Berries and cream

Ingredients: one family, sunny day, strawberry field, plastic containers.

Turning the kids loose in a field full of strawberries was a fun way to fill a summer's day. The idea was to pick as many of the farmer's strawberries, pay by weight, return home and bake some pies. The strawberries were not to be eaten until the containers were weighed.

The reality was that little Iris, Ben, and Sophie jumped right into filling the pails along with an occasional nibble. Hannah and Olivia, however, continued to put the berries into their mouths rather than their container. We had to remind them both of their mission, a simple lesson in economics and fair-labor practices.












The pie making came about two days later, along with homemade whipped cream.


Our food critic, Iris, sampled her daddy's pie and seemed to enjoy every bite. The rest of us soon followed her lead.

Abundance

Back home again, still unpacking. Everything was special about this vacation but probably the most gratifying part was having all five grandchildren in the same place at the same time for the very first time.

Thank goodness for digital cameras and memory cards. Pictures were taken as memories were made. I pointed and shot over 500 times. Maybe it's a grandmother thing. I just know that I was continually picking up the camera and trying to capture the moment. I felt like the munchkins were growing right in front of my eyes. Distance necessitates attention. I hope it won't be another fifteen months before our next reunion.

All five are unique; watching them connect with each other was a gift. I remember growing up in a large extended family of first cousins. I see the beginnings here of lifelong attachments and that warms my heart.


They played and giggled and clamored for "one more part of the story, babci" at bedtime. They got in each other's way too, as kids can do - related or un-related. As grownups can do too. Thankfully, we're a family who knows how to say "I'm sorry". Hurt feelings were expressed and respected.

Two weeks of laughter and tears and soiled diapers and jam-smeared faces. Add some potty humor and knock-knock jokes from the soon-to-be second graders (Ben and Sophie) along with theatrical productions (Tania, the Girl Who Followed Her Dream) from the younger set (Olivia and Hannah). Iris somehow managed to find her way into the family circle no matter what the big kids were doing. She has spunk, that one. Actually, they all do.

Now I have the weekend to sort the pictures, reflect a bit, and blog about the trip. Maybe I can find the words to go with the pictures. Or maybe the pictures will tell their own stories. Either way, I promise to post some soon.

I started this blog to keep a running commentary of my life, especially as a grandmother's remembrance for the little people in my life. When they are too big for my bedtime stories, the blog may be the "coolest" way to communicate and connect.


I've decided to make 5 my lucky number. Feisty five.

Leaving on a jet plane ... or not

Yes, if you've been reading my daughter's blog, you know we are all doing The Waltons thing at my son's house on the Olympic Peninsula. Vacation. Two weeks. Five kids. One dog. Four adults.

Bring it on.

In order to get here, we had to drive across the state of Massachusetts, give or take three hours and tunnel traffic. I had never driven through Boston before but Jenn was a good navigator and we managed to find the pre-flight parking lot without missing a turn. After unloading most of the car trunk, assorted backpacks, suitcases and American Girl dolls, a shuttle dropped us at the airport. The girls had to carry their own loads and were surprisingly cooperative. In fact, once at the airport, we had another three hours to kill, and after muffins and bottled water, they were still holding up well. What more could we ask for?

How about a plane that leaves on time? We got the munchkins on to the plane and negotiated window seats for both of them. We were at the rear of the plane, Jenn and Hannah a row ahead and across the aisle. Best we could do.

Just when we had stowed our gear and settled in for a seven-hour flight, Mother Nature decided to play a very dirty trick.

Sophie (peering out window and chewing gum for takeoff): "Why aren't we moving yet?"

Babci: "We should be going any minute now. All the people are onboard."

Pilot (over intercom): "I'm sorry to announce that we have been put on 'complete ground stop'. There are severe thunderstorms moving through the area. We will update in fifteen minutes."

Silent groans, I'm sure, throughout the plane. I stretch up and catch Jenn's eye as she looks back and gives me a fake thumbs-up.

Fifteen minutes later, severe squall rocks the plane and whips through the airport. Fifteen minutes after that, sun is shining once again. Thirty minutes after that, pilot announces that we are good to go.

Sophie (excited): "Look, the plane's moving. We're backing up."

Babci (turning delay into learning experience): "Yes, but now we have to wait in line on the runway. See all those (20 and counting) airplanes in front of us, Sophie? Let's try to identify the airlines by the markings on their tails."

Babies are now crying loudly. People are breaking the seatbelt-fastened rule and lining up for the one set of lavatories near our seats. No one is happy.

Finally, plane takes off; Sophie swallows gum; Babci closes eyes and tries to cope with the fact that they will arrive in Seattle at roughly 11pm Pacific time, 2am body-clock time, a mere nine hours in an airplane with a small child and another smaller child across the aisle with her exhausted momma.

Son and grandson arrive at airport two hours early, due to fact that computer info was faulty and did not reveal that plane had a two-hour delay in Boston.

Stewards and flight attendants are cranky, run out of food by time they reach back rows. Babci gets free wine because there is no food to give her grandchild. Luckily, flight DVD players work. Sophie almost falls asleep but then sits up to tell Babci that she is feeling nauseous. Babci searches for barf bag and spends rest of flight with left hand patting Sophie and right hand holding the bag. This isn't the first time that Babci's been left holding the bag and probably won't be the last. Finally, sleep wins out over upset stomach. While Sophie uses Babci's left arm as her pillow, Babci is thinking a second glass of wine is not a bad idea. Unfortunately, all the liquor has been consumed; complimentary drinks were a big hit. Fellow passengers are feeling cranky too.

Hallelujah, plane lands. Sophie wakes up in time to observe the lights of the city and is sure that she saw the Space Needle.

We disembark. Walk forever and finally find son and grandson standing faithfully at baggage claim. Airline reps direct everyone to farthest baggage carousel, then redirect everyone to another location. People are now swearing that they will never fly this airline again.

Kids, at first shy, are now rocking and rolling while Jenn and Babci try to pull all seven hundred pieces of their luggage from baggage carousel. Son is trying to corral two nieces and one son as Sophie tries to kiss her cousin, Ben. "Eww!" Ben loves his girl cousins but this is asking too much. However, by time all backpacks, dolls, and larger luggage are in hand, Sophie and Ben are holding hands.

The two firstborns continue to babble and giggle from the rear, rear seat of the van as Hannah falls asleep and three adults catch up. Joe drives us to his house which is another two and a half hours away. So funny to think that you can still drive that far west of Seattle without meeting the Pacific Ocean.

I haven't changed my wristwatch. We pull into his driveway at 5am.

Long day's journey into night. That was one week ago.

Seeing all five grandkids under the same roof for the very first time?

Priceless.

Postcards from the parade

The girls are with their daddy for the holiday weekend. I didn’t expect to see them so was quite surprised when Jenn arrived with Sophie and Hannah at my door this morning.

Sophie had her shiny patent-leather shoes on and was beaming with delight. “I’m going to march in the parade, Babci. Will you come and see? I get to give cookies out to the crowd.”

David has been working on a puppetry project for the local art museum and he would be marching with his puppet troupe, letting the flying fish and cranes soar. Sophie would march alongside, doling out goodies to the crowd. She would have a bagful of treats and was taking the whole thing quite seriously. Her first parade gig.

“Did you ever walk in a parade, Babci?” I proudly shared that I actually rode on a float for a Liberty Day parade when I was twelve years old, dressed like Laura Ingalls and playing my accordion. Sophie seemed impressed. Score one for the grandparent generation.

David had to get to the parade route early to assemble his puppets so Jenn agreed to bring the girls a bit later and thought I’d like to tag along. I had actually made a fresh pot of coffee and was kicking back with Maggie Smith (class act) on my DVD. Suddenly, I was throwing on some summer clothes and in the car with daughter and grandkids. Off we went!

The weather was parade perfect; the small-town atmosphere and friendly crowds created an old-fashioned sense of pride and unity. Not a bad way to spend a summer day.

Sophie was dropped off under a large shady tree with her daddy as he worked on his puppets.


Jenn and I and Hannah followed the crowd toward the main parade route. I actually recognized folks which made me feel good now that I’ve been living up here the past two years. Jenn said hello to friends too along the way. As we smiled and waved to familiar faces, I realized that I’m slowly becoming a part of this community.

As parades go, this was quite simple, no big-city razzamatazz. It was a procession of the local heroes – the firemen and EMTs and volunteers who work for environmental causes and the women’s league and chid-care centers. Everyday folk, carrying banners and waving to the crowds. And we clapped and waved back, complete strangers but sharing in the pleasure and privilege of being part of a national holiday.


Hannah got quite excited about the Gingerbread Man riding in a classic Corvette. There was a Patriot balloon (yeah, it is Massachusetts), Sparky the firehouse dog, horses and tractors. The fire trucks were gleaming and caused Hannah to jump and hold her ears every time they sounded their loud horns in greeting.




I loved that a Jane Doe was driving a John Deere and the vintage Model-A brought back family history, stories of my parents’ courting days when my mom’s kid sister rode in the rumble seat.




I kept snapping photos and changed some of these pictures into antique shades just because they make me think of the past. Funny and wonderful to think that 25, 50, 75 years ago, people across the country were walking in parades just like this, letting freedom ring.


David and his puppet troupe came up the road toward the end of the parade, Sophie meticulously handing out (not throwing) her fortune cookies and candies. Daddy got to play and daughter got to work the crowd. I swear, that girl could run for president one day.






The parade ended at the end of main street where a Dixieland band was playing and volunteers were serving hot dogs and chocolate cake. By now, Hannah was wilting and so was Jenn. David helped us and carried Hannah some of the way back on his shoulders. I watched as he and Jenn walked and talked about the parade and the popularity of his puppets. Sophie and I were holding hands and walking in back of them. We seemed just like any other family in the crowd.

The heartache and stress and major changes which are taking place were lifted up to the bright, blue sky as we all walked together and talked about the parade. At least, in my mind and heart, that’s how it felt. For a few short hours, we were a family. Again.

Celebrating each other and the Fourth of July.

Hop and pray

The accordion. A much maligned instrument. In working-class Philly in the '50s, however, it was the affordable introduction to the world of music. I learned music theory and dexterity on the keyboard by playing Clarinet Polka and zillions of Polish folk dances in small books with pictures of men in handlebar moustaches on the covers. Polkas and obereks had plenty of sixteenth and thirty-second notes. If you could master them, you could tackle just about any other piece of music, including classical. Years later, this led to the pinnacle of success: playing Pachelbel's Canon in D at my daughter's wedding. I kid you not. I'm sure Pachelbel was smiling - it was quite a unique moment.

I found this photo in my archived picture album. It was taken about ten years ago. There was less of me then. I haven't played the old squeezebox in a couple years. It's sitting in Jenn's house right now. The case is providing a good resting place for her home phone.

Why am I writing about my old accordion? Because the music of my past is still with me, bred in the bones. My musical dad and uncles and cousins are all gone but the happy sounds of music I grew up with are still very much alive.

That's why I jumped at the chance to take my granddaughter, Sophie, to a polka mass this past weekend. It was held under the wooden beams of a park pavilion in a nearby town. Wielding two umbrellas against a summer thunderstorm, Soph and I sloshed in and claimed a picnic bench as our church pew.

Nothing like a Polish-American event - accordions, drums, and communion wafers surrounded by an American flag, potted geraniums, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer sign hung high. I'd like to think that Jesus would have felt right at home. He hung out with crowds like these, real people who work hard and pray hard. People who know what it's like to sweat and get their hands dirty. Simple values, simple lives. I mean this in a good way. I came from people like these.

It was touching to see old and young singing along to the slower songs and faster polkas. I couldn't keep still. Sophie was in awe. I cried. We danced our way out after singing America the Beautiful and listening to the Polish national anthem. When the old folks sang the anthem, I heard my own grandmother's voice again, remembering how she used to break into song when I was a kid. Summer days, hot kitchens, a tall glass pitcher of beer on her dining-room table, and babci singing.

Sophie loves to sing, just like her great-great-grandmother. And she loves to listen to my polka tapes when we ride in the car. It's a welcome alternative to the world of Disney. Sophie loves Pachelbel's Canon too.

Na zdrowie.

Carnival

Do you remember the childhood fun of your first carnival or amusement park? I drive past the site of our town's annual "carni" and see that this is the weekend for some playtime for me and the grandkids. Luckily, a rainy Friday turns into a clear, sunny Saturday and I pick up a very excited Sophie and Hannah, ready to explore the booths and rides while their mommy has a few peaceful hours to herself.

Sophie is such a big sister and veteran at this, explaining to Hannah what to expect and later guiding her through some rough spots on the high slide and faster rides. The girls meet up with neighborhood friends and the afternoon turns into a shared adventure. Nothing like little peers to make the kiddie rides even more fun.

The food concessions lose out (thank goodness) to the challenge of fishing for prizes and throwing nerf balls into a basket. I'm amazed at Sophie's and Hannah's patient determination with their fishing rods as they wriggle hooks over tiny bobbing yellow duckies. Their perseverance pays off and soon I am walking around holding onto stuffed animals, a large yellow bounce ball, and sweaters shrugged off in the rising heat of the afternoon.

As the girls run to get onto their favorite rides, I study the worn and weathered faces of the carnival workers and wonder what kind of life this is - always on the road, making meager wages, setting up and striking down the equipment. I feel sorry for these transient souls which helps to justify some of the money I shell out to keep my grandkids happy.


That's when it hits me, watching the crowds of like-minded families around me ... the carnival is about breaking out of a weekly routine, packing up the kids and indulging them for a couple hours where the noise and lure of excitement carry the day. It's very zen, being in the moment as your grandchild's face flashes a wide grin.


Suddenly, I'm back in my own past, resonating and remembering other merry-go-round and roller-coaster moments. I watch Sophie and Hannah on the go-cars but see their mommy and her little brother, bumping along and laughing merrily in the early '70s. I see my parents indulging their grandchildren as I'm now doing with Sophie and Hannah. It's a mellow feeling, a feeling that let's me tell the girls about my own love of merry-go-rounds and initial fear of roller coasters. Hannah seems glad to know that I didn't care much for the faster, louder rides either. On the other hand, Sophie, the braver soul much like her momma, chooses the adrenaline-pumping varieties whenever the height requirement allows her.




Surprisingly, Hannah does climb up the jungle-gym ride with Sophie and her friends, only to panic at the top; somehow she manages to settle herself and come down the slide. She doesn't go back for seconds, but we all applaud her bravery.


We finish the day where we began, on the merry-go-round. Their little friends have left. This time I join them, throwing my leg over the middle horse, Sophie on one side, Hannah on the other. The wind is ruffling our hair and we are giggling as our faithful steeds carry us off to imaginary lands. The three musketeers.




I am six-years old again, laughing and carefree while the carousel music is playing "When Your Hair Has Turned To Silver". Such irony. I know this song. My father and I used to play this song together.

I am riding on a merry-go-round with my grandchildren. They smile at me in delight. They do not know the lyrics to this song but I do.

When your hair has turned to silver,
I will love you just the same ...

How it feels

I was invited over to Jenn and David's the other night after work, an impromptu email from David announcing that Sophie was holding a bake sale for the local humane society. By the time I arrived, the sidewalk table was bare but the hand-drawn sign (which included drawings of a dog or two in Sophie's inimitable style) pitched slices of fresh banana bread at 25 cents apiece. The girls were home on holiday and David turned them into bakers, creative energy culminating in a worthy cause. A couple neighbors were standing nearby and assured me that the bake sale had, indeed, sold out - a success!

I climbed the steps and went inside. The girls were now watching TV but Sophie let me know that she netted $10 for the local strays. We have two animal shelters nearby and Jenn gave Sophie her choice of where to donate, explaining that the one shelter was a sadder place, more worn down and struggling than the newer, larger location. Sophie thought her options over carefully while we sat down to dinner and chose the more destitute and beleaguered for her donation. We all applauded her decision. Then we ate. We all sat around the table and David explained some of his Passover weekend to me while we shared in leftovers and talked about rituals.

I find this quite amazing.

My adult children are splitting up, each seeking to go in new directions. And, still, we sit at the table and care enough to speak of things and activities that are important to each of us. I am flying to London in a week through the generosity of a friend; David's father has been ill; Jennifer's company has moved. We break bread and listen. Banana bread. The girls eat hard-boiled eggs while we eat home-made salads from Sophie's birthday weekend. The eggs were part of Passover dishes but they play a part in Easter celebrations too. Eggs. New life, new beginnings.

I want the best for all my children. I still find it surreal and sad to know that this marriage is ending. Yet endings lead to fresh beginnings. I wonder. I worry. I try to understand.

Does a son-in-law remain a son-in-law after a divorce? Can I love my daughter yet confess love for the man who loved her and co-produced two beautiful, sensitive little girls? My grandchildren.

This is strange territory for all of us. No road map to guide the way. We are learning as we're going.

The hardest part of becoming a mother-in-law is letting yourself trust that your children have chosen well. That's why the divorce is so hard. There was (and still is) love involved. I hold on to that as I hope in the future for happiness for each of them.

There are times when it is good, very good, to be invited to the family table to share a meal and each other's presence, to accept the moment for what it is - a blessing. And then to release it.

We will get through this, all of us in our own way.

Make a wish

My first granddaughter turned seven today. There was a garden party ... sundresses, giggling girlfriends, arts and crafts, music for dancing, and a mom and dad who worked hard to make their little girl's day memorable and fun.

It was.




May all your wishes come true, Sophie. And may you be surrounded by forever friends, forever.

Love, Babci xxoo

She dosn't write, she doesn't call ...

but in case your momma does email you, you must check out this website which one of Jenn's readers posted at her blog. It is side-splitting funny and really makes me feel quite normal. Whatever that is.

American Girl

A girl and her doll. Not long ago, I took Sophie to an American Girl musical production at a theater in a nearby town. The night before, a mommy-friend of Jenn and David's dropped by their house and presented Sophie with a matching outfit for her and Kaya, her American Girl doll. This was a spontaneous act of kindness. The mom was shopping and saw the dresses, knew that I was taking Sophie to the show, and decided to surprise her. I arrived that Saturday and there stood Sophie at the head of the stairs, all aglow with excitement and looking adorable. Unfortunately, she couldn't find her school shoes and was almost in tears, so we stopped at a local mall on the way to the theater and Sophie got to pick out some new shoes, black patent leather. It was Easter weekend and sales galore, so we found a snazzy pair of play shoes too.




As we were walking to the theater, a tall man passed us and asked if we were coming to see the play. He was one of the actors from the touring company of Seattle Children's Theatre and played Addy's father. He complimented Sophie on her and her doll's dresses. Sweet man. More kindness.

We had seats in the balcony. There was a pole in the row in front of us and, every chance she got, Sophie propped her feet up on the pole so she could look at her shiny new shoes. She let me know that the stones in her shoes were not real diamonds but rhinestones. She said she could feel the difference ("real diamonds are sharper"). I couldn't help but think of Paul Simon's Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes ... that's how thrilled she was with these shoes. There were girls in the theater who had more expensive catalog matching outfits, their moms taking photos of the carefully groomed but somewhat pretentious kiddies. The child who sat next to us seemed sad as she watched the more privileged children. Sophie saw that this little girl had no American Girl to bring to the show with her and sat clutching her raffle ticket throughout the play. At the end, there was a raffle for four American Girl dolls. Sophie turned to the little girl and told her that she hoped she would win. A smile crossed the girl's face and I felt very proud of Sophie. Another act of kindness. Neither Sophie nor her seat mate won any dolls. But Sophie had acknowledged another child's longing and that had value in itself.

We ended a busy day with dinner at a new restaurant. The grown-up waitress was excited to see Sophie's American Girl as she had collected the dolls when she was younger. Sophie is at an age where the conversation has jumped to a more grown-up level. We talk about allowances, saving money in assorted piggy banks, and just how much each household task is worth. Sophie assigns dollars to her chores but thinks Hannah should get only 50 cents because, after all, kid sister is only four! Sometimes shy, sometimes sad, Sophie can also be bright and funny; I find her to be a perfect companion.


My American girl.

Bragging rights

This is Ben, my only grandson. He's seven years old. His dad just sent me some photos that Ben took all by himself while they were hiking. Joe gave him the digital camera and told Ben to point and shoot. Obviously Ben did much more than that. These photos show that the kid has quite an eye for design and perspective.






His daddy loves photography too and I can imagine the guys putting on a father-and-son exhibit one day.

Grandmoms dream big. Great job, Ben!

A little knowledge

Is all I want, really. I've not been leading a healthy life style lately. You noticed? Shoveling is my version of aerobic exercise. I huff and puff when I walk up the hill to Jenn's and this past week I have some chest discomfort when walking a flat bike path with a co-worker. She, a straight-shooter, casually looks at me and says "you probably have a blocked artery". We part company at the end of the trail - I let her take the high road (she does this daily) and I hobble back via the more narrow but level path. I keep thinking of Frost and his road less traveled. Wonder if he had any chest pain.

I'm going out-of-country at the end of the month, flying to London. Why I'm going will have a blog entry all its own. I decide to do the logical, adult thing and call my family doctor. "Sure, come on down", he says. I go. I have an EKG. It is fairly good; however, the doc does not define fairly. We talk. I tell him I had this kind of feeling lots of times when I lived in Philly and that I had an echo-cardiogram and stress tests and nothing suspicious. But I'm flying to London and I've read some scary online news lately about defibrillators not working and no air marshalls on the plane and nasty attendants and empty oxygen containers so ... better to be prepared, eh?

The nurse will call me tomorrow when she manages to clear an approval for a stress test for couch potatoes who have no stamina for a treadmill. That's me. I will have to lie on my back while technicians inject all kinds of fun things into my veins to simulate stress. I have enough real stress but nothing like going to a hospital to add a bit more. Now, while my body is stressing, they will take about 30 minutes' worth of piccies. Heart, do your thing! Then I return for a second day so they can shoot a radioactive sliver into my vein and make me all glowy and touchy feely.

All this before London. I hope. I hope there is no residual effect with the radioactive glowy thingy that will cause me to set off alarms as I go through airport security. I hope they can also knock me unconscious in the hospital while they play with my body.

I come home, open a can of tuna (oblivious to the mercury content since I've got other things to worry about), dump it on top of lettuce, spritz a lite balsamic vinaigrette, and eat my first heart-healthy meal in months! It is fairly good, like my EKG.

I then proceed to research Persantine Nuclear Cardiac Stress Test online at a Swedish Hospital website which seems like a contradiction because Scandinavians eat plenty of fish and ski a lot. Why the hell would they need a heart test? I take a closer look and realize the hospital is in Chicago. I keep reading. I read way, way too much. Ignorance is bliss; I'm toast. Radioactive toast. And nuclear. Holy latte, I'll need national-security clearance for this test.

Finally, I go to the Heart Association Red Dress website where Marie Osmond, looking adorable and perky in her red dress, is telling me how she came backstage from one of her Vegas shows, huffing and puffing (sound familiar?) and her son tells her he doesn't want her to drop dead. Yeah, good point. By now, I'm chewing my fingernails. Marie is beaming; she's lost 40 pounds. Dancing with the Stars will do that for you. Since my one shot at ballroom dancing was a disaster, I decide that I'll have to find another way to drop the weight, like cutting off my right leg.

If Marie can send me her personal trainer, dietitian and cook, I will be ever so grateful.

One cannot live on tuna fish alone.

Other shoe dropping

Yes, this is the winter of my discontent, physically and emotionally. To further exacerbate the stress, my body seems to think it's in hibernation mode from the cold so it keeps adding pounds to store body heat. Gah!

Last week, I joined a weight-loss group at school. Younger colleague had the brilliant idea to install a scale and logbook and we all get to privately weigh-in weekly and set our own goals. The 30-something gals are bouncing around celebrating their first-week successes while I take the boots off, step on the damn flashy new-age scale, and discover I gained two pounds. I now owe the kitty money. This can be as challenging as managing my IRA.

Looking for consolation, I turn to my online meditation of the day and find this ...

The Autumn of Life

The autumn leaves can dazzle us with their magnificent colors: deep red, purple, yellow, gold, bronze, in countless variations and combinations. Then, shortly after having shown their unspeakable beauty, they fall to the ground and die. The barren trees remind us that winter is near. Likewise, the autumn of life has the potential to be very colorful: wisdom, humor, care, patience, and joy may bloom splendidly just before we fall to the ground and die.

As we look at the barren trees and remember our dead, let us be grateful for the beauty we saw in them ....

Now, with all due respect to the anonymous writer, I get the point. However, I've got so many barren trees outside my window right now that I'd rather concentrate on those two mums I bought for Easter. Jenn is saving my emails for after I die while my spiritual guru is reminding me that the autumn of life doesn't last long.

I think it's time for a vacation. Maybe an online dating service. If I have to go out, I'd like to go out with a bang.

Pardon the pun.

Spring Collage Berkshire Living

I went through the apartment this morning snapping photos which pretty much sum up the landscape and the ambience
of the last few months. Welcome to my world ...




Looks so 'Norman Rockwell', doesn't it? Except for the fact that last week was Easter and I'm still shoveling snow.








If you noticed, I'm shooting in black and white to match the mood. The storm coat is ten years old and I think it's grafted itself onto my skin permanently. The boots are Canadian and have kept my feet warm and dry since November. My toes refuse to recognize heels, hiking boots, or sneakers; they won't know what to do once the snow has melted. And neither will I.

Here's the elixir that's kept me going through snow and sleet, wind and rain, bronchitis, flu, and family crises ...


Who would have thought that cough drops and alcohol can add a bit of color to a rather monochrome existence? Hey, if you think I need to get a life, come up here and help me shovel and then we'll talk.

I'm ready for Spring, I swear. In fact, last weekend as I bought Easter eggs for the grandkids to dye, I deliberately stared Old Man Winter in the face and brazenly purchased these ...


Yes, it was a bold political maneuver. I told the Old Man that someone had to go. He was prolonging this whole season way beyond reasonable expectations. I want change. I want color in my life again! I want to wake up and smell the roses, or a couple mums. Dare I hope for Spring?


Excuse me while I go scrape the snow and ice off my car windows.