If you don’t live in the US of A, no worries. You’re really not missing much. A few lucky souls get an extra day off; there may be a rally or two. But other than that, it’s a holiday that never really seems to get off the ground. 

Personally, I think it’s the perfect time to see how far we’ve come–and how far we’ve yet to go. The key is to keep moving forward. To keep fighting for what is right. To keep dreaming for that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’

Of course, that last bit is not as easy as we might hope, now is it? We’ve only to watch the news, take in the latest goings on in the world to realize the fight continues. After all, there will always be bullies. And bullies make it hard to persevere. But persevere we must. For just when the fight seems uphill, and the numbers seem against us, that’s precisely when we must hold fast–when we must stand for what is right, put our hands toward change, and be the voice for those who have none.  

It’s not for the faint of heart, mind you. Thankfully, we need only do our part; the final outcome does not belong to us. That, alone, should give us joy for the work yet to be done . . . 

Last Friday night a firetruck, lights a blazing, turned down our street. We have neighbors across the way who battle serious health issues–I thought it might be for them. But when I peeked out the front window, I couldn’t see the truck; I could, however, see the lights reflecting in the windows across the street. They were definitely on our side of the street. They were definitely close.

I tried to talk myself into thinking perhaps they just preferred parking on this side. Perhaps it was simply a small fire, easily extinguished. Perhaps it was a false alarm. But even as I rationalized, I kept saying, “I hope it’s not at Dennis’ . . . I hope it’s not at Dennis’‘”

Deep inside, I think I knew. I just didn’t want to admit it . . . even when cars kept stopping off at their house . . . when people came bearing food . . . when Monday came and went, and Dennis’ truck never left the driveway.

It was Tuesday before I worked up the nerve to look at obits. Dennis was there. He was 51.

And the tears keep a fallin’. For Dennis was more than our favorite neighbor; he was the neighborhood patriarch. He knew everyone, right down to the woman who delivers our mail. He knew because he made a point to know. You could always hear him out catching up with one person or another. A quiet man, he was not–and he was all the louder when he really got into a conversation. There goes Dennis, we’d say, which always made us giggle.

Then there was spring. We knew spring had officially arrived with the first ting of horseshoes. A landscaper, he created the most magical backyard; complete with a Koi-filled pond, moss covered rocks, shade trees . . . and a small horseshoe pit–the sound of which echoed throughout the warmer months, as natural as the singing of the birds.

I can only imagine the hole he leaves close friends and family. If he loved people on whole, he loved certain people all the more–I can still see their faces, papering the back wall of his workshop. But he’ll leave a hole for the rest of us, too. And that, my friends, says a lot.

Now he leaves us to pick up the slack. To take the time to get to know. At the very least, to say hello. Not just in this neighborhood, but life in general. After all, we have but one life to do our best. And close only counts in horseshoes . . .

So it was George W. Calver became the first physician appointed; and the Office of Attending Physician was born. For thirty-five years Calver worked to improve the health of members of the U.S. Congress. This included his 1951 “10 Commandments of Health,” which he posted on placards throughout the Capitol. Lest they forget, he also had them printed on wallet-sized cards with the following post script: Give 5% of your time to keeping well. You won’t have to give 100% getting over being sick.

Not bad advice . . . especially for those of us who cannot afford our own private physician, on-hand, at a moment’s notice . . .

Oh, and don’t forget to check out this archived article {United Press Writer Says Capitol Medic Is All Wet; He Gets A Cold In Senate And Discovers That Handkerchiefs Are Scarce} from the Lubbock (Texas) Morning Avalanche, Friday, February 18, 1945. It’s especially poignant if you’re tired of hearing politicians spout off, you’ve managed to pick up this wretched bug that’s been going around, or you’re living with a “man-cold.” You are not alone, my friends.

Cheers!

In the interest of stating the obvious, it’s Monday. It’s Monday, October 24th, to be precise–which just so happens to be the date Anna Edson Taylor became the first to go over Niagara Falls in a wooden barrel and live to tell the tale. She was sixty-three years of age. Sixty-three, people!

And oh what adventures those years held–not always the best, mind you.

She was born to an affluent family; when her father died, in her twelfth year, he left the family enough money to continue their comfortable lifestyle. An avid reader, she went on to become a teacher. She married. They had a son, who died shortly after birth. Then her husband died–leaving her a Civil War widow after a mere seven years of marriage. She continued teaching, but soon discovered she wanted something more. She became a dance instructor. She opened a dance studio. Becoming something of a gypsy, she settled here and there. And she always lived beyond her means.

So it was, at the dawn of her sixties, she decided she needed to do something drastic–something that would draw attention, make her famous, and bring in a small fortune to cushion her twilight years.

Today, she would simply star in her own reality TV series. Back then, she used what money she had left to build a custom barrel, in which to sail the Niagara. She lived, of course–a bit worse for wear, but walking all the same. And she did earn fame; she was wildly requested in Vaudeville. But she refused to step foot on the stage, considering it much too vulgar. Unfortunately, the high-class audiences she sought, felt a woman who would go over the falls in a barrel much too vulgar. So, she contented herself with the occasional appearance, posing for photos with her barrel {and, occasionally, the kitten who tested it out} . . . until her manager stole her barrel and hired a beautiful,  young woman to impersonate her.

Low point, for certain.

By now you may be wondering what I’m smoking, over here. It’s Monday, for crying out loud! According to the unspoken rule of blogging etiquette, I should be posting photos of cute pups and inspirational verbiage. Instead I’m telling the most melancholy tale.

But here’s the thing: yes, Anna Edson Taylor was a woman who spent, more than she earned; she flitted about, rather than sticking to one thing; she hired a manager who was wily, at best. But she also got up, when she was down. When one thing didn’t work, she tried another. She used her mind to accomplish a historic “first.”  And she did, eventually, earn the fame she originally sought . . . today there are stories, poems, and songs penned in her honor.  I dare say she could have accomplished all she set out to do, if she had but thought it through a bit more, and surrounded herself with the right people. 

So yes, it’s something of a cautionary tale, on  a Monday . . . a fresh start, to a new week . . . a week that will soon lead into a new month, and before we know it, a new year.

Let’s make good decisions, shall we?

I’m a little sad to see Tax season go. Not the codes or paperwork, mind you–certainly not the money. But I will miss a certain marketer for a tax preparation service. From the first of the year, they hire this gentleman to dress as Uncle Sam and wave a sign at the corner of a busy intersection. He’s had the gig for several years now; and he’s faithful in his work. You’ll find him there day after day, rain or shine, wind or sleet.

And without fail, his wee pups is nearby.

A tiny black mutt, he’s easily missed if you aren’t looking–all the more so if he happens to be sitting near his dad’s backpack. On cold days he sports a little bomber jacket; on windy days, he sits as close to the electrical box as he possibly can. Sunny days are his favorite. Those are the days he lounges in the cool grass, paws crossed, face to the sun.  Occasionally, he’ll get up to greet a passerby, to stretch, or meander over to sit on the warm pavement, next to dad.

He loves his job.

Walking in to work, or walking back home, he nearly skips. You can almost see the smile on his face; and you can’t help but smile in return.

The drive to Walgreens, Barnes and Noble, Target, the mall–they just won’t be the same. I’m gonna miss that pups.

He’s the perfect reminder that even if the situation isn’t perfect, we’re blessed with work … that there’s a lot to be said for faithfulness … that drudgery isn’t quite so much when we’re with someone we love.

Now that another season  has come to an end, I hope that gentleman and his faithful sidekick have a new adventure lined up. And I hope, hope, hope to see them again next year …

If practical jokes are suppose to be reserved for the first of April, then the joke’s on me. The whole month of March was a bit off kilter. Everything I put my hand to seemed to fail, fall apart, or impart some sort of injury upon my person. By the time I reached last Friday, the metal shower ring falling upon my head was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I stomped my foot and yelled to the heavens, “Is this funny to you?!”

Thankfully, He didn’t respond.  God is gracious like that.

In some ways, this little project kept me {somewhat} sane. You see, I’m nothing if not stubborn. I started this series, by George, I’m going to finish it … No matter that I didn’t feel like it. So out I set, camera in hand.

Funny thing—when you take the time to actually look, you just might find something you’ve never seen before …

And if there’s one thing March did, it made us look. It made us take a good hard look at our lives—our blessings and our sufferings, our insufficiency and our solidarity. Japan’s devastating earthquake and tsunami on March 11, reminded us that try as we might, we simply cannot be prepared for everything. There are things that come out of the blue with such force, we can’t imagine how we’ll ever catch our breath. It’s also those things that teach us the only way to survive, is with the help of each other …

Even the weather seemed to reflect the uncertainty of the world around us. The skies darkened, the wind whipped, and the rain poured. Just when it seemed grey was the new blue, the sun came out for a visit…

The Forsythia bloomed bright and full of cheer…

Other early bloomers joined suit …

There were even blooms in the most unexpected of places…

God’s sweet reminder that there is a time for everything under the sun: a time to weep, and a time to laugh…

Happy April, my friends!

A commute that consists of shuffling from one room to another, a uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt–these are but a few perks of being a freelance copywriter.  Writing for myriad companies and organizations allows me to meet great people, learn interesting tidbits, try new things–and eat.

That’s right.  Last week I wrangled another copywriting friend, and we headed to Baan Thai …

As snow fell like feathers outside, we sat with steaming cups of Jasmin tea, and sampled plate after plate of Thai food …

Oh, the flavors!  Coconut milk and lemongrass, chili paste and house lime dressing.  If you live nearby, and you haven’t paid visit, you simply must. It’s like nothing I’ve tasted before–a fact we mentioned, when sitting down with the chef and her interpretors.  And that’s when the fun really began.  The two of us sat listening to the three of them talk of their homeland. They talked of a seasoned minced pork dish with fried egg and Thai basil, how it’s a staple–”much like Americans and their hamburgers.”   They talked of the richness of the Tamarind fruit–and how the taste differs as the fruit matures. They talked of the importance of Kaffir lime leaves and how many Thai restaurants in America are tempted to leave them out because of their high cost.  But Thai food is dependent on the melding of all the flavors.

At one point, one  ladled the thin rice noodles from a rustic clay pot …

“So many noodles,” she said, shaking her head, “there would never be this many noodles in Thailand.” In Thailand,  you see, it’s the broth.  People will spend days on a good broth … restaurants are known for their broth.  Many of us tend not to understand.  ”Here,” she said, “it’s always the broth that is left … I want to tell them, ‘you left the best part’!”

There are a lot of reasons, I’m sure:  we like hearty meals, we’re afraid we’ll fill up before the entrée arrives, broth is associated with illness, we’re too busy to bother.  But I dare say, it would behoove us to get past our aversion.

At the very least, the next time we’re at an authentic Thai restaurant, let’s make a point to take the time … to appreciate the flavors … to sip the broth down to the very last drop.  Then we will experience the cuisine as it was meant–the work that went into the preparation will not be in vain–and we’ll be all the richer for the experience.

On a typical Sunday morning, after worship and the sermon, the people of our wee congregation tend to do their thing and, you know, congregate.  Unlike days of old where you attended Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday evening, and—on good weeks—revival meeting Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings … we have but one day a week to see one another and catch up.  It takes time, don’t you know.

But not yesterday.  Yesterday was an exodus like none other.  After all, we had to make it downstairs for Hannah and Sasha’s Super Sale, where, as Hannah so aptly put it, “People [were] going crazy!”

Could you blame us?  There was handmade jewelry, flower magnets, notecards—there was a raffle—there were chocolate chip cookies and pies.  Oh, the pies!  You know that wedding banquet of which the Bible speaks? That pie is bound to be on the menu.  Pretty sure.

It was a grand time—and all because one Little Miss got together with another Little Miss, and decided they wanted to raise money for those in need.  If it weren’t for them, us adults would have done as we do each week.  We would have chatted a bit—then promptly took our quarters and dollar bills home.  After all, what good could chump change do?

I dare say, we’ll never find out if we don’t have the faith of a child.

You see, sometimes the smallest shoes make the biggest prints … sometimes breaking bread comes in the form of chatter over a slice of chocolate cream pie … sometimes all we have to give is a pittance and sometimes that’s more than enough.

And a happy October to you!  Only three months remain of the year … three months to accomplish all we had planned for 2010. 

As for me, I keep plugging way. 

I keep working on things like getting in shape.  I’ve wandered here and there, strayed the course.  I’ve fallen off of and been run over by the bangwagon a few times.  But by george I keep going!   

This includes walking three times a week. 

I’m still not loving it. 

And there’s a lot not to love.  I have to cut my morning routine short.  I have to get dressed before a shower.  Since falling through the deck, everything seems to hurt.  We also walk the concrete jungle–so once we emerge from the neighborhood, there’s not a whole lot of beauty.  There’s a spot that smells of decay nearly every day.  I kid you not.  One day it was so strong I nearly gagged.  Animals?  Bodies?  I don’t even want to know.  People stare as we walk  up and down the hill.  It’s unnerving.  We saw a hachet in the middle of the road one morning.  Disposing of evidence?  We’ll never know …

But I’ve come to discover, there’s a lot to love too.  The sun is one of my favorites.  It dances through a hilltop of grain as it comes up, making it appear as waves of gold.  We can’t actually see the sun, mind you,  for most of the walk.  It simply hovers below the foothills–until, suddenly, without warning, it bursts through the trees in a great flash of light!  The sun, I’ve discovered, is a playful sort.

There’s also the people.  People out in the mornings seem friendlier–must be all those endorphins.  There’s the woman who jogs by, manages a smile, and hufts “Good morning!”  … the little boy on crosswalk patrol who saw a car behind us–so he walked into the crosswalk with his stop sign to make sure we had room to pass.  One morning we saw an elderly gentleman, out walking his frisky terrier.  We stopped, said our hellos, gave the pup some pets.  And as we prepared to go our seperate ways, he said, “Happy Trails!” 

It made me smile. 

It also reminded me that yes, there are a lot of rough patches on this journey–a lot we just plain don’t like.  But there’s a lot of good too.  You just have to keep going.  When the road gets dark and disconcerting, you think maybe you should turn back, that’s the time you need to put on your brave face and trudge through–for if you do, it’s only a matter of time before the sun pokes through.   

So to those of you trying to be in better health … those of you trying to kick a bad habit … those of you starting a new venture … those of who have faced a year of sadness and uncertainty … take heart, my friends, and …

{handsome little fellows}

Did you have a fabulous weekend?

I did.  It was full of treasure–cakes to bake, parties to attend, food to eat, conversations to be had, laughter to laugh … you know, that sort of thing. 

Saturday a friend of the family invited my mom and I to the estate sale of her “parents.”  It didn’t take me long to realize the lady of the house was a kindred spirit.  Her house was bright and cheery; her belongings proof she loved sharing her home.  If I didn’t have to save money for such silly things as bills, I could have gone hog-wild–beautiful silver pitchers, platters, and bowls … covered ceramic bakers … around every corner I would GASP! – point – and sigh. 

You know, estate sales can be a tad melancholy.  After all, it’s someone’s life, up for sale.  But in this instance I had but to look around to see the former owners had truly lived while alive.   

And I have a sneaking suspicion their spirit will live on in a little silver cream & sugar set … ready for more family dinners, more teas for friends.   Sure, the faces may change, but the love, laughter and memories will be much the same!