Ordinary Days: a journal

A new day

2009-05-19T14:24:00.000-07:00

Please visit my new blog here:

I don't expect to post to "ordinary days: a journal' any longer.

2009-03-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

This is the start of the last week of winter!

2009-03-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

Flatter me, and I may not believe you.

Criticize me, and I may not like you.

Ignore me, and I may not forgive you.

Encourage me, and I will not forget you.

William Arthur Ward

Images are small collages originally uploaded by Ordinary Days.....

2009-03-13T05:19:00.001-07:00

Make every day a holiday and celebrate just living.

Curve Balls & Roller Coaster Rides

2009-03-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

diagnosis and confusion in '06;
roller coaster riding in '07 with new symptoms, strange maladies and an ever-growing list of specialists;

I got stronger and healthier in 2008 and along the way I shed my patient identity.

What is in store for me in 2009?
___________________________________

I had my 6-month CLL appointment with Dr. B today. I was not afraid; I had no misgivings about what the labs would show: since mid-2008, I have felt stronger and more energetic overall with the exception of a couple of nasty infections and a transitory fatigue this winter. I requested an ad hoc blood draw during the 6-month period between appointments when I began feeling fatigued and breathless and it lasted for several days: I was concerned the AIHA was returning but in fact my labs were fine.

Today, my labs were 'perfect' again and this is cause for celebration. The first defense against the AIHA was high-dose prednisone but in some cases, the AIHA is refractory to the pred and rituxin is brought in to finish the job. I was fortunate; the pred worked for me and the AIHA has not relapsed in two years.

With the news today, I do not need to return to Dr. B for a year. This is wonderful news after nearly three years in which I went from weekly blood draws and appointments that were slowly decreased to monthly. Then every other month, every 3 months, every 6 months.

But we still have unanswered questions and sometimes the CLL diagnosis seems a bit of a moving target and we wonder if:

Is the CLL really in remission?

Was the original bone marrow biopsy a clonal aberation that will never cause any difficulty ---- was it a "pre-cancerous" clone discovered through refined methods of early detection and because the initial questions of why my red blood cells were being prematurely killed off was not answered until the bone marrow biopsy showed that 'small clonal population of B cells'.

Is the CLL lying low, hiding out somewhere in the deep dark depths undetected by instruments?

Rare, spontaneous remissions have been noted in the literature and seem to occur in 1% of CLL cases, usually in Stage 1 or 2 and often in the absence of any prior treatment.

Near the end of the first year, when my blood work stabilized, I asked some of these questions to Dr Hamblin, who responded:

"You can have a monoclonal population of CLL-like cells in the bone marrow or the blood that is transient. But when it goes this does not mean it is not there, it is just below the level of detection. If I understand you correctly you had AIHA and at that time CLL was diagnosed. Treatment for the AIHA can induce a remission in the CLL. I have patients on my books who did just that, only for the CLL to become detectable again 7 years later."

I have been Coombs Positive for AIHA since 2006 but recently learned from David Arenson's blog that "Coombs Positive" is not a static situation. Indeed, his positive turned to negative after the AIHA made its last appearance. Today, my Coombs test show positive for AIHA again as it has since 2006. She said that like other autoimmune conditions (Behcet's for example) they can flare, they wax and wane. One can move in and out of Coombs Positivity. So the AIHA is still be a factor and could again pose a life-threatening re-appearance. But one doesn't know when, only if . . . . .

Earlier in my CLL/AIHA career, I had wondered about a link between CLL and other, non-hematologic autoimmune diseases like Behcet's and IBS/IBD. Dr. Hamblin conclusively says NO there is no link. Dr. B feels there may be a chicken and egg kind of relationship between autoimmune diseases and CLL but that it is not yet understood and the question: the dis-regulated immune system caused the CLL? or the CLL caused the dis-regulated immune system? has not yet been answered.

But for now, we celebrate!

And I sing the praises of two of Dartmouth Hitchcock's finest and having them on my team === Dr. B and Dr. R.

Featherweight with A Mighty Heart

2009-03-07T05:12:00.000-08:00

The Featherweight sewing machine was designed and brought to market in the 1930s. It made its debut at the 1933 Chicago World's Fair.

Everyone thought it was foolish to bring this machine to market at the very height of the Great Depression. Who would purchase it? Who had the funds when 25% of the population was unemployed.

But it did sell. Women loved i: it was sleek, pretty and light, weighing in at only 11 pounds. This little machine went forward and in reverse in a perfectly accurate straight stitch: no fancy pants stitching for this little babe. And it was so ingeniously and simply made that women found they could trouble-shoot and fix problems themselves: no need for a repairman.

Singer continued to make this model until the late 1950s without changing a single thing in terms of its operation. They did not add any bells and whistles; they truly left well-enough alone. They only significant change came during World War II when some of the more decorative metal was sacrificed for the war effort.

The Featherweight became the workhorse of the sewing world. There is no better machine for giving a perfectly straight accurate stitch. It came with a small folding table, a carrying box with a handle and some additional tools. About a decade ago there was renewed interest in the Featherweight; it became a "collectible" object and usable, too. They were running as smoothly in the 1990s as they had in the early decades. Imagine! What other tool, instrument or piece of equipment has history such as this?

Oh, I yearned for one. They were selling for about $600 in my part of the world (when it came in the original box and table). It was, however, still possible to find one at a yard sale, flea market, auction or estate sale for little money. That is what I wanted. I wanted to find a perfectly usable Featherweight for, say, $25.00. And I wouldn't quibble on the price. No sirree.

Larry, evermore practical, bought one for my birthday that year. What dream: the guy and the Featherweight. My model was made in 1951. Is shiny black and perfect all through.

It is a prized possession; I wouldn't give it up for anything.
Using the construction I wrote about yesterday to determine personal extrinsic value of an object in your possession, I offer here my analysis, be ever so short and pithy:

1. Does it lift my energy when I think about it or look at it?
This little baby comes with a bundle of HOPE. Its designers and manufacturers were optimistic even in the face of negativity, even while the country was experiencing the depths of the Great Depression. They had hope and hope won out. Where will we find hope in 2009?

2. Do I absolutely love it? Absolutely. Without question. It has been totally without fail, faithful to me.

3. Is it genuinely useful and do I use it?
The Featherweight is purposeful, useful and dependable; it always does the job it was created for; seldom balks at the work. I use it when I want the best straight stitch. I like using it for machine piecing and stitch-in-the-ditch machine quilting small fabric objects. I don't use it daily, weekly or now even monthly. But I will use again and again. Of that I am certain.

An Embarassment of Riches

2009-03-06T09:50:00.000-08:00

We consume. We are a society and an economy rooted in consumption. We see this now more clearly than ever before. If we "consumers" don't spend, have no desire or few resources with which to acquire, the economy falters, then fails. We must be acquisitive, we must desire more and more and more to fill our cupboards and drawers and closets with ever more STUFF.

I recently read about an art student in Finland who used traditional archaeological methods to assess and catelogue her possessions. She discovered she owned a total of 6,126 objects (housed in a relatively small space).

But the most interesting part of the story is her analysis of how often she used each object. For example she listed objects as 'never used', less frequently used; used yearly or month; weekly or daily. Using that construction, she determined that only 1% of her objects were used daily and 24% were not used at all!
Objects used every month - 587
Objects used every week - 401
Objects used every day - 61

84% of her possessions were just CLUTTER!

The Art of Living...Letting Go...Holding On

2009-03-06T06:41:00.000-08:00

Three questions to ask yourself when in the act of de-cluttering from My Simpler Life.

1. Does it lift my energy when I think about it or look at it?
2. Do I absolutely love it?
3. Is it genuinely useful and do I use it?

These are difficult questions for collectors and crafters.

Larry is a book collector; I collect antique linen and lace and quilts.

And I am a renaissance woman: I enjoy working in fabric and fiber; quilting and sewing; small 4x6 fabric art and art journals; altered books; knitting; doll-making. So over the years I have amassed a formidable stash of materials, supplies, tools, and equipment.

The de-cluttering of my studio/playroom made me look objectively at my stash. If each object did not pass muster (lift my energy, absolutely love it, am using it), I let it go to someone who would love and use it.

The art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.

The studio is now more efficiently organized but if I were being totally truthful, I'd have to say that this effort was really just the first pass.

There is more work to be done and more letting go to experience.

When you let go of clutter . . . .

2009-03-05T15:40:00.000-08:00

When you let go of clutter you free up space in your life for creativity. You un-block energy that is stuck under and behind the mounds of things. You make space in your life for the things you really love and truly want to have near you.

A few months ago, I pledged to de-clutter my home and pare down possessions. I wrote about it on this blog in October but I haven't updated the process.....until now.

I got to work cleaning my closet and drawers; I made donations of things I didn't need and wasn't using. Clothes that no longer fit and would probably never fit again went in the Good Will bags. My room was neater. I felt better and lighter.

Then I moved my efforts to my studio/playroom. And I will admit there was huge job of work waiting for me there. But undaunted by the task ahead, I went wading through the piles and stacks making decisions about what to keep and what to move along. The decisions got easier and easier. The more that went into the Good Will pile the easier it was to add more to the pile.

Here are some of the results:

This neat little stack of three-ring binders used to be row upon row of magazines taking space on bookcase shelves. Once I got to this phase of the 'de-cluttering' project I saw it for what it truly was: a
big,
heavy,
bulky,
mass
of paper that I wasn't using and couldn't efficiently use.

But it is no longer.

Now it is a nice, neat stack of projects and images that inspire me. They're slipped into sheet protectors and organized by project or type of craft.

Oh what a relief it is.

I moved, shuffled, cleaned, organized and made several trips to Goodwill with craft supplies.

One result is this nice neat wall of paints.

..... supplies.....

...... a knitting area .......

.... fabric .....

and pride of place for my Singer Featherweight sewing machine circa 1951.

(The Featherweight is sitting in front of one of my very first quilts.
I learned a lot about color on this project as you can see. )

A Day in The Life .... of A Wannabe Knitter

2009-03-04T17:35:00.000-08:00

I started knitting a few months ago.
I don't really need another craft but was seduced by all the lovely yarns that are available to knitters -- hand-dyes, wool blends, and mohair and silks, and bamboo and sari waste.

My mother knitted for decades.
When we were children she produced hats, mittens, scarves and sweaters with ferocious regularity. She made fancy argyle socks and celtic-style fisherman knit sweaters that required difficult patterns and lots of concentration.

She typically did her knitting in the evening.
We would all be in the living room after supper. My dad, mom, brother and sisters. The television on. And amid this clatter, she maintained her concentration and produced beautiful items. For the family and for gifts. Never for herself.....

Now, I think I understand.
The knitting was her ticket to another planet, another zone. It took her away from the clatter. She rose above it all, lost in her work; imagining the finished result.

So I took a few knitting lessons at the adult education center in York.

So far I've only produced rectangular things like scarves. But I have a fantasy. I want to make something beautiful from a book called "Knit Kimona". Every piece in this book is fabulous and all are based on traditional Japanese clothing and all are created from simple shapes -- like rectangles.

I chose one fashioned after a traditional short Japanese jacket.
It's lovely and is meant to be knit from European flax. I bought one skein of a deep purply-blue to audition the pattern and the yarn. I want to experience the pattern and see if I like the flax; it feels a bit stiff: I need to know if I want it next to my skin. (I have been told that it washes well and gets softer and softer)

I don't own a yarn winder or yarn baller.

I'll have to wrap the skein around the back of a chair to create the ball. But it is uncommonly long. Too big for all my wooden chairs; too small to go around the backs of my upholstered chairs or the leather chairs. Hmmmmm. What to do?

I'll just lay it out on the table.
Simple.
I'll carefully draw the yarn out and around my fingers and into a nice tight round ball.

And you can see the result of this ill-fated effort in the pictures above.

I may NEVER get it untangled.

And I can tell you: this never happened to my mother!!!!

One smile can warm three winter months

2009-03-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

Look beyond the orchid. Out the window and see the kind of day we had here in New England.

It started snowing yesterday afternoon in fits and starts but by night it was coming down in earnest.

It snowed nearly all day long today but the heaviest snow was really over by mid-afternoon while another inch or two came in the light snow.

So it was another day to work at home on my current project for the school; I rose early and got to my computer early. It was a great day to stay warm indoors. Drink tea. Slowly cook a chili for another day. Make tetrazinni for dinner tonight.

Oh. And the project. That, too.

And now I am listening to Sting playing with Chris Botti and am in heaven at the fabulous sounds they are making together.

Memories keep calling .... ....

2009-03-01T05:28:00.000-08:00

My grandparents lived on the first floor of a neat triple-decker with wide porches and large back garden.

He was Noe Pierre Valois; she was Medora Bond; I think they were a handsome couple. Both were born in central Massachusetts: he in Worcester, she in Holden but they were raised in Leominster and made their home there. Noe's father owned a meat market; Dora's father was a barber.

The Valois family fancied themselves quite 'above' the Bonds: they came to the US directly from France while the Bonds came from Canada.

My recollection is that Noe was rather dour; Dora on the other hand was extroverted and fun-loving; she loved people, parties and dancing. She loved to laugh. Noe was disabled from mustard gas in the First World War and lived most of his life in and out of hospitals; he was only 58 when he died. Dora was essentially the wage earner as the government did not provide disability compensation for WWI veteran's until the late 1930s.She lived until mid-way through her eighth decade.

Noe & Dora's house on Spruce Street was in a neighborhood called, "French Hill", one of several villages that dotted Leominster. By the way, the town is not pronounced: Lem-stah as in the English market town that is its namesake. It is not pronounced: Leo-min-ster as the uninitiated want to say. No, it is Lem-in-ster.

French Hill was populated by French-Canadians who came seeking work in the comb and shirt factories there. They proved to be hard and steady workers capable of keeping up with 12-hour work days, 6 days a week and able built new lives for themselves and their families.

Their social life, family and work life was centered in neighborhood. More specifically around the church. My grandparents home on Spruce Street was only a short walk to Mechanic Street where St. Cecilia's church, school, convent and rectory stood. It was also walking distance to Cluet & Peobody on Water Street where my grandmother sewed men's shirts for the Arrow Shirt Company. In their house on Spruce Street, they raised three sons, Robert, my father and Norman and Richard. This was also the house that sheltered my mother and I during the war years. And, they were still in that house in 1954 when my grandfather died.

My Memories of their 'parlor' or 'front room' are dim. I don't think I ever sat in there and suppose it was saved for some 'state' occasions but what those might have been eludes me. This room was separated by pocket doors from a sitting room that doubled as an office for my grandfather. Here my memories are more vivid. My grandparents had two "easy" chairs in this sitting room, for reading and watching their floor model TV with its tiny screen. By my grandmother's chair was her crochet bag with the current pattern, yarn and needles. From this barkcloth bag emerged socks, mittens, hats, afgans and scarves with a ferocious regularity. Later, her hands deformed from arthritis, she continued to crochet, saying she could not stop, would not stop crocheting for fear of her hands crippling.

Of paperdolls & losses. On the floor by my grandfather's chair was a mahogany-colored basket. It was always there and held an ever-growing collection of Betsy McCall paperdolls that he meticulouly cut for me from the Sunday paper; I loved him for this and so much more.

I loved Betsy McCall; her pretty clothes and accessories always gave me something new to play with when we visited during the week. Often I wondered what became of that mahogony-colored basket and my paperdoll collection. I was after all only 10 when he died. But I have no recollection of them after his death.

My grandmother did not stay long in that apartment after his death even tho' it had been her home for nearly a quarter century; perhaps she moved in haste. Perhaps her married sons and daughters-in-law who helped her move to a tiny place were unaware of the real value of those paper dolls......of how precious they were to me.

My grandmother's jewels. I was often invited to spend the night with my grandmother while she lived on Spruce Street. I loved snuggling down in her great and cozy bed. I loved waking to the sound of her slippers - her 'chausettes' - glide across the floor while she moved about the kitchen preparing breakfast. She always gave me hot cocoa and a 'folded-over' toasted marshmallow sandwich---for which there was no equal in my life!

Her jewelry box was filled with costume baubles and a few pieces of 'good' jewelry. It never ceased to beguile me and I would ask if I could 'clean' her jewelry box which was my way of asking for stories. She allowed me to empty the contents of the box and told me stories about who gave her those earings or that bracelet, or on what occasion a certain piece was worn. In that box was a lovely saphire ring that she always said would be mine 'some day'. I don't know where my ring got to........or who has it.

Ice cream cones and cotton candy. Their house was three or four doors from the corner on which stood Giguere's Drug Store. In my child's eye, it was a large place, semi-dark, deep, cavernous and always cool . It had a very distinctive smell -- clean but pungent with a hint of chemical. A trip to Giguere's Drug with a nickel to spend was a glorious and grown-up event to purchase a vanilla ice cream cone.

My grandmother's little black book was for recording every expenditure: a nickel for this; a few cents for that. She loved ice cream. And she smoked. The little black book kept on shelf over the stove was meant to note each of these innocent purchases.

I'm not sure whether I remember this or if it was told to me later but this accounting for such small daily purchases was not a task invented by Medora. No. My grandmother would never have dreamed up such a task for herself. Although she was the main wage earner, she handed over her weekly wages to my grandfather. He made all the decisions about what to spend,how much to save. It was he who demanded she account for every penny.

Others have called Noe controlling; I don't know this from personal experience. But I do remember the following story of .......

A 1949 Plymouth of which they were quite proud. They purchased it new for $1300 and it was always kept in pristine cleanliness inside and out. I recall its interior: a 'picky' woolly gray upholstery that was wicked to sit upon on a hot summer's day.

Well, it happened on a particular summer day that my grandfather invited me out for a ride to the nearby amusement park. We were to travel by car, his Plymouth. I remember it so clearly and suspect it was a rare and unusual event as he was unwell most of the time. Perhaps on this day he felt strong and happy and generous. Perhaps he just wanted to offer his first grandchild and only granddaughter a summer treat. Whatever the motivation, when we got to the Park, he offered me a cotton candy.

Cotton candy!

He presented me with the great-gooey-sweetness-on-a-paper-cone. Ahhhhh. I sat in the back seat planning to savor the sensation of sugar melting on my tongue.

What happened next is not clear in details. But I do know that somehow I got cotton candy all over his spotlessly clean picky gray back seat upholsery. Now, I don't recall his words but I do remember his displeasure. His impatience and frustration. Sadly, he probably only had energy for the ride and loved the idea of a treat but was unprepared for the clumsiness of a 6 year old over-excited little girl.

Veteran's Hospitals
My grandfather was not an every-day part of my life. He was wounded in the first world war and spent the remainder of his life disabled from the mustard gas and was often in veteran's hospitals for weeks and months at a time. A typical Sunday for my father, mother, grandmother, brother and I was to visit him in whichever Massachusetts VA hospital he was in at the time. The trip usually involved Sunday dinner in a restaurant. My parents tried diligently to make these trips fun for brother and I by planning to stop at historical sites -- Bunker Hill Monument; Old Ironsides; and other important places.

Then he was gone
The phone ringing. A lot of late night activity in the house. My father sitting on the last step of the stairs leading to the second floor of our house on Vine Street. Head in hands, my father is weeping. It's frightening; I've never seen him cry. I learn my grandfather has died. He was only 58 years old.

I wasn't allowed to say goodbye; I was "protected" from the rituals of death. I don't have a clear last memory of him.

Unexpected gifts

2009-02-28T17:33:00.000-08:00

"Has it ocurred to you
that what feels like calamity
may be a gift,
given to you
because you are the rare being
who can use a hard gift like this?

Dr. Hallowell to Hillary Stevens

Mrs. Stevens Hears The Mermaids Singing

May Sarton

The not-so-strange case of treatment worse than dis-ease

2009-02-26T06:15:00.000-08:00

This is a common case of the treatment being worse than the symptoms that required medication. Not so mysterious, right. But I tell you this week has been the one from hell: frustrating, expensive, and just plan awful.

It started with a urinary tract infection (UTI), the second in two months. This one more severe than the first but while both had sudden onsets, this one brought teeth chattering, bone clattering, shaking chills and a rapidly spiked fever that started about 7pm would not and did not come down for nearly 12 hours. It spiked quickly, staying at 102.5 while I huddled under blankets, a quilt, a down comforter and a heating pad in a long thick flannel night gown.

The next day I saw my primary care physician; she prescribed cipro for the UTI clearly bringing out bigger guns this time.

After just one dose on Tuesday night, I awoke on Wednesday with petechiae. But was told not to worry about it because it was "a localized reaction". OK, I thought, I can live with this......until the next phase began with unspeakable abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting -- at night. Only at night.

My first UTI was in December. At that time, my primary care physician said she was suspicious that the chlordiazepoxide-clidinium prescribed by my gastroenterologist might be the culprit. It has a known side effect for urine retention. A nice cozy environment for bacterial growth. We didn't make any changes then: perhaps it was coincidental. Kind of watch and wait. I'm good with that. I've been doing for three years for CLL.

But looking back over the week, I was kept awake by fever and chills, by indigestion, abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting every night. Now, I am sick, I am tired, angry, frustrated.

Here's the thing. To be prescribed cipro to treat a UTI caused by chlordiazepoxide-clidinium prescribed for severe abdominal pain and then have abdominal pain, indigestion, nausea and vomiting from the cipro is a lot crazy-making. And there's more: cipro has other side effects like: vasculitis and mouth ulcers (Behcets symptoms for which I take prednisone, colchicine and budesonide. But there's even more: cipro also depresses bone marrow, lowers hematocrit and hemoglobin. I am Coombs Positive for autoimmune hemolytic anemia (AIHA); have had one severe bout for which I was hospitalized and transfused). And, cipro is known to cause tendon ruptures. The risk factors are: people over 60 years who take corticosteroids. I am in that age range........I take prednisone......

Wheeeeeee. This feels like a roller coaster ride?
Or a day in the fun house.
But in reality it is a big expensive, frustrating round of illness, prescriptions that cause new illnesses needing new prescriptions to treat the -- well, you know more & more & more & more.
I know I am not the only one whose been on this roller coaster ride. Check the link out for a dandy little poem that tells the same story I'm telling but in an amusing-sort-of-way. I just don't feel amusing. I need to rant.

I want to rant. I also need to lay this experience out as objectively as I can to be sure that (1) I'm not crazy and (2) this really is happening in the way I think it is. Am I done ranting ........ I am. But I don't know that I feel any better.

Today I am reviewing the list of poisons that I ingest every day. So that I can have a normal, regular life. Regulate by body's dys-regulated immune system. Keep fatigue from putting me down for days at a time; keep mouth ulcers/lesions at bay and allow me to eat, talk, work -- brush my teeth (small enough request, I think); prevent severe abdominal pain, and run-away-every-day-diarhea from Behcets. That list of toxic junk worries me -- although it used to be longer still! With even higher doses.

So, I'm not unmindful of how fortunate I am. I know there are people who are really sick. Who have really aggressive CLL and Behcets that moves to the lungs, the neurological system, the eyes.
I don't mean to complain.
I don't think I'm a whiner.

But I am angry and I'm wondering if this is the only way out or around this ??????? mess ??????

Brandon

2009-02-23T04:48:00.000-08:00

I work at the Monarch School of New England, a private nonprofit school for children with severe disabilities -- children who are medically fragile. Every child there is special -- special in that they are loved fully and without reserve by their families and the staff at the school. Perhaps one shouldn't have 'favorites' in such an environment. But there are some children who touch your hearts in unexpected ways. One child, Brandon, was one of my special favorites. Well, truth to tell, Brandon was everyone's favorite. When he was born, doctors said he may not live long, maybe just a few years. But he was strong and loved. And had a will to live that gave him 8 years of love and life. His mother said of him that "when he smiles, the whole world smiles".
ROCHESTER ; Brandon Michael McKeown, 8, passed away Thursday, Feb. 19, 2009 at Frisbie Memorial Hospital following a challenging yet full life with Lissencephaly. Born Sept. 12, 2000 in Exeter, N.H., he was the son of Brian and Billie-Jo (Haycock) McKeown. Brandon attended the Monarch School of New England in Rochester. He enjoyed spending time with his friends at school, taking long walks with his family, cuddling, and weekends at Nonna's. Members of his family include his parents, Brian and Billie-Jo Mckeown of Rochester; brother, Brett McKeown of Rochester; paternal grandparents, Joanne "Nonna" Riggio of Rochester, and Raymond McKeown Jr. of Dover; maternal grandmother, Dinah "Nunny" Haycock of Epsom; aunts and uncles, Raymond and Amanda McKeown of Rochester, Grace Cromleholme, of Rochester, Tina Haycock of Epsom, and David Haycock of Farmington; cousins, Jaiden Hayes of Dover, Sasha and Ana Bounchanh and Maxi Velasquez all of Northwood. Family and friends may call Monday, Feb. 23 from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. at the R. M. Edgerly and Son Funeral Home. 86 S. Main St. Rochester. Brandon's family encourages everyone to come in casual and comfortable attire. A funeral service will be held Tuesday at 11 a.m. in the chapel of the funeral home. Burial will take place in the spring. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in Brandon's memory to the Monarch School of New England, PO Box 1921, Rochester, NH, 03866.

She touched my heart unexpectedly

2009-02-18T19:27:00.000-08:00

This is a story about knitting and the desire to re-live ancient crafts just for love. Only love. A love story in the very best sense of the word. One with unexpected layers, meaning and depth.

The story starts late one evening, while I was checking email, some favorite blogs and the CLL boards one last time before going bed with a book. But the appeal of the internet and its compelling visuals held me -- led me from portal to portal to the next and the next and the next.

(I'am a new knitter; so it was knitting that caught my attention in those late night hours discovering other knitters, designers, suppliers and dreaming of things I'll make one day).

Anyway, in that late night march through the ether of the internet, I came to blog called Spiffy Knits and stayed awhile, captivated by writer, a former-editor-turned stay-at-home- mom in central Massachusetts. I liked her style, immediately; it was home-y, straight-forward, no-nonsense. I like the way she wrote about her life, her children, her husband (whom she referred to as , well you guessed it, "Mr. Spiffy").

Through the blog, I followed her discovery of knitting, her advance to spinning and then hand dying. Through her stories, I began to feel a strong connection to this woman whom I've never met. She spoke to me; I felt I was making a friend.

Soon she's writing about a collaboration with other artisans to create an on-line presence for their wares. Her work is beautiful. Lovely. Lush colors. I wanted to purchase some of her yarn. But oddly none was available for sale. There were examples of her work but no current work for sale. "Hmmmmm", I thought, "What's up here?" It didn't fit with the previous enthusiasm. So back I went to Spiffy Knits to settle the mystery.

In June of '08, she writes about fatigue; she's unhappy about always being tired.

In July she's making the rounds of specialists -- Gastroenterologist. Hepatologist.

Then comes the dreaded C-word and the diagnosis in August. Primary liver cancer.

But she continues posting both before and after major surgery only 3 days after getting the diagnosis.

She seemed so brave; so strong and optimistic. She had an intelligent, clear-headed approach to learning fast what she needed to know. She writes about chemo; you sense her preparation for the battle ahead. She never uses "D" word. Said, it wasn't about her; not about her life and her love for her kids and desire to see them grow up. She was clear about that.

But then story ends: no more entries. Nothing. Empty. Blank.

I felt let-down. I wanted more. I dreaded learning more. But I couldn't let it go. I googled her knitting friends. That's when I found it: the final good-bye: their memorial to her life from friends and sister artists. She died in October just 2 months after the diagnosis.

My sorrow was deep and profound.

I didn't get to bed for hours. I could not move. She stayed with me for days. She's with me still.

Today, I know this: a beautiful young woman's life touched my heart so unexpectedly. And I am blessed for the encounter. However brief. However illusive.

Great Glory

2009-02-02T13:39:00.000-08:00

Credit for these inspirational quotes and images goes to 'artella muse' a fun and artsy website.

Courage

2009-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

Stand still, stand still; stop the sun!

2009-01-24T20:32:00.000-08:00

Now I Become Myself

Now I become myself.
It's taken Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--

"(What? Before you reach the morning?

Or the end of the poem is clear?

Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density!

The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.

Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

May Sarton

Today, I wept but my heart is light

2009-01-20T10:26:00.000-08:00

I wept today. It couldn't be helped. My tears could not be stopped.

He said he could. He did.
He won. We won.
Oh, what a day. Oh, what a time.

I will not forget the televised images I saw today. A huge crowd of smiling, happy people who radiated hope and trust and belief in the possible. A sea of faces of every color, shape and hue standing where once slaves in tents lived while building the capital. A sea of faces exuding pride looking towards the first black president of the United States of America.

And today I, too, am a proud American.
I wept in pride and joy and hope.

I cannot remember a time in my life with so much excitement, so much hope and optimism in the changing of the guard. Now, this man, this young Barack Obama, now President Obama, has come to lift our hearts and rekindle our spirits.

Yes, he calls upon our higher instincts for love and generosity, responsibility and accountability to one another for the common. He calls us to service; he acknowledges difficult times ahead. Yes the times will be hard, that is clear. But I have the feeling that he will be truthful with the American people. I believe we can trust him. I have not felt that for a very long time.

After Nixon. Watergate. The failed Carter administration. The mean-spiritedness engendered by Reagon. Disappointment in the unfulfilled potential of Clinton. The last dismal and long eight years of Bush the Son. After 40-odd years of feeling let down by various administrations, there is a wonderful lightness in my heart. Today I wept but my heart sang.

A little art a little joy a lot of pleasure

2009-01-12T20:15:00.001-08:00

A little art

a little time to play in my studio

brings contentment & joy

These beads are made of fabric-paper wrapped in fibers & beaded

The fabric paper is a satisfying project of layering loose weave fabric with various layers of paper, paint and glue. Once dry it can be cut, sewn, woven, wrapped around straws or skewers and cut into beads.

But these days I am recycling denim. Embellishing good quality but gently used denim jackets and vests. Turning them in wearable art.
I haven't take any photos yet.

Bringing Peace

2009-01-12T19:45:00.000-08:00

The peace I am thinking of
is the dance of an open mind when it engages another equally open one.

Toni Morrison

Dinner in ffrost tavern

2009-01-11T06:37:00.000-08:00

3 Chimneys Inn

A lovely, welcoming inn located in Durham, the 3 Chimneys Inn is one of the oldest homes in New Hampshire. Built in 1649, it is now a beautiful bed and breakfast with 23 rooms, with dining and entertainment offerings.

We met Susan and Rainer there for dinner on Friday evening in the ffrost tavern where the ambiance is warm, cozy and casual, the menu tempting, and the food is beautifully presented, and very delicious.

We lingered over entrees, indulged in decadence for dessert, talked the place closed, then braved the winter wind aw we walked down the short hill to our cars.

Ahhhhhhhh, a very satisfying way to spend an evening when the work week is old and the weekend is new.

We entered the weekend with no obligations for Saturday and Sunday: a stay-at-home, snuggle down kind-of-weekend.

Is your glass half full?

2009-01-10T21:21:00.000-08:00

"Don’t dwell on what you lack;
dwell on what you have
and use it to the fullest with gratitude.
Don’t dwell on your failures;
learn from them and move on.
Don’t dwell on your fears or sorrows;
dwell on your hopes."

Marian Wright Edelman founder Children’s Defense Fund

Kindness

2009-01-10T09:16:00.000-08:00

One kind word can warm three winter months.

Japanese Proverb

A hibernating bear?

2009-01-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I am a bear,
or some hibernating animal underneath,
for the instinct to be half asleep all winter is so strong in me.
Anne Morrow Lindberg

Hope

2009-01-07T04:30:00.000-08:00

In the depth of winter,
I finally learned that within me
there lay an invincible summer.
Albert Camus
1913-1960

Exercise. Patience. Inspiration. Internet

2008-12-30T16:30:00.000-08:00

To envigorate my body with good, physical exercise. I joined Curves for the New Year and intend to work out there three times a week every week. Frankly, I'd rather pursue some other form of physical exercise. Gyms seem so artificial. I like walking on the beach, gardening or yard work -- purposeful exercise. But the beach doesn't lure me when the temperatures are low and the winds blow cold and strong. So tomorrow is my first session at Curves scheduled for 9 AM. Yesterday at registration for Curves, I was weighed and measured. The weighing wasn't so bad. I was daunted by the measurements. But wait. They insert those numbers into a computer and pop out %s of body fat. Now THAT really hurt. The goals I set are to lose 14 inches -- yes, 14 inches of body fat from everywhere and 10 pounds.
To be more patient with elders. To stop expecting them to see the world as I do.
To seek inspiration everyday. Make time for art everyday. I have a fine place to work and play at home with good light and pretty good storage for supplies. I work part time. Larry and I share all household responsibilities. So there really can be no excuses.
To limit time on the internet. I love the access to a world of information. I love google and use it for work, for art, for play. But it is a seductive tool and so easy to move in and out of websites going from one doorway of information to another -- and before long hours have passed.

May every stitch bring you closer to the calm clear space in the center of your soul

2008-12-30T16:24:00.001-08:00

Knit - knit⋅ted or knit, knit⋅ting;

Verb (used with object) -
1. to make a garment or fabric by interlocking loops of one or more yarns by hand with needles or by machine; 2. to join closely and firmly, as members or parts: the tragedy knitted the family closer together. 3. to contract into folds or wrinkles: to knit the brow; to form or create from diverse sources or elements: she knitted her play from old folk tales and family anecdotes.

My mother was an avid knitter. Knitting, in fact, was her passion, her one indulgence from the work of creating a home for her 6 children and husband.
In my memory, I can't see a time when she didn't have a knitting project in process: hats, mittens and sweaters; little jackets and coats for small children; celtic sweaters; and argyle socks for my paternal grandfather. But, now in her 86th year with failing vision and hands stiffening from arthritis, she is unable to pursue the avocation that gave her such peaceful hours and gifts of love for her family.

"I like making a piece of string into something one can wear".

Author Unknown

My mother raised 5 daughters but she only produced 1 knitter. No, it wasn't me. Oh, she tried to teach me to knit when I was young but I had neither the inclination, talent or patience. To me, it seemed to take forever to make just a few rows of something-that-looked-nothing-like-what-it was-going-to-be .....

In recent years, however, I fell in love with the exquisite yarns available to knitters: hand-dyed, cotton, linen, silk, alpaca, cashmere and mohair. My tactile sense, my love of texture found it difficult to resist their fragrances and the feel of these lovely yarns. I would visit them in shops but I only touched and smelled, then walked away: I am not a knitter. Walking away, I suppose I remembered the slow, clumsy attempts of a girl struggling with something she wasn't very good at doing. Oh, I liked the clickety - click of my mother's metal needles; I liked seeing the yarn moving rapidly through her hands. But I didn't want to do it myself.

Verb (used without object) - 1. to become closely and firmly joined together; 2. grow together, as broken bones do; 3. to contract into folds or wrinkles, as the brow; 4. to become closely and intimately united.

Recently I asked my mother how she got started knitting. Perhaps, there was someone she knew who knitted? Or something beautiful she wanted desperately to make for herself?

These questions came to me this past autumn when finally I gave in to my fiber obsession and enrolled in a series of 5 knitting lessons through the adult education program at York High School. I remembered 'knit'; I remembered 'purl'; but I didn't know how to begin and I didn't know how to stop.

During Christmas weekend, while my mother was in Maine on a holiday visit, I took the opportunity to ask all my questions. She said it was 1943 when she began knitting. My father was fighting in Europe; she was pregnant with me with lots of time on her hands. A family friend named Kitty Bell (a spinster!) gave her an exquisitely made baby sweater as a gift and that gift became the catalyst for a life-long avocation. She was intrigued by the process and she loved the result of the work. She said she'd never seen hand-knitted work before.

She had to learn to do it for herself.

(Praising her work, I mumble to myself "I can do it, too."

Kitty Bell, who lived on the second floor of the three-decker house (my grandparents lived on the first floor) and another knitter, a Mrs. Watkins who sold yarn from her home, taught my mother to knit. She loved it; she was immediately good at it and she never stopped loving it and enjoying the results of her efforts. She knitted for nearly 65 years -- until age, vision losses and arthritis slowed her down. Now, she says she is not pleased with the result of her work; it doesn't meet her standards.

It makes me sad to think of the loss to her of this great comforting and satisfying joy.

But in 1943,my mother was young and alone and frightened; knitting was a way to pass the time. She said she never went out in the evening while my father was overseas; she had a lot of time and some good friends to apprentice her to the craft.

In my mind, I see her sitting by the radio listening to war news and quietly knitting; perhaps one of her 7 sisters visited in the evening while she struggled with her first knitting attempts.

Noun - the fabric produced by knitting -
1. a knitted garment; 2. a style or type of knitting; the basic stitch in knitting, formed by pulling a loop of the working yarn forward through an existing stitch and then slipping that stitch off the needle.

A wonderful thing happened on this holiday weekend. I brought out my first knitting trials to show my mother; I asked her help. I asked my questions and listened to her stories from the war years. And then a miracle happened: I saw my mother as a young woman; I saw her youth emerge through the stories. I saw enthusiasm -- excitement -- confidence -- knowledge -- skill and her love for the craft in a way I'd never seen before.

It was magical: it has been a long time since I've seen my mother glow as she did that late Saturday night.

Between us, a new bond was created by sharing the love of craft and the mutual joy of using one's hands to make something beautiful for a loved one.

It was a lovely moment ........ one I will always treasure.

Title credit: from Earth Heart Designs

These are a few ......

2008-12-28T20:41:00.000-08:00

. . . . . of my favorite scenes from 2008

Some nice memories, too:
My Mom: After a Mother's Day Lunch
with sisters Nancy
and Michelle
A flower arranging summer

started when Michelle invited me to a workshop at the
Emily Dickenson House in Amherst, Massachusetts

& continued with a lovely weekend with
Shelly, Katherine, Esther, Noah and Ari
at their new home in Florence MA
Tony: first grandchild - first love
At a baseball game in June with Larry & me
and a young lady who later broke his heart (and shall remain nameless)

Victoria's visits ~~
surfing lessons in July and theater camp in August

Sand castle building too in August at Long Sands Beach
with Shelly, Katherine, Esther, Ari and Noah

In Pennsylvania for a Leon Redbone concert
at Mt. Gretna in Lancaster County

Rockport
Driving along Cape Ann after seeing
Garrison Keilor at the South Shore Music Tent
Motif #1 in Rockport

Second place in the Rochester Fair

Three generations:
Daughter Molly
Grandson Dylan & Greatgrandfather Clark

Shelly and Esther came up for a weekend in November
Esther and I went to an American Girl Doll Tea and Fashion Show
They spent the weekend and we feasted on pasta and wine
Esther and I cooked Sunday brunch.

Here they are:
after brunch, playing on the beach on beautiful November day!

Be Yourself .... Everyone Else is Taken

2008-12-28T20:18:00.000-08:00

"Many of us are living out the un-lived lives of our mothers...." (Gloria Steinem).
My mom, Doris is 85; youngest sister, Michelle, 46 and me in the middle, 64. My mom was raised in the Great Depression and married at 19; she got her GED at age 75. She raised 6 children: 4 have master's degrees; 1 is an artist; 1 is a writer; 3 are teachers; 1 is a self-employed musician/caterer. I have been a human services administrator -- cum fiber and fabric craftswoman.
"When you age you become wiser in so many ways .... Experience has shown you the potential of the human spirit." (Coretta Scott King). Wiser, yes, and more patient. More focused and less flighty as told by Caroline Myss the medical intuit. More confident; I am more sure of what I want in my life and what gives me joy.

"Expected the unexpected ~~~ life is never what you think it is going to be." ( Kathleen Kenyon). Larry and I found one another in our 30s; lost one another in our 40s. But the real end of the story is that we reclaimed what we had lost. Our lives changed again when his dad came to live with us.....and once again when I got sick in 2006. We role with the punches and accept was life gives us......

"The important things is to try and enjoy life . . . If you wake up in the morning and you a have a choice between doing the laundry and taking a walk in the park, go for the walk."
(Christine Lee)

Just DO it! Don't hesitate. Don't wait.

Be yourself.
If you have a talent,
don't neglect it."
(Andree Ruellan)

"I couldn't live without heroes ......."
( Mimi Weddell)
I seek out mentors ~~
I look for heroes and heroines
and sometimes I've been disappointed.
But I keep on looking . . . . . .

"The happiest people I know are simply
those who are cheerful ....."

(Helen Gurley Brown)

BE YOURSELF. EVERYONE ELSE IS TAKEN.

Oscar Wilde

A Good Time.. Kind .. Forgiving & Charitable

2008-12-26T15:52:00.000-08:00

I am sure that I have always thought of Christmas time,

when it has come round ... as a good time;
a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time;
the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year,
when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely.
Charles Dickens

Yes. It has been a good time. A kind and pleasant time. Although the ice storm followed by two heavy snow storms caused cancellation of quite a number of holiday events ~~ dinners and parties with friends and shows ~~ the days that preceded the holiday were still full, indeed.

Stephen and Joanne arrived from Seattle by way of Amherst Massachusetts on the Saturday before Christmas and left on Christmas afternoon. What followed was a series of small events ~~ decorating the tree ~~
~~ dinners in favorite restaurants ~~
~~ Christmas eve lobster dinner and Christmas day brunch.

They left in the early afternoon;
I looked at Larry and said,
"Christmas day festivities never ended this early before!"
And then I promptly lay down for a nap. A lovely long and peaceful nap.

Tonight I cooked a chicken dinner ~~ mind you a 3-course chicken dinner that began with small cups of lobster bisque, included corn pudding, a traditional New England dish, for Larry's dad, and the grand finale as far as the men are concerned, was mincemeat pie and ice cream.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Tomorrow we head for Massachusetts for a family party with my Mom and siblings and their families -- about 30 strong. It will be fine and lovely to see my family. In fact, this is the first year that there haven't been 'words', high emotions, and down-right nasty fights.....holidays seem to do that in my family. I am never ever in the thick of things. Not ever. I play the mediator, if anything. But this year, survival amidst the ice storms and power outages kept feelings at bay. A good thing.

I haven't seen Amy and her family yet. They were to come up on the Sunday prior to Christmas for a 'blended' family Christmas affair but a 20-inch snow storm barred the way.

So tonight I am full of the joy of giving love through the gifts and talents of my kitchen to Larry and his Dad. I am joyfully anticipating the day with my Mom and family.

And, if that were not enough: Shelly, my youngest sister and her daughter Esther, and my Mom are coming back with us on Saturday evening. We have holiday tickets for the Seacoast Rep in Portsmouth preceded by lunch at Warren's, a local seafood establishment since the 1940s.

And I feel blessed.

Do all the good you can . . .

2008-12-26T05:56:00.001-08:00

Do all the good you can, by all the means you can,
In all the ways you can, in all the places you can,
At all the times you can!

John Wesley

Everything is softer. . . more beautiful

2008-12-25T14:34:00.000-08:00

"Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful."

Norman Vincent Peale

The Infinite Expectation of Dawn

2008-12-21T20:50:00.000-08:00

"We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.

I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up, such paltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that the chief end of man here is to 'glorify God and enjoy him forever.' " Thoreau

It's the start of a new season

2008-12-01T05:50:00.000-08:00

I've finally had to admit that summer is gone; Indian summer days will no more lure me from my work. Autumn is dwindling in its last days.

It's been cold here for nearly a week. The long temperate autumn suddenly disappeared and I was not mentally prepared to put on layers of heavier sweaters and jackets; so I shivered my way through several crisp-snappy days before giving up the ghost of summer-in-my-mind.

We've had heavy frost some mornings and lately, driving rains and high winds that caused power outages on the day before Thanksgiving; some towns in Maine were still without power on Friday!

This weather does not lure me outside; I want to stay inside, make soup and gingerbread, drink hot tea and work on projects. With the Thanksgiving feast a sweet and savory memory, I've returned to my holiday gift-giving projects.

I love making gifts for the people in my life ~~~ the personal touch that says 'you mean a lot to me'. You mean 'this much to me' and embues the gift with something more than a thing purchased quickly at the mall amid the crush and throng of other shoppers all in a rush to get somewhere else. Fast.

Making gifts is a long-standing tradition in our household. When Victoria was little, I would make her a fancy new dress for the Nutcracker ballet and often a matching one for her dolly. Christmas day might find a thick woolen cape for her to snuggle into on cold winter days. Or a new hand-made doll with hand-made doll clothes.

Tea cozies, quilted centerpieces, placemats, pieced and quilted tablecloths also came from my studio as gifts for family and friends. And packages mailed with gifts for family most often have a the special treat of home-made cookies.

So with winter upon us and the celebration of light and love, I am working on wearable art pieces: a jacket for Amy; artsy aprons for my caterer-sister and her partner; a quilt with rocket ships for Dylan; knitted scarves for sisters and sister-in-law.

And loving every minute I spend with my projects and my family, with music, and tea, and good loving feelings.

And remembering that there were years when I was not well enough, hadn't enough physical energy to make gifts for the holidays ~~~~ had barely enough energy to enjoy the holiday.

Ah, but this year is different; this year I have returned to the joys of Christmas past!

And for this I am most thankful.

What brings you cheer and helps you to spend your love on loved-ones?

Singleness of heart

2008-11-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

Grateful with singleness of heart

THANKSGIVING PRAYER 2008

Give us truth in our thanksgiving that we may be grateful with singleness of heart.

We are thankful for the extravagance of the harvest:

For flavors, fragrances, melodies, shapes and colors;

For love, and the love that makes love;

For new babies and old friends;

For the strength that comes from courage;

For the joy that is born of integrity; For the peace that flows from tenderness; For good books, interesting places and unexpected beauty;

For artists who make music, prophets who love justice, statesmen who make peace; and saints who make little heavens in places of distress.

We are grateful for work and for days off; for letters from dear ones and someone to write to; For things that touch our hearts and bring tears to our eyes; for laughter and fun; For children who keep us young, experiences that make us wise, and friends who make us necessary.

It is the best of times . . . .

2008-11-10T01:45:00.000-08:00

This, our first summer in York, was almost magical. Our pretty yellow house with its big back deck is tucked into a wooded hollow down a narrow tree lined lane. It offers privacy and cool summer breezes all season long.

We purchased pretty and comfortable deck furniture. This was a major undertaking; we are not very materialistic when it comes to furniture. But we found chairs that recline. Ottomans and side tables. A big glass dining table with an umbrella. They were delivered and we spent the entire day assembling and getting ready for a season of grilling, relaxing and reading the morning paper, sunny lunches, and sharing with friends and family.

And we did all of those things. And more.

Around the house and in the yard, Larry worked his usual magic on flowers that decorated the deck and hung from the house, over the front door and twined around the iron railings. Morning glories that added spark to the day, petunias and nasturshams. Angel's trumpet. Lilies and gladiolas. Begonias and more.

This house is only two years old. The grounds were pretty raw. But Larry made a circle of heirloom tomatoes behind a tall fence to keep away the deer and interspersed them with Japanese eggplants and lettuce.

Beautiful green zebra striped tomatoes, deep red Brandywine, tomatoes from the Ukraine, peach and yellow colors with their sweet suculence.

Each heirloom has its own color, flavor and texture; Larry has been growing them for years and years.

Nearly every morning he woke to deer outside his window nibbling at the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. One day a red fox. Later in the season, wild turkey by the dozens loping stupidly from the woods into the lane.

Larry is a good son.
He just didn't make room for his 93 year old dad to live with us. He continually gives him gifts of time and self --
Theater tickets.
A bridge group.
A computer class.
His favorite meals.
And trips to favorite restaurants.

Oh, he has said he isn't always gracious.
Says he sometimes loses patience and feels frustrated that this is not the retirement he'd planned.
But always he continues on. Always.
Because it is the right thing.
Because he is a good and generous man.

Larry loves books. He is an avid reader and usually has more than one 'going' at a time. Mostly non-fiction but he has been 'studying' the older suspense writers reading their entire body of work. Some books stacked by the bed. By the fireplace. In the great room.

Larry is also a book collector who enjoys the thrill of hunting books at auctions and estate sales. He has a great eye for good buys and often makes a nice profit on those he chooses to sell. Regional history and turn of the century bindings are favorites.

Larry wanted an MP3 player..... but he also wanted it to have an FM tuner..... so last Christmas I bought him an 80 mg Zune that he continues to fill with his favorite music: show tunes, big band, folk music, old standards, Leon Redbone, Bill Morrissey, light classical, smooth jazz. And if I sometimes think I am being ignored it really is just that he 'is plugged in' to music ---- or a baseball game ----- or a news program. But mostly music. I try to wait. . . . .

Larry came into my life more than 25 years ago.
And while he never tried to be a replacement for Amy's dad, he has been the closest thing to a father she has had or will have since her dad died when she was 12. Her children are his grandchildren. And to Anthony and Victoria he has given love, attention, gifts of time and memorable vacations.

Of all and everything that Larry is and has done, his love, care, concern support, and encouragement since my diagnosis of first chronic lymphacytic leukemia and then behcet's disease has neve waivered. Never. He comes to each and every doctor's appointment and is as much a participant as I am. He took me to Canada in 2007 to the first patient advocacy conference because the brightest lights on the planet - experts in research and direct clinical care would be there. And we would learn together.

Is he perfect. No and nor am I. But for nearly a quarter century he has been my life's partner and my best friend. And tonight, the second in a row, I cannot sleep while he is in the hospital for cardiac problems.

Come home, Larry.

What Nature Did . .... .

2008-11-10T01:11:00.000-08:00

What nature did was remind her that ripeness is all,
that autumn is the richest season,that preparing for snow means building a shelter,that warmth within withstands whatever winter howls without.

(from the poem, "Ripening" by Joanne McCarthy)

Ladies and gentlemen, I present . . . . .

2008-11-08T05:02:00.000-08:00

The First Family/Elect.

I wept when CNN called the race for Obama.

I wept for the wonder of it; for the rightness of it.

It touched a place deep inside that opened a well-spring of tears that just would not stop.

I cried for hope and optimism and for all that Obama represents, his extraordinary intelligence, vision, and for his beautiful family .... his beautiful and quite extraordinary Michelle who will no doubt bring something fresh and new to the role of first lady. I just could not stop crying.

And then on Wednesday Larry and I saw The Secret Life of Bees at the cinema. I read the book a few years ago; loved it. It was one of those books you love to love. I fell into it and only wanted to turn pages -- not think about mundane obligations like cooking and eating and work.

The book is a civil rights story, 1964 South Carolina. President Johnson has just signed the Civil Rights Act.

The books, the film were made all the more poignant by the extraordinary events of the day before and I cried more and again to think that finally after the generations of injustice to blacks and 44 years after signing of the Civil Rights Act, we as a country have finally done the right thing. We did the thing right and the right thing.

I am proud to be American. Proud that we can and will have a smooth and near seamless transfer of power. And proud of 52% of Americans who gave all the little boys and girls the ability to truly say, "I can be anything" "even president of the United States".

America wins!

2008-11-06T07:22:00.000-08:00

It's over. At last and finally, the long electoral process is over.

I wanted to believe that we Americans would on Tuesday make the best decision for the country. Oh but I was skeptical.

On election day, I rose early and drove to the local high school to cast my ballot without incident in a process that took less than 15 minutes from start to finish. And then with hope in my heart, I kept on the move for the remainder of the day. After an early dinner, I returned to the television to watch and wait the results.

Television is not my preferred mode of entertainment; I probably don't tune in more than a few times a year. But in the last few months I have become a news junkie who needed a daily fix of Keith Oberman, Rachel Maddow, Anderson Cooper, Brooks and Shields. I know..... I know ...... And when not on the tube, I was surfing the web seeking international perspectives and political blogs. (Newspapers are not my news-drug-of-choice; I don't like the format; I hate just getting into an interesting article and then having to search for the remainder on some distant page; I hate the dirty ink. But most of all, I hate the assault on my senses of rape, murder and pillage every day. Often front page. Often above the fold. Too much. I have always agreed with Andre Weil, 'we need to take vacations from that assault of bad news in the print media.'

Well, on Tuesday night I found MSNBC a bit too hyper for my temperment and they were just a little too eager to call the election ~~ and far too early ~~ and so I opted for the News Hour on public tv. With a cup of tea and settled at my work table, I was prepared for a long night of counting electoral college votes and watching red turn blue (or so I hoped). And as the evening wore on, hope grew larger and larger until it seemed to be reality. Pundits began to sound as though it was a done deal.

When the race was called for Obama I ran to find Larry who was connected to his Zune. We looked at one another and spoke together. Or tried; my words were choked beneath a torrent of tears. A sobbing from the depths and the tears just ran ceaselessly down my cheeks and onto my shirt.

An unbelievable story; a marvelous victory for America.

I waited for John McCain's concession speech. And then again for the real deal, the real reason for staying up so late on this night of nights ~~~ Barack Obama's speech. And still I cried. I cried in joy and hope realized. I cried for possibility. I cried for generations of injustice against people of color. I cried in the wonder of that beautiful young family ~~~ Michelle, young and intelligent, a first lady who will undoubtedly bring a new dynamism to the role, and their lovely young daughters, living in the White House.

And I cried for the millions of children who can say now with a degree of certainty that they can do and be anything. Even president of the US.

McCain - Palin on Children and Adults with Disabilities

2008-10-25T05:48:00.000-07:00

Nearly my entire adult life has been defined by my work in the disability field ~~ as a parent, advocate, volunteer, and professional in a variety of capacities related to children and adults with disabilities. My second child was born with Down Syndrome; I was an early advocate developing residential programs and liberating adults from the warehousing and inhumanity of state institutions, a program and agency director, and national-level consultant and trainer, and associate researcher at a university: nearly 40 years working at the local, county, regional, state and national level on issues related to quality of life for children and adults with congenital, familial and acquired disabilities; currently, I work in a school for children with special needs where all have multiple disabilities; some are medically fragile and require 24-hour nursing care; about 1/3 are diagnosed with autism.

Am I an expert? Would you be drawn to say, "she has more experience than nearly every other American on disability issues" after reading my resume?

Well, I heard John McCain use that qualifier when he introduced Sarah Palin to the American public. I listened in disbelief because I know that 3, 4, 6 months into one's exposure to the world of disabilities does not make one an expert. For me, that time was one of groping and grappling with the reality and enormity of the diagnosis .... of wonder and worry about what the future might hold for my child and my family. And let me add that we were not typical in terms of prior knowledge of families with children who have special needs: my husband was a special education teacher with a master's degree; since my high school days, I had volunteered in various community settings and in state institutions for the people with disabilities.

So, on what "my friends", do you imagine John McCain based his description of Sarah Palin as "more experienced than nearly every other American". For answers, we could look to her record as governor of Alaska. If we did, we'd find that programs for special needs children were level-funded or decreased during her two years in office. We'd see that she used a line-item veto on funding that would make improvements to municipal accessibility for people in wheelchairs, those who are blind or with low vision. We'd learn that Alaska lags far behind nearly every other state in educational opportunities for children with disabilities and in implementation of IDEA. We'd see that in her tenure, she again used the line-item veto against funding to provide community-based services for 1200 adults on waiting lists for such services.

Dial forward to the 2008 election season and see that even her own sister, who has a 13 year old child with autism, has written of Sarah that, "...... she has a lot to learn ......". We read the heartfelt words of an Alaskan resident who is the parent of child with disability and advocate who said she cried when she learned that Sarah was the VP pick. We observe that over and over - again and again across the country parents, professionals, academics and advocates at all levels have rallied against Sarah first as McCain's VP pick, then when McCain designated her 'more experienced', and at his announcement that he would appoint her national advocate on disability.

Follow Sarah around the country. In Colorado, she spoke against support of community-based services for 12,000 adults with disabilities. On the stump elsewhere, she said that more funding disability services is not needed. She talks about educational opportunities for children with disabilities as an "access" issue. And I say, come on, Sarah: we fought that battle and won in the nineteen-seventies. The issue isn't access anymore; the issue is getting appropriate services once in the door.

Does she know or care that IDEA has never been fully funded -- that funding to support individual state efforts is only at 17% of what was originally promised in the mid-nineteen seventies. Does she fully understand that the republican health care plan would eliminate coverage or drop children with disabilities because of the pre-existing condition exclusion in their plan.

John McCain has come up empty-handed on these critical issues. And, he has not put forth any real plans or position statements.

Are the 50 million people with disabilities even on his radar? Or only when their issues offer him a sound-bite or a photo-op or when he can showcase and pander to real people with real life problems as he has done with Sarah.

I want to believe again

2008-10-24T13:09:00.000-07:00

I have been troubled by the comparisons made between Sarah and Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, and John Kennedy saying that they too were regarded as 'inexperienced' for the presidency.

How does one make the leap from Sarah to these men? A Rhodes Scholar? One devoted decades to the political process? Serious-thinkers? Well-educated and well-read? Intellectuals?

I am sorely troubled by the idea that John McCain will win the presidency. But more, I am distressed, frightened by the thought that Sarah Palin might succeed him. A woman who told Katie Couric that she didn't need to ponder the call to be McCain's running mate ~~ she knew immediately that the answer was, "yes". A woman who does not like to spend time focusing on issues ~~ her style is 'give me the essence and I'll run with it. A woman with whom he had spent a total of 3 hours in conversation. A woman he hadn't met face-to-face until he made the 'ask'.

I am troubled that his decision-making style, as evidenced by his VP pick, is exactly wrong for the times. For the problems we face as a nation.

I am troubled that he is throwing old, tired and worn-out platitudes and ideas at entirely new and complex problems.

I am troubled when I see and hear words and actions that divide us.

I believe . . . that what we need now is someone to lift us up......show us the way out of this maze of internal, domestic, and international problems.

Clothes, Hair and Make-up

2008-10-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

You read about the $150,000 spent on clothes from hi-end stores?

You learned that costs for her stylist was over $30,000 for October and September.

How does knowing these things make you feel about the 'hockey-mom'?

. . . make you feel more connected to her, does it?

Dear John McCain,

2008-10-23T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dear John McCain,
Shame, shame on you for holding ordinary Americans in so little regard that you believe we could be lured by your sad and sorry VP pick ~~~ for thinking that she would appeal to thinking women ~~~~ that Americans in general would be seduced by her barbie-doll-flirtatious-behavior. By her stage-presence-facility-reading-lines-performance-on-the-stump.

Perhaps, you thought her inexperience would be obscured by winking and flirting. Perhaps you believed we wouldn't notice her shallow and narrow understanding of global political, economic and financial issues when we saw her suited and polished in $150,000 clothing.

Excuse me for asking. . . but did you really, I mean seriously engage in an honest reflection of the possibility that she was qualified to take charge of the national economy, the federal banking system, national security. Of domestic and international affairs? Do you seriously believe that she is equal to the task of managing our international relationships, two wars, global financial instability and threats and slams to capitalism.

Imagination

2008-10-17T16:12:00.000-07:00

You need a room with no view
so memory can meet imagination in the dark

Blooming all alone

2008-10-17T16:01:00.000-07:00

The Last Rose of Summer
Thomas Moore
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

Bedside Books

2008-10-14T15:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I posted a quotation from Islands by Ann Rivers Siddons whose books I have enjoyed over the years. And, for the most part Islands was no exception. I liked the characters, especially Anny and Lewis, whom the story and other characters revolve around, while she tells the intertwining stories of the "Scrubs", a group of childhood friends and their spouse now middle aged.

The story evolves in Charleston and the Low Country of South Carolina; all of the characters are quite well-heeled and have multiple homes. But the action takes place at a beach house. Some are physicians, surgeons, successful real estate brokers. And, then there is Anny who grew up impoverished, the daughter of an alcoholic mother, a scrappy young girl and woman who made a success of her life in the nonprofit world. The characters seemed believable; the story was compelling -- until the end.

The plot line wanders in and out and around the lives of these 4 couples and their quite enviable lives. Some of them have known one another for most of their lives. And then the unthinkable begins to happen (and for me the story begins to unravel) when first one spouse dies, then a house fire takes the life of another, and another spouse dies on his boat. Enough, you say. Yes, I agree. But clearly, the author didn't agree with that sentiment because she dragged the story line out to an unbelievable and, I think, illogical conclusion.

Here it is, in a nutshell: one of the eight-some, it turns out, is a psychopathic killer who has been orchestrating these horrible events. We are asked to believe that this character, who has been 'best friends' with most of the eight, is actually a crazed woman scorned and waiting decades for vengeance.

Well, I am not such a believer.

And I was really disappointed in this writer. And asked myself: how could she have stooped so low as to manipulate the story line and her readers in so obvious a ploy (no, not plot).

Disappointed all the more because Siddons has been compared to Faulkner and other important southern writers.

And, I ask myself: how would I have brought this story to a more natural and believable conclusion?

The long sweet fall . . . .

2008-10-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

"On a smoke gray afternoon in October, we sat on the porch, wrapped in sweaters against the stiff little wind out of the east. Soon it would bring rain; you could smell it coming, and there would be a big wind, because it was born in the east where all the changes get started.

It would be the end of the lingering, muted colors and probably the end of the long sweet fall. Already we lit the fire earlier, and came in out of the purpling twilight ready for heat and drinks and hot food. But on this afternoon, the sense of endings was powerful, and we shivered on the porch longer than we might have otherwise."

(From Islands by Ann Rivers Siddons, 2004

Not wasted time

2008-10-10T17:12:00.000-07:00

The time you enjoy wasting ........ is not wasted time.
Bertrand Russell

Things, Stuff and Clutter - Part 3

2008-10-06T06:45:00.000-07:00

“Simplicity is the examined life richly lived.
It is asking ourselves what’s important, what matters.
We all think that someday we’ll start living
But few of us feel fully alive.” Cecile Andrews

Today, as I continue to pursue the 100 things challenge, I am creating a value-based list of MUST-HAVE things to identify what is MOST important to me in my life of things.

I don't expect this list to add up to 100 because these are among my most favorite possessions and are things I really want to have in my life. Not because they are essential to every-day-living but because they touch my heart or my soul in different ways.

In this go-round, I am not counting furniture or books or tableware; I am counting collections as one thing.

Clothes, shoes, boots and accessories
Winter boots (3); my shoe size is only a 5; shoes and boots are difficult to find. These, I keep, until they are no longer wearable
Silk and wool jacket (1); Not new, made in a sewing loft in Greenwich Village by an older gentleman who created only a few each year, but surely loved for the last 15 years
Hand-loomed woolen shawl (1) in the various colors of autumn that I have owned for about 30 years and is still pristine in every way

Crafts, Sewing
Sewing machines (2); the Featherweight and the Pfaff, of course
Japanese imported fabric
African imported fabric

Pottery
Art Pottery Platter (1) from artstream that Larry bought for me last year
Japanese Pottery (5) a tea pot, winter tea bowls, summer tea bowls from St. Andrew's By the Sea, Canada; the potter, Tom Smith, has been awarded honors by the Japanese for faithfulness to Japanese traditions
Seattle Pottery (6) gifts from Stephen and Joanne, one large spaghetti serving bowl, one small serving bowl, 2 large mugs and three fish serving platters, all in various shades of green with some grey tones

Dolls, Yes Dolls!
Molly Doll (1); Yes, I have an American Girl doll gifted to me by Amy and Victoria a few Christmases ago
P.E.I. Soldier Doll (1); Canadian; doll Larry bought for me with hand-made costume
Quilts, Antique (1) circa 1810 of French imported fabric called pillar fabric but probably made in Maine
Quilts, made by me (3)
small mariner's compass, wallhanging
bedsize, hand-sewn, Monkey Wrench with an Attitude
the Egglady, wallhanging

The quote with started off this post is from www.mysimplerlife.com

Things, Stuff and Clutter - Part 2

2008-10-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

I am taking this topic of stuff and clutter very seriously.

Today, I cleaned and organized my closet and bureau - - clearly, I would have done this any way in preparation for cooler weather and the need for warmer clothes.

But today, I approached the job with a different mission for the task and looked at the 'stuff' through a different lens. And the result is that I brought two large bags to the Planet Aid box around the corner --- things from last autumn and winter that didn't fit then, don't fit now, and probably won't fit next year either.

But what about the real job of paring down to a reasonable number of other things?

I've been thinking about that question as I've gone about my day today. For example, I have four - yes, four - sewing machines. How many sewing machines does a person really need, any way?

First, I have a Singer Featherweight circa 1951 and frankly the workhouse of all sewing machines. This little beauty was made from 1933 until the late 1950s or maybe early 1960s and in all that time the design was changed very little. Oh, there was some scaling down during the war but nothing that impacted its functionality. It is the kind of machine that has a very simple structure; even I can troubleshoot problems -- and when I can't, Larry can. No, it doesn't sew in reverse. It doesn't do any fancy stitches, either. But it is a classic. A collectible. I have to keep it. I don't use it every day, or even every month but I would be bereft without it. Truly.

Then there is the New Home sewing machine circa late 1930s. Made in Orange, Massachusetts (Larry and I lived in New Salem, Massachusetts for 13 years just up the road from the old New Home factory). Well, I could live without the New Home and if truth be told, I always found the bobbin mechanism difficult to use. I could put it on Craigslist. Yes. Great idea.

I have a Singer sewing machine from the 1960s, I think, that belonged to my husband's great Aunt Mildred. It really needs a LOT of work and I'd like to get rid of it ---- I mean, 'pass it on to someone who would appreciate it!' Frankly, I'd give it away. In fact, one year Larry and I had a big yard sale and I sold it. I was very frank with the woman who bought it saying that it would need servicing before she could run it. She was fine with that and paid, $50, I think for the pleasure of taking it away. Then, some weeks later she called to say that she'd brought it to her friendly sew and vac shop for servicing and was told that, yes, it did need some work but it was worth a lot more than $50. She, being a stalwart Christian, returned the damnable thing, feeling guilty! OMG. OMG. And, I still have it 7 years later!!!!! PLEASE, please, take this sewing machine off my hands!!!!! Craigslist????? Maybe.

And, then there is my Pfaff. About 8 years old and a faithful machine. A gift from Larry who said he would purchase a new machine for me and it took me at least three years to choose between a Pfaff, a Viking and a Bernina. It was the built in walking foot that caught me!! It does lots of things but is not one of those show-ey computerized machines. I love it and wouldn't part with for anything.

So, there.

Two out of four. Not bad.

Things, Stuff and Clutter

2008-10-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

Last week, we were riding to the Deerfield Fair. I was driving; Larry was snoozing. On the radio there an interview with Dave Michael Bruno, 37, was airing. Dave has created quite a stir with his personal challenge to pare down to 100 things by a date certain in November.

I was immediately intrigued by his challenge and over the next few days the thought of owning only 100 personal things kept re-surfacing -- but with questions.

How was he doing it? Was he counting every item in his possession? Like flatware? Dishes? Pots and pans? Surely, it would not take long to reach 100 by that method. Was he using categories and counting, for example, all flatware in the house as "1" item.

What with weekend quests, work and other obligations, I hadn't a chance to google Dave for the answers to these questions but the concept and his challenge kept my interest peeked. And I kept thinking about stuff and things and how it becomes CLUTTER in our lives.

We know about Clutter. It's the stuff we are stuck in. That fills our rooms, basements, attics and garages. That's stacked in boxes. Stuffed into drawers, bags and containers. Hangs in closets. That stuff we spend money to acquire and then spend more money to house and contain.

We spend our life's energy paying for it (you remember that great book from about 15 years ago, Your Money Or Your Life! --- I've forgotten the author's name), working for and working at purchasing, collecting; housing, containing, dusting and cleaning and repairing these things!

I think clutter starts as a must-have -- a gift to ourselves or our kids that we believe will fill a hole, comfort a need, make us happier, feel sexier, be more joyful or content with our lot in life. It does not, of course, do these things and is soon relegated to all the corners of our lives.

But I admit to it! I am one of those!

I am a collector of things: I love to read; my collection of books is varied and way too large; I have a passion for dishes. I love scarves. I quilt, sew, make altered books, fabric art journals and have a stash of supplies, equipment and tools for these crafts. And, truth to tell, I have way more than I need. I collect antique linen and lace and quilts. And CDs. Jewelry. Shoes and pocketbooks?

What exactly is Dave doing?

And what is his 100 Things Challenge?

Well Dave's goal is to have pared down to 100 personal things by November 12 --- that's this year, --- and to live with only those 100 things for one year. By his definition, personal things are not family-shared or household items.

Also, in pursuing his challenge, he says he will keep family memorabilia pared down to one small storage container and will not open it for one year.

Further, by way of qualification, Dave is sort-of-but-not-quite eliminating books from his challenge: he is "considering getting books down to 100".

And, he notes that, "some things will be counted in groups like underwear and socks" but that he is not keeping a lot of either of these items.

And, to be clear, his wife and children are not participating in his challenge.

But I might.

I am sympathetic. But could I do it? How would I do it? I don't think I'd use Dave's rules entirely. I'd have to 'start small' -- and begin by thinking in terms of overall categories rather than individual items because I surely could not pare down to just 100 things in such rapid-fire fashion.

I suppose I could think in categories such as books and clothing, cosmetics, jewelry and accessories. Magazines. And craft stuff.

Craft stuff? Yikes!

We live in a world . . . .

2008-10-03T14:59:00.001-07:00

"We live, in fact,in a world starved for solitude,
silence, and privacy:
and therefore
starved for meditation and true friendship."
C.S.Lewis

Autumn days dwindle down to a precious few ... September ... October

2008-09-30T16:45:00.000-07:00

Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn.

Elizabeth Lawrence

A little view from the back deck
That pinky-red is just so delicious

My Latest Good Read

2008-09-29T18:22:00.001-07:00

Well, having finished reading, "Wonder When You'll Miss Me" by Amanda Davis for my book group, I was ready for a new novel.

So I went looking but I have to say that poking around the York Library is not as much fun as poking in the Rye Library. For one thing, the York Library is brand new, and its too big. I can't get used to the way the books are set out and never feel satisfied at the end of my search. Now truly, I am not someone who resists change but this library-change has me stymied.

On this trip I chose, "The Senator's Wife" (of the Good Mother, among others) and finished it late last night. It was a satisfying read. A well-told tale about two complex women, Delia in her 70s and Meri, 38 --- and, I have to say, both Delia and Meri rattled around in my brain today.

The story calles into question the depths of love and the opportunities to forgive; loyalty; betrayal; and, sexual jealousy. But clearly, the most difficult theme of the novel is presented when Delia decides to care for her estranged husband Tom after a debilitating stroke.

Delia had been married to Tom, a US senator, for 50-odd years; she suffered his philandering for 30 of them. Her solution, after his final humiliation, was to stay married but live apart. And she did, pursuing personal independence and meaning through travel, volunteerism, friends and family.

Meri is newly married to Nathan and newly pregnant. They move into a semi-detached house and share interior walls with Delia on the other side.

A beginning friendship blossoms between the women. But sadly Meri too violates Delia's trust. I found this betrayal impossible to accept. I was truly angry. Tom, so utterly dependent on Delia's care, acts to destroy the possibility of her love and any trust that she has re-built. She refuses to face their betrayal.

Miller did justice to these complex themes, I think. But still the reader brings to the work public knowledge of personal betrayals like Tom's by numerous political leaders in the last decades --Clinton--Hart--Edwards--Kennedy. Perhaps that explains why we don't find Tom's behavior so surprising. We see his charm, his flirtatious behavior with all women, his need to be desired by every woman. We hear him apologize to Delia, over and over, professing his love and then betraying her again. And until the end, Delia continues to appear in public with Tom, to campaign with him, to deflect questions from the media that might give away the truth of their relationship. But that final act. That final betrayal is so unforgiveable. So mean and hurtful.

These are not simple characters and they are not simply drawn.

An Unexpected Right Turn

2008-09-29T18:03:00.001-07:00

Kyle made a sudden and unexpected right turn
over the Atlantic last night
so we were spared his wrath

I am standing on Long Sands Beach
looking out to Boone Island Light
just after high tide this afternoon

Looking towards Nubble Light
from Long Sands Beach
perhaps my favorite view

Hurricane Party?

2008-09-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

Should we be getting the Ark ready?

It has rained steadily for 3 days and 3 nights

and doesn't show any signs of letting up

Kyle, building to hurricane strength over Cape Cod

is expected to race up the coast towards Maine,

hit downeast and the Maritime Provinces by night fall.

and along the way cause coastal flooding and

astronomical high winds

Touching hearts . . . and minds

2008-09-23T17:48:00.001-07:00

I had the pleasure of meeting Kim and Fran Peek
when they came to the Monarch School to meet and have lunch with staff.

This is Kim on the left. He's 57 years old and lives in Utah with his father, Fran. Pretty unremarkable, so far, right? Well, yes until you discover that Kim Peek is the original Rain Main played by Dustin Hoffman in the 1980s film by the same name.
And unbelievable when you meet him and witness his prodigious memory and near-total recall.

Kim is known as a 'mega savant'. Name a city or town; he'll name its highway system, t.v. and radio stations, rivers and waterways, nearby towns and history.

Kim can read a page of text in 8 seconds with 98% recall. We would need 7 or 8 minutes to read the same amount of text and achieve a maximum of 40% recall.

Pat: "Kim, my birthday is April 7, 1944".
Kim: "That was Good Friday. This year it was Monday.

Kim can and does respond to any and all dates tossed at him; he tosses back the day of the week and sometimes related and interesting facts and sometimes adds the day of the week the birthday fell on this year or will next year.

Kim was born without a corpus collosum -- the fibers in the brain that allow the right hemisphere to talk to the left hemisphere. As an infant, his parents were advised to institutionalize and forget about him. As a child, he was called mentally retarded and refused admission to public school.

Instead the school sent tutors twice a week to their home. Fran tells a typical story that seems an omen of the kind of surprises they would encounter in the days, weeks, months and years ahead. It was about a homework assignment given to Kim to "complete 3 pages in a math workbook for the next class". Kim finished the entire workbook doing it from back to front because, "it got easier as I went along".
There probably isn't another human being with such a mind. Most known savants have one area of speciality; Kim has 5. He has been studied by the Wisconsin Medical Society and hired by NASA who wants to learn more about how his brain functions. He has been the subject of innumerable documentaries and scholarly articles. He and Fran have traveled 'millions' of miles and spoken to 'millions' of people in their quest to help people understand the nature of autism, of savant syndrome, of disability/ability, and of the similarities between us all.

But for all of Kim's magnificent mental capacity, he is unable to perform most ordinary daily living tasks (such as dressing, shaving and combing his hair); these functions are carried out by Fran.

Kim and Fran are very close. Fran redirects Kim, or steadies him when he paces or his thoughts seem to meander ........... but ..... I suspect WE think they are meandering; KIM knows otherwise.

Fran is Kim's interpreter and de-coder.

PS: the photos I used are from the Wisconsin Medical Society's website where the best information about savant syndrome can be found and where other known savants are profiled.

Give your heart to it......

2008-09-22T06:43:00.001-07:00

"Your work is to discover your world
and then with all your heart give
yourself to it." (Buddha)

The Matriarch

2008-09-22T00:17:00.000-07:00

Today, I am celebrating my paternal grandmother, Madora Bond, born in Jefferson Massachusetts in September 1896 and who lived most of her life in Leominster, Massachusetts, a booming town in late 1800s-early 1900s, a prosperous town that lured French Canadian immigrants seeking jobs and a better life for themselves and their families

Madora had several sisters: Blanche, Viola, and Irene - there was a brother too but his name escapes my memory. She married Noe Pierre Valois also of Leominster whose father owned a meat market. She was mother to Robert, Norman and Richard

And grandmother to Pat, David, Nancy, Susan, Donna, Shelly, Norman, Steven, Christine, Katheryn, Rickie; greatgrandmother to Amy, Jonathan, Sarah, Robbie, Kimberly, Dustin, Christopher, Esther, Ari and Noah and great-greatgrandmother to Anthony and Victoria.

My grandmother was strong, feisty and bold with a funny sense of humor. She loved life, enjoying dancing and parties, music, crocheting, the Red Sox, and 1949 Plymouth

Family mythology has a store of delicious stories about my grandmother. It is said that she would sneak out of her bedroom window at night to go dancing and that she wore trousers when it was absolutely verboten

My grandmother was a factory girl working in the local shirt factory that made Arrow shirts to be were sold around the world. Her job was sewing pockets to the fronts of men's shirts.
She did this for decades

At the end of a work day, factory girls were offered bags of shirting scraps for pennies. These were used for quiltmaking. My grandmother's sisters turned their scraps into beautiful quilts with intricate designs. Not so my grandmother; she would rather be dancing and she hurried through the task giving short shrift to design and color. She made one quilt but didn't finished it until years later when she was pregnant for my father, a very utilitarian quilt..

While my grandfather was fighting the great war, he was jilted by his girlfriend. My grandmother turned this event into an opportunity for herself. Story has it that she was sweet on him and boldly began writing to him. Perhaps she wooed him. In any case they fell in love and were married when he returned home. He was handsome and elegant. But the effects of mustard gas made him weak and sick for the rest of his life; when he died, he was only 58. During his married life, he was seldom strong enough to work; it fell to my grandmother to hold the family together with wages from the shirt factory.

Perhaps Noe wasn't strong enough to work. But family stories attest to the fact that illness didn't prevent him from ruling the roost with an iron hand. He demanded accountability for the smallest expenditures. My grandmother was compelled to record every purchase into a little black book that he kept on a shelf in the kitchen. One day, it is said, that she told him she would not continue this practice; she needed to have a few coins for spending money. He acquiesed. He chose every piece of furniture and made every purchase large and small without consulting my grandmother although it was she who earned the dollars that made it possible.

My father Robert Noe was her first child, born in 1921. I was her first grandchild, born in 1944 while my father was in the European theater. For a time my mother and I stayed with my grandparents. I was the daughter they didn't have: they loved me and spoiled me. Even after my father came back from the war, we lived only a few streets from them; there were lots of visits and over-nights there.

Laying in bed in the early morning at my grandmother's house I would listen to her moving around the kitchen starting breakfast. I loved the soft sound her slippers made -- a kind of scuff scuff scuff sound as she walked about the kitchen making coffee for herself and cocoa for me. Breakfast was always a 'folded over marshmallow toast' that I thought was the best breakfast in the world.

She loved her family and we came first. She wanted us near. And more, she demanded to be an integral part of our daily lives. She drove a 1949 Plymouth. Blue with grey furry seats. It had been my grandfathers; she drove it until she no longer drove at all - into the 1960s. There she'd be .. .. .. put-put-put-ting along in her little blue car. Often arriving at just the wrong time (according to my mother) .. .. but she never came empty-handed; she always had a treat. Donuts or dessert for a little visit during the day.

Well here's one I missed

2008-09-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

A solitary weekend. Larry is on Cape Cod at a Springfield College reunion clam bake.
And, I am having a lovely quiet long weekend.
A nice prelude to an early autumn vacation from school.

I borrowed some films from the library that I missed first time around and settled in this evening with a mug of darjeling tea and a plate of cookies .....

.... to watch
Mona Lisa Smile - Julia Roberts (2003)

The film is a little slice of the early 1950s, the manners and mores of the upper classes, the elite post-secondary schools and impossibly constricting role expectations of woman.

Katherine Watson (Julia Roberts) is a bright, earnest, free-thinking,feminist who comes to Wellesley from California as a first year art history instructor. She is seen as bohemian and non-conformist by her colleagues who refer to as "subversive" when she strays from away the sanctioned syllabus, teaches too much modern art, is relentless in her demand for excellence from students, and openly challenges the prevaling attitude that a woman's college is a holding place for making a good marriage. Katherine Watson believes she came to teach future women leaders of America -- not the wives of future leaders.

The cast of art students are a fine supporting cast and all together hold the film together well.

The film is pretty; its light and fluffy; it held my interest; I loved the music and costuming.
BUT
If 10 = the best film I ever saw,
then I guess I'd rate this film a 7.

(truth to tell: I liked the film better than my cookies)

On My Bedside Table

2008-09-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

Wonder When You'll Miss Me
Amanda Davis - William Monroe - 2003

I just finished this first novel by a very skillful storyteller.
It's first on the list for my book group which resumes on Wednesday.

"Amanda Davis has a wicked and inspired imagination,
her first novel . . . is just plan fabulous.
This is a story full of extraordinary events told with extraordinary skill."
Brady Udall, Miracle Life of Edgar Mint

The book is a coming-of-age story about 15 year old Faith Dunkle who runs away to join the circus after a gang rape on Homecoming Day at her high school. But even before the rape, Faith is an outsider; lonely and misunderstood and over-weight.

After the rape, she confides in no one which leads to an unsuccessful suicide attempt and a psychiatric hospital. From here and throughout, we witness Faith's odyssey on which she is joined by Fat Girl, the ghost of her formerly fat self.

Faith's journey takes her to the Fartlesworth Circus with whom she travels doing the most menial of tasks in exchange for bed and board. In the circus, Faith re-claims self-confidence and finds redemption in an environment built on second chances.

After a year Faith is given the opportunity to learn the aerialists routine and she says with confidence that she "will fly and twist" and that if she falls someone will "catch her".

By then the voice of Fat Girl has diminished; Faith is beginning to find some peace.
And the reader feels that Faith is on her way to the future.

End-of-summer scenes at the county fair

2008-09-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

ROCHESTER FAIR * STRAFFORD COUNTY * NEW HAMPSHIRE

The Rochester Fair has been playing to late-summer crowds for over 120 years. We lived in New Hampshire for 8 years and I've worked in Rochester for 5 of those yet we'd never been to the fair. Hard to figure why. Larry is lover of country fairs and goes to several every year.

Periodically during this summer, I thought about the fair coming and how I'd like to enter a quilt. I'd never done it before but know women who have entered their pumpkin pies, quilted comforts, and needle work; it seemed the time was right for me to jump in. So I did. Jump in. Entered a fabric art book. And came out with a second place ribbon (shown above).

There were countless entries for quilted work, needle work, and other crafts. I was quite in awe of a number of them but this black and white with a punch of red sampler really caught my eye. It was displayed high up from the rafters and I couldn't see whether it was hand-made or machine-made. Either way, it is a beauty!

Two colleagues from work also entered their work and both won ribbons: Bill for his fabulous workworking and Kathy for a wonderful country-styled christmas tree skirt in tans and browns. Both do exquisite work. Highly detailed and exacting. Real craftspeople.

It was fun to the silly and funky things at the fair too although I confess that I didn't pay the 50 cents to see the world's smallest horse. And by the way, from the look of the attendant, most people chose to stay away.

This absurd little display was across the field from the Hollywood Potbelly Pig Races -- another nearly ridiculous event but one that brought a lot of laughter from the crowd.

At the other end of that field was the entrance to the circus which showed a one-hour series of acts at various times throughout the day and evening. Among the acts, was a de rigeur high wire artist, a beautiful darkly handsome young man from Columbia with a fierce looking face. A beautiful woman from Roumania who was a transformational artist (is there such a designation?). Anyway, she magically, mysteriously changed outfits in the flash of an eye while dancing around seductively to music.

I loved this guy.

Handsome and debonnaire don't you think.

Just my kind of guy.

Look at his regal profile.

Take a look at that exquisite tongue.

These are miniature zebu originally from India and Africa. I'd never seen them before. There was a full-grown male with wicked-looking horns and big hump.

It was almost like Noah's Ark with this great variety of animal life: llamas, alpaca, sheltie ponies, bunnies, chickens, sheep, cattle, goats, a lion and a tiger, a zebra and giraffe, but no elephant. Donkeys and burros, too.

We went in the afternoon on a weekday and stayed until about 7 pm -- a great time. Few crowds. Lots of families. And elders. A nursing home contingent.

The sights, the sounds, the smells. The fun and laughter and playing like kids on the bumper cars and sharing a vanilla soft serve ice cream cone. And wishing I could still eat cotton candy!

Every year when summer comes around
They stretch a banner 'cross the main street in town
You can feel somethin's happenin' in the air

Well from Carol's house up on the hill
You can see the lights going up in Soldiers Field
Getting ready for the county fair

County fair, county fair,
Everybody in town'll be there
So come on, hey we're goin' down there
Down at the county fair.

Now you'll be hangin' tight when we hit the top
And that rollercoaster's ready to drop
And you braggin' how you wasn't even scared

Well you know I just love the sound
Of that pipe organ on the merry go round
Down at the county fair.

People dancin'out in the open air
Just rockin' down at the county fair

County fair, county fair
Everybody in town'll be there
So come on we're going down there

Now its gettin' late we had back to town
We let that fortune wheel spin around
Come on mister tell me what's waiting out there

Hope I can remember where our car's parked
Out at the county fair

Now off down the highway there's the last stream of cars
We sit a while in my front yard
With the radio playin' soft and low
I pull Carol close to my heart
And I lean back and stare up at the stars
Oh I wish, I never have to let this moment go.

(thank you Bruce Springsteen for use without permission)

A Self-styled One Woman's Ad Hoc Poll

2008-09-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, we drove up to Lebanon New Hampshire from our home in York Maine. I had an appointment with Dr. Bengston, my hem/onc at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center early on the following morning. We made a pleasant and restful stop at Lake Masabesic on the outskirts of Manchester for a picnic lunch.

Larry had ordered a surprise gift of an OBAMA '08 t-shirt for me. It came in the Tuesday mail and I decided to wear it with a pair of jeans on our car trip across New Hampshire which was planned to be a pokey, relaxing kind of day.

We stopped at C'est Cheese on Route 1 in North Hampton to add a treat to our picnic. The clerk looked at my shirt, smiled and made affirmative comments. I smiled back.

Later, we stopped at Dunkin Donuts and the clerk who fixed my coffee added his big broad smile and nice friendly comments to those made at the cheese store.

Further along the journey, we stopped at King Arther Bakery, Shop and School in Norwich Vermont just a few miles beyond Lebanon. While checking out with our purchases, I received a response similar to the earlier ones: big smile, friendly words. Nothing too overtly political for the workplace but simpatico words of affirmation.

We began to feel quite good about all these people and their political leanings.

In White River Junction, Vermont we had a hotel reservation at the Comfort Inn. It's quite close to the hospital, has a nice solar-heated pool, and is nearby AJ's Steakhouse, a favorite restaurant. Checking in was uneventful but we entered the elevator with a man who was traveling solo. He began a tirade, an anti-Obama tirade, as we entered the elevator, for the entire ride up to the third floor, through the elevator door and into the corridor. The gist of his gripe against Obama and the dems is the usual. I won't repeat it, you already know it.

But I would say that my poll is running 3 to 1 in favor.

Being Taken By Storm, Tropical and Political

2008-09-08T17:16:00.001-07:00

Hanna was down-graded to
tropical storm status on Saturday.
She dropped a total of 6 inches
on the coast but there was no wind,
and so little damage was done.
But by late Sunday afternoon,
after a bright, calm, dry day,
the sea still looked angry.

______________
Political Storms
Last week and the one before, I felt compelled to watch the DNC and RNC. There was a lot to recommend the DNC: Barack, Michelle, Bill and Hillary. I enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of the DNC and the way that it didn't "look" like every other convention since time immemorial. So, every night that week saw me before the television until 11 o'clock or later. Unbelievable: I don't watch TV more than half a dozen times in a year!

I want to be a True Believer. I want to think that Barack Obama is the new incarnation of Camelot. That he can inspire hope and generosity.

Then I got seduced by the RNC. Decidedly NOT by their politics. Not by their platforms either. No, it was my base curiousity about the governor from Alaska and her first Dude.

By the time, SHE came on we already knew WAY to much about her and her family.

I'm big-hearted. I will give HER this: her presentation was more than credible. I didn't say I bought the farm over HER content but HER delivery was a great surprise (to me).

Do I feel ashamed of lower instincts. No, I mean really, that is what the republicans are playing to......

______________________

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My nephew is 29 months old. When his mom asks, "who will be the next president?", he says, clearly, "O-BAM-A!"

______________________

And From Other Mouths

My local daily ran a political cartoon on the editorial page this morning. It depicted Bill Clinton reading the newspaper and the cut-line read: "But I wanted to be the First Dude!"

Tropical Storms, Tourists, and Roses

2008-09-07T13:44:00.000-07:00

We went down to Long Sands Beach this morning to survey the aftermath of Tropical Storm Hanna. She dropped six inches of rain on us but there was no wind, and no damage.

The sea was still angry though.

Lots of people had the same idea and were everywhere with their coffee and cameras.

We stopped at the General Store on the beach for coffee and bagels and drove up the Nubble to enjoy the view and eat our breakfast in the sun.

Driving around is getting easier now that the tourists are leaving. The grocery store is not quite as crowded and fewer people are shopping for dinner in their bathing suits -
a dead give-away that you are from 'away'.
---------
I know a woman in the tourist business down the coast a little bit. Every year, she says,
"God gives us tourists. But he also gives us September."

Motif #1 . . . Redux

2008-09-06T18:24:00.000-07:00

On Monday Larry and I drove south to Massachusetts' South Shore. We had a hotel reservation in Nantaskett Beach, just 20 miles south of Boston. We also had tickets to see Garrison Keilor's last show on his 2008 Rhubarb Tour at the South Shore Music Tent in Cohassett. It was an easy drive down and a promise of two lazy days at the shore. We arrived at high noon in time for high tide and a picnic of lobster sandwiches and iced tea on the rocks; we spent the afternoon reading and swimming. Pleasantly, the water temp was about 7 or 8 degrees warmer than we have been used to in Maine.

On the way home from Nantaskett, we drove up the North Shore and around Cape Ann.

The fish shack above is affectionaly known as "Motif #1"; its located in Rockport and has been a focal point for artists for decades.

In Nantaskett Beach there once was an amusement park called Paragon Park. It was popular and enjoyed by families for generations. It's gone now: all that is left is the carrousel house shown above with its gay horses, bright lights and music
On the drive home, we lingered a while in Rockport. Got seduced by an estate sale, met a charming couple and bought some of their books. We enjoyed walking around the port, window shopping, and having dinner in the "Fish Shack". Above is the view from our table at the where we lustily enjoyed chowder and steamers. Sooooo good.

This lovely little cottage is called, Gull Cottage; it's view gives on Boston Harbor and the skyline of the capitol city. Oh I envied the owners their little house with its arbor and garden and view.

Hull has an urban beach. It's a fishing town. And a tourist center that has known economic ups and downs over the years.

The public high school is across from the commercial fishing pier where you will also find people sport fishing, kids crabbing and daring one another to jump into the cold Atlantic.

All with a backdrop of hi-tech windmills.
Although many do, we did not find them at all objectionable.

End of Summer Interlude

2008-08-31T19:37:00.000-07:00

Larry and I spent a long weekend in Lancaster County Pennsylvania recently. The purpose of the trip was to see Leon Redbone in concert at the Mt. Gretna Playhouse.

We left on Friday morning. A nice plan for a leisurely drive, stopping for a picnic of cold shrimp, cheese, bread, tomatoes; arriving in time to freshen up for dinner and then the theater.

A great plan; all went without incident until the approach to the George Washington Bridge at about 1 o'clock. And we sat. Bumper to bumper. Stop and go and mostly stop. A horrific drive.

You know we are country people. We lived for years in the small village of New Salem in western Massachusetts with its few hundred souls, a general store, library, town hall, post office and book store. Even our move to New Hampshire and a small town of 5,000 didn't alter our life style all that much.

We are not urban people. We are not accustomed to traffic tie-ups that go on endlessly for hours. But on that Friday, we sat in traffic for hours and hours and hours from the approach to bridge and into New Jersey. You know that old saw about spending a week in New Jersey one day. Well that is exactly what we did on that Friday -- at least that's what it felt like. We were on the New Jersey turnpike until nearly 6 PM. Unbelievable. Where oh where was that leisurely drive; where was that fine picnic -- it sat in the cooler getting warm as there was no time, no place, no way to get off the road and enjoy it.

In truth, we didn't get to our hotel in Lititz until after 7 PM; the show was scheduled to start at 8; we hadn't eaten; there was no time to freshen up; and we had a 20 minute drive to Mt. Gretna.

However the drive to the Playhouse was through the Amish countryside. Small tidy villages gave us our first sense of beauty. Of relaxation. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Mt. Gretna is a wonderful late 19th/early 20th century resort, a former Chattaqua site with small cottages, a lake, a playhouse. The air is clean. The grounds are immaculate. Very family oriented. We loved it on sight. This was our first time seeing Leon Redbone in concert; it was his 5th season at Mt. Gretna. He didn't disappoint us: his voice is wonderful; his guitar playing is better, more skillful than I'd imagined! After the concert, we found a chinese restaurant and ordered take out for the hotel room -- at 11 PM!

On Saturday, we played in the sweet town of Lititz, visited a farmer's market and Amish shops. Had our first taste of 'burlap roasted corn on the cob' and that was a great delight. I bought 'meadow tea' - a soothing and tasty iced mint tea - from an earnest Amish family and it seemed to wash away the aches and frustrations of the previous day.

The remainder of our weekend was lovely. We stayed in the Mt. Gretna Inn on Saturday and Sunday on the third floor in a sumptuous room. The Inn serves a candle light breakfast; one of the inn-keepers is a professional chef from Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island. His signature dish is stuffed French Toast: two pieces of toast with the lightest whipped cream cheese and blueberries inside and over top a delicious maple syrup. Oh my oh my oh my ........

We met several very interesting guests at the Inn. One couple was from Mississippi, who like us had come all that way for the Redbone concert! Another couple, celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary, had just returned to the States from Africa where they were missionaries. A fascinating story!

The Inn is an arts & crafts style home built by an entrepreneur. It sits back on a broad green lawn and is fronted by a wide porch with comfortable wicker furniture. And that is where we spent Sunday after breakfast. Reading. Snoozing. Reading ........ and in the late afternoon, we headed for the lake and fresh cool mountain water. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

By Sunday evening I was beginning to dread the trip home: I told Larry that I was not going home if I had to go through New Jersey. So he bought an atlas and planned a return trip that headed us in a northeasterly direction towards Allentown and then up the Delaware Water Gap. Lots of green. Lots of country roads and small towns. Lots of things to look at. Places to stop and visit along the way. That route took us to Port Jervis and then onto Route 84 through Connecticut, the Massachusetts Turnpike; up Routes 495 and 95 and home to York.

Along the return journey we stopped Dingman Falls, part of the Delaware Water Gap. It was a short, easy hike into the falls and just right for stretching legs for the next leg of the trip.

These images were taken on that little hike. .. .. .. .Now this is the way I like to travel!

It is the only way - at least for a country girl!

He Needed Me . . .

2008-08-30T17:09:00.000-07:00

It was 1977. I was 33 years too young. And living in a small, wood-fired cottage in the foothills above the Connecticut River Valley in Massachusetts.

It was a funny sort of house, you know. Built into the side of a hill with the living room, kitchen and den on the upper floor and the bedrooms, bath rooms and laundry on the ground floor. Sliding glass doors opened onto a deck and woods. We had enjoyed all the seasons there: days spent cross-country skiing from that deck right into the woods. Packing gorp. Oranges. Apples. Enough for a day of skiing and home to a slow-cooker that eased a comforting aroma throughout the house. Our skiis were the 'old fashioned' kind that needed waxing. A small frustration to most skiers but I loved the job of figuring out the exact wax for the right temp and snow/ice conditions.

But that funny house was for sale in August of that year.

Dick my heart. My husband. The love of my life had gone to Ohio to begin a new job for a new corporation called, Guardian Unlimited, that was to be a moving force in 'cleaning' up an emptying the state institution in Columbus. Amy, my first child. My beautiful daughter just 12 years old had flown to Ohio to be with her dad when the new school year started. We had always lived in small villages and towns; in Ohio Amy would be in a large urban school and we were concerned. Starting school on the first day seemed to be the best plan so I bought an airline ticket from Hartford CT to Columbus Ohio for her. She and Dick would be staying with friends, also recent transplants from Massachusetts to Ohio until we sold our house in Massachusetts and our new house in Columbus was ready.

Really, this had been a very strange summer. Not at all typical. In June, Amy, 12 and Shelly, 15 flew by TWA from Boston to Los Angeles to spend two weeks with a favorite great aunt 'Nita. Amy was barely home when Dick left for the long drive to Columbus and the start of a new career. The morning he left, his car packed for the long trip, I stood at the door to say, 'goodbye'. I was overwhelmed by the thought that I would never see him again. More than a 'thought', it was an all-encompassing feeling, a sudden knowledge of 'alone-ness'.

I was only 19 when we married. A mere child. A slip of a girl. He was 26. And he was my life. My savior. My best friend. My only love and only lover. He loved me best. Always and ever. I thought I'd never see him again. Never feel his arms around me. . . or his lips on mine. Again. Ever.

In fact, I did make one trip to Columbus to look at real estate. We spent the weekend looking at homes in areas that frightened me, that I had no interest in living in. But I was a good scout and a faithful wife and I looked and looked and together we found a house and made a deposit and an offer.

Dialing forward to August 30 1977. I made a call to Dick late in the afternoon to report that our house had sold. An offer had been made and accepted; I had signed the papers and they were on their way to Ohio for his signature. I gleefully reported that I would soon join him and Amy. But he was too busy to talk; he said how pleased he was but that he was playing basketball with friends from work and needed to run .. .. .. to meet them for the game .. .. .. .. .. I finished up a few odd bits of work and left the office for home. It was a short drive really and I was soon there . . . in time to freshen up for dinner.

Dick's secretary had just died a sudden, sad death from cancer. She had a lover, an Episcopal minister who I had done some work with .. .. .. I knew Jack was hurting and had invited him for dinner that evening of August 30. Jack arrived on time. But I couldn't leave the house saying that I felt a strange feeling....a pain.....something......could we just sit awhile before leaving? Of course, Jack agreed.

I don't believe I was very good company that little while before the phone rang and the news that "Dick has had a heart attack". . . . "taken to a hospital". . . "stay where you are" . . . . "I will call as soon as I have more information".

There has never been one moment when I doubted that my body knew his distress. His pain. That a strong, invisible connection held us together in a mysterious, no spiritual way. That was what held me there in the house that evening.

Moments before the call came, I 'knew' he needed me. . . . but I could not help. Within a few minutes -- 30 or so? -- another call came from the hospital saying that Dick had died.

More Ordinary But So Joyful Days

2008-07-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

Scenes of summer's bounty.

Yesterday, we visited the York Farmer's Market, a first for us.

When we lived in Rye, our regular Saturday destination was the big market in Portsmouth with its live music; ethnic food vendors; organic meats and produce; and flowers flowers flowers.

We approached the market not expecting to be WOWed but were delighted with the experience.

The market, only about a mile from our house, sits on the top of a little shady hill on Route 1 just off the Maine Turnpike and right next door to Stonewall Kitchen's flagship store (but that's another story for another blog post).

There were the usual craft vendors, non-profits and issue advocates:
but these were surrounded by small growers and bakers. Our bounty consisted of artisan cheeses from Westbrook (a Tuscan curd & harvaati-like cheese), fresh flowers that filled three vases when we got home; hand-crafted granola; a delicious long, slendor 3-cheese baguett;
and vegetables! fresh snap peas, swiss chard, onions, new potatoes, fabulous red red red beets.
And HUGE surprise !OLIVES! from Greece that are brined just a mere 2 towns away in Sanford.
The family owns property on the southern tip of Greece on the Mediterranean.
~~~~~~~~~~

My sister Michelle invited me to meet her at Emily Dickenson Museum in Amherst (Massachusetts) for a flower arranging seminar.

We met in the afternoon, for an interesting discussion of the role and uses of flowers in the home in the 19th century. And then made arrangements with flowers using design principles we'd learned.

This is one of the tussie-mussies we made - a typical nosegay for Victorian ladies.

What fun!!!
We also each made typical floral arrangements for vases as well.

More Blissful Summer Days: A Mini-Travelogue with Nostalgia, Too

2008-07-12T12:24:00.001-07:00

Thursday was a delightful day! The weather was perfect New England summer: dry air, 80 degree temps, clear sky and bright sun.

For us, this was a little one-day, get-away and its 'purpose', if we needed one, was the current exhibit at the Museum of Art in Portland: "Georgia O'Keefe and The Camera".

Of course, we also expected to wander around neighborhoods of the Old Port and waterfront with its ever increasingly upscale bistros and shops. Expensive play things, baubles and bangles; window shopping is fun. We also planned to eat fresh fish for lunch and dinner before we embarked on the little journey back to the train station in Wells. A great plan, we thought!

We boarded the Amtrak Downeaster in Wells Maine at 11 AM on its northward journey from Boston to Portland. The train is comfortable; the seats spacious with lots of leg room; there is a snack bar for food and beverages. We'd do this trip by train even without the value-added views for the sheer comfort of not dealing with city traffic, parking and of course the price of gasoline!

The trip for us from Wells to Portland is only about 40 minutes and hugs the coastline. Makes two stops on its way to Portland, in Saco and Old Orchard. The trip through Saco was interesting with river views. Train tracks go right through the old manufacturing district now mostly empty and abandoned. Great space for development! I can see shops and space for artists; and mixed residential areas, too. I wonder why this doesn't happen.

This area has deep, ancient connections for me. During World War II, my dad was stationed at Camp Edwards before he was sent overseas. It was 1943; he knew he'd soon be gone to war. My mom was in Massachusetts; she had an apartment there and a job; she was close to family and friends. She said she'd been able to save some money by living carefully. So when dad asked to make an uncharacteristic leap: quit her job, leave her apartment and come to Maine for the summer, she said, emphatically, "No". He persisted. She relented and found a room in Saco and a defense job nearby. They had as carefree a summer of fun and love as was possible during those horrible times. I remember seeing photographic memories of that summer -- my mom and dad, he in uniform with other GIs and other wives and girlfriends. And, of course, there is also one very real and quite human result: me, I was born within the year and after my dad had gone overseas in April 1944.

Whenever I have traveled this area, I have felt a tingling, quivering in my DNA.
This is, afterall, the home of my conception!

Our train stops smack in the middle of Old Orchard Beach just a short step or two from the ocean beaches, the amusements, restaurants, hotels, motels, and ticky tacky too. One could easily pack for a day at the beach returning on the late train around 8:30 or so. I think I may return with Victoria for just such a day!

After stopping in Old Orchard, the train travels through salt marshes on its way to Portland; the natural views are quite nice.
We've made this trip by car many times over the years: when I had consultancy work for the state of Maine or various non-profit organizations, when we vacationed with or without grandchildren in York or Pine Point, or when we drove up Route 1 to get lobsters for steaming at the Alewife farm in Cape Elizabeth.

Maine memories abound; living here is rich for us -- great day-to-day and layered with lovely nostalgia.

From Old Orchard, it is just a hop, skip and jump to the Amtrak/Concord Trailways station on the edge of Portland.

We'd planned to take the Metro #5 bus into the city and straight to the Museum which is in an area that boasts two museums as well as the Maine College of Art. And lots of restaurants.

We were hungry and decided to have a light lunch before seeing the exhibit: got great fresh Maine fish at the Dogfish Cafe -- fresh crab for me and mussels for Larry. The Dogfish is new to us and on the sight of a favorite Greek restaurant from years past. Although we were disappointed at first to see a favorite restaurant gone, we like the new quite a lot.

Dinner was on the water on a dock with cruise ships and fishing boats beside us. Delightful early evening. Nice dinner of haddock and steamers to share. A taxi whisked us back to the train station and back to Wells and the short drive home to York.

Days like this one are so important for us ---- the planned and unplannedalike. Larry's nearly-93 year old dad lives with us and it is difficult to get away for more than a day or two at a time.
So we look for BIG JOYS that come in little packages.

A day like this one carries over into the next and the next.

A day like this one colors all days to come with joy.

It has smiles that keep on smiling.

Good Summer Reads

2008-07-11T19:28:00.001-07:00

Reader, Bernard Schlenk. I just devoured this short novel. Although I can't say that I actually 'liked' the characters (usually a pre-requisite for me) but the complex moral problem set up by the author is compelling. Stayed with me for days. Weeks. Heck, it is still rumbling around in 'there' unsolved.

Without A Map, Meredith Hall. I joined a book group in the late winter. This book was on the reading list but not selected by the group. In the spring, going to a meeting on a work day and listening to NPR (my singular source of daily news and culture) I came upon an interview with Hall in which she read parts of the memoir. And I was hooked. I had arrived at my destination but Hall was still talking/reading. I just could not leave the program and so kept driving around that small town up and down hills and decided at that moment to read the book. Usually, I am not fond of memoirs. Usually they tell all and tell more than any sensible person cares to know. But this one. This one is fantastic! It takes place in a small New Hampshire town in the 1960s and obviously is a MUST read.

Summer People, Marge Piercy. Larry, a book-collector, bought this book for me a few years ago. A signed first edition. Frankly, I think I might have read the book when it came out nearly 20 nearly years ago........but then again....... Whatever, I read it recently and decided at that moment to return to Piercy whom I have not read in years. A really good read.

The Gathering, Ann Enright. A British novelist she tells the story of a large Irish family. I was particulary fond of the device she uses to tell a multi-generational story. Melancholy? Yes, of course. It's Irish. But it is a wonderful read.

Ladder of Years, Ann Tyler. I confess the obvious: I prefer books by women writers although I usually don't enjoy the 'quirky' Tyler characters. I quickly tire of them; I want to take them by the shoulders and say, "Buck up" "Get on with it". But I did like this story and felt enormous empathy for the female protagonist who 'runs' away from her much-older husband and family responsibilities. I think a pivotal moment in the book in terms of understanding the motivations of the character is when the husband turns to the police after his wife has gone missing. In responding to questions, the husband cannot recall what color are her eyes and what she was wearing! Read it!

I read The Sand Castle by Rita Mae Brown this weekend. I have not read Brown for decades I think! This book is another in a series of books about Juts and Wheezy (Loose Lips, Bingo, Six of One) whom I have never read and tells the story of family and loss and grieving through a day at the beach in 1952. Heck I might read the rest of the series.

I finished Before You Know Kindness by Chris Bohjalian today during an unanticipated sick day. It has the flavor you come to expect from Bohjalian: tight, spare writing. To the point. Without fluff or wordy description. He was afterall, a newspaper writer. And a darn good storyteller. While this one isn't a page turner, it has an even careful pacing and lots of detail in the unfolding of events and building of characters.

What's next on my bedside table? An Elizabeth Berg and a Marge Piercy.

Oh Those Blissful Summer Days

2008-07-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

This has been a magical summer.

I feel healthy and strong for the first time in nearly 8 years.

I love living in this house and in York; I enjoy the beach and take long lovely walks plugged into music. I'm building a shady rock garden, the first gardening I've been able to do in years. I have returned to working in fabric.
And loving it all!

Victoria came for a visit. At 15, she said she'd "always" wanted to surf. So we enrolled her in a class at Long Sands Beach. Here she is in the picture on the right holding the white and yellow board and below.

She is an honor roll student who takes advanced level classes; athletic in soccer, field hocky and softball. And,sh is in school theater events -- several times the only middle schooler in senior high productions. Victoria will return in August for a week in theater camp at the Ogunquit Playhouse.

Yesterday, Larry and I played tourist -- something we do exceedingly well. We took the Downeaster to Portland, the train hugs the coastline and there are nice scenic views along the way. The purpose of our trip was the exhibit, "Georgia O'Keefe and the Camere" that is at the Portland Museum of Art through the summer. A fabulous show! But while there, we walked the Old Port for window-shopping and people-watching. Ate fresh Maine fish for lunch and dinner and boarded the last train home at night. And all and all a really great day!

CLL Redux 2 Years Later

2008-05-04T16:30:00.001-07:00

I keep returning to early summer, 2006 and the path I have walked since then. It was then that Dr. Miller at Beth Israel/Deaconess Hospital asserted with professional confidence -- no, with arrogance. With definitiveness. With bravado. That I have chronic lymphocytic leukemia. There were no other answers for the state of my bone marrow at that time.

And the result? I became sick. Sicker than I was already. I became a patient. A leukemia patient. I spent the next three or four months: out of work, weekly blood draws and hem/onc appointments. Feeling bad. Worse with prednisone withdrawal. Hard to tell the difference between the disease and the treatment and the withdrawal symptoms.

I didn't know anyone with leukemia -- well, I didn't know any living adult with leukemia. I knew of the granddaughter of a co-worker who had an acute leukemia diagnosed at only 18 months. I had a friend who died -- probably 35 years ago -- from adult onset acute leukemia. But that is it. So I heard the words. And then I slipped down on a deep dark whole. When I emerged, I was a 'patient'. I now had assumed new labels to describe me: 'Sick'. 'Cancer/Leukemia Victim'. The diagnosis put me through a whole host of emotional changes: I was sick;I felt sick. I could name my malady and it was frightening: I felt I would die young: I had bad 'markers'. I was 'fragile' and prone to infection. I worried about being in school with young disabled kids.

Then I started to read the words of other CLL patients: the scholarly words of people like Chaya (CLL Topics) and David (http://www.clldiary.blogspot.com/). Brilliant minds. Important stuff. I joined several 'boards" --- like the "digest" "cllforum" and "cllcfriends". I googled. I scoured the literature. I understood very little; my right brain rebelled mightily at these scientific, medical terms and concepts. But I persisted.

And then spring came. 2007. I finally began to understand some of the words and concepts that had evaded me previously. I read my labs and compared them to the typical 'cll-er'; I found no match.

Did I have CLL?

I posed this question to bigger lights and brighter minds than I will ever be: Dr. Terry Hamblin, for example, who said that it was not unusual for early stage/low risk CLL that presents with autoimmune hemolytic anemia to be knocked back by high doses of prednisone. And then, my doctor, Elizabeth Bengston at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center did a re-take of one of the diagnostic tests (flow cytometry) and found no CLL in peripheral blood.

I did have a host of autoimmune issues that had plagued me for years; I had begun to attribute them to the CLL. But in summer 2007 these were 'knocked back' by entacort and prednisone and colchicine thanks to Dr. Rigby at Dartmouth who was unafraid to name my other beast "Behcet's Disease".

So, where am I now nearly two years since the Beth Israel diagnosis? And what has the diagnosis meant to me?

Well, first, it gave me a new identity: patient. It labelled me 'sick'. But I am not these words. And it took nearly two years to get back to me: I am Pat. Spiller. Woman. Grandmother. Daughter. Mother. Friend. Advocate. Artist.

I no longer wait for the other disease-shoe to drop. I no longer read the current research; I no longer keep up-to-date on the newest and best CLL treatment methodologies. I don't even think of myself as someone waiting for the beast to strike again.

I don't even know that it will.

I don't know.

Who can say?

But I ask: could Dr. Miller have given me the CLL news differently? What if he spoke slowly. What if he hadn't been half-in and half-out the door when he told me? Would it have made a difference to my frame of mind, if he had used different words. Would I then have come to use other words about myself and my medical condition? Would it have taken two years to come around to feeling whole and healthy again?

What I Didn't Learn in Kindergarten

2008-04-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

It was summer, 1958. I was 13 and about to enter St. Bernard's Central Catholic High School as a Freshman in September.

All that summer and for years to come, I made for the beaches .... or at the very least the sunny backyard ... oiled my body with lotions and potions guaranteed to burnish my skin to a nut-like brown. At the local beaches, I spread my blanket, arranged my gear and prepared to read and watch the boys. Well, wasn't that the purpose of the tan? To get the look, to catch a boy.

Sunbathing was critical to getting the look of summer. You know, that dark and luxurious tan that played so well against summer whites: shirts, shorts, and sundresses.

Here's an excerpt from an article in the Los Angeles Times that ran on July 20, 1958 entitled, A Warning To Sunbathers:

"For most of us sun-bathing is not only pleasurable but beneficial as well. There are an unfortunate few people, however, who sustain some degree of damage to their skin as a direct result of excessive exposure to the sun. This damage for the most part is temporary......"

Hmmmm. Temporary?

Or perhaps we were just preparing for a later life phase:

Solar Keratoses.

Who knew?

Why didn't they tell?

For these, I am thankful

2007-11-21T09:34:00.000-08:00

For trust & hope

For Joy
And the beauty in each day

For Larry

Who has wooed me

with lilies

For Retreats
On Star and Appledore
& New Harbor, Maine

For Music
That soothes
comforts
lifts my spirit
opens my heart
moves my body

For Books
To fall into
fall in love with
& read again
& some again

A Good Samaratin? I guess it depends on your perspective

2007-11-15T16:45:00.000-08:00

Strange weather in New Hampshire. The the northern tier -- what we call the 'North Country', is under a flood watch this evening. But a "heavy snow" warning begins for them at 4 AM through to 9 PM on Friday. Such is the diverse beauty of New England.

On the coast today, it was dark and gloomy with frequent and periodic heavy rain most of the day. Temperatures hovered close to the 60 degree mark -- a little warm for the season.

I had a salon appointment after work and arrived just in time for another burst of hard rains. Parking as close to the door as possible, I opened my umbrella and made for the door.

A young mom was walking toward me from the mall pushing a carriage with a toddler. She had no cover from the rain.

I offered to cover her with my umbrella and stay with her as she walked to her automobile.

A pretty ordinary scenario? Don't you think?

Well, the young woman only reluctantly allowed my assistance. I was prepared to stay with her and cover the child while she opened the doors and lifted the child into the car. But I was quite summarily dismissed. And I realized only later as I walked away that she was suspicious of the assistance.

So I wondered: what must your life be like if you cannot trust a 5 foot, 63 year old grandmother, who looks like this:

Oh. You caught me. I wasn't wearing my crown.

Behcet's can be lonely place

2007-11-14T19:25:00.000-08:00

I don't know one single person who shares this malady.

In fact, its prevalence in the US is about 1 in half a million people.

Tonight, however, I joined an internet 'chat' in-progress, for people with BD and very quickly felt affirmed and less lonely.

In truth, there were less than 10 people involved in the 'chat' but those ten represented an amazing geography: one participant is from Greece; the moderator is from Northern Ireland; and several others are from the New York, Virginia, New Jersey and I think Wisconsin; and there were a few others whose location I didn't learn.

'Chat' participants were warm and welcoming. Not unlike what I have come to expect from the CLL Forum and CLLC Friends: generous, friendly, encouraging, intelligent.

One of the interesting aspects of the nearly 2-hour online event was the voluntary translation going on. A woman from New Jersey was translating from English to Greek and Greek to English for the gentleman from Greece.

This was not her job. She is one who shares Behcet's and I feel certain she joined the 'chat' for her own personal reason.

Yet it was just done.

Because it was needed.

Because she was there and had the skills.

I'll Be Seeing You

2007-11-12T07:45:00.001-08:00

July 22, 1945

Germany

Dearest,

I am on my way back to camp. I'm almost there . . . . . I've been in (this) place for two days . . . . getting lots of rest and good food.

How are you, darling . . . . And Patty?

As for me, I am in the best of health.

I haven't heard anything about going home but it won't be too long now, I hope.

Write often, darling.

I love you with all my heart.

And hope to see you soon.

Love and Kisses, Bob

PS.
Give Patty a big kiss for me.

I love you, Dot.

Below the body of this short letter is the admonition to:

REPLY BY V-MAIL

They were so young, those WWII warriors. He was only 24 when he wrote this letter. They were married in 1942 but there wasn't much time for them to be together, to know each other. The war was on; he was married in his uniform.

My father and his two brothers, Norman and Richard, fought the 'good war'. His father, Noe Pierre, was a casualty of WWI and spent most of his adult life in and out of veteran's hospitals suffering the effects of mustard gas. Noe was a staunch advocate for returning soldiers of the WWII and worked tirelessly for them when he was able. He died when I was ten but I have such clear memories of him in the lead automobile heading up the Memorial Day Parade in our Massachusetts town. Military and patriotism were important themes in his household.

During the war years, my mother and I lived with my paternal grandparents. I was the first grandchild and doted on and probably spoiled by my mother, grandparents and youngest uncle, Richard, who was still at home when I was born. I'm told that he would gather me into his arms, take me into his bedroom, prop me on pillows and tell all about his latest 'girl' and his date for the evening.

I recall a room that functioned as an office for my grandfather with a large desk and world globe. My mother said that he also had a large map of the world over his desk on which he plotted the advance of the allied forces. He had a bald, shiney head and I loved the way it smelled. I never smelled that fragrance again.

Hormonal Imbalance

2007-11-05T16:30:00.001-08:00

We got tickets for the Four Bitchin Babes this Saturday evening at the Music Hall in Portsmouth -- a show we really looked forward to as we hadn't seen them for a few years. Their new show called, Hormonal Imbalance, was a near-sell-out. By the time we decided to go there were only great single seats left. We took the singles reasoning that after 20+ years we could actually be apart that long.
Hurrican Noel was rushing up the east coast from North Carolina on its way to the Canadien Maritimes. Reports and storm warnings called for all-day rain, high winds and rough seas. It was a blustery night but by the time we were leaving for the show, the storm had been down-graded to a tropical storm (another indication of global warming? seems late for us to be getting a tropical storm!)

I felt it was a great night to curl up with a book and a cup of tea rather than brave the wind and rain from parking garage to Music Hall. But we had already paid for the tickets; we went to the show which was, indeed, a full house with a pleasantly appreciative audience (mainly women).

This foursome is not the original Four Babes; only Sally Fingerett (upper left in the photo) was an original Babe with Christine Lavin, Patty Larkin -- and one other, whose name escapes me at the moment. But these four babes can sing. And write. They are called 'cross-over folk' artists. Their harmony is supreme. They give funny, poignant, heartfelt, high-energy performances.

The Babes gave a nice nod to the men in the audience giving them lots of kudos for bravery! It was a female, night-out for sure.

Their patter and their tunes really poked fun at female angst. One of my favorites was, The Boob Fairy Didn't Come For Me, and poked fun at women who are never satisfied with their hair, face, hips, legs, butts, lips, ears, and-you-name-it-we-probably-hate-it!

Another tune that brought the house down was based on 30,000 pounds of bananas -- but the truck driver in this tune was carrying 30,000 pounds of VIAGRA -- which, on impact, got into the town water supply.

These Babes are on tour together and individually.

I enjoyed the foursome; I would hear each one on her own as well.

Check them out here. You can play their video and listen to tracks from the show's CD.

2007-10-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

Life is too short for drama and petty things,
so kiss slowly, laugh insanely, love truly

and forgive quickly.
(Unknown)

Life is too short for drama: I have witnessed argument after argument on the CLL boards (ACOR and the Forum) and I just cannot understand the motivation, the rationale for such behavior. The newest board, the CLLC Friends, was started nearly a year ago because of the defection of several members who had a falling out with other members. Now, another member of the Forum is threatening to leave because she feels her opinions cannot be shared without sarcasm or rancor.

Life is too short for drama and petty things: After all, what is being shared is information ~~ information that we all need to know. Other times what is shared is opinion and/or personal experience. But whatever they are, they are just words on the screen. They can so easily be 'erased' if found offensive, upsetting or frustrating. One has the ability to just walk away in a very real sense. So why not? What does motivate people to harangue over small details and personal opinion or interpretation?

We need to forgive quickly: We, the members, are all the same. Our great equalizer is the disease we share. But that just doesn't seem sufficient of itself to keep people from hurting one another.

Last summer when I was hungry for information about CLL, I found the CLL Forum. Actually, I started looking for information even before I had a diagnosis, when all I had was a phrase (small clonal population in bone marrow and an appointment to see a hematologist in Boston. Recently, I heard someone say they had a degree from Google U. which is my first choice when I want to know something. So, I googled "small clonal population" and up popped a list that included many references to CLL. It was DrM. who gave me the diagnosis; it was also DrM. who advised against using the internet as an information source on CLL saying that the information on the web was "old" and "frightening". I didn't heed his advice.

I quickly became a member of the Forum, a big step for me as I had never done any kind of on-line bulletin board or chat. I lurked awhile and then took the plunge and what a response! I felt wrapped around by the warmth and friendliness of strangers ~ ~ and I learned about my disease, I began to feel less alone. Over the months, I saw and experienced the wonderful generosity of spirit as members shared their personal stories, offered advice and made suggestions. There is a great wealth of knowledge among its membership and it freely shared. One feels almost daily to be on the cusp of what is new and current in CLL. The present disagreement is about the efficacy of alternative treatments or holistic interventions and whether there is sufficient science (data) to support their use. Clearly, I just don't understand why we just cannot leave our members to their own discretion. Let those who are interested in such topics expound on them in the thread that is allocated to it. If one is not interested, one needed visit the thread.

At the ACOR site, that is not as easily done. I continue to visit ACOR but I feel less connected to it; it feels somehow less personal. For me, it is not as compelling as the Forum. And, there are a lot of rules about what is kosher to post and this stiffles what could be worthwhile and important discussion. ACOR members seem even more given to argument ... which seem to devolve into free-for-alls as folks weigh-in their opinions.

I continue to be a frequent visitor to ACOR because of the posts by Dr. Terry Hamblin whose great gift of knowledge and experience are generously shared. Now I scan topic headings and authors and read only what is of interest to me at that moment ~~ unless it is an answer by Dr. Hamblin or one of my favorite authors. And then I leave the site. Finish my internet or other computer business and walk away. And get on with my life and the business of staying healthy.

This level of angst about small things just cannot be conducive to a healthy body and mind.

What to do?

If you wish to make anything grow you must understand it

2007-10-25T12:04:00.001-07:00

NIGHT GARDENING

A friend recommended

Night Gardening

E.L. Swann, Hyperion, 1999.

E.L. Swann is a pen-name for Kathryn Lasky, well-known children's author.

Well she didn't just recommend it; she brought me her copy saying she just knew I'd love it. IT was given to her by another friend for the same reason. I read it once and just fell into the novel. I reveled in it's power and fell in love with the characters, Maggie and Tristan. I wept.

The novel is just filled to the brim with magical prose and lyrical narrative. For example:

". . . . Kind of half yearning and half -

well, half like he was on the edge of a dream, a very old dream.

"A very old dream," Maggie repeated softly. "How do you mean?"

""I'm not sure. you know how some people spend a life just searching

for something and don't really know what for exactly,

but they know that somewhere out there it is really there,

if they can just get to it.

Well, that is how it was with him."

And now, having finished a second reading, the book is just as satisfying, just as delicious.

I recommend this quietly moving short novel to you.

Surfing the web to find out more about E.L. Swann and the novel, I read that she had the story in mind for a long time and that the catalyst for the story was the "Secret Garden".

The novel's structure is built around quoatations from gardening books. These begin each chapter. Japanese gardens and contemplative gardens are recurrant themes in the citations. The first chapter opens with this quotation which I believe is the very essence of the novel.

If you wish to make anything grow you must understand it,

and you must understand it in a very real sense.

Russel Page, The Education of a Gardener

Maggie Flaherty Welles, only child of Irish immigrants marries into a Boston Brahmin family. She was a bright, bold, red-headed young woman who was completely taken over by the material power of Adams Welles and the entire Welles family. But for all the life and energy that she brings to the marriage, it simmers away in the alcoholic haze of her husband. Now at 61, a widow with one son and a daughter who both carry on their father's failures and weakness for alcohol, she has suffered a stroke that paralyzes her left side. Maggie, who was once an avid gardener, now painfully compares her lifeless body to her derelict garden. She only half-heartedly gives herself to her various therapies and one feels she is retreating from life. A particularly painful moment for Maggie (and for the reader) is her realization that the stroke has caused very little change in her life. In fact, she realizes, her life had been deadened by a kind of paralysis during her long, dry marriage to Adams.

The spark in the novel comes in the shape of Tristan Mallory, a silver-haired landscape gardener who is at work re-building the garden of Maggie's nearest neighbor with whom she shares a garden wall. Unaware, each is watching the other:

"Once an avid gardener, Maggie is intrigued by the activity. Tristan Mallory, the silver-haired, blue-eyed architect, recognizes a kindred soul and returns her interest. Far from being repulsed by her stroke-impaired appearance, Tristan sees Maggie as a person of rare inner beauty. They begin to meet at night to restore Maggie's garden, which has withered from the combination of Maggie's financial and physical limitations. " (Susan Scribner)

It is in their budding relationship that Maggie begins to heal, to feel life moving through her again.

"Night Gardening skillfully portrays a fleeting but powerful romance between these two mature characters . . . . . in its brief pages, Maggie's personality comes alive . . . . (Susan Scribner)

The romance is powerful and all too brief. I wanted it to go on and on.

I N F J People

2007-10-24T18:08:00.000-07:00

PERSONALITY TYPING

I was reading the CLL Forum this evening and was intrigued by one of the posts. It was a link to a self-administered an on-line personality test not unlike the Myers-Briggs based in Jungian theory. Several of the members had taken the test and reported their results.

Once, a long time ago, in a professional team-building setting, I was given the test and then promptly forgot the results. Ever since I have been slightly envious of those folks who blithely recite their profile.

The results of tonight's test are: Introvert. Intuitive. Feeler. Judger (INFj)

Life as an Introvert, Intuitive, Feeler, Judger
People of this type tend to be:

creative, original, and independent;

thoughtful, warm, and sensitive;

global thinkers with great passion for their unique vision;

cautious, deliberate, and planful;

organized, productive, and decisive;

reserved and polite.

I have no idea whether and how much the results of a Myers-Briggs test can change over time and if these results are anything like the previous ones.

I found the following at www.personalitytype.com:

"The most important thing to INFJs is their ideas, and being faithful to their vision.

According to this type, Introverted Intuition with Feeling, the direction of my energy is 'internal'; I suposedly put a premium on information from the 'internal' or imaginative world; I tend to make decisions based on emotions; and I organize life events and act according to plans.

More mundane analyses of this type of personality include, among other things:

* not good with money

* dislikes conflict and criticism

* has high expectations of herself and others

* is a perfectionist.

Hope ~~ perches in the soul

2007-10-20T05:46:00.000-07:00

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune ~~ without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Behcet's 101

2007-10-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

Evidence of Behcet's Disease has existed for centuries. But it was not 'discovered' until 1937 when Turkish skin specialist, Professor Hulusi Behcet, published a report describing patients with recurrent mouth ulcers, genital ulcers and eye inflammations that the combination became known as 'Behcet's Disease'. Since this original description, however, people have come to believe that the disease may be associated with many other symptoms (gastrointestinal, pulmonary, cardiac, central nervous system ~~ in fact, wherever inflammation of the blood vessels occurs).

Causes for Behçet's are unknown; it is not known if there is just one cause. Whatever the cause, the result is that affected tissues become inflamed. Small blood vessels, particularly, become inflamed (this is known as vasculitis) and this can cause symptoms in many different parts of the body.

It is possible that a specific virus or bacterium may be the cause of the syndrome, but no specific infection has yet been clearly identified.

Most writers state with certainty that Behçet's is an autoimmune disease in which the immune system attacks the body's own tissues, but for others this is not yet certain; the disease is different from other autoimmune diseases in some aspects.

There is no evidence that Behçet's syndrome can be passed on to other people. It is not associated with cancer, or with a specific diet, or with any particular lifestyle (past or present). Most people with the syndrome will live a normal lifespan.
How common is Behçet's syndrome?
Behçet's syndrome is rare in the UK -- probably about 2,000 people are affected. In the US there may be 15,000 people affected by Behcet's.

The condition is more common in Mediterranean countries, Turkey, the Middle East, Japan and south-east Asia. Because Behçet's syndrome is more common in these regions, the illness has been called the Silk Route Disease, after the ancient trade route for silk which ran through these areas.
Behçet's can occur in most ethnic groups, and it is still unknown to what extent ethnic background increases or reduces risk. Behçet's occurs in males and females, and can affect all age groups, although it usually develops in the 20s and 30s. Some writers/researchers have said that males are more seriously/aggressively affected than males.

It is a long-term (chronic) problem which sometimes becomes less troublesome in later life.

Mouth ulcers occur in 97% of patients with Behcet's.

Genital ulceration and skin lesions occur in 75% or more of patients.

Brain (neurologic) disease occurs in less than 20% of patients.

Inflammation inside the eye occurs in up to 75 % of patients.

Both the small and large blood vessels (the vascular system) can be affected.

People who have vascular involvement are at an increased risk of a blood clot in a vein.

The vessels of the central nervous system brain, spinal cord, or heart may be affected.