None of them, to my knowledge, exhibited that delightfully languid quality found amongst people in the more Mediterranean climes. I am descended from people who scrub their front steps by hand every day, for Pete's sake. Is it any wonder that I have inherited this trait?

My maternal Grandmother used to say "Idle hands are the devil's workshop." She didn't want to give him an inch of her territory and was always doing something whether it was baking rolls for half of the neighborhood, knitting sweaters for servicemen during the wars, or mending clothes. My dad was a factory worker. When he wasn't on the assembly line, he was writing me letters. From the time I left for college until the day he died, he wrote me a letter a day. He also helped out folks from church who were too frail or sick to mow their grass or fix things around their house and he never took a penny for his labor. I didn't even know about all the things he did for people until his funeral when, one by one, people stood up and told about all he had done for them.

My mom taught for 35 years and once you were her student, you were her student for life. She retained a keen interest in her "kids" and delighted whenever one of them would show up on our doorstep with their own kids in tow to check in with their beloved teacher. Mom was an overachiever and she always had some project going on. Usually it would get more elaborate as time went on, Mom would get more stressed, and soon we would all be drawn into this project, whether we wanted to participate or not.

When I was in the Army and stationed in Germany, I remember visiting with my boyfriend one evening at his apartment. I was talking with him, watching TV and knitting. His landlord stopped in and took one look at me and said, "Now THIS one you should marry. She's a good German girl. She works with her hands while she sits."

I've never stopped working with my hands while I sit. I am always doing something...usually knitting or crocheting. So I thought I'd show you what my "Command Central" looks like where I eke out my relaxation hours in the evenings.

I have one-third of a sofa and my third happens to be a recliner, as well. The middle section of the sofa has a back that folds down to make a table area and that is where I have several essential items for my knitting. You'll notice a tall, black object near the corner. That's my Ott light so that I can see my stitches. I have a box of Kleenex for obvious reasons but also to use to wipe my fingers after eating my nightly Dove mini-bar of ice cream. Can't get ice cream on my yarn. There is a red row counter and also a green row counter...each one showing different stopping points depending on which project I'm working on. I have a blue pull-out measuring tape so I can keep tabs on my progress. There is a coaster for my glass, some odd little balls of yarn, some note pads underneath some crocheted crosses. I write down notes to myself that I want to remember when I next pick up my work. The crosses are waiting for me to weave in the yarn ends. Underneath the table is my black knitting case that holds other knitting tools like stitch markers, needle sizers, stitch holders, scissors, yarn needles, crochet hooks, etc. On my seat is an old quilt since it is pretty cool in our basement and I like to throw it over my legs when I'm downstairs knitting. The notebook holds whatever patterns I'm currently working on. The green thing hanging over the arm is a shawl that I'm working on. Beside the sofa is a bag that holds the yarn for the shawl, several other patterns, and whatever else I want to stash to get out of my way. Under the green table next to the bag are several other knitting bags filled with projects in various stages of completion.

And that's my "Command Central" where I do some of my most rewarding work AND relaxing under the benevolent influence of my ancestors.

Where's Honest Abe When We Need Him?

If, like me, you live in Pennsylvania, you can't go anywhere without being bombarded by political ads, billboards, and sound bites. Frankly, I'm getting a little sick of it. Obama, Hilary and their handlers have descended on our state and are now trying desperately to identify with us common folk. So we've got Hilary downing shots in one part of the state and Obama bowling an embarrassing 30+ score. Who bowls a 30? Obviously someone who's never lifted a bowling ball before in his life. He should have settled for the stale popcorn and cheered on the regular bowlers from the sidelines. As far as Hilary and the "spirits", I'm not sure what she was drinking but she apparently took to it like a duck to water, which I'm thinking might not be a good thing.

Then we've got the "he said, she said" tiff going on. For Pete's sake, enough already! If I have to keep on listening to charges of "false memories" or "elitist comments", I just might turn bitter and what will I do then? I don't own a gun so I can't turn to that for comfort. That means I can only turn to my religion. Oh wait! I ALREADY turn to my faith for direction and solace. Gee, I must be from a small town in Pennsylvania. I mean, it can't be because I have managed to weave my spiritual beliefs into the structure of my life, could it?

I had high hopes for the Compassion Forum hosted by Messiah College. In fact, I urged our Sunday School class to watch it last Sunday. Some in our class expressed their cynicism that it would all be just canned rhetoric. I urged them to give it a chance. There were going to be important topics discussed that usually get left out of the normal campaign hot buttons. "Besides", I told them, "Give a person long enough and what is really in their heart will find its way out of their mouth." Not terribly eloquent but something I truly believe. Unfortunately, the forum turned out to be mostly very superficial questions with the candidates' answers sounding like something they'd memorized out of a catechism book. With all their talk of "Grace" and the "Holy Spirit", I sure didn't sense much of the "Spirit-led" in what they said.

And then there's John McCain. He hasn't had to do much of anything lately except sit back and enjoy watching the in-fighting amongst the Democrats. If the two Democratic hopefuls keep this up, they can pretty much hand over the presidency to McCain on a silver platter. And herein lies my dilemma. I've almost always been a Republican. The only time I ever voted Democrat for a president was way back in my college days when I voted for Jimmy Carter in an act of young rebellion. We all know how that turned out. It was like throwing one peanut (no offense to peanut farmers) at a herd of thundering elephants. He got flattened by the Washington power players.

I could vote for Hilary but that would mean having her husband back in the White House and on moral values, I just can't do it. I could vote for Obama. Actually, I considered it at one point. But somehow his legislative actions just don't jive with his eloquent words. I can't seem to get past that. I admire McCain for how he survived as a POW but I don't much care for his voting record. There isn't an independent candidate that I want to vote for so where does that leave me? Quite honestly, it leaves me wishing that good old Abe Lincoln was here running for president again. We need a quiet, humble leader ready to make the right decisions, even when they aren't popular. We need someone who can try to reunite our country and right our economy after the ravages of war and greed. We need someone who isn't going to spend us into oblivion using money our country doesn't have. What we need is a hero and what we DON'T need is another long, drawn-out campaign to show us who that is.

My Name is Dee and I'm a Perfectionist!

I've been feeling a tad unappreciated lately. Here I've sat, practically chained to the computer while working away on my daughter's wedding pictures and all I've heard is "Aren't you done with those pictures yet?" I had hoped that I would feel the joy spreading up from the D.C. area as my dear child thought of me slaving away, taking such great care to edit her pictures so precisely but the only thing I've been feeling is my hips spreading from all this sitting.

I suppose I could have just whizzed through the 600+ photographs and only taken the time to edit out the red eyes from people but that isn't how I operate. You see, I'm a perfectionist. If I'm going to do something, I want to do it right, as in "suck in your breath, would you look at this, hold on to your hat, Martha, you ain't ever seen anything like THIS before, it's better than anyone on the face of the planet could have done it," right.

Now, I could have left this picture just like this and most couples wouldn't have minded at all. But a perfectionist would have looked at this picture and heard that phone in the background ringing every time they looked at it. Who in the world puts a phone on the front of a choir railing? Does the choir director call the sound booth in the middle of the service if the music doesn't start on time for the anthem and say, "Hey, could you cue up the tape already?" No, that phone had to go. So I used my handy little Creative Memories photo editing program and in a matter of a few minutes, the photo now looked like the one on the left.

No phone! Much less distracting, wouldn't you agree? But I haven't been stopping with just phones. Oh no! I've been taking out distracting microphone cords dangling from the ceilings above the wedding party. I've been erasing huge and unsightly speaker boxes from the walls behind the family photo groupings up on the stage. If people in the photos have had eyes glowing as red as embers, looking like they're possessed by who knows what, I've given them back their normal eyes. If they've happened to be wearing contacts, I've even given them back pupils where before they had opaque white circles staring back at the camera.

If everyone looked good in a photo except for one or two whose eyes weren't open, I've been examining the photo to see if there was some element that I could save out of it. For example, in the photo on the right, our groom has his eyes shut. But it is a really nice picture of the bride and her father. So I just cropped out the groom and myself and left in the two on the left. I had to do a little "erasing" of the groom out of the cropped picture but I can do that with the miracle of the cloning tool in my editing bag of tricks.

Gone is the groom (temporarily) and now we have a nice shot of the bride and her dad. But I didn't just whip that up in two seconds. That took a little time.

I'm also doing things like sharpening the focus when the pictures are fuzzy. Sometimes I'm purposely blurring the background when there is nothing in the background of note so that the bride and groom will really stand out, or in today's terms, so that they will "really pop." I'm assessing the colors and adjusting color temperatures as needed or changing shadows, highlights, contrasts to bring out the best in each picture. Sometimes I'm even taking off double chins.

My son-in-law is NOT prone to having double chins. He's in fine shape, works out and has muscles in all the right places, according to my daughter. But anyone, when tilting their head
in a certain way and looking down, will end up with a double chin. Just think back to some of your drivers license photos. I knew that I could remove that extra chin and I decided to do it. Why not? Wouldn't you want to look your best in your wedding photos? Some day when your skinny son is looking at your wedding pictures and you are 30 pounds overweight and he says to you, "Hey, Dad, is that REALLY you?" , don't you want to be able to say, "Yeah! Looked pretty good, didn't I?" You betcha! So now, here's the happy couple after a little help from Mom.

I did contemplate trying to shave off about 4 inches from my hips in some of the pictures but couldn't quite figure out how to shave off a comparable amount from my torso so had to resist the urge and move on to other challenges.

So when my daughter says, "Mom aren't you done with those pictures yet?", she should remember that creative genius can't be rushed. I am a perfectionist and I'm going to take the time to do it right.

Maybe it would help if I put it in terms that she would understand. OK, here goes. NOTE TO MY CHILDREN: Do NOT rush me! I have editing tools and I know how to use them.

This Much I Know

There are a lot of things in this world that I don't know, despite the fact that I have pursued a lifetime of learning. How, for example, can you go from highest joy to fear to grief in just the space of a few sentences? Why does your nose swell when you cry? How can a parent make the pain go away for their children?

I found out two days ago that I was going to be a grandmother..... maybe, but there could be complications. Yesterday I found out that the baby was miscarried. I wish my father was still alive so I could crawl up on his lap again and have him explain to me why my tears taste like salt. I wish my mother was still able to make the pain go away. And most of all, I wish I could have spared my son and daughter-in-law this grief they are going through. Unfortunately, I just don't know how to do that.
But this much I know!

I know that a mother and a father have to grieve no matter how early or how late in a pregnancy a baby is lost.

I know that a baby in the womb is more than just a combination of cells that really mean nothing much until it is born, despite what they tried to tell us in the Sixties during Women's Liberation, and even today. I learned this the hard way. And ever since, I've tried to be as honest as possible with teenagers I've come into contact with and my own children about that fact. When you are pregnant, you are carrying a child....a human life. And the loss of that life will have a tremendous impact on you.

I know that God is in control and that not one life is lost, whether in the womb or having lived on this earth for many years without it being taken into account through His Divine Plan.

I know that those of us who have lost unborn children whether it was via miscarriage, stillbirth, or even abortion.....if we are Christians who have claimed Christ as our Savior and have been washed in His blood, then we will see our children in Heaven. The Bible says in Psalm 22:10 .."from my mother's womb you have been my God." In Psalm 139: 13-16 God is revealed as knowing us even before we were born, of forming us in the womb, and of allotting to each of us the number of days for our lives. The God of the universe, who has taken such care with the formation of a tiny life, has also provided for that child in His perfect plan.

Yes, this much I know. And someday, when I reach Heaven, I will have a joyous meeting with my two children I have not yet had the chance to hold and one beloved grandchild.

Cheap Thrills and Expensive Tastes

Yarn, glorious yarn! Does it get much better than this when it comes to fun things to look forward to? Spring is in the air, my friends, and it's April. That means that May is right around the corner and that means......ta-dah...trumpet voluntare.....crashing of cymbals, please! It's almost time for the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. I can just about feel that yarn now.

I do mean FEEL it, too. I can't keep my hands off it when I'm there. I have to touch every skein I come into contact with, smoosh it in my hands, rub a strand between my fingers, and sometimes (gasp) I even sniff it. Now some of you non-knitting folks might think this behavior is a little peculiar but au contraire, my friends. I'm not the only one stroking the goods. Look around. Most everyone else is, too. Unless, of course, you were conscripted into service as a driver or navigator and dragged to the event like my daughter was three years running.

Two years ago I was happily petting yarn in a booth while my daughter waited out in the aisle. She refused to come into the booth with me and the other fiber fanatics who were crowded around the tempting display. I don't remember if I purchased anything from that vendor that day but I do remember the grin on Laura's face when I finally re-emerged to join her.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

 
"You are,", she responded. "Hey, see that guy over there? He came up to me while I was standing here and said, 'You're not one of THEM, are you?' and he pointed right at all of you in that booth. "

"One of THEM?" I said, astonished. "What did he mean?"

"I told him 'Nah...I'm here with my mother. She's in there squeezing the yarn' and then he said 'I THOUGHT you were one of the normal ones. I drove my wife here. She's in there doing the same thing.'"

This year my daughter has moved further from the fairgrounds where the festival is held. That means I probably won't be able to coerce her into coming with me. I'll probably be arriving with my husband in tow. This was the case last year and it presented its own set of challenges. It wasn't so much that he minded me handling the merchandise. Oh no, he patiently tagged along and told me to take all the time I wanted to look. But that's the operative word...."look." I didn't WANT to just look. I wanted to BUY. And I wanted to buy without someone with an accountant's knack for keeping a running total standing there looking over my shoulder.

I tried sending him on errands like getting drinks for us or trying to find a manual for the weaving loom I'd received as a gift but he kept coming back like a homing pigeon, only quicker. Finally in desperation I said, "Honey, would you mind sitting down over there?" and I waved vaguely in the direction of a lady giving a demonstration of felting. "I won't be long," I assured him. He looked a little dubious but trotted off nevertheless and found a chair.

Quickly I started grabbing the skeins of alpaca I'd been eyeing and then made a lunge for some fingering weight merino, almost knocking a lady over in my haste to make hay while the cat was away. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I gasped. "I'm just trying to get this yarn bought before my husband comes back and sees what I'm paying."

"Honey, I know exactly what you mean," she chuckled. "Mine's over at the spinning demo. Where's yours?"

"Felting," I replied, as we grinned at each other over our armfuls of yarn.

Mush, You Varmints, Mush!

My first mistake was thinking that the window guy was coming at 1 p.m. to measure the dormer windows upstairs. I had a nagging feeling that I might have made a mistake when I put that time on the calendar last week but my hubby had caught me napping at the computer when he called to inform me of the upcoming appointment. I was still a little groggy when he told me what time the guy would be coming over but I really thought he had said 1.

That left me plenty of time to run to the bank this morning and then on to the post office. From there I decided to take a quick detour over to the grocery store to see if they had my favorite detergent. I successfully sidestepped the donut aisle, got sucked in by the cake table in the back and then made a mad dash to the cash register with a peanut butter frosted cake under one arm and the "prophetically titled" Gain detergent under the other arm.

From there it was just a short hop, skip, and a jump back to the house. My mouth was already salivating over that peanut butter frosting as I drove down our street and toward the house. Horrors! There was a strange car in the driveway and it was only 11:30 a.m. The window guy was already here and waiting.

"Sorry," I breathlessly shouted as I pushed the garage door opener on the fly as I darted out of the car. "I thought you were coming at 1."

"No, I was supposed to be here at noon so I'm actually a little early," he replied, following me into the garage.

"Look, you'll have to stay right here for just a minute while I corral the dogs," I ordered and squeezed in the side door before my canine protector could charge outside.

"Fresca," I shouted in my best command voice, "Come here. Stop that barking! Schatze, get over here."

Schatze is Fresca's best friend and we're dogsitting her while her humans are away on vacation. She's pretty harmless but she's loud. Fresca, on the other hand, is loud AND protective so I don't like to take any chances with that furball.

"Fresca, get downstairs RIGHT NOW!" She flew past me and I managed to head her off at the hallway and funnel her down the basement steps. Schatze took one look at the basement, looked at me as if to say, "Yeah, right" and flew into the living room and my husband's favorite chair, ready to stand lookout. "Divide and conquer," I thought and headed down to the basement where I did my best Dog Whisperer impression and finally manhandled Fresca into the back room and got the door shut. I could tell by the din that she wasn't too pleased but both entrances into the back room were shut so Fresca was safely out of play.

I ran back upstairs and headed over to Schatze who decided this was a new game of Tag, leaping off the chair and between my legs before I could say "Stay" and the chase was on. Little dogs are quick. "Schatze," I thundered, "Get over here. " I pointed to the guestroom door and drew myself up to my full "Mistress of My Domain" height. She looked at me with big eyes and then I swear to you, she stomped her foot and tried to dart past me. She was quick but I was quicker and I had her signed, sealed, and delivered to that bedroom before she could say "Ruff."

I dimly became aware that the phone was ringing and I wearily grabbed it on my way back to the garage door. It was my dear husband calling to tell me that the window guy was going to be there early. At least I think he was telling me that because I could barely hear him with the dogs barking. "Thanks," I snarled. "He's been out in the garage for the past 10 minutes while I've been trying to get the dogs corralled." George knows when to cut and run. "OK, bye!" was all he said.

I finally got the poor window guy into the house and up to the top floor to do the measuring. "You can take off that curtain if you need to," I told him. "It's on a pressure....." Rowwwwwwwrrrrrrrrrr! I suddenly heard a commotion that seemed to be a lot closer than the basement. "Holy cow," I blurted, "I think one of the dogs is out."

I flew out of the room, slamming the door shut on the poor guy. As I headed down the stairs, a white streak was heading up in full voice. Fresca had somehow gotten one of the basement doors open and was on her way to do battle.

"Hold it right there!" I screeched. "You are a BAD GIRL, Fresca Porterfield. Get down here this instant." She reversed direction, still barking up a storm, and flashed past me. "To heck with the basement," I thought, and grabbed her ruff and guided her into the guestroom where she joined her cohort in crime.

I was just heading up the stairs to tell the fellow that the dogs were shut up again when he peeked around the corner. "I'm all done measuring," he said. "I'll send the estimate in the mail. I'll just go back out through the garage, if that's ok?" And he beat a hasty retreat. It was probably the fastest service call I'd ever experienced.

"OK, you varmints, you can come out now," I said as I opened the guestroom door. Two furry bodies streaked past me yapping in soprano and uber-soprano. They raced to the front windows and checked to make sure the offender was gone. He was. Then they calmly walked to their beds and sat down like two little angels. Mission accomplished!

Negotiating the Perfect Vacation

You can blame it on my daughter who took her time deciding on what colors she wanted to feature in her wedding. Because of this, I decided to take matters into my own hands when it came to the mother-of-the-bride dress and I began to frequent Ebay for good deals on fancy dresses. OK, I also shopped the sales at stores here and I must say, I came up with some super outfits -- all of which were bargain priced. I soon had a closet full of "special occasion" dresses in various colors. I was hedging my bets, hoping that at least one would go with the colors she would eventually pick for her bridesmaids' outfits and the wedding flowers.

Eventually we hit the jackpot because she went with a deep eggplant purple and I got to wear one of my favorite outfits from my closet. This was not before several people had made the comment to me that George and I might as well go on a cruise because I now had plenty of outfits to wear onboard a ship. Listen, you don't make comments like that to obsessive-compulsive people! It doesn't take long before a flippant comment takes root in my brain and soon grows into a full-fledged, all-or-nothing, "let's do it" obsession.

So I've been launching opening "cruise" salvos across George's bow for several months now with no discernable effect. He has just continued to sail solidly along on his normal course with no attempt to change direction. Imagine my surprise then when he casually mentioned the fact that we were going to get a tax refund this year and that he thought it might be nice to use it for a cruise. You could have sunk me with a feather! Not to worry though. My natural buoyancy soon had me righted and my mind was off and sailing to at least a hundred ports of call.

That was the easy part. Now we are in the negotiating stage. Where will we cruise? When will we cruise? What type of cruise do we want to take? I rather liked the idea of a Canadian/Maritime Provinces cruise. My reasoning was that it would be gorgeous in the fall but more importantly, we wouldn't be too far from any coastline in case of trouble. Hey, I'd see the movie "Perfect Storm" and you don't watch something like that with an imagination like mine without it affecting you. I couldn't even watch the movie "Titanic." I wasn't alone. As a friend of mine says, "Boat sails, boat hits ice, boat sinks, people die. What's to watch?" My sentiments exactly. To put it another way, who wants to invest emotional energy watching people cavorting around knowing that most of them will be dead by the end of the movie? Not me! So I'm a little leery of ships that go out into the really deep water.

When I suggested a Canadian cruise to George, his response was "We've already traveled to the Maritime Provinces. Why would we want to go there again?" I thought about this. To be fair, I don't like reading books or seeing a movie a second time. Maybe this was a similar quirk. OK, a Canadian cruise was out.

I did some sleuthing on the internet and discovered a gem of a cruise. There was going to be a special interest cruise through the Panama Canal with an added land tour in Peru with stops at Machu Picchu. These were places I had learned about in my beloved archaeology classes in college. But even better yet, the cruise was a "knitting cruise." Yup, they would be offering knitting classes onboard and special trips to alpaca farms in Peru. Wow! This was fantastic. What could be better than a 12-day Stitch and Chat session with like-minded knitters? I showed the itinerary to George and waited for his response. It didn't come. I looked over at him and noticed that his eyes seemed to be glazed over. In fact, he looked to be in distress.

"Heartburn, Honey?" I asked.

"I'm NOT going on a ship that's filled with knitters," he sputtered. Scratch that cruise.

A family friend had gone on a Christian music cruise and had loved it. George and I both love gospel music and a theme cruise like that wouldn't be bad. There was only one sticking point. I really wanted a chance to learn some dances on a cruise. Since George doesn't want to dance, I had read that there are usually cruise staff available on ships to partner travelers who wanted to take dancing classes but didn't have a dancing partner. Somehow I didn't think there would be salsa dancing on a gospel music cruise despite the fact that David certainly danced up a storm in the Scriptures even going so far as to throw off his clothes and dance naked. Now I wasn't planning to disrobe while dancing although I have been known to get up and dance on tables in my heyday but I really wanted to learn some moves beyond "stand and shuffle."

Since we seemed to be "dead in the water," (ooh, bad choice of words) I decided today to go over to the local AAA and pick up some cruise brochures. They're sitting on our dining room table right now waiting for the next installment of "pick the perfect vacation." On Sunday, we'll be visiting a big travel show and that should give us some more ideas. Somewhere out there is the perfect vacation for the two of us where George can relax and check his email while sipping his Shirley Temple and watching the waves slide by and I can sit in a quiet lounge area out of the wind and knit to my heart's content.

Feeding My Obsessions

It all started innocently enough. I just wanted my husband to show me how to put a button link on my blog. That led to a decision to redo the format a little.....spruce it up a tad, if you will, which led to further discovering that I had other options of things to add to my blog. I still don't have the button thing down very well but I am enjoying adding links and lists. And this is where my sad little tale of obsession begins.

Have you ever noticed that obsessions are either fattening, frightening, expensive, or a combination of the latter? I don't THINK I have any frightening obsessions but I sure do have fattening and expensive obsessions. I love to eat, I love to read, and I love to knit. Need I say more? Well, since this is my blog....sure! Being the obsessive-compulsive person that I am, I don't do things half-heartedly. When I find something that I enjoy, I throw myself into it 150%.

Imagine my delight when I discovered an entire worldwide virtual community of compulsive knitters and crocheters on Ravelry (see the button link to the right). Here were people just like me--obsessed with fiber and making things out of it. Folks, I was in Nirvana wandering the pages and pages of patterns and projects on Ravelry. Then I discovered that there were "groups" up there that you could join based on common interests. If you liked coffee and knitting, there was a group for you. If you shopped with certain yarn vendors, there was a group for you. Making certain "shawls du jour?" No problem. Join a group of like-minded strugglers. Yarn Harlot groupie? You weren't alone. This was dangerous territory for an obsessive person and my growing stash of yarn reflected it, as did my dusty house.

And now I'm practically wiggling with excitement because my prospecting on Ravelry has dug up another treasure. There are groups of READERS on Ravelry. Readers.....in groups with names like YarnWords, RaveLibrarians, and Librarything Crafters. Wow, I mean, I can sit here and read about knitting and what books other folks are reading while munching on popcorn thus effectively feeding all three of my obsessions, which doesn't get much better than that unless the popcorn was something chocolate but hey, you can't have everything.

I had forgotten about Librarything for awhile but thanks to being a member now of YarnWords, I went over to Librarything and logged in. The "OC" in me groaned. I had joined it awhile back but hadn't done anything to update my profile nor had I even begun to catalog my books into it. My house would be in cobwebs by the time I got this site up-to-date. But then I spied the CueCat Scanner, a little device that looked like a resting cat in the shape of a stapler. This little beauty plugs into your USB port and you use it to read your book barcodes and then that info goes right into Librarything into your personal library holdings. This should save LOTS of typing time.

 
In the meantime, I'm back to my reading groups on Ravelry and notice that some have attempted to make a list of every book they've ever read in their life. Hmmmm, it's tempting but can I really come up with a list filled with 58 years of reading? Probably not. But this list idea really excites me. I LOVE making lists. What fun to put it up on my blog. And once I catalog my books into Librarything, I can link my library to my blog and......Well, you see where this is going, don't you? It's an obsession, I tell you. One thing feeds off of another and before you know it, your husband has returned from work and you're looking at him like he's an alien because you're still at the keyboard with your feet propped up on the hard drive, a book on your lap, a set of knitting patterns spread out on the computer desk above the keyboard, and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup wrapper on your mousepad. You are SOOO busted. But it was a good day, wasn't it?

Riding On the Memory Train

I was able to give Mom an early Easter present today, thanks to the miracles of email and cellphones. Let me explain. 


It was some time after Christmas that I ran across the address of Mom's best friend from college. I sent off a Christmas newsletter to her telling about Mom and we were able to start emailing each other. It has been such a treat over these last few months to share memories of Mom with Ruthie, who is one amazing woman herself. Between Ruthie and myself, we've been able to jog some great memories out of Mom. Some of them have been a little "off," like the one where she insisted that she'd been riding in a car with Ruthie along the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and Ruthie had stopped the car, jumped out, dipped her hand in the waters of Lake Michigan and then run back to "baptize" her. Consequently, I'm learning to doublecheck with Ruthie to make sure Mom has her facts straight.


It has been wonderful, though, to see the twinkle back in Mom's eyes as she has thought back to those times in her life with her dear friend. And so, when Ruthie mentioned the possibility of talking to Mom on the phone, I knew that would be just what the doctor ordered for Mom. We coordinated schedules and today at noon, Mom sat in her recliner, I sat on the edge of Mom's bed and I dialed Ruthie's number. She answered right away and soon I passed the cellphone over to Mom and then sat back and watched the years melt away. It was great!


While they talked, I drifted off to my own car on the Memory Train. Mom, my brother, John, and I were crammed into an overloaded Oldsmobile driving through the backroads of Wisconsin. We'd left Marinette, Wisconsin that morning and had a long drive ahead of us to get to Mankato by nightfall. Mom had washed out some of her underwear the night before in the motel and it wasn't dry yet. To my teenage dismay, she simply whipped out some clothesline, tied knots in her bloomers and attached them along a length of rope and then rolled the back window down just enough to stick the whole thing out the window before rolling the window back up to catch the end of the rope. Off we drove with the clothesline and Mom's panties (which were NOT small dainty things) flapping in the wind.


Thank goodness we left the city limits quickly behind us and were soon out in the country. It was an election year that year and Mom was suddenly inspired to do her bit for her beloved Republicans. So there we were, driving through the farmland of Wisconsin and everytime we saw someone out in a yard, Mom would toot the car horn and yell out the window, "Vote Republican." It wasn't long before I'd forgotten my embarrassment and my brother and I had our windows down and were also shouting along with Mom. What in the world those farmers and their families thought, I can only imagine! Somewhere along our route, there's a grandpa saying to his grandchildren, "Did I ever tell you about the time this crazy lady drove a big old car past my farm with a bunch of underwear tied to a rope hanging out the window? Must have been a Republican. Always airing dirty laundry."


Yes, it was a good ride on the Memory Train today. I was rather sad when it pulled into the station and I had to get off.

A Wet Knot Never Comes Untied

With our daughter's wedding day fast approaching, we'd been keeping a close eye on the weather

forecast. First it looked really promising. Blue skies and Spring-like temps were predicted for the weekend. "Perfect," I thought. But not so fast! A few days later, the forecast was changing. The blue skies had been replaced by a promise of grey, overcast weather.

By the time we arrived in Baltimore later in the week, the extended forecast was now calling for an 80% chance of rain. Not perfect weather for a wedding but at least everything was happening inside so it wasn't like we had to worry about an outdoor reception being washed away. However, by now we were noticing ominous rumblings on the Weather Channel about a huge storm system coming across the nation, up the midsection of the country and over to the northern states. It looked like some of the states to the west of us and the north of us were going to get clobbered. But Maryland and PA were just going to get rain.

In the meantime, our son Jason and his new bride, Laura had made it home after a grueling trip all the way from Indonesia which involved a 20-hour layover at the airport in Singapore, another 10-hour layover in another airport, changes in Vancouver, and a final arrival in Baltimore. By the time they got to our house, they were beyond exhausted. Laura had been fighting a bout with something while in Indonesia and was still not 100% up to par. Now Jason was experiencing headaches and waves of nausea. I had visions of Jason, who was to be one of the groomsmen, passing out during the vows or perhaps worse, passing on some tropical disease to the assembled guests.

Friday night's rehearsal went well and then it was time to head off to a wonderful Italian restaurant where the groom's parents had arranged a fantastic buffet in a private dining room. Along with the buffet, Jason's mom (this being Jason, the groom) had a little surprise up her sleeve........a slide show of pictures of both the bride and groom from their early years up to the present time.


Now, in my own defense, let me make this perfectly clear. I did NOT instigate this. I wanted a slide show really bad for the reception but Laura (this being Laura, the bride) had put her foot down and told me "Absolutely NO slide show at the reception." Naturally, I was delighted when Mary, Jason's mom, had said that she wanted to do a slide show at the rehearsal dinner. So I contributed pictures of Laura with a clear conscience, knowing that I had stayed within Laura's "rules."

When the projector was set up and the first photo shone on the wall, Laura gave me "the eye" and said, "Mom, you promised me you wouldn't do a slide show for the reception!"

"Honey," I protested in wide-eyed innocence, "I didn't do a slide show. Mary did. And it's not the reception. It's the rehearsal dinner. Never give a mother a loophole!"

The slideshow was an outstanding success!

Friday evening, as we rode the elevator back up to our hotel room, I noticed the weather forecast posted on the wall. It had now degenerated to "Heavy rain, gale-force winds, flood warnings, chance of thunderstorms."

The morning of Laura's wedding dawned wet and soggy. The wind drove the rain against the hotel walls in sheets of moisture but we stayed warm and dry, initially. Laura had woken her bridesmaids at 6:30 a.m. by jumping up and down on the bed, yelling "Time to get up!" They were all in various stages of being made up and getting hair done now. My brother and his family had flown out of Detroit ahead of the snow and were getting ready at their hotel a block away. I was ironing Laura's veil, shuttling between the rooms to see what else might be needed, and steaming away wrinkles. By the time the limo arrived at the front door, we had all assembled downstairs for a few last minute pictures before the bride's mad dash under a gauntlet of umbrellas into the limo.

I half expected to see a rowboat waiting at the church to ferry us down the steps to the main entrance but instead we hiked up our skirts or pant legs and tiptoed through the puddles and on into the church where we mingled with family and friends until it was time for the ceremony to begin. But wait, ......Mary's sister and family hadn't arrived yet. She gave them a quick call and I heard her say, "Well, are you in Maryland yet?" "Oh, oh," I thought. "This doesn't sound good." Turned out that the groom's aunt missed the ceremony completely because they were stuck in traffic somewhere between Philly and Baltimore due to the terrible rains. They did arrive just as we were finishing up the pictures after the wedding and before the reception, thank goodness.

The wedding itself was lovely despite a few surprises. The biggest surprise was when we realized that the pastor wasn't there. Instead Brother Morales officiated. It seems the pastor had gotten stranded out of state when his flight was cancelled due to the weather. But Brother Morales did a wonderful job and it was extra special because he was Laura and Jason's Sunday School teacher when they had lived up in the Baltimore area. The next surprise was that Laura's dad got a voicemail just as he was getting ready to walk her down the aisle. It was from her Uncle John Porterfield, saying he was not able to come from Texas for the wedding. Next I got a voicemail message just as the ceremony started (luckily my phone was on vibrate) from the nursing home saying that Laura's grandmother had just been diagnosed again with another upper respiratory infection and was running a fever so she was being put on another course of antibiotics and nebulizer breathing treatments. And to cap off an exciting turn of events, Laura received a message on her cell phone just as she was leaving the reception to go on her honeymoon from a close friend who was expecting her first baby and who had NOT shown up for the wedding. It was to tell her that the baby had arrived THAT DAY!

Laura was absolutely beautiful as she walked down the aisle on her father's arm. Just as she got up even with the front pew, I realized that she was crying. Wow! My dear daughter, who likes to have you think that she is not emotional at all and very no nonsense, matter-of-fact was crying sentimental tears of joy. Ah ha! I knew that deep down she was a big softie. Jason came down off the platform to claim his bride and together they walked up to meet the minister. Laura was still crying and continued for the rest of the ceremony. Her maid of honor kept pushing tissues into her hands. Laura did get her vows out though, despite the emotions. And when the minister pronounced them man and wife and then introduced the new Mr. and Mrs. Jason Sands to the assembled guests, the tears started up all over again. Now that's really love...when you feel such joy that you can't control the tears and you don't care, even if it means that your makeup runs on your big day.

The reception was held at the Towson Golf and Country Club and they did a wonderful job. The food was outstanding. I thought we were all going to OD on crab dip, it was that good. The flowers were breathtaking and the cake was a sight to behold. The frosting was European buttercream, the cake was almond flavored with a raspberry filling and the decorations were sugared fruit. The cake was topped with a marzipan bow and the bride and groom's monogram was put on the side of the cake. Fantastic!

Laura and Jason did a bang-up job of picking the music for the DJ. From cool jazz to easy listening to dance hits of the 80's to one line dance for me (the Electric Slide), it was great. Of course, one of the highlights for us was when Laura danced with her father. She had picked a song by Stevie Wonder that had been playing on the radio when George left the hospital the night she was born. It was "Isn't She Lovely?" That has always been his theme song for Laura ever since. As they danced to that song from 1980, I looked around me. Laura was crying, George had tears in his eyes, and I think most of the rest of us were sniffling, too.

And then it was time for the bride to change out of her gown and the newlyweds to head off on their honeymoon. The day had started out stormy, cleared up temporarily and the sun had peeped out for a bit, then the sky had clouded over again and the wind had picked up.


"It's kind of like life," I thought. "There will be good times, bad times, and so-so times. But through it all, they'll have each other and they'll have God to guide them. They'll also have their family and friends to surround them with love and encouragement."

God bless you, Jason and Laura, as you begin your new life together. And I'll tell you what they told Dad and I on our wedding day, as it rained in Greece in June, which is practically unheard of. "A wet knot never comes untied." Twenty-nine years later, we can say that they were right.


Oh, and by the way, if any wedding guests come down with dengue fever, we know nothing!

Filled to Overflowing Isn't Necessarily a Blessing!

(Caveat: Not for the squeamish)

For the past three nights I've voluntarily banished myself to the guestroom where I've done battle with the sinuses from hell. How so much crud could come out of two little nostrils is beyond me. I should be earning honorary stock in Kleenex by now.....or at least bulk rate purchasing discounts.

Not only have I been trying to blow my brains out my nasal cavities, but now my lungs have decided to get into the act as well. I used to think it was bad hearing one of the cats trying to hack up a hairball. Let me tell you, humans sound even worse.

So the doctors give you medicine to "loosen up" your congestion. Then you blow even more and start really coughing up the good stuff which you promptly swallow back down so that you can cough it back up in the next go-round, and don't ask me to explain that logic because it has always escaped me. Oh, I know that you're supposed to somehow spit out the stuff you cough up. Has anyone ever successfully done that? Goodness knows I've tried but the results have been less than spectacular. When the kids were babies, the pediatrician told us to take one of those rubber ear syringes and suction out the gunk from the back of their throats when they had colds. Believe me, if I'd had one of those still around, I might have tried it. As it was, by 3:30 a.m. I was just desperate enough to consider, for a split second, looking for the Dyson. Thankfully I didn't have the strength to haul that sucker bedside.

What I was able to grab was my copy of the "Yarn Harlot: the Secret Life of a Knitter" by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee which has been sustaining me throughout the long nights this week. There's something comforting about knowing that even when you are feeling downright miserable, you can still find enjoyment in the words of a fellow knitter. "Yarn Harlot" has been sitting on my shelf for some time waiting to be read but it took some rather nasty germs to bring us together. So here's to you, Stephanie, my remedy of choice! Now, dad gummit, where's another box of tissues?

Tag! You're Sick!

I'm sick! And I'm sick of being sick! Somehow those nasty cold germs or sinus infection germs or maybe bronchitis germs got to me and here I am, sniffling and hacking away. OK, I couldn't find a picture that shows me REALLY sick because noone wants to get that close to me to take a picture, but you get the idea. Maybe it was those lovely older ladies at my mom's nursing home. If so, then obviously the paper towel to open doors didn't do the trick. Then again, it might have been the "extend the right hand of fellowship" drill at church where half the congregation had to pause to wipe their snot-filled noses before they could shake hands. All I know is that my daughter is getting married in 9 days and right now I sound like someone who has smoked 3 packs of cigarettes and downed a quart of whiskey every day for years. This is NOT a good thing.



On top of that, I've been trying to write about my son's wedding for weeks now and, for some reason, have hit a writer's block on that. Don't ask me why! It was a lovely wedding and I'm so happy that Laura and he are now married. So why can't I seem to get them past the rehearsal dinner? Good grief! I can't even get my own son to the church in a timely manner. If I didn't have that ringing in my ears, I would be able to hear my mother's voice in my ear saying, "Pull yourself up by the bootstraps, girl, and get it done!" OK, OK....how about if I just throw you some little snippets to give you the flavor of the festivities?


Our two children and their fiances spent time together before the ceremony bonding and having fun teasing each other about the upcoming ceremonies. Our Laura is getting married in March of this year so her time is coming up soon. Our daughter's Jason was feeling the Texas vibes almost as soon as he stepped off the plane and looked over that open vista. Yup, he had to go get a steak and a belt buckle. For the rest of their time in Texas, it was a standing joke as we referred to the "power of the belt buckle." We are still daring Laura's Jason to wear it with his wedding ensemble in March.

The photographers took lots of pictures prior to the church service. There was a small chapel off the main sanctuary and that is where we all gathered to take the wedding pictures while the first
service was going on in the main sanctuary. Of course it was fun to watch all the different branches of the families lobbying to get their groups together for pictures. Gotta think of those Christmas cards, you know! Me? I was just enjoying the dynamics of the whole business and especially liking the smiles on the faces of the bride and groom. Since the wedding ceremony was actually part of the second worship service, we had to keep an eye on the clock to make sure we all got into the sanctuary on time and found a place to sit.



The wedding was wonderful. Each of the parents were able to participate by leading special readings that had been picked by Jason and Laura and then the congregation joined in response.
Laura's sister, Andrea played the trumpet at the beginning and at the end. When the vows were said, the immediate familywas able to stand at the front of the church with the couple in support, which was extra meaningful to me. I only started to cry then and George slipped a tissue into my hands. And then, the newlyweds were introduced to the congregation and they proceeded out to the fellowship hall for the reception.
The reception was a hoot. James, Jason's youth pastor from our church, was the emcee. He had the different tables doing things like having to sing the theme from Gilligan's Island in order to head to the buffet line. I'm sure there weren't many there who had ever had to sing for their supper before. And after the food, we got to tell stories about the couple. Hearing the different relatives sharing funny experiences and just things from their hearts was really a blessing. There was even a story from youth camp that James told about Jason that I'd never heard before. The Song of Solomon, Jason? Really!


And then they were heading off on their honeymoon. We all walked back into the reception hall, tired but happy and now faced with the fun of cleaning up afterwards. As shoes were kicked off and work clothes replaced dress suits, suddenly a ripple of laughter could be heard. David, Laura's dad, had just gotten a call on his cellphone from Jason. Apparently our blissful newlyweds had driven off into the Texas sun and only just realized that they didn't know how to get to the ranch where they would be spending their honeymoon.


"Are you heading west?" asked David. "OK, then just keep driving and I'll go find Mom and get the directions."


Two sets of parents looked at each other and we shook our heads. "Kids!" I thought. "They are adults but they're still kids," and my mind flashed back to the day I had wanted to pin Jason's name and the directions back to our house on his shirt when he headed off to kindergarten.


"Lord, they're in your hands now," I prayed and went to find a broom.