Happy Anniversary

It just so happens that today is our 37th anniversary . . . and I'm cleaning out the garage.  Well, let me say I'm starting to clean it out.  It obviously will take several cullings (and weeks) to get the job done.  Some might suggest today wasn't the best day to begin the challenge.  Afterall, it's our anniversary.  I should be at the salon getting a mani/pedi, or devotedly preparing George's favorite dinner to serve by candlelight, or at the very least scattering rose petals throughout the house.  But if you think about it, it might be quite apropo to be cleaning the garage; for an anniversary is a day to reflect on the years you've spent together, and let's just say the garage is filled with plenty of momentos.

Did I mention that it's 94 degrees today?  That would be outside the garage.  I'm inside, and I refuse to open the garage door.  You see, we live on the corner, and our garage is highly visible to anyone who passes by.  Athough our garage is a mess, we ourselves have managed to present a fairly normal image to our friends and neighbors.  Opening the door would change all of that.  I'll probably wait until dark to load the car for my first trip to the dump.

I considered writing to HGTV.  They have that one show where they come and help you clean the garage.  I  like their process.  The husband and wife each get a blue tarp that is placed on the lawn (for the whole world to see).  A third tarp is there for "throw away" items.  If and when you run out of tarp room (and they always do) then the item has to go.  It's a reasonable strategy if you don't mind all of your trash or treasures (depending on your mind set) on display. 

You may have heard the term "goumet garage"?  That's my goal.  Cabinets installed around the perimeter.  Tools hung neatly on a pegboard.  Clear plastic bins neatly labeled and organized.  Does it get any better than that?

Lazy, Hazy Summer Days

Bring 'em on. Those lazy, hazy, days of summer. Yes, I know I omitted crazy, and there was a reason for that. I'd prefer they weren't. I do crazy all year long, and in the summer, I just want calm. And most of all, I want to piddle. I looked it up to be sure it was a real word. It is. It means to dawdle or trifle time away. This morning I did just that.

There were a few remaining flower pots on my deck that needed to be filled. I transplanted some geraniums from their plastic containers into two large pots, and then I began filling my strawberry pots with the begonias I had purchased. I say began, because I discovered something about piddling. It contains a large dose of ADD. I could have finished up the flower project in twenty minutes, swept up the mess, and moved on to . . . well, whatever, but I suddenly remembered the tilapia I purchased at the store yesterday, and felt the need to research a recipe for tonight's dinner. Research took me to my computer where I did indeed find a recipe that looked tasty. I printed the recipe and placed it in my recipe binder.

I love my recipe binder. It has little dividers with pockets, and acetate sheets to protect all of my favorite hand-written recipes. I love to purchase recipe cards-really cute ones-(You may remember that "I like cute.")and write out my recipes on them. There's no time to do that most of the year, but in the summer, with a glass of peach iced-tea, sitting under my patio umbrella, I can write. Some may question if this activity truly qualifies as piddling. That's where the dawdle part of the definition comes in. No hurry, no pressure, just spending a little time doing something I like to do.

Ah yes, but the flowers call to me again. The sun has moved to the front of the house, and the deck should be much cooler now. I think I'll go finish that task, which doesn't seem like a task at all . . .when you're piddling . . . on a lazy, hazy summer day. :)

Sometimes You Laugh

George and I made a quick trip to Louisville this week end. It's home. All of our family is there, but mostly I needed to see my mother. We talk frequently, but Mother is nearly deaf now and it is difficult to communicate much. Fortunately, she can still understand the words I love you that end each call.

It didn't take long to realize that Mother's hearing was even worse this trip. I had purchased a whiteboard last trip so I could write the words she didn't understand; however she misplaces a lot of things these days, and the board was no where to be found. We tried.
"Could I have some water?"
"Whose daughter?"
"No, WATER. Could I have a glass?"
"Last? You got here last night?"
"No, Mother. We came this morning."
"Mourning. So she died?"
"Who died?"
"The daughter."
"There's no daughter. No one died. I'm just thirsty."
"Thursday. I thought it was Saturday."

It's not funny, and yet it is. People say you have to laugh to keep from crying. I've probably even said it. The thing is . . . you still cry.

But there were precious moments even with the challenges of communicating.

Mother has never been one to embrace new things. She didn't purchase an automatic washer
until I was in college (1970). A computer was never an option. But, I had my iPad with me, and I thought she might enjoy seeing some of what it could do. I was surprised to see that she was fascinated by it. We played around with the camera and laughed at some of the funny pictures we took. I showed her some of my poems. She read them from start to finish and was amazed that I had written them.

That was Friday. We visited, we laughed, we ate lunch, and played with the iPad.

On Saturday, George and I stopped by for a final visit before heading out of town.

"What are you two doing in town?" she asked.
"I was here yesterday. Remember?"
"December? I thought . . .

Sometimes you have to laugh.

Read it and Weep

I've always heard that in order to be a writer, you must write everyday. On a day when you have no inspiration, you must write anyway. I believe it's true. The "nothing" you write may contain a kernel that can grow into something meaningful at a later date.

As the end of the school year neared, and the lazy days of summer loomed, I often "thought myself to sleep" at night by imagining how I would spend those delicious hours of freedom that lay ahead. I promised myself I would write. I pictured myself sitting by an open window with a cool breeze drifting in (we've set record high temperatures), with the summer sounds of bees buzzing and children laughing (we've had cicadas screeching) as background music for my ruminations. But, as you can see, it hasn't turned out quite as I planned.

To those of you who visit my blog, I must apologize. You'll find no creativity here today. I'm just not feelin' it. But thanks to a gentle nudge (you know who you are), at least I wrote. Day 1

The Sad Little Princess

In honor of Prince William and Princess Kate, I decided to post a poem that I wrote several years ago. It's probably my favorite piece I've ever written. Enjoy!

The Sad Little Princess
or
The Princess Who Couldn't Smile

High upon a hillside
In a castle made of stone,
Lived a sad little princess
Who spent all her days alone.

Though the chef prepared the finest foods,
And her maids dressed her in style,
And the king did all to please her,
They could never make her smile.

All sorts of entertainers came:
Magicians, dancers, mimes.
And jesters danced about her
Spouting riddles, jokes, and rhymes.

Still her dark mood worsened,
She refused to rise from bed.
The king’s physician took her pulse
And gently felt her head.

He left her room with grave concern
And when the king drew near,
He shook his head and sadly said,
“She’ll die within the year.”

The king cried out in anguish.
“Alas, how can this be?
Her every wish is granted.
She means everything to me.”

In restless agitation
The king tossed and turned all night,
Then rose as dawn was breaking
With a plan to ease his plight.

His royal emissaries came
And listened to his plan,
“Ride throughout the kingdom
Find the merriest folk you can.

Escort them to the castle
Do it with the utmost haste,
Time is of the essence
There’s not a moment we can waste.”

And so his servants left him,
They rode throughout the land,
While the king kept bedside vigil
And held his daughter’s hand.

At night he paced the battlements
And searched the distant moor,
His eyes had oft played tricks on him
But this night he was sure.

Torch lights moving toward him,
The cavalcade drew nigh,
“I’ll finally have the answer,”
Said the king with a hopeful sigh.

A trumpet sounded welcome,
The gates were opened wide.
The travelers all dismounted
And found themselves inside

The Great Hall of the castle
Where a mighty feast was set
Their merry laughter drifting
To the highest parapet.

A good night’s rest was had by all
And when their fast was broken,
They congregated in the Hall
To hear the king’s words spoken.

“Pray, merry maids and gentlefolk,
Your laughter makes me cry;
My daughter finds no joy in life
And I do not know why.

Who wouldst be the first to speak
And offer up the key
To finding happiness in life,
I beg you earnestly.”

The Hall was filled with silence
While his subjects stared about.
Is this why they were brought here?
They would lose their heads, no doubt!

For none could place their finger
On a single magic key
That caused them to be happy
Or filled their lives with glee.

The king awaited patiently,
But when the hush grew long
He gazed down at them sternly
And demanded, “What is wrong?”

A timid maiden raised her eyes
And stepped before the crowd;
She curtsied to the king, and then
She spoke these words aloud:

“Your Majesty, I’m at a loss,
Not sure what I can say.
I’m just a simple milkmaid
And I spend my life that way.

I greet the cows each morning
Before the sun does rise
And set them out to pasture
As gold sunlight fills the skies.

I carry pails to market
And when the day is through,
I’m happy and contented
With the job that I can do.”

The king began to rub his chin
The answer was not clear,
Then a young lad bowed before him,
He had overcome his fear.

“Your Highness, please excuse me
For I fear I have no key
But I will tell you of myself
And hope it pleases thee.

I am a lowly stable boy;
My job takes little skill,
Yet every time a foal is born
It gives me such a thrill.

I brush their coats and clean their stalls
And when the day is through
I’m filled with pride and pleasure
In the job that I can do.”

Pondering what the lad had said,
A thought began to grow,
He’d have to hear from others though,
Before the king would know.

So, one by one his subjects spoke;
None boasted wealth or fame,
Yet, a thread ran through their stories
And it always was the same.

A blacksmith, then a midwife
A tailor all came forth
And spoke of how a job well done
Gave them a sense of worth.

And when the last had spoken
The king sank upon his throne,
Thanked his loyal subjects
And allowed them to go home.

“My child has had much given
Though not had the chance to give
Her life has little meaning
And she’s lost the will to live.

If time allows, I’ll help her see
The things that she can do;
I know I’ve found the secret
That will help my child pull through.

* * * * *
Indeed, a happy ending
Is what you soon will hear,
The princess still is living,
Though it’s been more than a year.

No longer does she sit alone
And rarely does she frown;
She’s busy helping others
As she rides from town to town.

She travels through the kingdom
In a dress of simple style
And helps the poor and needy,
And she does it . . . with a smile.

By: Julie Schuh

Different Strokes

I can see the end in sight. No, I'm not dying, it's the school year that's ending. Now is the time of year when I think back over what I've taught and how I've taught. Try as I might to stay in the present, my mind is already planning what I will do next year, and how I will do it better. It's part of what makes me return year after year. Well, that and the big fat paycheck.

While I spend a great deal of time looking ahead, there are certainly moments of reflection. Last week, the music teacher took my students for an extra rehearsal in preparation for their upcoming bells concert. I stood in the back of the auditorium and watched as they performed, and I was amazed at what I saw. There were a few students that I expected to do well; I know that they have had private musical training. But there were a couple of students who don't usually shine academically, but in this arena they were doing an outstanding job . I could see their lips move, carefully counting each measure in order to ring their bell at the exact right moment. They had been taught to hold their bell just so and they took pride in doing so. One little girl was aware that the boy beside her struggled to keep up. She watched his part and hers, giving him a slight nod when he should come in. And that's what I love. Over the years, I have really learned that each child has something to give. I love that they are different.

The following poems speak to some of those differences.

What’s in a Name?

I’ve taught lots of Nicks
It’s a popular name
Oddly enough
No two were the same

I remember one Nick
He had a mischievous smile
He liked to blurt out
It was definitely his style

If I said, “Be quiet,” that was
His cue to talk
If I said, “Please be seated,”
He would get up and walk.

Another young Nick
Was always polite
He thought it important
To do what was right

If I said, “Be quiet,”
He’d sit perfectly still
And hold his breath
Forever, or until

I asked him a question
From his social studies book
He always knew the answer
And didn’t have to look

I’ve taught Carlys and Rachels
And Michaels, and Bens
Courtneys and Camerons
I’ve even taught twins

But one thing I’ve learned
In my teaching career
Is that each child is special
And really quite dear.


Molly Melinda
Sweet little Molly Melinda
Had apple red cheeks and blond curls
She wore hideous clothes
Much different than those
Who chose to wear lockets and pearls

The problem with Molly Melinda
(Though it mightn't be a problem at all)
Was her creative mind
It was one of a kind
And the tales she could tell, they were tall

Molly found joy and excitement
In things for which others cared less
A bug in her hand
Was something quite grand
And at times she might tend to obsess

For hours, she would stare at an insect
Observing its movement and style
When others grew weary
With eyes red and bleary
Molly would still wear a smile

Some teachers found Molly Melinda
A bit of a problem to teach
Her questions were many
Mistakes few, if any
At best, she was difficult to reach

One day, even Molly Melinda
Realized she just didn't fit
So she vowed to be good
Doing just what she should . . .
And wasted away bit by bit

Until one day, sweet Molly Melinda
Decided to embrace who she was
An ingenius child
With thoughts running wild
And today, that is just what she does

* * * *

By the way, it's been years since I wrote this
And Molly? Well, Molly has grown
She's traveled afar
Just discovered a star
And happily lives on her own.

It's the Little Things

I'm basically a happy person. I like to laugh, even giggle. For variety I can throw in an occasional tee-hee. As I've aged (as in fine wine) I've been known to emit the occasional, unladylike snort. I say all of this to let you know, I'm not looking for reasons to be grumpy. And yet, there are a few "little things" that rub me the wrong way.

Take for instance that small, advertising sticker they place almost daily on the front page of my newspaper. I mean, I wake up feeling rested. The sun is shining and the air is crisp. The birds are chirping in the trees, and a bunny hops across my path as I go to retrieve the morning paper. Life is good, idyllic even, and then WHAM! There it is! That stupid little sticker. It doesn't belong there. And I can tell you for sure, I'm not buying whatever it's advertising. Of course, I must remove it, which also removes two or three words in the headline. President Obama Declares #@$^$ Declares what? That sounds important. I need to know. Teachers Receive %^#$@ Receive what? Oh, never mind that one. Teachers never receive anything. Earthquake Predicted in (^$#@^$%, TN. What? An earthquake? Do I need to prepare? I mean, what are they thinking? What makes it even worse, is that I might want to save that paper for my grandkids. The headline was historic (teachers really did receive something) and now it's ruined.

But, I rally. That sticker can't keep me down for long. Laugh, giggle, tee-hee, and WHAM! I'm out shopping, at my favorite clothing store, and my sharp shopper's signaling device hones in on a sale rack. 30% off . . . with the super saver coupon from the Sunday paper. And there it is, another "little thing" that irritates me. Why can't they just put the darn thing on sale. I hate clipping coupons. The only thing I hate worse than clipping them is carrying them around in my purse. All that clutter. And you have to keep up with the expiration dates. Well actually, that's not true. The expiration date is always ... yesterday.

Still, I'm upbeat. Life could always be worse. So, I'm laughing, giggling, tee-heeing, and WHAM! I've just returned from the grocery store. Spring is in the air and it seems like a nice evening to grill. I've purchased two steaks, and a package of four baking potatoes. Once again it's a sticker thing...strategically placed over the fatty part of the steak. The one visible steak looks perfect. And it's the same with the baked potatoes. The three I can see are perfectly shaped, eyeless, and smooth, but the one under the sticker...not so much. OK, you say, it's a "little thing," a marketing technique, but it gets on my last nerve.

But, I'm better than that. That steak isn't fatty, it's marbleized. And one bad potato doesn't spoil the whole bunch, so I fire up the grill. I fire up the grill. The grill won't fire up. The tank is empty.