Q IS FOR QUAINT

            

Part of today I spent in quaintness. Not quite the usual description of someone's day, is it? ::smile:: Quaint has several different meanings, but the specific one I am referring to is old-fashioned or of a bygone time.

The day began with a phone call to my favorite Chicago hotel to book the reservations for a summer trip there. I had spent hours online the previous day scouring the web for other Chicago hotels, thinking perhaps a different one might be fun to try. I am a bit of a hotel snob, so my nose crinkled when I would come across some that did not blend well with one of the few snobby traits I possess. By day's end, I asked myself why I would even want to stay in a different hotel. Some are so architecturally contemporary (and decorated even more obscenely contemporary) that my eyes practically bleed looking at them. No, I wanted the same quaint "boutique" hotel we had stayed in during our last trip to the Windy City. I could live in the lobby with its antique furniture and fireplaces. There is the old-fashioned catering to the guests that I do not always find in other hotels, too. The staff does not even want you to fill your ice buckets. They do it for you! The suites are gorgeous, spacious, and filled with antique reproductions. We will be attending the King Tut exhibit while there. Ah, my favorite ancient culture. I will be in my glory and definitely caught up in the past.

 

I then left here to pick up my mother for a quick run to the hospital, so she could have some blood work done. Nothing quaint about that! ::grin:: We left there and headed for one of our favorite lunchtime haunts. It is a bar/restaurant. It is in a strip mall-like place. One that was around when I was very young...and probably before I was born. Renovations have taken place over the years, so the exterior is a pretty stone on all the stores and restaurants. While eating there for the umpteenth time, I still found myself looking at the antiques hanging on the walls. The low lighting, leather booths, regular tables, and bar are all reminiscent of past times. It has that quaint, comfortable feel to it.

 

To satisfy a request my daughter had made some days ago for cinnamon sugar bars, I stopped at the bakery located in the strip. The bakery is set back from the other places, but still connected. In the center is a small garden that is maybe 20 feet by 20 feet or so. Benches are strategically placed for those who want to relax for a few minutes and take in the prettiness of this little garden. I literally came to a halt thinking back to when I was a young girl. There used to be a high wrought iron fence enclosing that space. Inside was a REAL peacock! We would stand for eons watching the peacock strut through his enclosure. Our excitement was overwhelming when we were lucky enough to see him spread his tail feathers. ::sigh:: There is no way that peacock would survive today. Someone would surely pelt it with rocks or use it for target practice. A sad commentary on society, but the truth.

 

The final stop before returning Mom to her home was at the small grocery store there in that stretch. I had not been in there for a good while, and changes had been made. The store was updated, yet managed to not only keep its quaint charm, but actually enhanced it. It tickled me to follow a miniature train circling the store just below the ceiling. Perched high atop shelving and freezers were antiques. There were many old tins that once held crackers, potato chips, coffee. Larger items were antique coffee grinders, and anything else even remotely related to old-time grocery stores. It felt so warm and cozy in there. The shelves are stocked with the new and popular food items, but hard-to-find old brands are still carried. It was an enjoyable trip to that grocery store. Plus, they had some perfect veal liver, which is why I wanted to stop there. Yes, I love liver. Checking out is a breeze with the employees scurrying to make sure you do not have to wait at a register. The carts are designed so the front end slips over the conveyor belt, and the cashier removes the items from the cart. Friendliness was evident. The gal who bagged our groceries has Down's Syndrome, and she told of losing her grandmother and how her heart still hurt from the loss. The store treats customers like family. And that is very quaint and unusual for a grocery store.

 

Mom and I chatted about the day's quaintness during the short ride back to her house. She agreed that we got a little slice of the way life used to be. I love seeing that not everything is modernized to the point of sterility and vacuousness.

 

I adore cold weather, but not icy people or establishments.

 

"Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,

And sweet thyme true,

Primrose, first born child of Ver,

Merry Spring-time's harbinger." ~Francis Beaumont

P IS FOR POUT

                

Heh. The above photograph shows a pouter. Look at her. Instead of posing nicely for the picture with the two smiling girls, she has gone off by herself to sulk. Obviously, the photographer found it highly amusing, because he made sure he included the pouter when he took the photo.

Okay, I am the pouter in that picture. We were on a family vacation at Niagara Falls. I had been mildly scolded for something, and I stalked off to pout. It is plain to see my sisters did not pay a bit of attention to my little tantrum (my infant sister was left with an aunt at home). And you can bet Daddy thought it was comical, or he would not have photographed me in the shot. Of course my family thinks it is a hoot when they look at it. They stilllll talk about that picture and laugh.

 

Some personality traits remain with us for all of our lives, it would seem. Yeppirs, I am a pouter. I do it whenever I am unhappy with something that has transpired. I can actually feel my lips poofing out. And I retreat. I go off by myself to lick my wounds. Maybe I am spoiled. Who am I kidding? I AM spoiled. From the time I was a little girl to now, I have always had someone who spoiled me rotten. Perhaps that set the stage for my quiet little tantrums. Yet, I am the only one in my family who does it, which leads me to believe it is more of a personality trait.

 

When my ideas are shot down, when I feel I have been unfairly criticized, or when I have been hurt, I sulk. Off I go to find an alone place. Depending upon my perceived severity of the situation, I might pout for a very short time or a long time. I do not scream or throw things. I silently sulk. Does no one any good to talk to me during these episodes, because I will not answer except to possibly give a one-word response.

 

The way I look at it is that we all have our own ways to address those things that bother us. Mine just happens to be via pouting. It is a time for me to analyze what has upset or irritated me. To review the situation from every angle. And then I can make a rational decision as to whether or not I need to get over it or further act upon it in a different manner. I can think of far worse behaviors I could have. And I am very thankful I do not have those kinds. My pouting harms no one. In fact, it is far preferable than what I have seen many others do. Besides, I look kind of cute when I pout. ::grin::

 

Oh, by the way, the picture below shows just how quickly I recovered from my silent tirade. I am the one perched on Daddy's lap. (Get a grip on that narrow railing...egads!) My maternal grandmother is in the picture, too.

 

                

 

"O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep;
  Thou bearest angels to us in the night,
    Saints out of heaven with palms.
      Seen by thy light
        Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep;
          Love is a pouting child."
      - Sleep by Jean Ingelow

O IS FOR OVARY

           

::chuckle:: How's that for a journal entry title?! I did not intend to have ovaries be the subject matter for this entry. I was uncertain what I would write about, but I felt quite sure it would not be about anything to do with the female reproductive system! It is only because of what I learned on Thursday that I felt it was fitting. After all, I do use this journal as a diary of sorts.

There are a few of you online folks who know I have been having some difficulties (and to whom I extend my heartfelt thank yous for your prayers and caring). I was growing very scared and concerned about what was happening to me. Aside from the mental aspect of the unknown and how one's mind tends to run wild with the possibilities when something outside of the norm occurs, there was the physical aspect of my problem, too, which was causing me a great amount of discomfort.

After a couple months of thinking, "Oh, this will go away by tomorrow," I made an appointment with my gynecologist. I honestly thought at first that it was only menopause wreaking havoc on my body. The decision to finally go see him was the nagging thought that I had a tumor.

 

Appointment day arrived, and after the exchange of smiles and pleasantries with my doctor, I proclaimed, "I have a tumor." He laughed. I told him I was serious. Unfortunately, I joke around so much that not everyone realizes when I am kidding and when I am serious. Thank goodness he is such a sweet man. I have been seeing him since I was 18, except during the six years I lived away from this city.

 

And you know what? There was a tumor. He found it. I will never forget the look on his face when he discovered it. It was a combination of "oh my, she has a tumor" and "oh my, I can't believe she knew she had one." He asked if I thought I could handle having a biopsy right then. I said sure. I was warned that it might be very uncomfortable for me. Eh, I did not care. I simply wanted to know whether or not I had cancer. He took a sample of my lining (a hefty amount, I might add, because I peeked inside the container holding it to see!), and it was sent off to be examined for cancerous cells.

 

The next step was to have an internal ultrasound, regardless of what the biopsy results might be. I scheduled the appointment. Two weeks later and prior to the ultrasound, I received word that the biopsy was negative for cancer. Ah, I was elated. I still felt cruddy, but I had the knowledge that cancer was no longer in the picture.

 

Ultrasound appointment day came, but I will not go into the details of how I overslept and missed it.Suffice it to say that I was horrified I had done that. Luckily, I was rescheduled for two days later. And that long-winded prelude brings me to the O is for Ovary.

 

Thursday I had the ultrasound. Kudos to those who developed such a fascinating and sophisticated piece of equipment that is able to detect and depict on a screen every darn thing there is to see. When my doctor was preparing to begin, he asked if I wanted to see the screen. Of course I did. Such things always amaze me. He chuckled and said he knew I would want to view it with him.

 

My tumor was spotted right away. It is a fibroid tumor and only about an inch long. No big deal. There are some other things that are slightly irregular, but overall everything looks good. He even showed me my ovaries! He finished up, and I was instructed to get dressed and meet him in his office.

 

I plunked down on the chair in front of his desk. He dictated into a hand-held recorder the particulars of the ultrasound results. Then, he spoke to me. He simply cannot predict what will happen next. He does not believe I am in menopause. I told him that surprised me, because I was sure I was diving right into it. He said I was not, BECAUSE the ultrasound showed that one of my ovaries was in the process of releasing an egg. WHAAAAAT? He laughed and repeated it. Now, I am willing to bet that egg was using a wheelchair to get where it hoped to get, but the fact I am still fertile blew me away. I blurted out, "I sure hope hubby's vasectomy holds up!"

 

The plan of action is to wait and see if I begin to experience again the wearisome and worrisome problems I had for two consecutive months. If so, I am to call, and he will perform a procedure. I am good with that. I feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

 

I called my hubby, mother, and one of my sisters to give them the good news. Each one laughed about my fertility. But, you know? Knowing I am still able to conceive a child has been on my mind since the appointment. There is that tiny part of me that would love to again go through being pregnant and then holding a brand new little human in my arms. There is nothing in the world like cradling a newborn. It is a true slice of heaven.

 

Problem is, hubby would have to go through a vasectomy reversal. By the time he would do that, I would probably be full-fledged menopausal with dead eggs. Ha! Besides, I am enjoying my seemingly selfish existence where more and more of my time is my own to do with as I please. It has been oodles of years for that to be the case, and I want to revel in it.

 

At some point, grandchildren will fulfill my need to inhale the sweet scent of newborns. And that suits me just fine.

 

"I wonder if most people ever ask themselves why love is connected with reproduction. And if they do ask themselves about this, I wonder what answer they give." ~Mortimer J. Adler

N IS FOR NEVER

                      

"Is it time to go home yet? I keep clicking these damn shoes, but nothing happens." ~Robin Hecht

So I got the ruby slippers from the witch. Now, when do I get to be eight-years-old again and completely carefree?

 

When can I play outside once more and not worry about what released child abuser has moved into the neighborhood?

 

When will I go on an adventure with a picnic lunch packed, riding my bicycle with a friend at my side, and treasures to be discovered?

 

And when do I get to feel the thrill of the wind almost lifting me from my feet while I run with it, trying to fly?

 

How long before I am no longer aware of the ugliness that resides in people and the world?

 

At the age of eight, everyone I knew was a friend or a nice person. The milkman gave me rides down the street on his milk truck. He could not do that now, could he? He would be held liable should any child get hurt.

 

Will it be soon that I find myself once again skipping home from school with a newly crafted art project  or a good report card to proudly show my parents, knowing the smiles I will see on their faces and hearing their words of praise and encouragement?

 

Is it far off before Daddy can once again catch me in his arms in the swimming pool and toss me into the air to come splashing back down into the water...then giggle myself silly when the lifeguard blows his whistle and warns Daddy not to do that anymore? 

 

::clicking and clicking and clicking my heels together just waiting for a return to that magical time when all that truly mattered was my mother, father, and sisters::

 

When will I stay forever eight? Never. Those times, those innocent Camelot times, are over. They have become a series of beloved memories forever nestled in my gray matter. And I am grateful I have them.

 

But, there is nothing wrong with losing myself in those glorious times occasionally, as long as I keep on top of the new memories I have made in the years since then and continue to make with a cherished family of my own and dear friends.

 

As for these red shoes? I think I will keep them. I have a thing for shoes. Plus, I can never have too many pairs of red ones.

FATHER'S DAY

                          

To all of you fathers who make every effort to ensure that your children are the recipients of your presence, guidance, and love, I salute you. And to those men who take the time to be father figures to those without a father, you have my admiration.

Have a splendid Father's Day!

"There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself."  ~John Gregory Brown

M IS FOR MESSAGE

                     

Mom and the four of us girls had so very carefully selected your headstone. It was to be a joint one, with Mom's name engraved next to yours for when her time here would be finished. The stone had to be perfect. The words on it just so. And the dogwood blossom carvings simple yet elegant. We remembered how much you loved those blossoming dogwood trees on each side of the walkway to your home. As we finalized our selection, our hearts were heavy; our grief palpable.

Time passed, and we finally received word that your headstone was completed. It had been put in its place at the cemetery. The others went together to view it there. I remained at home. I was afraid. Afraid of many things. If I looked at your stone, I would realize you were truly gone. Did I want to accept that? Could I? And what if I cried? I would not want to look the fool to any passersby. I surely did not want Mom and my sisters to see me fall apart. You know that I was the "strong" one. The one who tried desperately to keep their spirits up during your illness and subsequent passing. I kept more to myself after you left us. I do not think I knew I was doing that, but many noticed it. It has only been in the past year or so that they have told me they could see me withdrawing from all who loved you and were loved by you.

 

One day, on the spur of the moment, I decided I would go to the cemetery alone. I wanted to see for myself if your headstone was perfect in every way. I easily remembered where your plot was located, since I had gone with Mom to help her choose it. I nervously stepped out of my car, and I could see your marker from there. I walked toward it, and I crumbled after I reached it. My fingertips traced your name, while I broke down and sobbed mercilessly.

 

And just then, the bells from one of the cemetery chapels right near your spot began to ring in a joyous melody. Startled out of my overwhelming grief, I looked up at the small tower. I held each glorious note in my ears. Glancing at my watch, it struck me as an odd time for the bells to ring. There had been no burial service. It was not the top of the hour, or even any quarter of the hour. It was a seemingly random time for them to play in the nearly deserted cemetery.

 

After wiping away my tears and embracing your headstone, I returned to my car. During the drive back to my house, I could not help but think of those bells. I could not get them out of my mind. The song had been so incredibly beautiful.

 

Later that evening, I spoke to a friend of mine. I told her that I had visited you. And then, I mentioned the bells and the strange time they played. I hope I never forget what she said in reply,

 

"Your father saw you, and he said to God, 'Hey, that's my little girl down there. Play something pretty for her.' "

 

And with that, I shattered into a million pieces. I was so touched by her comment that I cried until I fell into a deep sleep.

 

Maybe you did say something like that to God. It would not surprise me. You were always the fixer and the helper and the thoughtful one. Always putting every single soul before yourself.

 

And even if you did not ask God for that favor, I still believe you had something to do with the playing of the bells.

 

You were, are, and always will be my hero. Oh, how I miss you.

L IS FOR LEARNING

               

A week ago Saturday, I attended a one-day workshop to learn a technique using pastel crayons. No, not Crayola crayons! Prior to the class, a supply list was sent to me specifying what I would need to bring with me. Having never worked with that medium previously and knowing virtually nothing about it, I was unfamiliar with most of the listed items. I went to an art store and bought what I thought was correct, grateful for the assistance one of the employees gave me. And that was that. I did not bother looking at the supplies once I arrived home. They were kept bagged up and ready to be hauled off to the workshop.

Saturday arrived, and I was dragging big time. Sleep had not been a part of my Friday nite, so I was exhausted even before I arrived at the class. Students had come from all parts of my state to learn this artist's unique technique. I was one of only a handful of people who had no experience whatsoever with pastels. Intimidation entered the picture after discovering that. How in the world could I create something decent among all of these "professionals"?

 

The first three hours were spent watching the instructor demonstrate the technique. As she drew a very rough, light sketch of a vase of flowers she had placed on a table next to her, she told all of us to open our pastels and practice the different strokes we might want to use. For those of us new to the medium, she wanted us to get a feel for the crayon and its capabilities. I peeled off the wrapper around my box of pastels, lifted the lid, and I was floored. Why, these were not crayons. These were sticks of colored CHALK! Panicked, I looked around to see if I had purchased the wrong item. It was with much relief that I saw others had the exact same "crayons" as I.

 

Messy on the fingers playing with these pastels was the first thing I noticed while I scribbled on my sketch pad. The instructor mentioned the dust this medium can create. I, ever the questioning one, asked her how long my fingers would remain a rainbow of colors.  Fortunately, it washes off quickly with soap and water, although it can lodge under the fingernails for a day.

 

After that, we resumed watching her create a positively gorgeous painting. She had focused on only a few of the flowers. I was mesmerized by the technique, as well as her talent. To see it form from the loosest of sketches to the final work was incredible.

 

With that concluded, we took a one-hour lunch break. When all of us returned, I was eager to begin my picture...whatever it was going to be. The instructor had brought some enlarged photographs of landscapes and flowers that we could use as models, if we chose. Since the supply list had not been specific about what type of pictures to bring, I had to select something from what she had brought with her. I snagged a photo of a sunflower.

 

And off to work I went. I had a blast. I was a chalky mess. I was unsure of what I was doing. I paid little attention to anything going on around me, because I was determined to focus...for once. Early on, I thought I had entirely messed up the background. No, I was certain I had. I picked with it some more, and I decided it was okay. By the end of the workshop, I was almost done with my painting. That was a shocker. Normally, I am so impossibly slow painting.

 

I left the class knowing with just a bit more time working on it at home, I would have my sunflower finished. And I did! I was excited.

 

Sitting back and thinking about the whole experience, it reminds me of how much I love to learn. About all different things. I am forever wanting to find out more information about a multitude of subjects. It makes me feel more alive. More a part of the world. From the tiniest trivia information to learning about people and what makes them tick, I am definitely in my element. Always wondering. Always curious.

 

Some lessons come from books, some from teachers, some from hands-on experiences, and some simply from observations. All of them combine to keep my mind stimulated and my enthusiasm energized. And I love it!

 

"I am learning all the time.  The tombstone will be my diploma."  ~Eartha Kitt

K IS FOR KALEIDOSCOPE

                             

Did you ever have a kaleidoscope when you were young? I had numerous ones over the years, starting with the bulky cardboard tubes and graduating to the smaller metal ones. Something about them seemed magical to me. I would peer into the one end and see at the other end the motionless colored bits of glass. Ah, but then I would slowly twist the tube at the bottom, and the glass would shift. Little images reshaping to form another beautiful vision.

Held to a bright light source, the colors were fantastic and brilliant. Miniature stained glass windows, so it seemed. Quickly swiveling the end of the tube brought about new patterns one after another. It was constantly changing and amazing my eyes. It was not uncommon for me to "ooooh" and "ahhhh" aloud while turning the kaleidoscope.

 

Aiming the tube at a dark area altered the loveliness of the captured pieces of glass. They became dull and lifeless no matter how many twists of the tube I performed. There were no more vivid colors, no striking designs. The images were dark and gray. The new patterns appeared unimpressive. The wonder of the kaleidoscope was lost when viewed in darkness.

 

In no time at all, there was frantic searching for a lighted spot to once again bring the magic back to life.

 

Life is very much like an always-changing kaleidoscope. When everything is going smoothly and my path is free of thorns, the light brings the beauty of bright colors to my eyes. New and positive happenings are like a twist of the kaleidoscope, further drawing expressions of happiness from me. Bright occurrences that please my eyes and my heart. I feel full of joy and contentment.

 

The times when I am caught in dreariness and lifelessness due to calamities, disillusionment, fear, or pain are akin to the light source being taken away from my kaleidoscope. Just when the gloom seems to be changing for the better, sometimes I am disappointed to find the gray is still there. It is then that I need to try a little harder or hope a little more to find a bright spot toward which to direct my kaleidoscope.

 

All of us have our own sources of light from which to choose. We may lose sight of it from time to time, but gradually we do find our way back. And we are once again bathed in the splendor of the vibrant colors of the glass.

 

I made the above graphic using this tiny (3" x 5") watercolor painting I recently completed. I cannot believe what some of the software programs are capable of doing to images! 'Tis fun to play with them.

 

                                    

 

 "A new dawn is always breaking inside a kaleidoscope." ~Cozy Baker

J IS FOR JURY

                                       

Both defendants were found guilty. One of minor assault; the other of murder and felonious assault. The former was immediately released from jail for time already served, but he was also fined. The latter was sentenced to 20 years to life. The jurors had performed their duty, and they were dismissed.

My husband was one of the jurors for that murder trial that ended this past Wednesday. Because he was instructed not to discuss it with anyone and not to watch or read the news, I never knew the particulars until the trial was over. Then, he was free to tell me about it.

 

The dead man was 50 years old. The two accused of murdering him were all of 28 and 35. I was not surprised to find that alcohol played a role in the entire matter. Those "for the heck of it" gatherings where people drink themselves blind can bring out the ugly in people. Such was the case among these three neighborhood men who had started drinking at the home of the 50-year-old fellow. Too much booze, not enough self-control, aggression gone amok, angry words exchanged, and a death resulted. Such a waste.

 

Very disturbing to me was the way in which the man was murdered. He was not blameless for escalating the day's earlier argument to a more fevered pitch. He physically attacked one of the men. As he lay atop the man he pinned, the other man came over and kicked and stomped on his head...repeatedly. Enough so that he lost consciousness. Then, as the one man struggled to get out from beneath the weight of him, the "stomper" took off running. While the man cried and tried to revive his attacker, the stomper made his way to a restaurant for a meal. ::shaking my head:: Within 24 hours brain swelling and a broken windpipe claimed the man's life.

 

Thus, the need for a murder trial.

 

My hubby was swamped with work during the trial, and he would set out early in the morning to get his job duties done as best as he could in the limited time frame he had. Then, off he would go to the court house. I could tell the days that had been difficult for him there. The days he was undoubtedly shown the pictures of the deceased (all jurors had been informed they would be viewing such photographs). The days he must have listened to both defendants give their versions of what happened. The witnesses' testimony. And finally, the toll it took on him when it came down to reaching a verdict for each of the defendants. He was more somber at home. Sometimes edgy. He later told me it was a very sobering experience. You are in a place where you are responsible for affecting someone's life. You are declaring them innocent or guilty...in this instance, affecting them in a monumental way.

 

He did his duty, and he did it well. All of the jurors did. While the legal system is oftentimes a sham and subject to the reckless whims of judges and jurors who have their own hidden agendas, this case seemed very traditional. The way we would like to think all of them would be and should be. Fair. Timely. Following the letter of the law.

 

As we stroll, stumble, and skip through life, wouldn't it be nice if people acted the same way toward us? Treated us fairly? Sought out the truth from us instead of relying exclusively upon third parties? Listened to us without already having decided our guilt or innocence? Dismissed or downplayed circumstantial evidence in lieu of eyewitnesses who saw it all from start to finish? Disallowed conjecture to enter the picture?

 

Unfortunately, that is a pipe dream. Too many people are judges and juries rolled into one. They determine and find the "truth" according to their own standards. Which, of course, is based on their own lives and what has or has not happened during them. And their agendas are no longer hidden when they publicly hammer away at others. Being a judge gives them a sense of importance. They are in control. In charge. And their personal vendettas surface. Never mind that they are much like drunken fools unable to see that they have, in fact, lost all of their self-control and given in to their aggressive (or passive/aggressive) natures using their sharp tongues or quick fists to keep the fires fueled.

 

No one is completely immune from having fallen into that pattern at least a time or two. The smart ones see it for what it is, and they get away from it to the best of their ability. Their vision allows them to see that they risk turning into a gutter snipe or worse if they do not exercise true self-control. Bravo to them. Now, if only others would follow suit.

 

There is a saying that goes, "Too many Chiefs and not enough Indians." Paraphrase that to read, "Too many judges and not enough impartial jurors." Works for me.

 

Closing with a quotation I find highly amusing.

 

"Judge:  a law student who marks his own papers." ~H. L. Mencken

FEMME DE LA NUIT