Frozen in time

My sister surprised me with the best birthday present ever: She took her free time (of which she has nearly none) and scanned some old family slides, which she then e-mailed to me!

Our dad was known for his love of documentation. He wanted to record everything from family events to church events to everything in between. For instance, he delighted in being able to pull a notebook out of his file cabinet that had documented every light, gas, and water bill they had had for decades. Want to know what they paid for that washing machine? It's there. Want to know what the hospital bill was for Mom's appendectomy shortly after they got married? It's there, too.

As a choir director, he didn't want to repeat hymns too often, as he wanted lots of variety, so in his personal hymnal, he would jot down the date each hymn had been used. In another book, he recorded the choir's anthems and the dates they were performed. Oh yes, if you needed to know some family or church information, no matter how trivial, our dad was the one to go to.

His most important documentation legacy, though, was not trivial at all. He wanted to document our growing up, mostly with reel-to-reel tapes, slides, and home movies. Years ago, we had the home movies transferred to VHS, which, of course, still needs to be transferred again to digital media. My sister has from time to time transferred some reel-to-reel tapes over to cassettes (which, again, needs to be transferred into digital at some point). Thanks to scanners, we are scanning old photographs to digital, and now we are finally getting around to the slides. A digitalized version of these slides is my wonderful birthday gift.

There we are, two sisters, frozen in time. Professional photographs are truly cherished, but these candid photos taken in our home in Memphis tell so much more. The picture above was taken in what was supposed to be a "den," but was our bedroom, because our elderly paternal grandmother was living in the extra bedroom of our small house. (Joy and I always shared a bedroom until one of us left home.) The window behind us looked out into the front yard, and on hot summer evenings, our parents would turn on the attic fan and we'd open that window and get the refreshing breeze that the fan extracted from the outside.

Joy and I are a year and 9 months apart, so we have always been close. It is a pleasure to look at our two faces, a snapshot of happy childhoods, close family ties, and those 2-piece pajamas that snapped together.

I remember that once before Dad died in 1980, I asked him about the new-fangled "talking home movies" that were coming into the technological realm. "Oh," he smiled, "that's great, but I'll leave those for y'all." I can also remember how early on, Dad tried to teach us how to "pan" the movie camera slowly, to avoid the hurried, dizzying feature that was one of the trademarks of the amateur home movie enthusiast.

When a new reel had been developed, you'd think we were in a big Hollywood production company reviewing the daily footage. We wouldn't bother to put up the big screen for those; Dad would just set the camera on the dining room table and projected the movie onto the wall. It wouldn't be long before we'd see Dad sitting at the same table one evening, using his splicer to edit the new movies and attach them to the appropriate large reel.

As fun as the movies were, we got used to them. We knew every scene, but they never got boring. It was endless fascination as we watched ourselves grow, commenting on the stupid-looking clothes, or our excited expressions.

The slides, though, were seldom seen, because it was such a long process to get the slide projector set up along with the big screen. So that's what makes this birthday gift even more precious.

Thanks, Dad, for the memories. Thanks, Joy, for sending them to me.

It's all in the head (or on the bed, or being fed...)

I do believe that my dreams have gotten stranger as I advance in age. Last night I dreamed I was making an entire quilt out of Butterfinger candy bars. Believe me, that was no easy feat! I don't know if my subconscious is wanting to quilt or pig out on sugar. I will say one thing, though - it gives an entirely new meaning to "Sweet dreams."

Default

"Default, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves." OK, I guess it's too early in the morning to mess with Shakespeare, but I've been thinking about the word default all week.

I am talking about default in the computer sense. This is the definition that has swept through our language since the beginning of the technological revolution:

A preselected option adopted by a computer program...when no alternative is specified by the user or programmer.

For those of you who aren't computer literate, I'll state it differently: My computer has its mind made up. It has a predefined way to format things I type, and, unless I specify otherwise, it assumes I want "the usual" and every document I create will be set up in that predetermined way. I guess it's like going into your favorite restaurant and having your waiter bring you your usual glass of iced tea before you even order it. You always have iced tea and your waiter knows this. It's automatic - no planning, no thinking, no decision-making involved.

However, what if one day you walk into the restaurant and you have a hankering for Coke? Even more importantly, what if you have evolved into a bona fide Coke aficionado and you never want iced tea again? Before you can even open your mouth to voice your order, here comes your waiter with the iced tea. Iced tea has become your default order, and you'd better speak up pretty quickly if you want something else instead.

Or you could have a private conversation with the waiter and tell him you want Coke from now on as a general rule.

The word processing program for my iMac is called Pages. and in general I think it's a great program for my needs, but there was one minor problem I wanted to overcome. When I open a blank document, the default setting is a rather ample space between paragraphs. I don't like that space, so each time I begin a new document, I go into the formatting options and narrow that space. It doesn't take very long to do this, but my lazy but productive self thought there must be a better way. I needed to have a personal conversation with the waiter and change the standing iced tea order. I could not, however, figure out a way to change this default. So I did what any normal person would do - I asked my geek family members to figure it out for me.

My son Matthew came up with the method, I changed the default, and now I'm content....well, almost. Now I want a default for my life.

For one thing, I'd like my eating and exercise habits to have a reliable default. One that says, say, 90% of the time I eat right and exercise regularly without even thinking about it, and I'd allow the other 10% of the time for slacking. I want a default so that without even thinking about it, I would exhibit patience over irritability, love over anger, generosity over selfishness, acceptance over anxiety, and hope over pessimism. I want good habits and good attitudes to be my default approach.

Now my Pages software has its spacing default set to a narrower width. Every time I create a new document, it will automatically have that narrower width spacing. It is set until I decide to change it again.

I wish life were that easy!

The Wedding Dress

It's 4:30 a.m. and I decided to just get up. Believe me, if you knew how much I would rather be in bed snoozing, you would wonder why I'm up and blogging on my day off. Well, a strange dream woke me up and I felt the need to document it.

I dreamed we were pastoring a church at an unknown location, and a young man and woman in our church were getting married. It was the night before the wedding, and for some reason, I took the beautiful wedding gown home. As is the case in many dreams, I can't offer a reasonable explanation why I had taken the dress home, but I did. It was therefore my responsibility to make sure the dress arrived to the wedding on time and in perfect condition.

I had to make the journey to the church on foot through all sorts of terrain. A busy highway, a pothole-filled dirt road - you name it and I had to carry that beautiful, heavy, embroidered, pearl-encrusted gown. The journey was filled with peril at every turn - mud, animal feces, holes, limbs, speeding cars, and darkness. At one point, I tried carrying the dress directly above my head to keep it from dragging the dirty street, but it was just too heavy. I tried folding it up so it took up less space, but it just unfolded itself. I had to do a serious juggling/balancing act, as I tried to keep the dress unharmed while watching the road surface and my surroundings, and try to remember the directions to the church. Hey, that was no dream - that was a nightmare!

When I got to the church, I was relieved to find the gown intact, and as the wedding coordinator saw me bring it in, his joy soon turned to curiosity. "Where is the garment bag?" he asked. The garment bag? Oh yeah, the garment bag - the one I was supposed to put the gown in to carry it on its journey. The one which would have protected it and kept it clean. The one I totally forgot about. That garment bag.

I would have slapped myself in the head vis-a-vis those old V8 commercials, but at that point I woke up.

The time is drawing near when we hand over the house. Closing is Halloween, and we will move out the week before that date. We have been responsible for this lovely old house for over a decade now (owning it 12 years and living here over 10 years). It has been important in our lives; indeed, it is a piece of our lives now. It is nearing time to hand this heavy, delicate, pearl-encrusted jewel of a house over to its new owners. We have a month and a half to keep it in perfect condition, making sure the embroidery doesn't unravel. The journey always has elements of risk involved. The need for coordination is paramount.

And, in the end, we are relieved yet saddened to hand the gown over to the bride, for in reality, during the whole journey to the church, the dress was hers all along; we were just temporary stewards.

As a veteran list-maker, I have extensive lists of what we have to do, when we have to do it, what we have already done, and what we have left to do. As a chronic worrier, I have the nagging sensation that I may forget to take the garment bag, that I am overlooking some tasks that would make our journey smoother and less complicated.

Oh, well. The "Journey to the New House" is just one part of the "Journey to Simplicity" and the "Journey of our Lives." It gives me great comfort to know that in my dream, I managed to get the dress to the bride intact and she was able to wear the dress with joy and pride. We may forget about a garment bag, but we will make the successful journey anyway.

It's a beautiful jewel of a house, and I am thankful we were able to be a part of its long, eventful life. Weddings always make me cry.

"Jack - Come on Down!!!"

The Price Is Right, I believe, is one of the oldest shows on TV. Who can forget their signature call when Bob Barker identifies the next contestant? "Mary Smith - COME ON DOWN!!!" Next thing you know, the audience erupts in chaos and Mary Smith jumps two feet out of her seat and runs down to the stage, clapping and screaming all the way.

We had to use that phrase today. You see, when the painters painted the exterior of our house a few years ago, they neglected to paint a 6-foot area of trim. Now that we are selling the house, the buyers understandably have requested that that trim be painted. Sounds easy, right? It's only 6 feet. You know there has to be a catch, right? It's under the eaves on the third floor.

Most of the painters we have contacted do not consider getting paid $50 to paint 6 feet of trim on the third floor "easy money." In fact, they don't consider it a job worth their time at all. After considerable effort, we finally turned to a man I'll call Jack, whose real name in this post will not be mentioned as a gesture of goodwill on our part.

Jack is a local resident about 60 years old who makes his living doing what they call "odd jobs." We have utilized him many times for taking trash to the dump, since we don't own a pickup. (Not regular garbage, but the special extensive trash one generates with a good basement or garage cleaning.) He has always been dependable and can always use the money, so Ed called Jack and gave him an offer he couldn't refuse. He told Jack that he would pay him $50 for just a few minutes of work - painting the eaves on the third floor - assuming he owned or could borrow a ladder long enough to reach said area. Jack said, "OK, why not?" I personally could think of several reasons why not, but Jack, as nice as he is, has always seemed to be, well, not the wisest of men.

Sure enough, this morning he arrived in his red pickup truck with a long, long ladder, which he proceeded to stand against the house in the appropriate vicinity.

Alas, the ladder was tall enough, but it wouldn't reach the eaves, so he left and came back with two more ladders and some rope. Up the ladder he went for the second time, holding a can of spray paint in one hand and the shorter ladders in the other, the rope dangling by his side.

Meanwhile, I was in the house trying to stay busy to distract myself from poor Jack on the roof. I heard the little noises associated with ladders and climbing, but just tried not to think about it. Finally, I was forced outside when I heard the electrician drive up. Ed was busy holding Jack's ladder, and I realized I would have to deal with the electrician.

There we were, the three of us standing in the driveway, shielding our eyes from the sun as we watched Jack clumsily maneuver around with his equipment. I was going to take the electrician in the house to show him what needed to be repaired, but I couldn't move. It was like watching a car wreck or a horror movie. You want to turn away, but you can't.

Jack had climbed all the way to the roof, and had tied a rope around his waist, which had been strung around the chimney, then crossed over to a gingerbread wooden ornamentation. As we watched anxiously, Jack shouted down to the driveway. "D'ya think that will hold me?" he asked, pointing to the small piece of wood. My husband yelled back, "I have no idea. It's been there over 100 years." I couldn't tell if Jack took that to mean it was sturdy or to mean it was so ancient it could disintegrate at any moment. Jack warily shuffled across the roof and still couldn't reach the eaves.

Well, that's just great, I thought. Jack will fall off our roof and kill himself, our chimney will come with him, and the ladder will probably fall back and hit the electrician's truck. At this point, I turned to Ed.

"Get him down," I whispered.
"What?"
"Get him down."
"But he's already up there."
"Make him come down. Tell him we will pay him the 50 bucks - just make him come down."
Ed looked up at the scene on the roof. He sighed. "OK."

"Hey, Jack!" Ed shouted. "Never mind it - just come on down!"
Jack looked perplexed. "Huh? Hey, Ed, d'ya have a roller brush on an extension pole?"
Ed shouted louder. "Never mind, Jack! Just come on down! We'll pay you the $50, just COME ON DOWN, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!"

Jack, though confused, finally acquiesced. He removed the rope from its various stability points, threw it to the driveway, and, as Ed held the ladder, Jack slowly made his way down. I could hear him mumbling something about "didn't really do anything." He felt guilty about taking the check, but I was so relieved he was finally on the ground that the $50 didn't matter to me much at that point.

Of course, this means we are $50 poorer and we still need the trim painted. But Jack, bless his soul, survived intact, and on top of that, the electrician got an interesting story to tell his friends.

Jack would never make it to the stage on The Price Is Right. I think they want people a little more excited to come on down.

Moved

I work only a few blocks from my house, so I used to drive home for lunch every day. Most of the time when I got back to work, my parking space (near the door, because I am the first one in the office every morning) was usually taken, and I had to scour the parking lot for another one. After a few years of playing "musical cars," I decided that the lunch hour excursion to home was not worth the hassle, and settled instead for a sandwich at my desk while I checked e-mail.

Today, however, for various but predictable reasons, the office stress became too much, so I came home, had a quick lunch with Ed, then headed back. When I returned to the hospital, it was the same familiar scenario - my spot was taken. I found another parking space and went back to work. At quitting time, I was walking out to my car, heading in the usual direction, when I had one of those momentary lapses in memory. Why was another car in my parking spot, and why wasn't my car there instead? Then I suddenly remembered. "Oh!" I said out loud (I tend to talk to myself out loud). "That's right - I moved!"

I had to chuckle. How I have wanted to say that lately - "I moved!" That will have to wait, though. Closing on the house is scheduled for October 31, and it will be another month before we actually move into our new house.

What a versatile word - "move." I moved my car. We will move into the new house. That piece of music really moved me. The first two examples note a physical change in position. The third example has a different, more abstract meaning. When I listen to beautiful music, I may not move physically from my chair, but I definitely move spiritually. My emotions move to a totally altered state of consciousness. Those transcending minutes can carry me through sometimes.

I hope the next three months will be full of moving moments for us. Both kinds!

Hands Can

I bought Caroline a book when she was younger called Hands Can. It rejoices in all the various things hands can do. For instance, "Hands can catch/and hands can throw./Hands can plant seeds in a row." Now Charlotte is enjoying the story of hands.

What drives me and others like me to be creative with our hands? I don't go sledding or cycling because of my innate fear of injuring my hands. I make my living with my hands, of course, and would be financially devastated if I could not transcribe anymore. But the creative things I do with my hands - play the harp and piano, quilt, cross-stitch, sew, bake bread, write - these are the things I would really miss if I sustained a hand injury.

Ed always said that when we lovingly make something with our hands (or minds or both), we are actually "co-creators with God." Out of nothing comes beauty. Out of unorganized ingredients comes form and shape. Things that are useless by themselves (flour or fabric or a harp sitting silent on the floor) are touched and as if by magic, they transform our worlds. Our chosen creative outlets enable us to use our gifts. I believe everyone has gifts, and one of the most important duties for parents and teachers is to help children discover their individual gifts. So many of these gifts can be brought to fruition through the hands.

My sister in Memphis has been deluged with figs from her backyard fig tree. Even after giving some away, she still had too many that would spoil quickly unless she did something. So she decided to make a jar of fig preserves. Never having done anything like that before, she did some research, bought the jars and tops, and brought forth her creation. She burned her hand a little because she didn't have all the proper equipment, and I figured that, by the time it was all said and done, that jar of preserves cost a lot more than the one at the grocery store, but all the same, she actually made a jar of preserves which fed more than her stomach - it fed her spirit. She also enjoys working with her hands doing woodworking.

I can feel a void in my life when I don't take time to be creative. There is nothing like the feeling of the harp strings vibrating under my fingers, or running my hands across a soft quilt, smiling at the designs, remembering when I purchased the fabric, and reminiscing about what was going on in my life when I hand quilted it.

Why do we bother? With our time constraints, why don't we just buy a blanket at Wal-Mart or a jar of preserves at the supermarket? There's just something about that act of co-creation that refreshes our soul. There are other quilts and other preserves, but none exactly like the ones we made. As individuals we are unique, and our creations can be, too.

Ed and I recently read some articles on whether food made with love tastes better. There is general consensus in some groups that when you make something with your hands (especially if you are loving the process), that love flows through your fingers into the product, and indeed it affects the product in an invisible way. Sleeping under a quilt handmade with love brings an unseen comfort that you don't get with a Wal-Mart special. We are more powerful than we ever imagined.

Hands can; they can, indeed!

Making waves

What a ride on the ocean! My sea kayaking trip with Audrey was fantastic. The sea was royal blue, the kayak was yellow, we held our paddles in perfect position and paddled in perfect coordination! As you can see from the picture, I was all smiles.

OK...so that's not me, that's a paperdoll, and that's not our kayak, it's a Christmas kayak ornament, and that's not the ocean, it's a blue potholder. I don't have a picture to post yet and that's the best I can do until I buy another scanner.

As for the rest, well - the sea was gray from an overcast sky, and we weren't in perfect unison in our paddling and our technique was not flawless. But our kayak was yellow, yes siree!

The main part of the description is absolutely on target, though. It was a wonderful experience and I was all smiles! We got some waves from a passing whale watching boat, which delivered an unusual sensation as we bounced around in the ocean. Our guide was a hoot, and we didn't turn over and we didn't drown, and we managed to get where we were supposed to be when we were supposed to be there. We only bumped other kayaks a couple of times, and at the end, Audrey thanked the other participants for their patience with us "2 old ladies."

We finished off her visit with a 2-hour hike in Acadia National Park and then we returned to shop in Bar Harbor, the site of our so recent achievement.

Alas, Audrey flew home this morning. Last night I was complaining that while she was here, I ate out too much and had too many sweets, etc., and I vowed to get back on track when she left. At that point, I realized that her departure was imminent, and turned to Audrey and begged her to extend her visit. She had no intention, unfortunately, of staying a few more days just so I could gorge myself on inappropriate foods. Some friend, huh?

Thanks to Audrey for a memorable and exciting week! Except for the small cans of blueberries she had in her suitcase that the airport security feared were potential explosives, everything went very well. Gotta watch those blueberries.

Stretching

As I mentioned earlier, getting older means getting comfortable with routine and predictability. Every once in a while, though, something (or someone) will come along and nudge us just a little into other possibilities.

Ed has always tried to get me to try new foods. I have always balked. He wonders aloud how I ever got weaned. He wants me to try various mushrooms and stinky cheeses. He wants me to taste buffalo and lamb. No thanks, I'm fine - really, I am.

This week we are hosting an old high school friend of mine, Audrey. We have known each other since 7th grade, were close in school, but our lives have diverged, as is often the case, and we have not kept in touch as we should have through the years. She works at the library in Memphis, but she is licensed as a massage therapist, and one never knows what Audrey will do next. When a mutual friend died a few years ago, we both realized that life will not wait for us to take time to see each other, so Audrey flew up to Maine from Memphis, and we are having a grand time.

And today, we are going sea kayaking.

Unless you know me well, you probably did not get the inflection in that previous sentence. AND TODAY WE ARE GOING SEA KAYAKING! By the red capital letters and exclamation point, you may infer that this prospect excites me. You would be wrong. This prospect terrifies me.

Audrey wanted to go kayaking while she was here, and I reluctantly consented. You see, I can't swim. It's one of my many limitations. I can't even tread water. I've never been in a kayak before. All this was dismissed by Audrey. "You'll love it! Don't worry! You'll be safe! Nothing will happen!" My first inclination was to respond with a resounding NO, but then I thought about stretching.

I have always believed in two kinds of stretching. The first is the kind where you lift your arms and lengthen your muscles, extending every fiber and tendon, repeating the exercise with your legs and back until every portion of your body is relaxed and content.

The second kind is what they used to do on the medieval rack. That's called torture. Whenever I "stretch" myself in life, trying something scary, I obviously choose the second definition.

Nevertheless, in less than 5 hours I will be sitting in a kayak in Bar Harbor with a 10-minute lesson on paddling, in a strange device that, with a few modifications, could look suspiciously like a casket. Everyone assures me I will have a wonderful time. I certainly hope so.

I guess this is another opportunity for me to stretch a little out of my comfort zone. Audrey is willing to take the accolade or blame, depending on how the adventure goes, because she is responsible for my stretching today. That reassured me until I realized that as a professional massage therapist, she has patients who, although they feel better in the end, are relieved only after considerable pain has been inflicted on their poor, tense bodies.

After the kayaking, Audrey wants to go hiking. You will understand, then, that as we shopped yesterday around the sports store, I hid the rock climbing brochures. No sense in giving her any more ideas.

Signs of Life

It occurred to me the other day that road signs are full of life wisdom. Construction Zone, for instance. That could describe my sewing room. In a state of disarray, tools lying about, with danger in every square inch - scissors, needles, pins, rotary cutters, hot glue, hot iron. (I still remember the time that I sewed through my finger with the sewing machine needle.) Construction zones are pretty much dangerous territory. They're full of productive activity, but you have to tread carefully. When I'm in a Construction Zone mode, I have to remember to be cautious.

Many road signs are just warnings. Slow Down reminds me to do just that. Watch Out for Falling Rocks reminds me that life is full of treacherous, unpredictable events. Junction Ahead signs suggest that I prepare myself for the next step toward my personal goals. Moose Crossing can work both ways - a hope of catching a glimpse of one of those fascinating creatures, or the nightmare of having one crash into my windshield at 60 mph. Signs that warn of sharp curves in the road or steep downhill inclines demand that I adjust my driving (and living) accordingly. Scenic View signs serve as magnets, urging me to stop for a few minutes and enjoy beauty.

I thought about all this as I was driving to Winterport to see Rachel et. al. last weekend. I always take the same route. It's comfortable and familiar. It may not be the shortest way, it may not be the prettiest way, but it's the way I've always done it. She made it easy for me when she moved a few years ago. I take the same route to get to her new house as I did to get to her old house, up until a certain point. At that point, the end of a divided highway where I used to turn right, I now turn left and continue the rest of the way. There are no surprises. I know every mile of the trip, every road sign, every house for sale, every store, and every pothole and frost heave.

That day, however, as I pulled up to the intersection to make my usual left-hand turn, I was disconcerted to see a man in a construction vest waving at me. As I turned my head to the left, I saw a crowd of people lining the street. My heart sank. A parade. Oh, good grief!

The man waved me on. There was only one way to go. I had to make a U-turn. Was he asking me to turn around? He certainly was. I made the U-turn and found myself heading back the way I had come - in a state close to panic. I had met the Enemy, and its sign was Detour.

The older I get, the more I like ritual and routine. A change in routine greatly frustrates me. On this day, however, I was more than frustrated. I was extremely distressed, because in essence, I was lost. I was fine as long as I stayed on my regular route, but a change in course threw me into chaos. I had never driven around in that area before. You might as well have picked me up and set me down in the middle of Iraq. I had no idea where I was driving or how to get to Winterport.

I turned onto the first street to the right, pulled over in a parking lot, and called Rachel, explaining the situation. She told me to continue on that side street to see if I could get through there. I couldn't, of course. But I found a kind lady in another construction vest who took pity on my lost self and tried to get me back on track. She too directed me to make a U-turn, and suffice it to stay I went several miles out of the way in unfamiliar surroundings before I found myself back on the main road at an intersection that I recognized.

I could say here that because I took the detour, I was able to see a flock of wild geese, or a gorgeous flower garden, or some other wonderful thing that I would have otherwise missed. Well, I didn't. The detour was boring, uninspiring, and nondescript. Nothing beautiful happened and I wasted a lot of gasoline and a lot of time.

When we were moving to Maine from Tennessee, we usually received two reactions. Half of our friends asked why on earth we would want to do that, and shook their heads. The other half claimed it would be an incredible adventure for us, and they wished they had the guts to do it themselves.

Detours are like that. There is a certain comfort in methodical planning and a nasty shock when sudden alterations in the plan are necessary. On the other hand, there can be an ennui to methodical planning and a rush of excitement when one realizes that there is unchartered territory here, and maybe - just maybe - a few surprises. I guess we all need shaking up once in a while to remind us that we are still alive.

I have never liked detours on the highway or in life, and that fact has not changed. I am reassured, though, that when the detours come - and they will - I can emerge unscathed and continue on my journey.

In praise of books

Rachel called me this week to tell me she found some of her diaries from junior high and high school. Together we laughed uproariously as she read to me some of her entries, which held all the angst-filled and love-smitten prose an adolescent can create. She apparently was infatuated with a boy in her class whom I will call Brian McDuff. From an episode of "eye contact," she was certain of her future and had her whole life planned out. She would marry Brian McDuff and they would have wonderful kids. She had even named the kids. Ah, yes, Brian McDuff would make the perfect husband. So much for Brian McDuff.

I wish I had diaries from my childhood. They would make some funny reading, I am sure. Actually, I have tried to keep diaries on and off since I became an adult. I've recently been reading aloud parts of these to Ed, especially the entries I made around the time we bought this house and then about 2 years later, when we finally moved to Maine and got to live in this house. Matt (then 13) and I had driven up first, then Ed and Rachel and the dog followed a week later. So Matt and I basically lived in the house with very limited furniture until the rest of the family arrived with the movers close behind.

I faithfully recorded our trip up here, then continued to write about our days together - days without TV, VCRs, radios, or computers. We spent our time wandering around downtown, playing darts, and assembling jigsaw puzzles. Of course, we had to eat every meal out because we had no cooking utensils. We still had use of our car, though, so we drove down to the ocean one day and enjoyed sitting on the rocks. As today I read my scribbles and jots, I can relive the anxiety of looking for a job here. I can remember the relief when the rest of the family arrived safely and we were together again. I can feel the joy of finding my transcription job. I can recall the sense of wonder and miracle that we were finally living in our dream house.

In my life, I have kept journals and diaries intermittently. Usually I went to the office supply store and got a plain red book with a lined page for each day of the year. On the front of the one I am reading now, it says, "1996 Standard Diary. " Then on the bottom of the cover, it says, "Daily Reminder." There were a few times when I found this plain red book aesthetically lacking, and bought a journal which had calligraphy on the front and the page layout was more artistic. But I usually returned to the faithful red book. I guess "standard" described my life well.

It's been a few years since I kept my journal. When the kids went to college, it seemed as if my daily life just consisted of writing, "Went to work. Watched the news. Had chicken for supper. Called Mom." Not very much seemed to be happening that was worthy of recording, so I just dropped the whole thing.

When I started this blog, I once again wanted to keep a journal, and this time, it would be a virtual diary! What could be more appropriate? How easy would it be to sit down at the computer, where I usually am anyway, and type my thoughts and activities in an ordered, clear fashion? I downloaded the appropriate software and started typing away. But it wasn't the same. Oh, I had plenty to write about...but I guess after typing all day in my job, it wasn't as much fun as I thought to type more into my computer diary. Besides - my posts ended up in, well, cyberspace. They weren't on the Internet, but they were somewhere floating in my computer's brain. I could access them, but I couldn't touch them. I couldn't turn the page. I couldn't take them and sit in the living room and read them to Ed. They somehow didn't feel real, and they certainly weren't satisfying.

There's just something about a book. The feel of it, for one thing. I can run my fingertips over the gold "1996" and can actually feel that the numbers are a little embossed and rough. I can read from January 1 directly to December 31 and relive all the events and adventures of that year. I don't have to punch keys or nagivate a mouse. I just turn page after page after page. I can tell by my handwriting exactly what mood I was in when I wrote each entry. Some days, I was obviously hurried, and each letter scrambles to identify itself before the next letter overtakes and sometimes obliterates it. On other days, each word is well formed and my thoughts in perfect coordination - I must have had plenty of time to record my day. Without the use of bold, italics, or changing the font name or color, I still managed to solidify my daily life and thoughts for posterity.

When I put the "1996 Standard Diary" back on the shelf, I get a tiny thrill of placing it in its chronological order, and as I do so, I mentally and emotionally place that eventful year in a special corner of my heart. I have found that the whole experience is for me so much more fulfilling than "File - Save As - Close."

Don't get me wrong - I love my iMac! When my last computer crashed, I went crazy trying to figure out my checkbook, bills, addresses, pictures, blog - all which my computer and/or the Internet so faithfully stored. The computer has its place; however, nothing can ever replace a book. (But apparently somebody can replace Brian McDuff.)

When things lighten up...

My dad was a busy man. He worked as a bank teller for a full work week and also directed the church choir, which took over Sundays and Wednesday nights (as well as other nights for meetings at the church, for he was also a church leader). That left Saturdays, which was usually devoted to grocery shopping and chauffering his father-in-law to various destinations, as well as for years an every-other-Saturday trip to see his mother-in-law who was confined in a mental health facility two hours away. Weeknights would find him driving my sister and me to and from the Ellis Auditorium, where we ushered for the Metropolitan Opera, the Memphis Symphony, concerts, and Broadway shows.

In other words, Dad had very little time for himself or his hobbies. He never complained; in fact, he was always graciously willing to sacrifice his time for others. Every once in a while, though, we would catch a glimpse of longing in his gray-blue eyes as he dreamed of spending more time on traveling, more time on his stamp collection, more time on his home movies, more time on his reading, and he would say his mantra: "When things lighten up, I'll...."

Well, they never did lighten up. There was always more choir music to plan and practice, more meetings, more obligations. There were the parents' nights at school, which he always made sure he attended, even if it meant canceling choir practice. There were funerals and illnesses, weddings and birthdays, things that needed done around the house and yard, and hours spent trying to figure out how to send his two girls to college.

So he squeezed his hobbies in where he could and came, I believe, to accept that life was all about the journey and not the destination, and he understood that his life was fulfilled in many different ways. He never did get all his dreams accomplished, but then, who among us ever does?

I find myself saying the exact same thing. "When things lighten up, I'll..." and you can just fill in the blank. Get back to quilting, cross-stitching, sewing. Practice piano, harp, singing. Learn how to use Photoshop, Garage Band (a Mac program on my computer), and get all my books entered in Delicious Library (a book cataloging system on my computer). I'll focus more on healthy eating, get some exercise, try to commune with nature, read those books, learn geography.

Alas, things don't lighten up. At least not for very long. I have so many things "on the back burner" that I'm about to overload the electrical circuit.

For instance, I said, "When we sell the house..." The first step has been taken in that goal, because I am pleased to announce that we HAVE A CONTRACT! As they say on the TV informercials, "BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!" Lots more, in fact. We have to get a general inspection, we have to replace 3 window panes, we have to have a radon inspection, we have to get the furnace cleaned, we have to get some trim painted, we have to open up a door that has been caulked closed - and that's just for the house we are selling. The list is just as extensive for the house we are building. Decisions to make, plans to finalize, loans to organize, then we spend the rest of the time hoping the contract holds and the interested buyers will not back out for some reason so we will not be left "holding the bag."

So I say, "Well, when we close on the house..." Nope, things won't lighten up then. Because it's then we will have to MOVE. I don't want to even think about how much fun that will be.

I keep moving my timeline to when I think things will lighten up, but deep down I know, being one of Ensley's daughters, that I am just kidding myself, and that instead of wistfully dreaming of the time when things will lighten up, I will just have to plan my life around stress and chaos and obligations.

I'm hoping my new book will help. It's called The Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just One. The title described me perfectly, and I am anxious to read it. And I'm not even going to wait until things lighten up to do so!

When Worlds Collide

Anyone who knows me realizes that I am not a nature person. It's a defect I readily admit. I would be more appreciative of the outdoors, but so far all my hobbies and interests are effectively enjoyed indoors, not to mention the fact that I'm supposed to stay out of the sun and I'm allergic to blackfly bites.

Of course, because we are selling our house, we have to consider its outdoor appearance, and that, unfortunately, includes the presence or absence of weeds. Our driveway needed to be repaved when we moved here 10 years ago, and we never did anything because it was something we could live with, and we instead decided to invest our house upkeep money in other things that needed to be done.

So we have the usual cracks and potholes that a driveway in Maine frequently boasts. Winters can be hard on asphalt up here.

Anyway, I finally got so tired of looking at all the weeds growing through the cracks in the driveway that I decided to mount a full invasive assault on them. It was not pretty. It would have helped to have a little knowledge about weed destruction before I started. I went in with the naivete of a nature novice. In the process, I learned a few things.

• Prepare yourself with the necessary equipment. I don't garden, so I didn't have any equipment. After first pulling up weeds with my bare hands, I finally remembered I had a pair of gardening gloves hidden in a drawer somewhere that I used last winter to help Ed bring the wood in. I wore shorts, though, and didn't have kneeling pads or knee protection, so I spent all of the time in the battle either with my back bent over or squatting. Not good. On top of that, I wore sandals. Every time I pulled up a handful of weeds, the dirt came with it, which promptly landed between my toes. Along with whatever insects had made that pile their little home.

• Timing is everything. Score one point for me - I waited until the heat wave was over to do the dirty deed. Score one for the weeds - it had just rained and the dirt was, well, let's say "moist." I don't know the measurement equivalent for volume of dry dirt versus wet dirt, but those weeds tried to hang on to every last molecule of the messy stuff, and wherever the soil plopped, it stuck.
  

• Don't look under a rock unless you are fully prepared for what you will see there. No explanation needed, but suffice it to say I won't be having spaghetti anytime soon.
  

• Even "useless" things can serve a purpose. Stupid me, I thought weeds growing out of cracks in the pavement were just unsightly. Too late did I realize they had embedded themselves in the cracks because the cracks needed to be filled. After the first huge handful of weeds brought with it a barrage of dirt, I looked down and the crack suddenly looked like the Grand Canyon. Oops.

• Know your enemy. Ed has always belittled me because I don't know a weed from a flower or a bush from a tree. Hooray - my ignorance didn't matter in this project. If it was growing in my driveway, it was going. It was that simple.
  

• Don't understimate the enemy's strength. Some of the weakest-looking weeds had the longest roots. They reminded me of Matt's tooth-pulling incident. He used to multitask when he was little. He would suck his thumb, hold his blankie to his face, and try to walk down steps at the same time. One day he fell down the steps and hit his lip. The trauma killed one of his baby teeth, and the dentist said it had to be pulled. How much root could a teeny tiny baby tooth have, anyway? Turns out a BIG one. Apparently its root gets smaller and smaller as the child grows, until the root is gone, and without the root, the tooth falls out. You can never tell from appearances who or what has the greatest tenacity.
  

• It will hurt you as much as it does them. After my almost-52-year-old body had endured an hour of non-stop bending and crouching and pulling, I tried to walk up the hill back to the house. I am sure the neighbors thought I had been taking drugs, as I swerved back and forth, trying to urge my leg and back muscles through one last heroic effort of exertion. I had certainly had my share of "weed," but it was the yard pest kind.
  

So that was my learning experience for the day. At the end of the hour, I hoisted the trash bag over my back like Santa Claus, and I paused for a moment of silence to remember the various bugs whose neighborhoods I had uprooted. My time with nature was at an end. That'll do me for a few months at least.

Wearable Attitudes

When I receive a copy of the Reader's Digest in the mail, I immediately turn to the jokes. I'm a firm believer in the power of humor. I love to laugh - at Ed, at my kids, at my relatives, and at myself.

Sometimes I laugh uncontrollably at odd things. Frequently when Ed and I are lying in bed at night, trying to get to sleep, Ed says something completely normal, and inexplicably I just crack up then and there. Ed, who has no idea of what could have possibly set me off, just lies there silently. Gradually my laughter returns to a chuckle, and I breathe deeply, trying to get control of myself. Finally, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I calm down, at which point Ed usually will say something else, and his disembodied voice coming out of the dark invariably makes me laugh again, this time even more hysterically. I can't explain it, but the whole episode usually ends with Ed saying, "I'm glad I amuse you."

We get another publication in the mail that sometimes gives me a laugh or two. It's the catalog called "What on Earth: A Collection of Fun Wear and Delightful Diversions." Their specialty is T-shirts with witty sayings. Some of them are indeed witty, but I have noticed a disappointing trend lately. Most of the T-shirts in this catalog have insults on them.

I realize we like to express ourselves at every turn. We have to get covers for our iPods that "express" who we are. We have personalized license plates and bumper stickers. We have to find that perfect hairstyle that "expresses" our essence. Half the books in the Self Help section of the bookstore will help us find ourselves, and, once we have accomplished that worthy goal, we can turn to the rest of the books to learn how to express ourselves. Our appearance, our clothes, our accessories, our cars, our houses - they're all extensions of us as individuals, and as such, need to be chosen with utmost care.

T-shirts seem to be a popular way of voicing our opinions to the world at large, and, unfortunately, the T-shirts I am looking at right now reflect very self-absorbed, intolerant, and snobby people. For some reason in our present society, we can't even have a fleeting thought without needing to broadcast it, regardless of the effect our decision might have on civility. Whatever happened to "Some things are better left unsaid"? I suppose with the means of expressing ourselves being practically unlimited - from T-shirts to text messaging to chatting to blogs - we can be rude a lot more easily.

Here are some of the T-shirts I have noticed:

• Just keep talking like I wasn't here.
• So...when did you get out?
• Looks like your airbag didn't deploy in time.
• I'm a good judge of character and you don't have any.
• Keep talking. Don't let my snoring stop you.
• I get your point and it's stupid.
• Is it me or is this place a festival of idiots?
• Everyone has the right to be stupid, but you're abusing the privilege.
• I can't be bothered by you.

There's even a web site called "YouHateMyShirt."

I guess the makers of these shirts think they are funny. I just don't. I have to wonder why someone would feel the need to insult everyone he/she comes across in a day. With all the hopelessness in the world, I would rather see some positive energy come across as we present ourselves to others in our daily lives.

As for me, if I have any negative thoughts, I'll just leave them in my head. They can't stay in there long anyway. The laughter will win every time.

Screening....or screaming?

Even with the house having been for sale for quite a while, we still putter around finding things that could look better. When Venise, our Realtor, was here in the spring, she helped us clean the kitchen and she also took down the screens on the kitchen bay windows so we could clean them. We didn't think there was any hurry to get it done, because the view was even clearer without the screens, and we knew we wouldn't need the screens back up until the weather got hot enough to open the windows.

The time of warmer weather finally arrived, and Ed dutifully cleaned the screens and put them back up.

When I got home from work, I was just about to congratulate him on a job well done, when I noticed something....well, strange. There was white fluffy stuff attached to the screens at various places.

"What's that?" I asked, taken aback.

"It's cotton balls," Ed replied nonchalantly. "There were holes in the screens, so I plugged them up so the bugs can't get in."

I was appropriately aghast. "You're plugging screen holes with pieces of cotton balls?" I repeated, my mind just begging him to reassure me that I had misunderstood.

Oh, no, I did not misunderstand. There were the screens, and there were the pieces of white cotton balls. We had a house for sale, and there were pieces of cotton balls in our screens.

Surprisingly, this did not seem to bother Ed a bit. I pulled myself together and said, "Well, don't you think we need to get the screens replaced?"

Ed said, "Nah, they'll be fine."

"BUT THERE ARE PIECES OF COTTON BALLS IN THE SCREENS!" I couldn't help it. My incredulity gave way to massive irritation.

Ed tried to pacify me. "The bugs won't come in," he said. "We can also put CamphoPhenique on them, if you want to take extra precautions. Those bugs can't climb through that stuff."

I tried to breathe deeply, then lowered my voice. "I don't care about the bugs. Well, I do care about the bugs. But mostly I just care that THERE ARE PIECES OF COTTON BALLS IN THE SCREENS! Remove the screens this instant! We are taking them immediately to Sunrise Glass to get them replaced!"

It was at that point Ed looked sheepish. "I can't take them out," he said, eyes averted. "When I put them back, I got them mixed up and put them in the wrong windows. I got the left one stuck and now I can't get it out."

Well, that's just marvelous. How were we to explain this to prospective house buyers?
"And over here, we have beautiful bay windows...oh, look! It's snowing!"

Fortunately, Sunrise Glass sent someone over with window/screen experience, and he retrieved the screens effortlessly and took them in to be replaced. We picked them up in a couple of days, and Ed managed to insert them properly this time, thank goodness. I like swimming fishies, and I like soaring planets, but a cotton ball is not a screensaver I can live with!

Abundance

Because Ed is a retired minister, we receive a subscription to The Circuit Rider, a magazine that deals with theological and practical issues of the United Methodist Church. Its most recent issue concentrates on the ritual of Communion, The Lord's Supper, or whatever term one wants to use. I was struck by one comment: "Use bread that looks like bread, preferably baked by members of the congregation, and in quantities that speak of grace, generosity, and the joy of a banquet."

When I was growing up, it was cracker pieces and grape juice. That representation gradually evolved into real loaves of bread. (But still with grape juice. We were Methodists, after all.) At one point Ed and I became Episcopalians for a while. During those years, we were given dry little wafers and real wine. I even served on the Altar Guild for a short time. The ladies there taught me how to use a sixth sense to figure out how many people to expect for Commuion the next day, so we could anticipate the correct number of wafers to leave out for the priest to bless. I think it was the highlight of the week for those faithful ladies when their guess came close to the actual number - kind of like using number-picking skills to win the lottery.

When Ed became a minister and we were assigned to various churches, we were thrust from receivers to givers, in that we had to make sure there was enough grape juice (back to the Methodist way) and bread or crackers to go around. You didn't want too much, but you didn't want too little. The Holy Meal was supposed to be a banquet, and who comes to a banquet with the idea of a limited quantity of food? Better to err on the side of abundance. Rationing at Communion was just not acceptable.

As a participant of Communion or any other meal, I am pleased when I see unlimited quantities of food. Not that I eat it all, of course. The fact is that I can't really eat a large quantity of food at one time. I hardly ever get my money's worth at a restaurant buffet, for instance. Still, it gives some degree of satisfaction to see the food there in abundance. Don't worry, folks - there's enough to go around.

As I was reading the Communion article, I thought about our new house, specifically how small it will be. Going from a 4000-square-foot house to a 1500-square-foot house will be quite an adjustment, and not just physically. Emotionally there is something freeing about the idea of abundance. Whether it be space, money, food, time - it means plenty. The Thanksgiving symbol of the cornucopia, the "horn of abundance," is so full of good things that it literally can't contain them and its contents spill out and over.

As I age, I am acutely aware that my abundance of time, though still allotted to me in 24-hour increments, is limited in years. Money is not as plentiful as in the past, and soon our space will be limited also. Certainly we don't use this huge Victorian house - that's why we are trying to sell it - but it has been nice to say to friends and family, "Come on up and visit. We have tons of room for everyone!" Abundance, more than enough, brings a sort of contentment, banishes worry (unless you worry about losing your abundance!), and most of all, allows you to share. For sharing abundance is the most fun of all, isn't it?

I guess this means there is a "down side" to "down size." But, as Ed reminds me, there is abundance and then there is abundance. The root word for abundance means overflowing. Maybe it's time to think in terms of abundance as less a condition of concrete things, and more a condition of abstract things. We will have less space, but we will still have the abundance of love of friends and family, the richness of our precious memories, the plentifulness of our gifts, the bounty of our dreams.

Gotta love that abundance. Pass the bread, please. I assure you, there's plenty to go around.

Something's fishy

Screensavers are intriguing. Even they are no longer technically necessary, we still use them.
On the helpful site how stuff works, they describe how the early screensavers were "designed to protect computer monitors from phosphor burn-in." Now that we no longer need them, why do we still use them? The site gives multiple reasons:

Here are the main reasons why:

• Entertainment - The most common reason we use screensavers is for the fun of it. Watching that macaroni dance across the screen to the tune of "Hey Macarena" can be a great diversion for a few minutes.

• Security - By setting up a screensaver with password protection, you can walk away from your computer and feel comfortable that nobody is going to be able to see any sensitive information.

• Uniform look - Many companies require all employees to use a particular screensaver. This creates a uniform and perhaps aesthetic environment and ensures that no inappropriate screensavers are displayed.

• Advertisement - Companies, particularly retail businesses, that have computers in areas accessible to customers will often have a screensaver that promotes their business or product.

• Information - A lot of screensavers provide either static or real-time information. A screensaver may cycle through a series of trivia questions. Another may pull stock information from a Web site and stream it across the screen.

• Distributed computing - Another form of screensaver takes advantage of your computer's inactivity to process data from another source. A good example of this type of screensaver is SETI@Home, which is currently utilized by thousands of computer users. This screensaver displays a graph of the radio spectrum and processes radio-signal information received from the SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) servers. It sends back results based on the data processed. By using the combined processing power of all of these computers, SETI is significantly reducing the amount of time it takes to sift through all the signals received from its radio telescopes.

At work, I upload a few pictures from my home computer and cycle them, so I have maybe 5-6 recent pictures of my kids and spouses and Caroline and Charlotte circulating at any one time. Fine for work, but for home I had a little more difficulty. I asked the screensaver to go to my 16,000+ photos and choose pictures at random. It sounds feasible, but the "at random" part was a little too random. It had no sense of choosing appropriate pictures. Every one of the over 16,000 pictures was willing and able to pop itself on the screen. Not all were suitable. I'm not talking indecent, by the way. I'm talking aesthetically pleasing.

For the last few years, I have documented everything. I documented the porch being rebuilt, former co-workers whose names I cannot even remember, pictures of things I'd rather forget, other people's dogs, and photos of furniture I had for sale. I do not necessarily enjoy having such pictures as a desktop decoration, even for a few seconds. My screensaver program also had a way of trimming my good pictures, so that I had a headless person on the screen.

For all the above reasons, I figured it was time to get another screensaver. I perused my choices that are built into my iMac, but they didn't impress me at the time. I decided I would like to try an aquarium screensaver. What fun it would be to see fish swimming around! I'd have the enjoyment of an aquarium without the hassle. I asked Matt for help, and he steered me to a list of aquarium-themed screensavers made for Mac.

I downloaded one with 2 fish. Apparently, if you want more fish, you have to pay for the privilege, and I was using a limited free download. The whole thing was so cool - I chose the "depth" of the water and the method by which it entered the "tank." I could set my choice as to whether I wanted the fish to stay on the screen continuously, or whether I would allow them to move off the screen and come back on. Yes, I had the POWER! I chose all my settings, and as soon as I could see my 2 little fishes were swimming happily around the screen, I figured it was fine, and I left the room to do other things. Unbeknownst to me, the screensaver came with real aquarium sounds. And, apparently, I had forgotten to mention my new "toy" to Ed.

So Ed was in the kitchen at the sink, and when he turned the faucet off, he was alarmed to hear that water was still running somewhere. Oh, that's just great, he thought. We have a pipe busted - just what we need! So with trepidation, he quickly searched the house, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He finally went to the master bath, looked around, couldn't find anything amiss. He thought that I might have been filling the tub. He claimed the running water sound even confused the dog Babe (but that's his excuse for a lot of things: "Hey, Babe even was worried/scared/upset/excited too, just like me....").

Well, he finally traced the water sound to the computer, and there they were, my 2 new fishies, rolicking in the tank, figuratively speaking. Ed was none too pleased. He had been duped.

Of course, I thought it was hilarious.

Anyway, suffice it to say, the fishes have been terminated. I never did get to pay to download any of their colorful friends, either.

So, taking my cue from my journey to simplicity, I left the Internet and decided to use one of my built-in screensavers. It's outer space pictures - galaxies and such. Ed loves them. They are beautiful, and seeing the Milky Way reminds me that my nagging life problems are not so big after all.

I do miss my fishies, though. And I do enjoy freaking out Ed sometimes. Hmm...I wonder if someone sells downloadable asteroids?

It's not my fault

I beat my little sister.
Oh yes, I swear it’s true.
I’ve tried to stop, but really,
It’s impossible to do.
I only beat her once a year,
So please give me a break.
It hurts me more than it does her,
It makes my heart just ache.
But beatings shall continue
Up until the day we die.
September means I’m one year older,
Hers is in July.
July precedes September,
Yes, it’s factually true.
But alas, the difference in our ages
Always will be 2.
I beat my sister age-wise.
I beat her every time.
She’s always 2 years younger.
She’s always in her prime.
Here’s to my little sister!
She’s 50 years today!
No matter how she ages,
I will always lead the way...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

The Name Game

In an ongoing attempt to sell or give away what we don't need, I came across a set of videotapes about grand houses on English estates. There is a tape devoted to each house, and the names are quite engaging. Penhurst Place. (I like the alliteration.) Goodwood House. Broadlands. Breamore House. Stratfield Saye. Arundel Castle. (Finally, a house that admits its true identity. I think all the others are really castles and won't admit it. Kind of like the Bar Harbor mansions calling themselves "cottages.") Wilton. Sutton Place. Chartwell. Finally, one of my favorites - Uppark. (I read that as "You Park" and it sounds like a downtown garage in Bangor.)

It takes creativity to name a house, that's for sure. When we bought this house, we had lived in parsonages for 8 years, and the whole idea of owning our own home again was exciting. The fact that we bought the house and didn't move in for 1-1/2 years added to the mystery and intrigue. The house existed more in our memories and imaginations than it did in our daily lives.

I wanted to name it, of course.

My first thought was Snowflake House. The Victorian gingerbread, painted white, reminded me of snow, one of the reasons we were moving to New England. Something was lacking with that name, however. It never flowed easily off my tongue, as if every time I started to say it, I had to think for a moment what it actually was.

My next name was a good old English manor name - Addington. Now, that had a stately ring to it, didn't it? Addington. Of course, nothing could be so clear-cut in origin, and the reason I chose Addington was my assertion that "we were adding on to the house and it was costing a ton." Well, that didn't stick either, probably because I knew that every time I said the word, I would be reminding myself of all the expense, and who wants to be reminded of that? Anyway, as much as the house has been reduced to its cost and selling price in the last couple of years, I'm glad I ditched "Addington" because it degrades the house somewhat, carving its identity out of dollar signs.

We finally did agree on a name, though. It wasn't long after we moved in 10 years ago. The chosen name was short, succinct, full of significance, and came easily to the lips. We called it Home.

Finding the words

The older I get, the more I lack a simple skill called "word-finding." As a medical transcriptionist, I know that that phrase is used in cases where someone has had a stroke or has other debilitating brain conditions such as dementia. It's not that serious for me, but it's something I have noticed lately.

It's not so much that I can't think of someone's name (although that happens), or that I cannot identify a pencil in my hand (thank God, that has never happened). I simply do not have an adequate vocabulary to describe my feelings - about myself, my loved ones, my life, my joys, my disappointments, regrets, and worries. The older I get, the less I think with the brain and the more I think with the heart.

Our language has its deficiencies, for one thing. We seem to lack the language nuances that other cultures possess. Ed tells me that groups such as the Eskimos have hundreds of words just to describe "snow" - because snow is very much an important part of their lives. We basically have wet snow and powder snow.

But even with the expanse of English vocabulary at my fingertips, I cannot settle on an acceptable way to describe something. As a nondrinker, I get tickled when I read descriptions of wine, for instance. How do they come up with that? Here are some description samples taken off one wine web site: "Ruby red color and aromatic. The wine has a pleasant nose of mint, blackberry and hazelnut." "The wine has an elegant and complex nose, with ripe red berry fruits and lush aromas of spice, tobacco, and vanilla." "Mid-palate is very well fleshed with ripe fruit and cherry flavours in a smoothly-knit structure."

They are just as wordy with perfume reviews.

"Today I am trying Calycanthus, which Acca Kappa describes as a "fresh, floral scent created with the unique essence of the Calycanthus flower blended with notes of Jasmin, Orange blossom honey and Musk."

This starts sweet and sharp. I am guessing there is some honeysuckle in the top notes, and possibly a touch of citrus. The dry down is a really pretty, spring-like floral, with slight green notes. There is a lovely spicy kick that I assume comes from the calycanthus — there are several varieties of this shrub, which are variously known as sweetbush, western spicebush, and Carolina allspice.

It has a sparkling quality, and manages to capture the aroma of honey without being overly sweet. (This review is from this site.)

Well, more power to them. I don't have enough taste or odor sensitivity to be able to distinguish all those individual contributions, and even if I did, I lack the vocabulary to voice my opinion in such a creative, exact manner.

With taste or smell, all I can say is: Either I like it or I don't, and maybe I can denote degrees to those feelings.

I have always loved words; that is one reason I enjoy medical transcription, grammar, spelling, and the like. I love obscure words, strange words, unpronounceable words - all of it. I love certain words for the sound of their syllables, others for how they look when they are written out. Yet, the longer I live, the more words fail me.

How can I find words to tell my family and friends how much I love them? To tell Ed how thankful I am to be married to him? To tell all my relatives how much happiness and laughter they have brought to my life? To explain how wonderful being a grandmother makes me feel? How do I tell people the release I feel when they have forgiven me? How do I explain how it feels to have had so many teachers (educators and life teachers as well) invest their time in me? How can I explain to someone the euphoria that overwhelms me when I hear Beethoven or Mozart? How can I describe the gut-wrenching worry I feel when my children are out driving in bad weather or the pit in my stomach every time I leave my 83-year-old mother in Memphis, knowing I might never see her again?

At some point, language fails. That cliche "Words cannot express...." is true. "A picture is worth a thousand words" - also true. "Actions speak louder than words" - true again.

Or course, I still try. But if, in the ensuing years, you think I'm a little quieter, slightly more pensive, somewhat more introspective, I might just be at a loss for words. But my heart will be talking a mile a minute.