tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85012863884533978032024-02-22T13:08:14.778-08:00Today...Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-1198833582608637392014-06-19T10:25:00.000-07:002014-06-20T12:25:16.183-07:00Forever, Mother and Child<br />
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I regularly go back home to upstate New York to see my mom and my sister. There are people and places there that are precious to me and I will forever be drawn to my original home. <i>But</i>, (and herein lies the problem) I am emotionally exhausted when I return to Virginia. It takes me a day or two of foggy brained, head aching lethargy to recover from these trips. I'm in such a state today after returning home Wednesday night.<br />
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My mom is ninety-two and she lives alone these days. She's falling more often and the two most recent falls have landed her in the ER. About three years ago she broke five ribs after falling in her bedroom. She's fallen on and of since then with minor bumps and bruises. Two weeks ago she fell in another bedroom and broke her nose. Then, on my first day home last week, she fell again, right in front of me! This time on her front porch and hitting the same broken nose area. She required fourteen stitches to her forehead. It was pitifully sad.<br />
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We have begged and cajoled her to move in with us. We have plenty of room and it would alleviate her dread of a nursing home. I have offered to be her devoted caretaker; to cook for her, drive her places, keep her company, help her visit with her grandchildren and great grandchildren, to no avail. She can't bring herself to make the final decision to move.<br />
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SHE WON'T LEAVE HER HOUSE.<br />
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I understand, I really do. But at the same time I am so frustrated and weary of it all. It's getting old and it sounds like a broken record in my head. <br />
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The fallout from all of this also makes me sad. My dad and older sister are long deceased so, happy family reunions are no more. My mom is tottering around, beaten up and sad. I see the pain in her eyes when I tell her that I demand she not go down her basement steps any more. (We've arranged for my sister to do her laundry.) <i>I hate demanding</i>. I devote my visits to my mother's needs and to keeping up her home. Hence, there's no time for me to visit with old friends, go to my favorite places, or anything of the sort. <i>I hate my selfish agendas.</i> I feel a strong dislike toward going back home. <i>I hate not wanting to visit. </i>I ask myself, "Is she really putting my sister and me in the position of forcing her to move against her will?" <i>I hate being annoyed with my mother. </i>Agh! <i>I hate all this hating and grumbling!</i><br />
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I am at war with myself as a result of the frustration. I'm a "fixer" and I feel compelled to find solutions to problems. But this one is a puzzler. I return to Virginia with a heavy heart. Nothing stays the same. People we love get old and die. Sometimes we are powerless to change a thing. <br />
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And so, I pray. Long, hard, coming-to-grips-with-reality prayers. I'm searching for God's will and what am I to do in all of this. In my prayers, I can't get the image of my dazed, terribly bruised, and bleeding mother out of my head. It prompts me to include the plea of a small child, "God, please don't let my mom be hurt." <br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-74902824244669827412014-04-05T17:00:00.002-07:002014-04-06T03:26:56.232-07:00Building Raised Garden Beds <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In May, 2013 we began building raised garden beds. We researched types of wood, cost, availability, etc. Steve liked the idea of railroad ties because they were the most cost effective. Standard railroad ties, such as these, are 7" x 9" x 8 1/2 feet long. He found these untreated ties at Kopper's in Salem, VA. They come in loads of twenty-five ties for $250. Our neighbor has a landscape business, so he picked them up for us in his heavy-duty delivery truck. They were beasts to handle, but Steve managed to build the beds almost entirely alone. </div>
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We used the site of our old garden, one of the few flat spots on our property. It used to have a fence around it but it had begun to decay. I was tired of weeding and I knew that raised beds would be easier to tend. We calculated room for six, 4 ' x 8' beds. <br />
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The timbers upon delivery. </div>
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Steve cut each bed to size with a chainsaw. He then laid them out in their approximate positions.</div>
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He rested the longer sides up on the shorter sides and marked notches for the rabbet joints he would cut. He used a template to trace out each joint. One template was 7" x 9" and the other was 3" x 9".<br />
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All cuts were made with a chainsaw.</div>
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Each joint will be drilled and bolted with 10" x 1/2" diameter lag bolts. The bolts weren't added until all the beds were properly positioned and leveled.</div>
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Steve used a post hole bar to level the beds. He pried the timbers up and I pushed gravel under until they were level.</div>
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All six beds finished.One pick-up truck load of soil filled two beds. We bought top soil mixed with cow compost. The lag bolts are visible on each side near the end.</div>
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For the paths, we placed landscape fabric between the beds and covered it with pea stone. We used bricks to define the areas. </div>
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Weeds already! They'll be easy to pull from the gravel. As I said, we wanted (really) low maintenance.</div>
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We only had enough time to plant three beds last summer. We did not use landscape fabric inside the beds. I pulled and/or killed all the weeds before we filled them with new soil.<br />
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We are very pleased with how these turned out. There were enough ties to build eight beds, making the cost per bed at about $55 including soil and bolts. Gravel paths would add to that cost, but we already had the pea stone and bricks so I haven't calculated that in.<br />
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They are a breeze to plant and tend and much tidier than our previous, weedy garden. We will have to add some simple electrified wire to keep the deer from eating everything. They found the beds right away last summer. We'll place one or two high tension wires around the entire perimeter of the beds.<br />
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Steve admits the ties were backbreaking to handle. He did not have heavy equipment for moving them or for preparing the site. Otherwise, we would definitely do this again.<br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-62466805158394680812014-01-28T12:38:00.001-08:002014-01-28T12:39:18.580-08:00A Love Song in Two Perspectives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love this song and Peter Gabriel's "So" CD in general.
It's been my driving music for several weeks (!) because I keep
forgetting to bring it in the house. But the point I wanted to make is
that secular music takes on an entirely new dimension when processed
through a Biblical perspective. My guess is that this was written as a
love song. It was used in the 1989 Cameron Crowe film "Say Anything" and
I don't find anything written saying Gabriel intended it as anything
otherwise.<br />
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But, when I hear this song, I hear words that speak of the irresistible pull of God: <i><br /></i><br />
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<i>"Days
pass and this emptiness fills my heart. When I want to run away I drive
off in my car. But whichever way I go I come back to the place you are.
All my instincts, they return and the grand facade so soon will burn,
without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside"</i> </div>
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I hear words of redemption:</div>
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<i>"In your eyes, the light the heat, in your eyes I am complete
In your eyes I see the doorway to a thousand churches. In your eyes, the
resolution of all the fruitless searches. In your eyes, the light the
heat. In your eyes, oh I want to be that complete."</i></div>
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And I hear of longing fulfilled, love for love:</div>
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<i>"Love,
I don't like to see so much pain, so much wasted and this moment keeps
slipping away. I get so tired of working so hard for our survival. I
look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive.</i>"</div>
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It's
a great CD no matter the perspective from which you listen. I just
think it's interesting that the framework from which we view reality and
make sense of life and the world can be impacted to such a degree as to
completely change the meaning of lyrics in a song. I know we all see art, hear poetry and read stories in a subjective manner and in my mind, this makes created works even more miraculous.</div>
Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-43961125385089770062013-11-05T17:42:00.000-08:002014-01-09T12:50:07.594-08:00In Remembrance It would not be right to let this week go by without mentioning the passing of my Uncle Tony. He died Friday night, at home and at peace at the age of ninety-nine. He was my mother's last surviving sibling out of seven and he was the last of all my aunts and uncles on both sides of my parents. I feel my mother's sadness. Her loneliness on this earth for someone from her past is palpable. She is all that is left of her generation in our family, the very last one, and she misses them terribly. All I can do to ease her grief is to listen to her tell me the stories. Each morning, over the phone I listen, and I never tire of them.<br />
We have so many Tony's in our Italian family, we make jokes of it. But there was only one "Uncle" Tony Maffeo. We said his last name with the "Uncle Tony" part when mentioning him in conversation in order to differentiate between him and our other Uncle Tony- Carusone. There were actually three Uncle Tony's, but the third was Uncle Anthony, so that solved that dilemma. The stories my mother tells of their life as children in the 1920's and 30's in downtown Albany, New York makes me long to be there, to play alongside them. The stories have become rich and even foreign in our age of technology. I picture the scenes in sepia because that is how all the photographs have captured them. <br />
One particular story tells how my Uncle Tony and his friends built a car when he was nineteen. They built this car from scrounged parts. When it was finished, the boys drove it to the World's Fair in Chicago. The year was 1933. Can you imagine something like that happening today? Uncle Tony was very good at building mechanical things and he also built an airplane two years before. I don't believe it flew, but it had wings and he did drive it on the road. He was seven years older than my mother and when he was fourteen and she was six, they got into a bit of trouble together. One particular day in 1928, he was told by my grandmother that he was not allowed to go to Mid City Park. There was a big city pool there and amusement rides. He disobeyed and went anyway, toting his little sister (my mother) along with him and his friends. I guess they had a grand time until she lost her shoe on one of the rides. He had to carry her piggy back all the way home, a distance of two and a half miles. The lost shoe gave away their deception and my mother recalls being grounded for a very long time. This is the memory my mom talks about most often these past few days, how she so clearly remembers her brother carrying her on his back all the way home.<br />
Ironically, Uncle Tony was a sickly child and suffered several health issues throughout his long life. Yet he is the longest lived of all the siblings so far. I love the irony of that. He would have liked to have been able to say he lived to be one hundred, but I have a feeling he is much happier that he didn't wait another year to make his final journey home. I picture him with all the generations gone before him, everyone reunited, one by one, into the presence and the glory of the Lord.<br />
I miss you all, my aunts and uncles, father and sister. Please save a cannoli for me!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aunt Millie, Uncle Tony, Aunt Katherine, Aunt Angie, I believe the little child on the left is my mom's cousin Maccala and then my mom. (Maccala was named after the Immaculate Conception, but everyone used her nickname which was pronounced, mock a la')</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Five of the seven siblings, Aunt Angie, Uncle Lenny (after whom I am named), my mom Marian, Uncle Tony, Aunt Katherine</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My grandfather's store, my first cousins Dan and Sonny (with the bike), my Uncle Anthony in front of the window.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">The Maffeo children were all born and raised in the flat above the store.</span> </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle Tony with his beautiful bride, my Aunt Marie</span></td></tr>
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Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-81299438016841145992013-04-08T19:23:00.000-07:002013-04-09T01:06:38.208-07:00Oh My Gosh, These Kids Crack Me Up My current job title is Lunch Lady, in slang terms that is. My proper title is Cafeteria Aid. I actually crack myself up with the jobs I choose. I don't even know why I do what I do, but that's another story for another day. <br />
I do not prepare or serve food, I monitor. In the span of an hour and a half, I assist approximately 300 K through 5th graders with lunch. I open water bottles, cut open fruit snacks and yogurts, slice apples, hand out napkins, give the evil eye, lend encouragement, and keep order (or at least try to keep order.) On occasion, I yell. As in the case of the recent Raisin Throwing Incident. I yelled, "Whoa! That is <i>not</i> cool!" Otherwise, most of the children are absolutely adorable and many of them treat me like I am a good friend and confidant. They tell me jokes, ask earth shattering questions, cry for their Mommys, show me loose teeth, hug me, make me laugh, or if they're a 5th grader, ignore me.<br />
For the first part of my morning, I assist in other areas of the school. I float around and lend a hand wherever it may be needed. But the real excitement culminates in the cafeteria. There is one incident I'm still chuckling about from two weeks ago. A little boy summoned me to his table with two other first-grade boys. <i>First </i>graders, mind you and cute as a button. One little boy motioned me to come close. I leaned in closer. With eyebrows raised, he asked, "Is 'pushy' a bad word?" With a puzzled look I stood up straight and said, "No. 'Pushy' is not a bad word." He then asked, "Well what does it mean?" "Pushy? Well... pushy means someone is being aggressive. Like when someone pushes or shoves you when you're standing in line. It's not nice behavior, but it's not a bad word.", I reply. The little boy triumphantly turned to the other boys with a look of self-satisfaction and cried, "See! It's not a bad word."<br />
As I walk away, I shake my head. Whoever told him that 'pushy' is a bad word must have had a lisp. <br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-69231680281332640532013-01-08T09:30:00.000-08:002013-01-08T14:42:33.111-08:00Confessions of An Addict and How I Use<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello. My name is Leonora and I am a compulsive collector of recipes. I don't merely collect them, I <i>use</i> them. Welcome to a peek into my not-so-secret world of the hows and whys of my addiction.<br />
I like food. Heck, I love food. As a child, when my mother put supper on the table, I clapped my hands with joy. In college, when I was flat broke, I baked extravagant breads to give my girlfriends at Christmas. I still remember the confused look on one girl's face who just didn't get it. She's not my friend any more.<br />
My first cookbook was given to me in 1977. It's the red, <i>Betty Crocker's Cookbook</i>. I still use it if I can't remember how long to boil shrimp or how many minutes per pound to roast the pork. I also have my mother's first cookbook that she earned for selling magazine subscriptions during WWII. I have four shelves of cookbooks, including <i>Tempting Kosher Dishes</i> by The Manischewitz Co. copyrighted 1930 and written in Hebrew. I can't read Hebrew, but it's a fascinating cookbook. I collect cookbooks and recipes like some people collect shoes or stray animals. It's very difficult for me to turn them away. Once or twice I've needed to thin my collection. When I feel compelled to do this, I choose the books from which I only use a handful of recipes, copy them out and then give the book away. In recent years, collecting cookbooks has given way to collecting recipes in general. This marked the turning point of my addiction.<br />
Nowadays, it's so easy to share thousands of recipes over the internet. Magazines are also chock full of beautiful photos of foods and dishes to try. Southern Living, Martha Stewart, even House Beautiful all have good recipes. My friend B. started us on Bon Appetit several years ago and back issues still line one shelf in my cabinet. What's an addict to do?<br />
Because I was collecting recipes in a whole new way, I needed some way to keep track of them and to save the ones we liked. In the beginning, I had manilla folders stuffed with pages ripped from magazines and index cards scribbled with recipes. In the 1980's I tried the recipe card index route. Painstakingly copying each recipe onto a card. The cards were filed in a kitcheny little box, but it was awkward to use and it just didn't do it for me. I needed something stronger for my addiction. I also wanted it to feel more organized. This was around the time that the computer came into our home and I learned about Microsoft Word. I had the brainstorm to type up <i>all</i> my folders of loose recipes and index cards and store them on our computer. Brilliant! Because I still wanted a hard copy to have on the kitchen counter when I cooked, I printed out each recipe. This way, I could glue accompanying photos onto them. I then slipped each one into a clear, plastic page saver and filed it into a binder categorized by food groups. In the beginning, I started out with one binder that held all of them. After the second year, it became too full, so I had to divide desserts out into their own binder. And recently, I introduced a third binder, sub-dividing appetizers, soups and breads out of the Main Dish binder.<br />
The system works great for me. Every recipe is filed on my computer which Steve periodically backs up so that all cannot be lost. If a friend ever wants one of my recipes, I simply print it from my documents. <br />
I had a few months worth of recipes to type recently. I tend to save this job for the winter months when I know I'll have more free time (and no one is home to see). The top photo shows my work spread over the table today, gluing photos to the typed recipes, slipping them into the plastic sleeves and filing them into one of three binders. I culled out some old recipes that we didn't like which made room for some new ones. I've also noticed that tastes in food and ways of cooking have changed over the years. Cookbooks can become outdated whereas cooking from current publications, including the internet, keeps things fresh. We're more tempted to try new things, eat healthier, or simply freshen up our menus a bit.<br />
My two oldest daughters, who also love to cook, tell me that any recipe they want or need is on the
internet. My eldest simply browses the food or recipe she is interested in,
then props her iPad on the kitchen counter to cook. While that's a good
idea too, I like to be able to browse my recipes when I'm writing a
shopping list and more importantly, I want to save recipes that are our
favorites. I don't want to look something up every time I need it and take the chance that I won't find it. Plus, I don't
have an iPad or tablet or whatever. Maybe I'm just too old to change at this point. Whatever. My addiction is stashed in a safe place where I can easily get my hands on it. <br />
I almost forgot! Last year, when our third daughter turned nineteen, I printed out all her favorite recipes plus ones that I thought she might like to have. I bought a new binder, made a decorative cover to slip into the front pocket and presented it to her as a gift. She liked it. I don't think she'll become a recipe addict like me, but she likes to be organized. Organizing can be an addiction too. I try not to let that one show. Oh, and bloggers like <a href="http://theenglishkitchen.blogspot.com/">The English Kitchen</a> and <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/">The Smitten Kitchen</a>? Yeah, they're my enablers. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The plastic page-savers wipe clean!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I tried a couple of different cheeses for this recipe and liked this one best, so I tucked its wrapper into the page saver as a reminder.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I like to add notes.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-43856400025518508922012-11-27T03:14:00.000-08:002014-04-06T03:35:34.345-07:00Thoughts On Forgiveness Someone important and dear to my family has betrayed us. The weight of their betrayal is deep and reaches far into a community of people. But this is not the focus of my story. It no longer matters what propagated the pain. It is done and it cannot be changed. What I focus on now is my role in this; the act that requires me to step onto the stage. The act of forgiveness.<br />
Offensive acts are categorized into two parts; those that break a law and those that break hearts. Sometimes an offense will do both and other times it will fit just one or the other category. We have written codes of law that address those offenders who break it. Their crimes, and the immorality that accompanies them, are punished and their debt to society is said to have been paid. But what about the other face of the offense? The face that has lied or betrayed us? The face that may or may not have broken a law, but has certainly broken our hearts? For this, we must look within ourselves and our own moral code to determine how we are to respond.<br />
As a Christian, I refer to the teachings of my faith to provide guidance through this moral quagmire. But even with this guidance, and even with a generally forgiving heart, it can still be a very hard thing to do. Forgive.<br />
Exactly what is forgiveness? I believe the foundation of the Christian faith is based on forgiveness. God sacrificed His Son as atonement for our sins. That even while we were still in our sin, Christ died for what was surely our own transgression. To a perfect and just God, our debt was paid and our sins were forgiven. The final result is the restoration of our broken relationship with God and our acceptance into Heaven as pure and guiltless. It is finished, it is complete, there is not one thing more we can or need to do. This is a representation of perfect forgiveness.<br />
Are we instructed to forgive others the same way that God forgave us? When we pray the Lord's prayer, the fifth petition says, "<i>Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors</i>." or "<i>Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."</i> We are petitioning God to help us forgive others in the same way that He has forgiven us. In the Book of Ephesians 4:32, the ultimate example is given, <i>"And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another even as God in Christ forgave you." </i>I respond with more questions:<i> </i>But God was perfect, I say! And we are not. How can imperfect humans behave in a perfect, God-like way? Is it okay to use our imperfection as an excuse to agonize and struggle, never reconciling with someone because it makes us uncomfortable? Or, shunning those who have hurt us even though with our mouths we say we have forgiven them? Again, if the final picture of forgiveness is restoration of the relationship, then how should we forgive?<br />
Dr. Timothy Keller, American Christian apologist, pastor and author, says the following; <br />
<i> "What is forgiveness,
specifically? When someone has wronged you, it means they owe you, they
have a debt with you. Forgiveness is to absorb the cost of the debt
yourself. You pay the price yourself, and you refuse to exact the price
out of the person in any way. Forgiveness is to a) free the person from
penalty for a sin by b) paying the price yourself. </i><i>How did God forgive? We are told
that he does not ‘remember’ them. That cannot mean that God literally
forgets what has happened–it means he ‘sends away’ the penalty for them.
He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect
the way he deals with us." </i><br />
The last sentence seems to reassure in my heart what I know I must do<i> </i>in my actions, <i>"He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect the way he deals with us."</i> My problem is, what I <i>should</i> do and what I am <i>able</i> to do are very different. A friend likened this struggle to the swelling of a wound that cannot heal until the swelling goes down. Sometimes we need to let the hurt subside before we are able to forgive. I suspect 'grace' plays an important role here. God extends grace to us because he knows we are incapable of perfection. He also uses our inner struggle to teach us other important lessons about ourselves and perhaps see His divine nature more clearly.<br />
One thing I know for sure; this struggle makes me see how imperfect I am. It also makes me realize, again, what God has done for us. He forgave a people mired in sin, who did not not deserve nor earn His forgiveness. He forgave us instantly and forevermore and he continues to do so. He embraces us, smothers our faces with kisses and welcomes us home. I want to learn how to forgive like that.<br />
I imagine myself sitting on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to make this leap off the edge. My reasoning is telling me to do it, jump, forgive! But my human frailty and imperfections hold me back and make me fearful. I am afraid to forgive like that. I would rather forgive with strings attached (OK, hooks and harnesses!). The funny thing is, I know there will be a huge rush of adrenalin if I jump. It will be <i>so</i> worth it! In the meantime, I sit on the edge and agonize. I'm working on it and God is with me as I wait, whispering encouragement in my ear.<br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-90720524327158796522012-11-18T04:40:00.001-08:002012-11-19T05:38:48.631-08:00The Little Porch <br />
My mom, who is ninety, still lives in the house she and my dad built in 1952. Constructed as a tiny two-bedroom, post-war ranch, it hasn't been altered much in all these years. My parents both grew up in the city and a home in the country was my dad's dream. They bought a small lot in a corn field
just across the Hudson River from Albany, NY. and their dream became a reality via a G.I. loan. Within a few years, two of
my mother's sisters and their families also left the city and built three more houses
in that field. Thus began our little neighborhood.<br />
One of the first additions my dad made to their tiny home was a
porch off the back door of the kitchen. He built it himself and it came to be my favorite room of the house. To this day, I can see, smell and feel it as clearly as though I am there.<br />
My dad modeled the porch after the boxed
in little porches seen on the backs of most city houses. It had chest high
windows all around with one hinged window that could swing open to
access a clothesline. Hanging next to this window was a heavy canvas bag filled with
clothespins. The bag was tube- shaped with a handle and meant to be a feed bag for horses. Who knows where my father
obtained such a thing, but he was thrifty and this made a sturdy
clothespin bag. The door exiting the porch had a
wooden milk box built into the corner next to it. The box was insulated with a lining of lead or zinc. It had a removable lid where
we could lift out the milk bottles that the milkman delivered through a trap door on the outside wall. My sister and I liked to play with the milk box, stowing secret things in
there to be retrieved later via the trap door. <br />
Dad also built a big wooden step from the kitchen door down onto the porch. The step could be tipped away from the doorsill and the empty space beneath it made a good
storage place for tools. He kept a
hammer or two there, screwdrivers, an awl and other odds and ends. Any time we neighborhood kids got to building something like forts or houses for stray dogs, we knew where to find a hammer. Dad would
have sworn a fit if his tools went missing, so we were always careful to bring them back. This step was also the place where we tied on our sneakers in the summer or pulled on our boots in the
winter. Dad studded the walls with nails so we could hang all our shoes within easy reach from the step. We made tying laces fly when we were in a hurry to get out to play, propelling
ourselves off the step and out the door. Sometimes, the step was my destination and I went no farther. It was a good place to
sit and mope when no one could come out to play or if life inside the house was too close for comfort. By stopping at the step, I wasn't committed to being either in or out. Either direction was a possibility and I didn't feel hemmed in to make a decision. It also served as an excellent spot
for planning my next adventure. Since it was secluded from view, I could think in solitude. Mom might be right there, busying herself in the kitchen, but if I was down on the step, she wouldn't even know I was there. <br />
The kitchen <i>was</i> my mother. The screen door on the porch separated the outside world from our world, via the holy of holies, our kitchen. It was difficult to pass through the door without being noticed by my
mother. Like
all screen doors, creaking hinges gave us away. I often stood at this door to beg snacks from my mother for me and everyone else I happened to be playing with. Standing on the step, hanging onto the screen door, I would call
inside, "Mom! Can I have a cookie?!" She would yell back, "How many?" and I might answer, "Eight!" She complained about us eating her out of house and home, but she always
handed them out to us. The screen had a permanent bulge at the bottom
where I would press my nose against it
while I yelled in to my mom. I can still smell the metallic screening. We were forbidden to enter the house with
shoes on, and Lord knew I wasn't going to take them off just to ask for a cookie, so I would push my nose onto that screen, feeling it give a little bump as the screen snapped into its bumped position. In the winter, the screen frame was exchanged with a glass, paned frame which created an entirely different door altogether.<br />
One summer we got our hands on a tape
recorder. Our eight-year-old imaginations didn't seem to stray far when it came to recording ourselves. Burps, goofy noises and singing the pop AM radio songs along with our transistor radios made up our repertoire. One time, we sneaked up to the screen door, huddled
together on the wooden step, and tried to record my mother singing. She had a beautiful voice and she would sing while she did her housework. We also begged her to laugh like the Wicked
Witch from the Wizard of Oz. I bragged to the other kids that my mother could imitate the witch's laugh and all the kids wanted to hear it. To our delight, she screamed the witch's cackling laugh, imitating it perfectly and maybe even going a little overboard. After being a good sport and hamming it up, she turned serious again and told us to shoo. We got it on tape.<br />
We always used the
back porch for coming and going to play. The front door was reserved for
company, salesmen, and heading off to church and school .
For everything else, we used the back door. The porch was a decompression chamber of sorts, dividing outside from in. When we came home from
play, we stopped on the porch, kicked off our shoes, brushed off dirt or snow, perhaps leaned our skates against the wall and briefly hovered between two worlds.<br />
The most dramatic porch event occurred one one February day when I was eleven. School was out for Winter Recess and all us kids were
out sledding about half a mile from my house. The boys
started throwing rocks for fun as the girls slid downhill. We were moving targets and they were...well, boys. Suddenly, I was struck
in the eye with one of their rocks. I fell to my knees and sensed immediately that it
was bad. Temporarily blinded, numb with pain, and panicked by the warm blood running down onto my new scarf, the kids all hustled me home. On that long walk, while I marveled at the colorful stars I was seeing, we fabricated a story so that no one would get the blame for blinding me. It's crazy how kids stick together no matter the consequences. It was my own cousin who injured me, but I would never be a tattletale. The unspoken rules of kidhood demanded as much. We entered the porch en masse where I stood on the step at the
back door with all the other kids behind me. They were eager to
witness this drama unfold. I
knocked on my own door and yelled in to my mother,
"Mom!" She and my aunt from up the street were visiting at the kitchen table that afternoon
and I heard her get up and open the door for me. I stood there before her in
pitiful condition, cheek split open, heaps of blood, blinded in one eye. I dared not cry for fear of what further injury my tears might cause. Who knew, maybe my eyeball might fall out. My aunt ran up behind my mother, tip of her nose red from her glass of wine. "Oh my gawd! Lee Lee, what did you do?!", she yelled. (Why was it always my fault?) I kept thinking, don't cry, don't cry, your eyeball might fall out. I can still
see their frantic movements, hear their exclamations, see
the other kids sent away and my aunt quickly exiting for her home up the street. I came very close
to losing the sight in my eye that year. I was brought to our dear Dr. Worth who referred us to an eye specialist the very next morning. I suffered days of severe headaches,
light sensitivity, and I had quite the shiner. I missed the rest of winter break although I tried to ice skate with an eye patch, but I really didn't feel well and it was no fun. I was also scared into telling the truth about what happened that day. I later apologized to my cousin and told him they made me tell. And, I forever
have a scar sewed into this tapestry of life called my face.<br />
The
porch ushered us in and out through all the seasons, treating us to
wonderful aromas depending on the time of year. In the summer, it smelled
of chlorine and damp beach towels from the swimming pool. In late summer it held bushels of tomatoes and zucchini passing from garden
to kitchen. I would grab a tomato as I ran out to play on a late summer's evening, eating it as I rushed back out to the
kickball game or freeze tag. In the fall, leaf rakes lined the wall and the porch smelled of sweet apples and pears. The sun warmed the little room as the afternoons wore
on, stealing away the autumn chill by the time we ran out after school. Come winter, the porch was littered with boots and sleds. Ice skates replaced the flip flops' place on the nails. The little porch became an ice box in the frigid winter
of upstate New York. Winter's clean, sharp smell stung the inside of my
nose and cleared my head when I went out to play. Through all the seasons, it smelled of my mother's good cooking coming from just the other side of the door. It greeted us as we ran up those steps, appetites huge from a day of vigorous outdoor play. <br />
Around 1967, my dad built a larger porch onto the back of the house. The two porches were connected with a door and the old, original porch became known as "the little porch." The new, bigger porch served as our summer living room, complete with dining area, sofa, chairs and TV while the little porch reminded utilitarian. So much time has passed and my dad is now gone. The door to the big porch is always closed as it sits in a state of encapsulated time, gathering dust. My little porch still appears the same, but no one runs in and out of it any more. It's easier for my mom to keep her garbage can there so she won't have to walk down the back steps. The rope on the clothesline has rotted, the milk box is nailed shut and I must drive six hundred miles to sit on the back step. But you can bet that every time I'm there, I spend a few minutes sitting on that step and remembering what a fantastic childhood we had together. And when the day comes that the house must be sold, I'm taking the screen door.<br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-87810558231121648232012-09-19T03:43:00.002-07:002012-09-19T04:57:12.233-07:00Singing in the Rain. A Mockingbird's Song<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JhnVhhb-HuQ" width="420"></iframe><br />
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It rained and poured <i>all</i> day. As I went about my chores,
listening to the heavy downpour, I heard something unusual. It was the
sound of this happy fellow, singing his heart out. I went out to the porch
and listened with amazement. When I realized he wasn't going anywhere, I came back inside to put on a sweater and get the camera. He stayed on one branch in the center of the tree and took turns
facing each direction. Once in a while he ruffled his feathers as though he was annoyed with the rain on his head. Another time, he took an angry stab at a nearby crab apple. For the most part, I got the impression that he was on a mission and a major rain event was merely a glitch or an annoyance to him. <br />
Several thoughts ran through my mind while I listened. Who was he singing to? No other bird was answering in reply. Not that he took a breath to wait and listen for a reply. He rarely paused. And can a bird sing for this long without straining its tiny throat? A few times he turned up the volume and sang very loudly. I also wondered if he was the adult who attacked me in the spring or is he one of their offspring? Perhaps he's not related at all, but I do know he's been around our yard for several weeks.<br />
He continued to sing after I came back inside and he was still singing every
time I checked the clock. I'm not sure how long he had started before I took notice, but my best estimate is that he sang for over two hours. To put it into context, this video is a little over 1 minute. He sang for 120 of them. The length of his song was enough to impress me. But the real contest is that he sang in the heaviest downpour of the day. (You can hear it on the video.) He was defying the rain and singing despite it. My intuition tells me he was simply singing a song of joy. <br />
He stands out from the rest of the world today and I admire his tenacity. I vow to myself that even if he dive bombs me next spring, I will continue to adore him. <br />
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*It is 6:39 am. as I type this. I hear some tentative notes outside my window. Funny how he is now on this side of the house, where I am.Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-62239393711839703592012-07-30T17:06:00.002-07:002012-09-19T03:44:26.154-07:00Legos and Peekaboo Land'O Lakes Lady Mignon over at Sweet Whisper Dreams posted about Legos today. It reminded me that they were one of our girls' favorite toys. They played with Legos for days at a time, leaving them out overnight to continue building day after day. I recall stepping on them barefoot if I wasn't careful as I went about the house, especially in the dark. They enjoyed photographing their scenes and acting out little stories with them. We don't have the "girl" sets. My girls preferred pirates, cowboys and Star Wars.<br />
One lazy Sunday afternoon this past winter, the girls were sorting through all the sets, putting them together and taking stock of what we have. Audrey ended up building one of her sets that day, proving that Legos are a toy kids will play with right into adulthood. We still have tubs of them, sorted by color and taking up a lot of room in the basement. One of these days we'll find a new home for the plain colored blocks, but the girls seem to want to keep their themed sets. I enjoy the large Duplo blocks that are geared for the chubby little hands of toddlers. These are the perfect toy for younger children who come to visit because they're suited for both boys and girls. We have a train and circus animals with assorted blocks. I'm
not patient with the tiny Legos, but I'm happy to build towers and
buildings with these larger Duplo blocks for the little kids to use...
or knock down.<br />
Several years ago, Chelsea used Legos to make this little stop animation film for one of her art classes at VCU. It's titled "Moral Disasterology" and it plays out the consequences of the mystic monkeys, "See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil". The first Lego man sees evil when he peeks at the Land'O Lakes peekaboo Indian* and gets his head speared by the wild man. His Lego wife begins swearing (it's beeped out) and she floats down the river meeting her disaster. A little monkey calls her "potty mouth". And finally, the last Lego couple hears evil when they can't understand what the hillbilly is saying and they are done for. As you can see, we still love our Legos.<br />
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* Steve taught us about the Land 'O Lakes peekaboo Indian a long time ago. I don't know how he learned it, but I imagine it was back in his neighborhood in the 60's. (The image that pops into my head is that Steve and his friends were like the boys in the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vr5lHZQz-Z4">Sandlot</a>.) I never knew about the peekaboo Indian before Steve shared it. If the boys in my neighborhood knew about it, they kept it a secret. Be warned- it's a little bit naughty.<br />
You take an empty Land'O Lakes butter box and using an exacto knife, cut the little box of butter the Indian lady is holding so that it opens as a flap, hinged on the top. Find the image of the Indian lady on the other side of the box and cut her knees off, a little larger than the butter flap you previously cut. You tape the knees behind the butter flap and voila- peekaboo. The knees look just like you-know-whats.<br />
It cracked me up that Chelsea would use this in her video. The story is that her college roommate's grandmother was the model for the Land 'O Lakes Indian. Perhaps Chelsea was showing her how much we revered the lady?Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-65813701861714093812012-07-03T17:48:00.003-07:002012-07-03T17:48:44.507-07:00In Which Miss Post Compares Children to Dogs and Calls Them "It"<div style="text-align: center;">
"Etiquette" by Emily Post copyright 1937 p.764 </div>
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Chief Virtue: Obedience</div>
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No young human being, any more than a young dog, has the least claim to attractiveness unless it is trained to manners and obedience. The child that whines, interrupts, fusses, fidgets, and does nothing that it is told to do, has not the least power of attraction for anyone, even though it may have the features of an angel and be dressed like a picture. Another that may have no claim to beauty whatever, but that is sweet and nicely behaved, exerts charm over everyone.</div>
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When possible, a child should be taken away the instant it becomes disobedient. It soon learns that it cannot "stay with mother" unless it is well-behaved. This means that it learns self control in babyhood. Not only must children obey, but they must never be allowed to "show off" or become pert, or to contradict or to answer back; and after having been told "no," they must never be allowed by persistent nagging to win "yes."</div>
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A child that loses its temper, that teases, that is petulant and disobedient, and a nuisance to everybody, is merely a victim, poor little thing, of incompetent or negligent parents. Moreover, that same child when grown will be the first to resent and blame the mother's mistaken "spoiling" and lack of good sense.</div>
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<br /></div>Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-35865432624992167952012-05-23T10:15:00.001-07:002012-05-23T10:42:31.565-07:00In the Blink of an Eye<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV3Ms2Xj4gHjcMn5hnpZ27hXrtwll7xut9LuYBGdQP9DkcS4BngsBXMWXbowIpUH1HW822cwmUnS3Z5tykNtOTxJAVlWBDMRgljgBCIByNYkCZIr0OIIgU2RU_xeKN26HN_pl5aQ6D2M/s1600/wdbj7-rescue-crews-responding-to-school-bus-ac-002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV3Ms2Xj4gHjcMn5hnpZ27hXrtwll7xut9LuYBGdQP9DkcS4BngsBXMWXbowIpUH1HW822cwmUnS3Z5tykNtOTxJAVlWBDMRgljgBCIByNYkCZIr0OIIgU2RU_xeKN26HN_pl5aQ6D2M/s640/wdbj7-rescue-crews-responding-to-school-bus-ac-002.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="credit"><span class="photographer">Photo courtesy Adam Ward/WDBJ7</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My daughter Tess probably doesn't know this, but I sit in the window each morning watching and waiting for her to safely get on the school bus. She's not a little kid, she's in high school. Some may call this obsessive parenting, but I call it a mother's heart. It makes no difference how old they are. Even when I travel, I ask my husband to delay his start for work in the morning so that he can wait for her to be safely on her way. He does this for me and he's never questioned my request.<br />
I often pray for her as I sit there watching her wait for the bus. I pray for her day, I pray for her tender spirit, I pray for her future, I pray for all kinds of things for her. As the minutes tick by, I often add our other daughters to my prayers. Mostly, I pray for them to be safe and secure in a sometimes violent world. And I always add my thanks to God for the rich blessings he has given me in my family.<br />
Today started off in this typical fashion. Although today, Tess was carrying extra gift bags to school for her two best friends' birthdays. The bags contained homemade cookies, friendship bracelets she wove and little boxes she artfully covered with postage stamps, with everything all ribboned and tissue-papered up. After the bus pulled away, I went next door to pick some cherries in the cool of the morning. As I was picking, I began to hear sirens in the distance, or was it a dog howling? I couldn't be sure with the riotous noise of cicadas in my ears. I strained to listen and determined it was definitely sirens and they were heading in this direction. They stopped somewhere up the road. It's not uncommon to hear sirens out this way so I didn't think too much about it. Farm accidents occur more often than we like to think, elderly neighbors need immediate medical attention, even Audrey's broken arm two years ago had an ambulance up here. I continued picking cherries. My mind wandered to things like: Why do I always wear a white shirt when I pick cherries? I wonder how many ticks are on me. Could a rattlesnake be in this tall grass? Would I hear it? This breeze is glorious, and so on.<br />
Within fifteen minutes I had enough picking and came back to the house. The phone was ringing and it was Audrey calling from her job. She never phones from work and her voice sounded anxious. "Mom, did Tess go to school on the bus today?" she asked. "Yes, she's been gone half an hour already", I said. "Well, a bus flipped over up on Zion Hill Road and students are injured. Is that Tess' bus?" My mind began to race. I recalled hearing the sirens. I couldn't remember which route Tess' bus travels. "How do you know this?" I asked Audrey. "Our neighbor, so-and-so told me." Ah yes, so many young people around here are firefighters or on the rescue squad and we live in a small community where news travels like wildfire. "Well, I don't know if that would be Tess' bus. I think her bus goes back on the road behind us, a different way. Let me see if I can find out" I tell her. I realize my voice is getting louder as we talk, betraying the fear that begins to swell up inside me.<br />
We hang up and I stand frozen, trying to think. What should I do? What is Tess' bus number? Shuffling through my pocket calendar, I can't for the life of me find that paper from the beginning of the school year with her bus number on it. Shouldn't mothers know this stuff? I'm sure her bus goes a different way. But does it loop back around to Zion Hill? I could drive up there. No, I decide, that would make me a nuisance. I try to phone the school but the line is busy. I'm pretty sure Tess' bus goes a different way, but I feel like I should make sure. I run downstairs to see if I can find the paper with her bus number on it. As I rummage through the filing cabinet, I picture Tess wearing her new shorts and top that we bought at Penny's last night. She was so happy to have something new to wear to school today. I think of how late we were up last night, baking those cookies. I picture the gifts she's carrying and how upset she would be if they got ruined. I catch myself and don't allow my mind to go in this direction. Look for the bus number, look for the bus number.<br />
The house phone is ringing again. Concerned friends have heard about the bus accident and are calling to check on us. Within 45 minutes, the entire community has the news. Everyone knows we live up here and that Tess could be on that bus. I have no answers for them. I feel like I should know, I should have an answer about my own daughter, but I don't. I try the school number a few more times and finally reach the school secretary, who I am acquainted with. She hears the controlled concern in my voice. I explain the reason for my call and ask if she could please tell me if Tess is in her class? I must rack my brain again- which class does Tess have first period? For crying out loud! I berate myself. Don't I know <i>anything</i> about my daughter's day? "It's Mrs. Caldwell's class", the secretary tells me. Can you hold on a minute?" "Yes, of course, thank you!" I reply. A moment later she's back on the line. She speaks to me using a tone a bit like I'm a child needing reassurance. Gosh, my voice must have sounded more panicked than I thought. "Tess in in class. She <i>is</i> here <i>in</i> class" she enunciates for me. "Oh, thank you. Thank you, so much." I reply. She understands. She's a mother too.<br />
As I hang up, I realize my hands are shaking and I begin to cry. Any composure I maintained in this last half hour has let go. Tess is safe. The phone rings a few more times. My mom calls from New York wondering why I haven't made my morning call to her. Our neighbors call from their vacation on Ocracoke Island. They've read our local news on the internet within an hour of its happening and call from their cell phone. The day and age we live in- amazing.<br />
All the while, I'm aware that even though my child wasn't on that bus, someone's child was. Thirty-nine to be exact, plus a bus driver. I will added thirty-nine more kids to my own four when I pray throughout the day today. Some of them might be wearing a new outfit or carrying special bags.<br />
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*News reports claim that thirteen children were taken to local hospitals as a precaution and that no injuries appear to be serious. The bus driver has been charged with reckless driving. She was apparently distracted by a student in her rear view mirror.<br />
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<br />Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-46425712742133228762012-02-02T16:56:00.000-08:002012-02-04T12:23:21.517-08:00Medical Insurance: I'm Mad as Hell and I Don't Want to Take it Anymore!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_UkzygYq6t5NaQ-zHHKJgzS6dWHi1dGAKH5kmNJqAfQQdG7KzqSQ1hpDb3Id2wZ4yzyz9-NibzLaIkovhdkH9WpU9LXsg2w_qxe2AZoLVqeiyZQGlOU150UjKiAyK3qazN4Ml9DXxyE/s1600/Ins+vs+Sal+Escalation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_UkzygYq6t5NaQ-zHHKJgzS6dWHi1dGAKH5kmNJqAfQQdG7KzqSQ1hpDb3Id2wZ4yzyz9-NibzLaIkovhdkH9WpU9LXsg2w_qxe2AZoLVqeiyZQGlOU150UjKiAyK3qazN4Ml9DXxyE/s400/Ins+vs+Sal+Escalation.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These figures are based on our actual salary and insurance premium figures.Each bar shows the rate of increase compared to 2004.</td></tr>
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Every year about this time we have "Open Enrollment" for health and medical benefits at my husband's employer. And every year about this time I become outraged over the state of our health system and I shake my fist at the whole insurance industry. My outcry begins at line item one where it shows the premium for our plan. It will cost us $84.00 more each month for the same insurance we had last year, bringing our total cost to $462 per month for family coverage. The company adds something to this and I don't know that amount but, I would guess it's double. The company used to offer three plans to choose from; a low, middle and high cost plan. Each year they eliminated one of the plan options. Now we are offered an all-or-nothing deal. In addition to this, we contribute to a Medical Spending Account which provides us with pre-tax dollars deducted from husband's salary to use on all the expenses the insurance doesn't cover like deductibles, co-pays, etc. I am all for MSA's and this really isn't part of the problem.<br />
I'm appalled at this huge increase in medical insurance premiums when we are in an economy where salaries have certainly not gone up. Most employees are not receiving cost of living increases let alone annual raises of any type and many have had to take pay cuts just to stay employed. Last year the premium increase was just as large and I vented on facebook. It was met with apathy. And there's the rub. No one really takes up the torch for this cause and rallies against the insanity of it all. Yes, some will say Obama's health care initiative is addressing this problem, but it actually doesn't. His plan is to provide coverage for all citizens, but I don't believe it addresses the rising cost of medical care and health insurance. As a matter of fact, since he took office our premiums have increased the most. I realize his plan hasn't gone into effect, and perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction from the industry when he started talking health care, I don't know. But I want to stand out in the middle of the field and scream for someone to listen! This is how helpless I feel. <br />
My gut reaction (which is total nonsense) is that we all need to cancel our insurance and everyone needs to take a stand against being screwed. If the entire country bought no insurance... can you imagine? The question is, am I willing to take the gamble. Because that's what insurance is, a gamble. We are protecting ourselves against the "what-if". What if I get hit by a car and land in the hospital? What if my child needs an operation? The fear of it all has me running to hedge my bets and buy the insurance. It's called fear-mongering. If I wasn't so afraid of a massive hospital bill which would in turn cause financial ruin to my family, I wouldn't buy the insurance. <br />
All insurance operates this way, but most have smaller increases in premiums each year. We can shop around for the levels of coverage we want and who might offer the best plan. Some of the control lies within our own hands. Homeowners, auto, and life insurance all charge minimal premiums compared to the cost of medical. <br />
I don't see this type of free-market enterprise working well in the system as it stands now. Has anyone tried calling around for a price on a medical procedure? Or a radiology procedure? I have. It's next to impossible to get a straight answer from a provider on what the cost will be. The system does not enable us to shop around for the best provider at the best cost. The insurance companies take charge of this. It's what a Preferred Provider Organization (PPO) is all about. A network of providers agrees to sign on with the insurance company, providing their services to all plan members for a locked in rate. Basically, they make a deal. We are left out of the wheeling and dealing. Yes we are given free reign to choose our provider from the network of providers the insurance company says we can use. But if you want some other professional, the insurance is going to cover less of the bill or perhaps none at all.<br />
On the two opposing ends of the spectrum, millionaires can afford not to carry medical insurance. Low-income families are forced to use Medicaid with even less providers available for them to choose from. The elderly have Medicare. But, both Medicaid and Medicare strain our government in ways that can bankrupt the tax system. I suppose this is a whole 'nother fish to fry.<br />
So where does that leave us? I would like to see the system open to free enterprise. I would like doctors and hospitals to compete to provide excellent service at reasonable costs. I would like the free choice to choose any doctor I want, to call ahead and know what he/she charges, and to be able to pay my bill. As it stands now, I have no idea what our family physician charges for an office visit. I never see a bill. I pay my $25 co-pay and that's the end of it. All nice and tidy and cheap it seems. But that's the problem! I'm left out of the equation. Who knows what she charges and how that amount drives up the cost of medical insurance. (By the way, I like our doctor a lot.) We had a "specialist" "run some tests" last year. I would never have known what tests he ran or how much the bill was had I not phoned the hospital and asked for an itemized bill. It was $3000. That's <b>exactly</b> why my insurance premiums are what they are.<br />
I realize this problem is far too big and far too long in the making for any simple solution. I just wish a dialogue would open up among the experts to address the rising cost of health care, the rising cost of insurance and the very real inability for any American citizen to be able to afford it. I do not think the government should assign themselves this task. It should be left to the medical and financial experts to rack their brains and formulate a solution which would benefit all. <br />
My personal solution is to kick around the idea of purchasing a catastrophic health plan. We would cancel our medical insurance and pay as we go for any and all medical expenses. The insurance would be there only in the case of a real medical emergency or very high hospital bill. I need to look into this type of plan and the cost of premiums. I would genuinely like to know of anyone who insures their family this way and how it has worked out for you. I simply want to get off this crazy ride and take some control for ourselves. <br />
<br />
Disclaimer : ) I'm no expert. I'm your average American citizen who is frustrated beyond measure.Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-2762691225682366302012-01-05T05:38:00.000-08:002012-01-06T13:53:49.262-08:00Tottensea Landing by Dale C. Willard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1dmnPQeRalzxnPqSkX5tQJdxo8v9GXzfsoyurkP3_XzWHyXvo80FIzKUZpDa19Bgt3AcxrYSElxYh6V9gtTIgqONm_ZoV62VfjXx7_ALF6pReCsCUjpyZrnIBySgbTNXdNYG0TuzH-k/s1600/51hI4YFrIUL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C-34%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1dmnPQeRalzxnPqSkX5tQJdxo8v9GXzfsoyurkP3_XzWHyXvo80FIzKUZpDa19Bgt3AcxrYSElxYh6V9gtTIgqONm_ZoV62VfjXx7_ALF6pReCsCUjpyZrnIBySgbTNXdNYG0TuzH-k/s1600/51hI4YFrIUL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4%252CBottomRight%252C-34%252C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div> <br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Linnets-Mouse-Grownups-Tottensea-ebook/dp/B004MDLOUG/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2">The Linnet's Tale</a> sits on my bookshelf as one of my favorite jewels. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tottensea-Landing-Sequel-Linnets-ebook/dp/B0063W0XL0/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1325770336&sr=1-1">Tottensea Landing</a> is the newly released sequel which continues the adventures of the field mice of Tottensea Burrows. I was charmed by these books the moment I began to read them. Written about an intellectual little bunch of English mice living in a cottage garden, they are full of wit and playfulness. The highly literate cast of characters includes the mayor, a widow and her son, an adventurous merchant, and an inventor with three lovely daughters, who seem to have come straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Many more dear little mice make up the town and are interwoven into the story.<br />
When introducing us to the characters in The Linnet's Tale, the author adds bits of "linguistic inventiveness" that tickle the senses. For example, in describing the naming of certain mice such as Warburton Nines Who Once Lifted a Cat, Willard explains the <i>meritorious</i> <i>epigraphs</i> in a name added to show respect. An epigraph that has nothing to do with any earned merit is called a <i>distinguishing</i> <i>epigraph</i>, as in a name like Opportune Baggs the Inventor. Such playfulness is taken in all seriousness as the story unfolds into tales of love and daring rescues.<br />
Tottensea Landing picks up where The Linnet's Tale left off and continues enchanting the reader with a new adventure. The cast of kind and generous field mice remains the same with the introduction of several new characters including some unsavory pirates. A bit of friction develops between the newcomers and one or two of the townsfolk, adding the age-old dichotomy of an upper and lower class system. <br />
The Tale opens with the arrival by boat of the Thatchett family to Tottensea Landing. They decide to stay a while, bringing their upper class status to the village. Things begin to go awry when, much to their chagrin, their son is smitten by the kitchen maid and invites her to a dinner party. About this same time, a mysterious and vicious shrew washes up on shore and is nursed back to health at the inn by the very same maid. What happens when these well-mannered little mice are faced with treachery? The result is an entertaining story!<br />
Although called, "A mouse story for grownups" I found myself wishing my children were still young and at home so I could read this aloud to them. Most definitely suited for grownups, I would also highly recommend both titles for any children who enjoy witty adventure. The story remains bright and positive even though there are sinister elements. These never come across as eerie or dark as many modern novels tend to do. One curious thing I noticed was my keen awareness that I was reading about mice. I'm not quite sure how the author does this, but it adds to the uniqueness of the story while remaining completely believable.<br />
As in The Linnet's Tale, Mr. Willard has given us a good, solid story interspersed with poetry and witty dialogue. Although it is not necessary to first read The Linnet's Tale, I would recommend setting yourself up properly and reading it first as an introduction to the cast of characters and the wonderful world of Tottensea. I am pleased to have this addition to my shelf of classic literature.Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-40530710205069839872011-09-21T10:43:00.000-07:002011-11-10T03:13:11.047-08:00Vanishing of the Bees<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7JT9uLcxia0" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
I've been aware of the honey bee mystery for some time. Most of us have heard this story of how entire colonies of bees are disappearing without a trace. Named Colony Collapse Disorder or CCD, it would pique my curiosity for the moment, cause me to say, "Huh, wonder where they went?", and then I'd forget about it again.<br />
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Well, one of our daughters brought this movie to my attention. It's called, "<a href="http://www.vanishingbees.com/trailer/">Vanishing of the Bees</a>".<br />
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I watched it today, hoping that I could finally know the answers to the mystery. It is a thorough documentary, beginning with the discovery of the missing colonies, one bee keeper's quest for answers, and a serious problem that is world wide in scope. I really didn't anticipate where the culprit(s) would be found and at first the movie surprised me in this respect. Now that I have given it some thought, I'm not surprised at all.<br />
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I'll give you more than a hint. SYSTEMIC PESTICIDES.<br />
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In a nutshell, this film tells us that the chemicals the E.P.A. approves for use as pesticides, particularly those that are systemic, along with genetically engineered crops will cause us to eventually pay the price for so-called"cheap food". What farmers used to grow at 75 bushels per acre they can now grow at 150 bushels per acre. At this rate, in twenty years it will be 300 bushels per acre. Quantity is viewed as success. But what does it do to the quality of those crops? And should whether it makes us sick be secondary?<br />
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The disappearance of the pollinators, such as the honey bees, stinging insects and bats, are an indicator that something is very wrong with the habitat. I liken this to the old habit of miners carrying a canary into the mines to give forewarning if a noxious gas is present. We should listen to the bees. As one commentater said, "It is an unmistakable sign that our food system is unsustainable."<br />
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I highly recommend the film. As usual when it comes to our food, it contained a lot of information that I was unaware of. There are many grassroots efforts that all of us can play a part in in remedying the situation. One of the organic bee keepers interviewed in the movie is from Floyd, VA. Just a hop, skip and a jump from here. One of the main things I took away from the movie, "Vote with your fork."Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-56145979997560964292011-06-07T03:00:00.000-07:002011-06-10T03:23:14.454-07:00WanderingI'm making my usual run this afternoon to pick up Tess from school. It's another blasted hot day so I turn the air up in the car. I make it barely a mile down the road when I encounter a tow truck stopped in the middle of the lane with another pick up truck stopped behind it . This is a dangerous section of road, steep and winding with no guardrails where the road drops off on one side into a deep, wooded ravine. There is nothing for me to do but stop. After a few minutes of waiting, the gentleman in the pickup gets out of his truck and speaks with the tow truck driver, who is standing in the road. They look perplexed. Then I see an older woman walking around as though searching for something in the road. Something about her looks clearly out of place. I put on my flashers and get out to see what's holding us up. Both men turn to me and the tow truck driver says the woman is lost and he can't help her. The older gentleman from the pick up looks equally stumped and turns to me as though looking for an answer. I'm confused because although this is odd, I figure it's a pretty simple task; just ask her some questions. I approach the woman and gently place my hand on her shoulder. "What's your name?" I say. Immediately I can tell something is very wrong because she answers me in gibberish. My heart sinks as I continue talking to her, recognizing the signs of Alzheimer's. Clearly, this woman is helpless.<br />A quick panic tries to rise up in me as realize this is way beyond any of we three drivers. I can also tell that the men are looking for me to come up with an answer, like I should know something they don't know. I'm trying to think quickly. "OK", I say, "I'll drive her down to the nursing home at the end of the road. Maybe she wandered away from there. If not, we can call the police from there." Nodding their heads in agreement, the men are pleased with my solution. The tow truck driver is in a hurry to get back on the road, and he leaves. As gently as possible, I explain to the woman that I'm going to help her find her home and I begin to guide her to my car. I notice she's wearing long, dark, polyester pants and a polyester, long-sleeved turtleneck; very warm clothing for this sweltering heat. She has leaf debris on her back and in her hair as though she's been in the woods. I get a strong scent of body odor, but that's not surprising given the heat and the way she's dressed. Her nails and hands are clean and well kept and a nice gold wedding ring is on her finger. Obviously she is cared for and loved by someone. As I begin to guide her toward my car, she gestures towards the woods and wants me to look. She speaks some real words mixed in with the gibberish. She makes me to understand that someone else is in the woods but they're afraid to come out. She begins searching the roadside again. I peer down the steep ravine and I see no sign of anyone. We can't go down there, I tell her. We'll have to get someone else to come back later to help us.<br />The pickup driver hasn't left. He's a neighbor I recognize and he follows us to my car. I gently guide the lady to be seated and I buckle her seat belt. The neighbor asks me if I'm sure I'm OK. I assure him that I'm fine, no problem. In my mind I'm saying a quick prayer that she doesn't panic or try to exit the car after it's moving. As we begin to pull away, I phone the school and ask them to please have Tess take the bus home. What began as a routine errand is no longer routine.<br />Driving down the road, the woman is quiet. Once or twice she seems to see something familiar out the window and says "I think..." or "No, not yet." I ask her a few questions again. What's your name? Were you in the woods long? Do you live nearby? Mostly she appears not to hear me. Suddenly, she blurts out, "The flowers are very pretty. All the pretty colors. Peonies..." She also tries to tell me something about, "Big, yellow...mowing...", then she is gone again. As we pull into the nursing home parking lot, I see my neighbor in the pickup is there. He asks again if I'm OK. "Yes, yes no problem", I say again. More to reassure myself than anyone else. I begin walking to the entrance and notice the woman hasn't gotten out of the car. Silly me. I assume she will automatically follow. I return to the car and open her door, guiding her out. I explain that we are stopping here for help, but I don't know if she hears or comprehends me.<br />Entering the cool lobby, I feel like we have found an oasis. I briefly explain myself to the receptionist, asking if the nursing home has had anyone wander away. Although the response is an immediate, "No!", I still feel relieved because there are professionals here who are ready to help me. While the receptionist phones the police, four nurses and a supervisor step in. They bombard the woman with questions and soon see this is of little help. I feel bad for the poor, lost woman. She clearly looks confused and frustrated at times. I ask her if she is thirsty and she nods. A cup of water refreshes her and she says, "Thank you." I guide her to a seat where we can wait for the police. A nurse decides to check her blood sugar, which turns out fine. She is able to tell us her and her husband's first name and we work to get a last name. After a while, the police phone back and say they have found her husband. He called them to report his wife missing. We now have her last name and her address!<br />When her husband arrives, we guide him to her and recognition lights up her face. She says laughingly, "Where were you?" It turns out she lives on this very road. We drove right past her house to get to the nursing home! She had managed to wander a mile from her home, uphill into the thickest part of our wooded road. I don't know if she stayed on the road for that mile or exactly what happened. When her husband comes in, he explains everything very matter-of-factly. She was mowing in the woods, ran out of gas and got lost. By now, a police officer arrives and asks to speak to the husband. I ask him if I'm needed here and he tells me I can go. I thank the nursing home staff for their help and drive back up the road toward home.<br />My physical role is done for this woman today. But on an emotional level, my thoughts go round and round. I reflect on how much went unspoken during this interchange between everyone involved. The tow truck driver whose few words told me he wanted nothing to do with this; the pick up driver whose face showed concern and bafflement; the nursing home staff who went into auto pilot, hovering over the woman, checking blood sugar, etc.; the husband who wanted to make us believe that everything was perfectly normal with his casual manner and light speech, (I think he was trying to convince himself that everything was normal too.); the husband's hesitancy to have the police involved; and finally to myself, who was scared stiff for having the responsibility to help a lost soul find her way home.<br />I recognize the symptoms of Alzheimer's because we've had two relatives who have suffered this disease. The jumbled speech, the consciousness that bubbles to the surface then disappears just as quickly, the increase in confusion when their environment changes, the signs of frustration with themselves for not being able to communicate a thought. Many times their physical health is not compromised at all and they are otherwise very healthy. To be perfectly honest, this disease frightens me. Maybe because it is a disease of the mind and it's sneaky. It takes intelligent, bright, successful people and robs them of their logical thought... and so much more.<br />Now, when I drive down my road, past #2204, I will be watching out for the lady with Alzheimer's. She has one more advocate to protect her. I admire her husband for his loyalty and protectiveness over his wife. I think about my marriage and the illnesses my husband and I might suffer one day. It's the part when "in sickness and in health" comes into play. But I sincerely pray it won't be Alzheimer's, or throat cancer or colon cancer, or a stroke, or...Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-66871660427541247702011-05-07T03:48:00.000-07:002011-05-07T07:00:42.696-07:00Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQ_j_-OmoBo4DjzF5wa1URz48eF6ySNMr7MFUPwxhgHaZaXtVrIuL2iXg61Bv2rSMdUf3R8Po7eAstudrobv7O6L8RYEqHURWpF98qMgwwokEqi0hHfrTkIiD9PRm3t-E100rQL1k8rs/s1600/IMG_6843+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQ_j_-OmoBo4DjzF5wa1URz48eF6ySNMr7MFUPwxhgHaZaXtVrIuL2iXg61Bv2rSMdUf3R8Po7eAstudrobv7O6L8RYEqHURWpF98qMgwwokEqi0hHfrTkIiD9PRm3t-E100rQL1k8rs/s400/IMG_6843+%25282%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603973580399222242" border="0" /></a>The Blue Ridge Mountains after a spring storm.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkQSFhtwiVljaPqTTAdsIDOKsDkleyWCZn7kfDxxC6ol1f8xT4lxuvL9Linsl2sndhc0Ksklci-E7awi_7Pya364UQYXPVzME6p-CuCYwJ5U5fZahwSmqGHIPMjZBm330_8syCZAugYg/s1600/091011+Hike+to+Devil%2527s+Marble+Yard+020.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkQSFhtwiVljaPqTTAdsIDOKsDkleyWCZn7kfDxxC6ol1f8xT4lxuvL9Linsl2sndhc0Ksklci-E7awi_7Pya364UQYXPVzME6p-CuCYwJ5U5fZahwSmqGHIPMjZBm330_8syCZAugYg/s400/091011+Hike+to+Devil%2527s+Marble+Yard+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603972333483932802" border="0" /></a>Appalachian Mountains in early autumn from the Devil's Marble Yard.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjI4b30wdZZSpcWDbWtOdtE9H89S4a4AOKbKE8YmPTd8r6scBFerKJRTijkQ7hHCHMSnq4jRIc0tD4_5HaeELLK9Yjh6ywo7Rc8vFoGioVG9ETOrGk5hyphenhyphenEIWL0Y962CmdZR1H_KD9uEFs/s1600/PICT0048.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjI4b30wdZZSpcWDbWtOdtE9H89S4a4AOKbKE8YmPTd8r6scBFerKJRTijkQ7hHCHMSnq4jRIc0tD4_5HaeELLK9Yjh6ywo7Rc8vFoGioVG9ETOrGk5hyphenhyphenEIWL0Y962CmdZR1H_KD9uEFs/s400/PICT0048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603970491564860578" border="0" /></a>Winter view from McAffee's Knob on the Appalachian trail.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFH__Am1tlThYe6vF4l8kh1Tyqrb1mxHXeUQdlwcuQSFiVkY_bOpJht9ffn7NS0AwaHXuuFMwMgIgPpj3yAS4vGRW7NN6cgXmhKUL1Roufm2ZVq-vqB0MN3b2w3M3fP1D_iRN3HXseIY/s1600/Copy+of+PICT0028.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFH__Am1tlThYe6vF4l8kh1Tyqrb1mxHXeUQdlwcuQSFiVkY_bOpJht9ffn7NS0AwaHXuuFMwMgIgPpj3yAS4vGRW7NN6cgXmhKUL1Roufm2ZVq-vqB0MN3b2w3M3fP1D_iRN3HXseIY/s400/Copy+of+PICT0028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603970492095299698" border="0" /></a>The kids on a winter hike at McAffee's Knob.<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Copland:Appalachian Spring</span>, performed by the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Leonard Bernstein. Easily identified as an American composition the moment you hear it, it is pure genius by Copland in his ability to capture the essence of these mountains from where it was actually written- Hollywood and Mexico!<br />The opening portion, <span style="font-style: italic;">Ballet for Martha, </span>has always been my favorit<span style="font-style: italic;">e</span>. The music builds and swells, as buds in a forest of trees in the spring. When the French horns increase to practically fill the sky, I can barely contain my joy.<br />Copland wrote this score in 1943 as a ballet for choreographer and dancer, Martha Graham. Begun in Hollywood and completed in Mexico the following year, it was originally scored for 13 instruments. I prefer the full orchestra suite which dates from 1945. But what really amazes me is how the full landscape of Pennsylvania farmland and West Virginia mountains was captured by Copland from California and Mexico. Did Copland ever gaze onto the Appalachian landscape and jot down even a few notes? The penultimate section of the ballet is taken from a Shaker tune called, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Gift to Be Simple</span>. A pretty song, it was sung as rounds by our children in grade school. This portion of the composition brings memories of the beautiful Shaker influence near our home in upstate New York, near Chatham. Across the border into Massachusetts is a Shaker village called, <a href="http://www.hancockshakervillage.org/">Hancock Shaker Village</a>. Now a working museum, one can experience the simplistic living of the Shakers, view their unique furniture and round barn and soak up the gorgeous countryside of western Massachusetts.<br />Originally Copland didn't have a title for the composition and simply called it <span style="font-style: italic;">Ballet for Martha</span>. It was Martha Graham who suggested <span style="font-style: italic;">Appalachian Spring</span> after a section of poem by Hart Crane called, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Bridge</span>. The lines go:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> O Appalachian Spring! I gained the ledge;<br />Steep, inaccessible smile that eastward bends<br />And northward reaches in that violet wedge<br />Of Adirondacks!<br /></div><br />Here I find another sentimental attachment to our beloved Adirondacks. Growing up in upstate New York, the Adirondacks were our summer playground. Camping on Lake George, riding the day cruises up and down the lake, exploring Fort Ticonderoga and picnicking on the grounds of the Saratoga State Park. As a young adult, I spent summer weekends visiting Steve's family's summer camp on Brant Lake. We hiked Pharoah Lake, where Steve and his brothers still hike with our children each summer. In the late 1980's, we bought our first home in Saratoga Springs, New York in the foothills of the Adirondacks. This allowed us to bond even closer with that area and begin raising our children with a love for the mountains.<br />So today, as I drive on errands here in Southwest Virginia, listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Appalachian Spring</span>, my thoughts wander aimlessly to all the beautiful memories of mountains near and far. I wonder why I am drawn to mountains and not oceans. I wonder about the stories I've heard of my ancestors and where they came from. I think perhaps they too had a love of mountain regions and it has passed down through blood to me. I will keep wondering and wandering the mountains, appreciating the beauty of God's creation and listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Appalachian Spring</span> for inspiration. Whatever Copland was thinking while he sat writing in Hollywood has been fulfilled miraculously for me in this music of the here and now.Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-39779089093538977892010-10-12T07:36:00.000-07:002010-10-12T07:43:27.078-07:00Difficult Decision: Gunner is Sick<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWrwMUF35BwV7H0oV7h4IqZU_ykW3k83PTqyCSlkTC81CtuqsP32XWiuEZVTPN4iizesJOuYbZJeYUWDxXxcoAa8LBiyF-NfcyNvzI0JBzVYdMF09TVJrKwGCDNXOmOr-kzxru87P8LU/s1600/IMG_0269+crop.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 374px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWrwMUF35BwV7H0oV7h4IqZU_ykW3k83PTqyCSlkTC81CtuqsP32XWiuEZVTPN4iizesJOuYbZJeYUWDxXxcoAa8LBiyF-NfcyNvzI0JBzVYdMF09TVJrKwGCDNXOmOr-kzxru87P8LU/s400/IMG_0269+crop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527168888887515666" border="0" /></a> <br />Our sweet puppy, Gunner is sick. He's eleven years old, but I still call him Puppy. Now, the decision of if andwhen to euthanize him lies in my hands.<br /> He began to decline last year and we coaxed him back to health until two weeks ago when he stopped eating his kibble. A trip to the vet revealed nothing significant. All signs point to a blockage. Possibly cancer, possibly a foreign object.The next step would be exploratory surgery and MRIs running into hundreds and hundreds of dollars over the $470 we'd already spent. We could not afford to spend more. So, we made the decision to allow nature to take its course. I have been delaying nature a bit by preparing boiled hamburger mixed with cooked rice, pureed and fed in small multiple meals throughout the day.<br />So the decision of how long to nurse our puppy is up to me. I am his keeper, nurse and daytime friend. My husband is his cleaner-upper and the kids provide love.<br />I know that I attribute human traits onto our animals. I compare Gunner to a sickly old man. I am his caregiver and it is difficult to decide where my limit is for caring. My inclination is to go the distance, loving and coddling him until his last breath. But reality is much harsher. How long can I leave him to run errands, how long will my husband clean up dog vomit, how long until Gunner suffers, what IS his quality of life. Do I measure the quality of his life in tails wags? If so, there's a ton of life left in this sweet boy. He still follows me around, thumps his tail on the floor, sniffs the air outside and gets excited to see his leash. Dogs don't show pain the way people do. They don't call from their sickbed, moan for sips of water or tell us how badly it hurts. Instead, we have to read very subtle signs.<br /> In my experiences, the end of life so rarely happens as in the movies. People slipping off expectantly in their sleep is a rare blessing. No, in my life, loved ones linger, cling to life and fight death to the end. We anguish over their pain and pray for God to quickly release them from it. But in today's medicine, loved ones are forced to decide when to "pull the plug". This decision is too big for me. I have made it before and I prefer not to be dealt this hand again. Not for humans or animals. I want God to make the life and death decisions for I am certainly not qualified. And yet, here I am again. When will Gunner die?<br /> Our kind vet answered my questions about how to make this decision. While warning that it is a personal choice, she helped me look for signs of "quality of life" in our dog. Explained how to keep him nourished and comfortable. But still, the decision is mine.<br /> For now, I take it one day at a time. As long as I can feed him and watch over him, his death sentence is commuted for one more day. I pray for signs that will make the decision definite, easier. But each day, I live with a lump in my throat, loving this puppy and the memories he has given us. He takes with him our daughter's childhood, for they grew up with this puppy and now they are young women. He is a kind and faithful friend who never asked for anything and gave so much in return.<br /> I know in the end, I will still whisper, "I'm sorry".Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-53040028287236626122009-05-27T11:21:00.000-07:002017-05-03T02:37:34.261-07:00In Memory of My Father, Charles Giacomino, WWII 551st Parachute Infantry Battalion<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3i8mAKZ3QeLWTpcDTNL6bE-6jD21OJegtwKkCNIIsA9A3aam_cJSv6ZGBln4GEukB0F8E0aKsrAkeC6i9Rpu9qxWXtzsNKzupyx6WbD9CoFeTXl9agX8MrOtEzoN5Dy0UPc3_U_tJoY/s1600-h/IMG_0006.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413690086644423986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3i8mAKZ3QeLWTpcDTNL6bE-6jD21OJegtwKkCNIIsA9A3aam_cJSv6ZGBln4GEukB0F8E0aKsrAkeC6i9Rpu9qxWXtzsNKzupyx6WbD9CoFeTXl9agX8MrOtEzoN5Dy0UPc3_U_tJoY/s400/IMG_0006.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a> My father died four years ago on May 27th, 2005. It seemed fitting that he passed away on a Memorial Day weekend. It was as though he had chosen this time to return to his buddies from the war who had already passed on.<br />
Throughout my childhood I were reminded of his war experience. Never by words or stories, but by a multitude of artifacts lining the walls of our basement. There were also framed photographs and old scrapbooks of soldiers and foreign places. He kept a trunk full of uniforms in mothballs. It was quietly tucked away in the basement, but it spoke volumes in its unassuming way. Curiosity would draw me to rummage through that trunk and marvel at the construction of the uniforms and one particular piece of slippery, camouflage fabric. I later learned that piece was parachute silk. When I was a teenager he let me have one of his jackets to wear. It was all the fad to wear army clothes and I was surprised when he let me wear it. There was an imposing Nazi flag on the basement wall, surrounded by guns mounted on wood. My favorite object was a wooden owl, hand carved by a German soldier. When I asked my father about the owl, he said it sat atop a flag pole. My third grade teacher was known for collecting owl objects and I recall being allowed to take my father's owl to school for show and tell. I never asked and he never told how he would have come about to have that owl. I suppose this basement room was a shrine of sorts. We treated it with respect, but never asked too much about it and never heard my father speak a single story of the war. I had always assumed it was because he had three daughters and he assumed we wouldn't be interested in such things. My mother was proud of him that he didn't speak of it. War was too big, too personal, certainly too painful to put into words and good men didn't brag on things of war. Outwardly, my father wore the insignia of the 82nd Airborne division on his belt buckle. He also had a cap with the insignia patch sewn onto it and a small tag on his license plate with this same insignia. I noticed when we were out in public, men would come up to him and shake his hand and my dad would get this look of pride and humility mixed together. And all of those years went by and I never <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> knew...<br />
I was recently given a book that my father owned titled, "<i>The Left Corner of My Heart</i>" by Dan Morgan. My brother-in-law, who has an interest in the history of war, had borrowed the book from my father. He told me it chronicled the 551st Paratroop Battalion* and that it was an unbelievable story about my Dad's battalion. I was supposed to pass it along to my husband who wanted to read it. Instead, I read it myself. At the same time, I found an old scrapbook of my father's that I had never seen before. The scrapbook and Dan Morgan's book together have given me a glimpse into my father's world during the years of 1942-1945. A time well before I was born, and yet a story that would once and for all show me who my father really was.<br />
I knew my father to be very quiet man. He was different from most of the Italian men I knew in our large family and circle of friends. He was a musician and played rhythm guitar in a band. He worked as a forklift driver by day, supporting my stay-at-home mom and we three daughters. We lived in a little 3 bedroom ranch in upstate New York, out in the country where my father could garden. He was very proud of his garden and loved to leave vegetables on the neighbor's door steps. My father was also health conscious before it was fashionable to be so. He ate yogurt, fresh vegetables and drank milk. He rarely drank alcohol except for a shot of anisette when he shoveled snow. He jogged up the road from work and lifted weights in the basement. If you wanted to snap his picture, he would first push up his sleeve and nonchalantly flex his arm muscles. (Maybe this was a little true-to-Italian form.) He didn't like to travel and would scowl during an entire road trip. He was happiest staying home, eating my mom's good cooking, gardening and playing his guitar. He left us daughters to my mother's hand and never, ever got involved in anyone else's business. Oh...and he was very handsome.<br />
I realize now that my father was also a soldier. He was a soldier for life. His experiences in the war shaped and formed the man he would always be. In reading the accounts of his company I realize that no one can experience what these men went through and not be changed for life. Of course, their personalities remain intact, but their view is filtered through the experience of war. I'm sure this remains true for any soldier, then and now. The fact that my father lived through this experience, to go on and marry and raise a family is close to a miracle.<br />
Even in paratrooper training there was much danger. From an account written by news reporter Jeff Holland, "On a cold, misty, moonless night in February 1944, several companies of paratroopers jumped from two dozen or more planes outside camp Mackall near Hoffman, N.C. as part of a training exercise to prepare them for assignments during WWII. But pilots had misjudged their location, and the paratroopers were released over Lake Kinney Cameron instead of over an open field. Forty-three men landed in the lake; eight men drowned." Their parachutes dragged them down and they each wore 120 pounds of equipment! The men spent all night searching for the eight missing men, finding seven within 24 hours and the eighth man, 4 days later. Some jumps were experimental, dropping with a different type of boot maybe, or at different altitudes. Two months after the tragic drownings, the battalion set sail for Africa and then on to Italy. On August 15, 1944, the 551st was dropped out over the French Riviera, part of the force spearheading the invasion of southern France. The battalion was next dropped five miles south of Draguignan, marching on to take the city. Of this my father has a photograph and I had always wondered what that word, Draguignan, meant. Now I learn that it was a place in France. The 551st paratroopers became the first Americans to enter Cannes and Nice, France. After reading this, I see the calling card in my father's scrapbook is from a Frenchman thanking my father for liberating them. The battalion then moved to the Maritime Alps, where it held a 45 mile front along the Franco-Italian border for two months. Winter moved in and the men were cold in only their jumpsuits. From this position, the battalion kept the German army off the flank of the U.S. army. Then the 551st returned to northern France for another jump. This time they were called to the town of Rochlinval, which they took, and fought in the "Battle of the Bulge". In this battle, within five days time, the battalion was reduced from 800 men to around 100 men. My father survived. The army deactivated the battalion and incorporated the remaining men into the 82nd Airborne Division where they served for the remainder of the war.<br />
It's easy to ignore dates and places, rattled off as in any history book. I've heard of the Battle of the Bulge dozens of times and never gave it a thought. But in reading "<i>The Left Corner of My Heart</i>" I see men's names, photographs, what they ate, who was wounded or killed. They write of bartering cigarettes or parachute silk with the locals for food, drinking wine and sleeping, as my dad once told me, on top of a piano. I touch the calling card, the owl, the parachute silk and it all becomes so <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> to me. On more than one occasion I am reduced to tears when I realize just what these brave men were doing. And even more so, to realize this was my dad! How could I have been such a crappy teenager to him?! How selfish I was, too blinded by myself to truly see through the generational gap; to see my parents as people.<br />
I have not finished reading this volume of Dan Morgan's book. It is 548 pages long. I know more tears will flow as I get to know my dad through his experiences before I was born. The horrors of war, the bravery of the soldiers...I know I will love him more, appreciate him more. I wish I could reach across the chasm of death to tell him I understand now. I am consoled to know that he is laid to rest among thousands of fellow veterans at the Saratoga National Cemetery. The gun salute and the the honor bestowed on him would make him proud.<br />
<br />
* After researching my father's service in the war, I found that he began in the 82nd Airborne division and was later transferred to the 551st Airborne Battalion. I am not sure why he wore the 82nd Airborne patches and not the 551st, but he owned more of those and the 551st memorabilia are extremely scarce.<br />
** Several years after writing this, we sold my parents' house. The new owner (one of my cousins) discovered murals that my father had painted on the basement walls. They are murals of paratroopers and bombs dropping on the European countryside. Photos of these murals can be seen here: <a href="http://ajournalofdays.blogspot.com/2016/06/images-from-mind-of-soldier.html">images-from-the-mind-of-a-paratrooper</a>Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501286388453397803.post-6558398176217423212009-05-10T11:25:00.000-07:002009-12-10T15:51:03.925-08:00Calling card and photographs from Dad's scrapbook, 1944-45<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xhDTSYrdMn4I2UwS8Ls8u-2HjzpyHFFXwmFNAV3D7Qt2qQcaLL9MZpN0M4tIKOJEFWaOdsS1IzgsXPQ6yPP1OeIMTO6jSXDgyKYOoLuVK1Nj3J661I3C-KLx1kIm6GS9li6ol-XM-r8/s1600-h/DSC09754.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xhDTSYrdMn4I2UwS8Ls8u-2HjzpyHFFXwmFNAV3D7Qt2qQcaLL9MZpN0M4tIKOJEFWaOdsS1IzgsXPQ6yPP1OeIMTO6jSXDgyKYOoLuVK1Nj3J661I3C-KLx1kIm6GS9li6ol-XM-r8/s400/DSC09754.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413758210888226274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBrnyvJbB-HpxEf7uzUBHUrVCYtsiJlHJ-JeWW9JSFUaZ9fSOcpERifAJKvVF4iciGy5nkJSD7YQpw5iyAHOXpaqmx5Eq8fyR0PXd_CefkSz2MELZ2mjxMG61EOWjUPA_V-PGZeWJHImI/s1600-h/DSC09755.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBrnyvJbB-HpxEf7uzUBHUrVCYtsiJlHJ-JeWW9JSFUaZ9fSOcpERifAJKvVF4iciGy5nkJSD7YQpw5iyAHOXpaqmx5Eq8fyR0PXd_CefkSz2MELZ2mjxMG61EOWjUPA_V-PGZeWJHImI/s400/DSC09755.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413758007222337538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSikycyNG3g_veW0IGOlEzEw7shTCDyJxa5BkNNcuM8BsORy4g_KIOVeX0xfqi8Jz532lmIPtRoNcHpJlC1ubZzhCWu7uEwHQ7HzImp1p_oHY1_r_3BlsF5IiqmysBYJ67CmMQ5v0ArfM/s1600-h/DSC09748.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSikycyNG3g_veW0IGOlEzEw7shTCDyJxa5BkNNcuM8BsORy4g_KIOVeX0xfqi8Jz532lmIPtRoNcHpJlC1ubZzhCWu7uEwHQ7HzImp1p_oHY1_r_3BlsF5IiqmysBYJ67CmMQ5v0ArfM/s400/DSC09748.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413758003444699954" border="0" /></a>The tiny dots in this aerial photo are parachutes. The airplanes are along the top.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJBD9gKVrutTlRQTRdVCTsHyVNvz0up6PCrXph_QC_rcsNfhdreuwd7OmAxQOl7IghJitlGZUJqwmPqyVrUhRXV6L84XyMvte16HnaaFfQ9vIUsKHNpj-Yw8BFstKy7zgUss8TOls6Qg/s1600-h/DSC09750.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJBD9gKVrutTlRQTRdVCTsHyVNvz0up6PCrXph_QC_rcsNfhdreuwd7OmAxQOl7IghJitlGZUJqwmPqyVrUhRXV6L84XyMvte16HnaaFfQ9vIUsKHNpj-Yw8BFstKy7zgUss8TOls6Qg/s400/DSC09750.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413757990021425698" border="0" /></a>Leonorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04701518822526054010noreply@blogger.com0