The Brothers Weird

It is brisk this morning, around 45, and a big departure from the near-60-degree mark it’s been every other morning this week. Oh well. It is the last day of winter. Go ahead, Ole Man Winter, give it your best shot.

The temperature change is due in part to a storm front that rolled through last night. I took S, my bus buddy, to Wal-Mart with me last night. By the time I got her home, the sky was darkening up and the wind was beginning to blow. I hurried home, afraid I’d be dodging drops any second as the sky lit up with lightning and rumbled with thunder. But I was lucky.
I’d probably been inside a good five minutes before the rain started.

It’s been fun to confuse the bus driver these past few mornings by not boarding at my usual stop. (Tonight is grocery store night.) He’ll be really baffled when I do get on at home tomorrow!
This used to be a fairly empty bus with me being one of about four regular passengers. This week, we’ve had two or three times that every day.

Among the passengers are the Brothers Weird. They're twin brothers, 35-45, who clearly have some issues. They mutter to themselves and talk to each other in a language that only vaguely resembles English. I call them Weird and Weirder. Weirder is a carbon copy of Weird, except that his face is gaunt and his features pulled tight. And sometimes, Weird has a mustache. Today, however is clean-shaven. The other key difference is that Weirder has a voice that sounds identical to Sesame Street’s Elmo. I’m not kidding. It’s hard to hear that voice and keep a straight face.

I felt sorry for the pair initially. They used to both ride the early, early bus I took years back. In recent weeks, Weirder has become a regular on both of my buses, coming and going. I used to feel sorry for them.

But then, I saw how rude they were to each other and to fellow passengers. And they both stare which completely creeps me out. Weirder used to take the seat in front of me, sit sideways and turn and just stare at me. Luckily, he hasn’t done that lately. Though a few weeks ago, he did sit across from me, one seat ahead and give me sidelong stares.

That wouldn’t be bad except the bus mother, who was seated directly across from him, told me that his hand was, uh, in his lap.

Ewwwww. Perv.

So my sympathy has turned from mild annoyance to disgust. It was justified once again as this morning, Weird (the thus far non-perv of the duo) nearly knocked me over as I paused to slide into a seat. I sure hope this is not the tone being set for the day.

I guess it could be worse. It could have been Weirder. Ewwww.

Sad Irony

I was very saddened yesterday to learn of the grave condition of actress Natasha Richardson and I frequently checked headlines which, at one point, had announced her death.

What a horrible tragedy resulting from the most freakish of accidents! One minute you’re fine, the next you’re getting last rites. It’s even sadder considering that she seems to be both a very good and talented person, still quite young, in a happy marriage, with two adolescent boys who certainly don’t deserve to lose their mother, and was ready to embark on another project to work with her own mother, Vanessa Redgrave, on Broadway.

The irony? The mother and I have been watching movies off and on during the past several days either through On Demand or just the regular cable schedule. Now that our “On Demand” is actually working again. But that’s a whole ‘nother post.

One movie that I recommended over the weekend was Evening, starring both Richardson and her mother. (The mother vetoed this and we ended up watching Sense and Sensibility – which I’ve seen 100 times and still adore – and starring my she-ro Emma Thompson whom people sometimes mix up with Richardson. Then we watched Mr. Brooks, a truly troubled flick.)

So, before you ask … Emma is my she-ro because she is proof positive that you can shake a philandering (albeit talented) loser and still end up with a sexy younger man and have a baby after 40! Not to mention that she’s a tremendous talent. I love her period piece roles (S&S, Remains of the Day, Howard’s End) in particular, but she’s made plenty of other good movies, too.

Speaking of which, here’s more irony. If you’ve seen Love Actually, then you know that Liam Neeson plays a grieving widower, left to raise a stepson. (Judging from some of the stuff I’ve seen online today, I was not the first nor the last person to think of this.) My heart just goes out to them at this unbelievably tragic time.

Wild Wednesday

If you have or had a baby at home or you ever cared for an incontinent older person, then you can appreciate my morning. Let’s just say that I awoke to find Tigger in quite the mess.

It wasn’t that he got sick, I think he just wore himself out, so much so, that he wasn’t able to not step in his own mess and track both it and cat litter from one end of the room to the other and across his bed. (Unlike Toby, Tigger has always been relatively neat.) One thing is for certain: his system hasn’t shut down. That was the good news! And he’s as vocal as ever, giving me grief the whole time.

The mother came and helped me deal with the bad news. After I got one area cleaned, she came and got Tigger and cleaned him up. (I had him underfoot initially while I was trying to clean and he would just retrack over what was already cleaned. I couldn't clean him because I had nowhere clean to put him! It was a comedy of errors.) That way, I could focus on cleaning things up and getting him back into a clean bed.

I felt bad having her help because she had spent the entire evening clearing the yard of debris. And I do mean the entire evening. She’d gone out yesterday afternoon, was there when I got home and stayed there until 10 p.m. I had twice gone to retrieve her but at 10 I put my foot down and told her she had to stop. Enough already.

She was determined to get things done before rain moves in later today. I have to say that the yard does look very nice. It’s even starting to turn green again!

I spoke with my godmother briefly last night and my great-uncle’s situation is quite dire. She had gotten some test results (I don’t know what the test was exactly) where a normal reading would be 2.5. My uncle’s: 2,800. I’m no math whiz but I can easily see that when a number is more than a 1,000 times above normal, it can’t be good. And it’s not.

I just pray he doesn’t suffer. It’s so unfair to both he and my godmother. She has some really hard choices to make.

When Irish Roots Are Showin'

I’ve always known that my maternal side had deep Irish roots and that from the mother’s maternal line, I’m only the fourth generation to be American-born. What I didn’t know until the past year or so is that I also have Irish roots on my father’s side. So, even though I can’t say much for him, I didn’t want to snub the Irish roots from the other side!

Unfortunately, I don’t have photos to share from that line. That’s due partly because there is a dearth of photos from that side anyway (I barely have photos of my paternal grandparents) and, because part of that line’s arrival pre-date modern photography by at least a century.

As I’ve been digging for my immediate paternal line, I’ve found links that go back six generations or more. One line features an ancestor who left Ireland before 1750. (A family legend I stumbled upon says that he met a soothsayer in the street who told him he would never spend another night in his father’s house. That day, he came upon ships bound for America promising fortunes through trade with the Indians. He boarded and never returned to Ireland.)

Somewhere along the way, he became very ill and a kindly servant girl at the house he was staying at nursed him back to health.

Once he was well, he paid off the indentured servitude of the girl (who was Irish or Scottish, depending on who’s telling the story), and the two were married. One of their daughters would marry my ancestor – a Scotsman’s son – who was supposedly murdered by a marauding Tory in South Carolina around 1780-81. Luckily, those two had a son first – who was probably not more than a toddler when his father was slain – or I wouldn’t be here to write this today. (Because that son had a son who had a daughter who had a son who then had a son that is –in the most minimal way possible— responsible for me.)

To me, that’s one of the most fascinating and humbling factors in genealogy: The idea that if any one person were missing from the tree, you would not only not be you, it’s likely you wouldn’t exist at all. It’s mind-boggling to say the least when you think about how many different people had to get together for any one of us to be here.

So, thank God for the Irish and for the wanderlust that brought them across the pond.

When Irish Eyes Are Smilin'

I've known for some time that for a St. Patrick's Day post, I wanted to write about my Irish heritage.
And that brings us to the lady in this picture. This is my maternal great-great-grandmother Bridget. She is from the last generation of my maternal ancestors to have been born in Ireland.


My American lineage was borne of tragedy. But aren't tragedy and the Irish often found in the same breath?

The story goes that Bridget's mother was cooking over an open hearth when the sleeve of her blouse caught fire. She was badly burned and died shortly thereafter, leaving her husband with two small children. A widower with a farm to run and two small children was the beginning of my American ancestry.

My great-great-great-grandfather decided to leave County Mayo and follow his brothers to America, with Bridget and her brother Tobias in tow. (We can't confirm it, but we think that her brother died on the boat en route.) Bridget ended up with family friends when her father died just a few years later in the Civil War. She married one of that Irish family's sons.

She married very young, even by the standards of her day, and started having babies almost immediately. Several of them died. She would bury several more as adults. She’d lose a son in a railyard accident, another to some kind of accident at a Mexican mine, and still another to tuberculosis. She’d lose a daughter (and that daughter’s daughter) to cancer. Her husband died in 1890, leaving her to face many of those deaths alone. Maybe her lifetime of losses is what made her so tough.

By all accounts, Bridget was quite the character. She was a tiny woman, but fearless. It's said she once confronted a would-be burglar asking him in her thick Irish brogue, “By hell if there’s something you’d be a wantin’ in here, why don’t you ask a person for it rather than to be a stealin’ it?” The man supposedly was so shamed by this, he ran off empty-handed.

As children, my grandmother and her younger sister would take Bridget’s beer crock to the corner pub and get it filled. (My godmother still has this prized possession, though I think Bridget was the last – ‘til me – to even drink on occasion.) Bridget also was the caretaker of a cut crystal creamer and sugar bowl, apparently brought over on the boat from Ireland. It had been her mother’s and her mother’s mother’s and who knows how many generations before that. It passed to Bridget’s youngest daughter when she died in 1922.

That is how we get to this lady, my great-grandmother, Julia, mother to my beautiful grandmother. She, too, was another character though you’d be hard pressed to find anyone utter a single bad word about her.

She was well known for kindness and generosity and I was told even before the Depression, her home bore the “mark of the hobo.” (This was some kind of an X or squiggly or something by which a home was marked so that other hobos knew a meal might await them there.)


There was a catch though. Grandma Julia fed them – but they had to write a letter home to let their family know they were OK. She paid the postage.

I grew up with these stories and always wished I could have met these ladies. My grandmother loved both of them fiercely. Sadly, Julia died about 18 months before the mother was born. She would never see either of her two granddaughters or her three great-grandchildren.

In some ways, I feel like I have met them. Photos of Bridget and Henry, as well as of Julia and her husband Rufus, adorn the walls of This D*mn House. The creamer and sugar bowl that you could look at, but never touch, is proudly displayed in a china cabinet. In the 1970s, the mother shadow-boxed Julia’s 1909 wedding dress – something she was allowed to play with as a child – and it hangs in the dining room. Her personalized glass from the 1904 World’s Fair is among treasures to be found in a shadow box in my bedroom.

So, on this day, it only seems appropriate to pay homage to the last generation of Irish and first generation of Irish American in one of my lines. I’m not proud necessarily of where they came from though Ireland is a good enough place. More importantly, I’m proud of having come from them, these strong, loving, determined, and generous women whom we continue to speak of so reverently, many decades after their deaths.

Arrival o' the Green

It was a gorgeous day. Sunny. No wind. Upper 60s. The kind of day you dream about after spending an extended period in the deep-freeze.

Even though downtown had their big parade for St. Patrick’s day already, there was still plenty of green to be found. Right outside our building, the fountain flows green!

This little display let patrons of a nearby pub know what was on today's menu ...

Even the grass had to get in on the action. That's one decoration that won't be coming down on Wednesday!

And while it's not necessarily an outfit I'd wear, you have to admit, it's mighty creative.

Earnin' o' the Green

I knew that anything I wrote yesterday was likely to be a complaint and bound to turn into a whine, so I forced myself to be silent and spare you all of the grumbling.

I rose mid-morning to care for Tigger who continues to hold his own. Then, I went back to bed – and stayed there until nearly 1 p.m., not like me at all. That was due in part to the muscle relaxer I took Saturday night, in an attempt to soothe my aching back, something neither ibuprofen nor Tylenol seemed to touch. It worked.

It’s warm this morning, near 50, and the dampness is thick in the air. It is supposed to be 70 today and even warmer tomorrow. They had surprisingly good weather Saturday for downtown St. Louis’ St. Patrick’s Day parade and drew record crowds. Looks like it will be even better for tomorrow’s Ancient Order of Hibernians parade in Dogtown. I would love to go but don’t dare take the time off right now.

I’ll probably take some vacation days next month though. Really need to get started on some projects around here.

In the meantime, I'm off to earn a paycheck.

Busily Quiet

I was quiet much of the day, busily dealing with routine tasks, and even some of this evening I found myself silent. And I was totally silent all day on the blog. My apologies.

I wish I had something really good to share. About the best I can offer is that Tigger is no worse. No better, but at present, no worse. So, he's still with us and he at least appears to be happy about it.

My great-uncle, however, has had lots of bad news. We aren't sure yet what it all means, but I think the synopsis may be terminal cancer. Lots of tests being done and results waiting on others. And as bad as it is for him, I think it may be worse for his daughter. Please pray for both him and our poor cousin. She's having quite a rough time.

I went to a birthday party tonight for a cousin who turned 3o. It seems impossible. He was just a little kid a few minutes ago. It was good to see this part of the family again.

Third Time A Charm?

The mother doesn’t get really excited about a lot of things, particularly things that don’t have anything to do with the house. But, a long-time jazz aficionado, she does love her music.

So, prior to her birthday in November 2006 when the local PBS affiliate announced that they would be giving concert tickets and host a special “meet and greet” with trumpeter Chris Botti, then a relatively new love of the mother’s, I knew I’d hit upon the perfect gift. While the concert event wasn’t until January 2007 and I didn’t have the real tickets, I made up a little flier. She was so excited. And I was all slapping myself on the back because I’d succeeded in this rare achievement.

But just before Christmas, the mother came down with a cold or a nasty virus. By the time I got her to actually go the doctor, she already had pneumonia. As the end of January neared and the concert date drew closer, she was on the mend and all riled up to go. It was so incredibly cold that winter though and a brief venture outdoors the day before set her back.

I still have the concert and meet and greet tickets at home. They were never used. Because up until an hour or so before we were supposed to leave, she was going to try and go, I didn’t have a chance to get them to anyone so they could be used.

She finally got to see him at The Fox in the summer of 2007 when he opened for Diana Krall. (She didn’t like Diana Krall. We left before the first half of her set was over. And I vowed that if by some strange chance Elvis Costello showed up on stage, I would brain the mother!) Chris came back to St. Louis on his own in January 2008, but PBS didn’t offer anything for this show. And I have to say, I think I enjoyed the show every bit as much as the mother. He’s an incredible talent and showman. And cute, too, for a blond guy.

PBS announced last June that they would again have the tickets/meet and greet for a show in September at The Fox. I was thrilled! I reupped my membership online. I even got seat confirmation. We were about five rows from the stage, dead center, in the orchestra pit! The mother was elated. The tickets would arrive about two weeks before the show.

I was still riding high last September, having just finished the porch and walkway project, and expecting the tickets to arrive any day when the call came: Due to a scheduling conflict, the Chris Botti show has been postponed. Postponed? Well, it was never rescheduled. The mother just was never going to meet Chris Botti. So, for my very generous contribution, I got nothing but the satisfaction of supporting public television. Even though that is a good thing, bummer for me.

That was last year. Fast forward to last night.

When I got home, the mother said: “Channel 9 called. They’re having Chris Botti live in-studio tonight and showing some new DVD.” I knew this had to be the one I’d seen press on last year in the wake of the cancelled concert. Sure, Chris. Blow off St. Louis and go do a live-taping of a show in Boston. (Which, while no one ever ‘fessed up to that, it’s exactly what was done.)

That was the DVD – him live at the Pops with special guests including Sting (*swoon*), whom Chris credits with discovering him, and John Mayer. They showed about half the DVD, including a rendition of Sting’s “Shape of My Heart” which I love, interspersing with Chris and St. Louis’ own Joe Buck who were hilarious together. And then came the announcement of a Sept. 18 show at the Fox – and a repeat of the ticket/meet and greet offer. When I couldn’t find that offer on their Web site, guess who was on the phone five minutes later …

We’ll have to see if the third time really is a charm. And wouldn’t it be marvelous if Sting showed up at one of these shows? Well, a girl can always hope.

Moonset

Yesterday, the early morning cloud cover was thick and it blocked the view of the moon, save a blob of white light that fiercely fought through.

This morning, there was no cloud cover, so the waxing moon stood low in the sky, burning brightly in the shape of a fluorescent egg. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Accompanying it, after the din of traffic had passed, was the unmistakable squirb, squirb, squirb of a cardinal off in the distance.

As the bus wound through town, the moon seemed to chase us for a time, almost as if it was running directly alongside. Then, as the pinks and purples of the morning light skittered across the horizon, the moon, dropping ever lower, disappearing behind buildings, took her leave of us.
Then, suddenly, there she is again. She’s lower still, and her powerful brightness has begun to fade, ever so slowly, as the morning creeps in.

While I am truly a night person, I think this has to be my favorite time of day. That space of time where the moon is just beginning to relinquish control of the sky to the coming day. There is something special and sacred about this changing of the guard, something that I have always been drawn to. It's a time I think of as moonset.

I think all of us have probably seen a sunrise and likely, some very beautiful ones. But if you’ve never witnessed the workings of the late winter sky in the hour or so that precedes daybreak, you’ve missed out on something no less than spectacular.

And the moon? She hangs there still.

Even as the sun begins to rise, blazing up a leg of the Gateway Arch, she holds firm.

Turning translucent and shimmery, she vigilantly stands by, her backdrop brightening around her, slowly taking hold.

Good night, moon. Your shift has ended.

And a new day begins ...

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

I’m probably just grumpy because it’s so freakin’ cold out (we can’t even get above freezing!) but more things than normal today seemed to have flipped my “d*mn, that’s stupid” switch. But here are the biggest ones to light my fuse.

George Clooney sightings
For some reason, St. Louis news stations seem to think that spotting George Clooney downtown is breaking news. And it’s so important that they’ll post really fuzzy phone photos of him online. Why? This is strictly blog material, if that.

The Almost Invisible iPod
Granted, I was definitely among those who needed conversion to appreciate an iPod. I have a Nano, and last year, I bought the mother a Shuffle. Today, Apple announced the next generation of the Shuffle.

It’s even smaller than its ultra-tiny predecessor – as if it needed to be. C’mon. What do you want? A Shuffle the size of a salt grain? But it’s not the size that I find its most stupid feature. It’s most stupid feature is that IT HAS NO FEATURES!!!

Nope. You can’t forward, reverse, or adjust the volume. It has no controls on it. Instead, controls have migrated to branded headphones. My first question was “how could I use it in the car?” Here’s the answer.

If I didn’t know that the Shuffle sans controls was real, I’d think it was just a really amusing Apple parody like this one from The Onion (which is hilarious).

Safe Use of Power Tools
I saved the stupidest for last. It would seem that someone has completely misinterpreted the meaning of DIY.

Now you might think that because I am a big fan of power tools and that I stalwartly advocate multipurpose products, that this one might appeal to me. Let me say clearly and unequivocally: NO! This is one recreational sport that DIY does not mix with.

It’s almost too stupid to be believed. Kids, please don’t try this at home! And I have to say that if you really have to work that hard at it, you’re doing something wrong.

Brrrrrr

The price for enjoying multiple days of 70-80-degree weather is multiple days of brrrrrrr. Not Aaron Burr. Or even Raymond Burr. Just plain ole, in your face, cold and cruel brrrrrr.


I had so hoped we were past these 20-something mornings, but no. Today’s forecast high: 35 degrees. Brrrrrr.

I was in bed uncharacteristically early last night, at just past 10:30. That’s at least 60-90 minutes earlier than usual. I was so tired though. Work’s been busy (which is good), and you know what’s going on at home (not good) and I slept fitfully Tuesday night, so I started the day out tired.

Work was busy in the morning and then in the afternoon we had a surprise shower for one of my young colleagues who is getting married. I helped get things ready. I think it ended up looking festive in a traditional tacky sort of way.

I think she was genuinely surprised as our group gathered near the elevators on a floor below ours. At first, she didn’t even try to get off the elevator, completely oblivious to the whole thing.

It was funny.

They’re having a pizza party today to celebrate some office awards, so no venturing out into the cold for food. Works for me!

Of Cats and Countertops

We’ll see what the night brings, but Tigger had a relatively good day. Uncle Bill, on the other hand, did not. It has all been very distressing for the mother in particular as she and her cousin (my godmother and Uncle Bill’s daughter) are both only children.

And they are the only first cousin the other one has on their mothers’ sides. As a result, they are more like sisters and at the very least, BFFs. In addition to her own feelings, the mother has been internalizing a lot of our cousin’s, too, so she has really had a rough week.

To avoid the dark path that we’ve gone down the past few days, we’ve been talking about the house again. She saw an ad yesterday for some remnant stone place and called about countertops. (She wants to try and figure out how much it’s going to cost to finish the kitchen, the countertops being a big part of the overall project.) They asked for a rough idea of countertop square footage. How much is it? Ummm, small?

I honestly don’t know. We have very little counterspace but in square-footage terms I’m at a loss. So, I have to measure. But what do I measure? Sounds simplistic and straight-forward – until you try to do it. (Especially if you try to do it stressed out and on very little sleep.)

So, I found this quick tip online: If you need a quick measurement for square feet, measure along the back wall of the countertops, multiply by 25.5 which is the standard depth of countertops, and divide by 144. This can give you a rough estimate of how many square feet of countertop you need.

That almost seems idiot-proof. Almost. I’ll try that. Got any other quick and easy guesstimators for countertops?

From Summer to Winter

It’s 28 degrees this morning and the windchill factor is around 20. In the grand scheme of things, for a morning in early March, it’s not that cold. Until you consider that 24 hours ago it was almost 60 degrees.

And 18 hours ago, it was 80. Yes. 8-0. It almost seems like we’ve imagined the past few days now.

The drastic drop in temperature has made it even more important to ensure that Tigger is comfortable. So far, so good on that count. That's due largely to the mother who's been a constant caretaker.

He was weak, but very responsive this morning. He and I had a good conversation and I didn’t even do all of the talking. He was his usual vocal little self. I don’t know if he even understood any of what I said to him, but when I’d finished, he turned his head sideways and rubbed it vigorously against my hand.

I think the message got through.

Plate and Simple

Part of the reason I bought the new camera is so I could always have one on hand for my commute. (Or at least that's what I was able to convince myself of long enough to buy it.) That worked out particularly well on Friday when one of my fellow bus passengers began laughing and pointing out the window.

We were snarled in traffic, thanks to the basketball tournament, and the start of the Home and Garden Show, so I had plenty of time to snap this.

It’s still not as good as the one that Ty’smommy got last week in the parking lot of her Hobby Lobby. But it was still good for a laugh. Today, I'm taking those anywhere I can find them.

End of Life Issues

We don’t always make the right decisions, but generally, life is filled with options, loaded with endless possibilities. Or, it seems to be, until you get closer to the end. Then, suddenly, the field of choices narrows considerably.

It’s ironic how similar Tigger the Cat’s decline and that of my 83-year-old great-uncle are. They both need surgery, and both are too old and too frail to have it. Both are on medication. Both are receiving care that, at most, is palliative. And both of them have people agonizing over what to do with them.

Right now, Tigger seems to have the advantage over my uncle. He is home, surrounded by all his familiar things, not somewhere else in the care of strangers. He can still walk and eat, though in either case not with gusto that has been his tradition for nearly 17 years. The vet says his time is short. Very short. And with but a word from us, it can be made shorter still.

But we aren’t there. Yet. “You’ll know,” the vet said. I know I’ll know, too, and there’s no comfort in that. None at all.

So last night we spent a chunk of the evening rearranging furniture, repositioning bedding, and generally trying to make everything as easy as possible for whatever time is left.

I thought the inevitable had occurred during the four hours since I’d left him (and during which the mother had silently crept in to check a time or two or four) when I wasn’t met with the traditional long, deep meow. He was still in bed, one paw tucked around his eyes. But he was just sleeping.

Before I could get up from the floor, I got my greeting. And almost as quickly, I had a cat padding along behind me as I always do during the morning routine.

I might have rushed through it like I usually do.

But not today. Definitely, not today.

DIY in the News

Seems like when I spend time online searching for other things lately, I inevitably come across some kind of DIY/home improvement info. Today was no exception.

In these economic times, it’s hard to figure out what to do and how much to part with for a lot of us. I found some good information in this article given by a consultant from an aptly named business: Shoestring Design. There’s bound to be something in here or in the sidebar to trigger an idea or two!

Apparently, DIY clubs are becoming a popular trend. While I can’t claim membership in any such club, I know only too well how important help from family and friends can be. A lot of the things that were accomplished at This D*mn House last year would not have been without the help of CD, the Monkeygirls, and my cousin, Dago. Thanks again, guys!

This article has links to different ideas and how-tos for using brick in your home. I got a kick out of the paraphrased advice it gave from Tim Carter of “Ask the Builder” fame: He makes it very clear that putting up brick is not a job for an amateur, and is time-consuming and labor-intensive even for a professional.

Maybe he just means if you’re going to reside your house with brick – not if you were planning to cover your porch and replace a walkway, like, uh, some people did …

Then there are those who think maybe we shouldn’t do it ourselves at all.

Yeah, It's Monday

It’s as dark as night out. I had forgotten that it will be a while before it will be light in the morning again. I can tell you that at 6:30 tonight, it will only just be starting to be dark.
***
We were shocked to hear about a shooting during morning church services yesterday in a neighboring town. you may have seen it on your nightly news as it made national headlines.

I didn’t really know the Rev. Fred Winters, but I had met him and spoken with during the early years of his church, back in my newspaper days. You really have to wonder what would possess someone to kill anyone like that, right in the middle of a church. Especially, someone who didn’t – at least at this point – even appear to know the minister. Regardless of what your beliefs might be, you have to think that’s a heap of extra in the wrong department.

What seems even more wrong to me is for him to die so violently and senselessly inside a church he spent half his life building. Prayers go out to the pastor’s family and his congregation.
***
Tigger, my almost 17-year-old Tabby, isn’t doing so good. We’ve kept a close eye on him all weekend and he isn’t getting better. At his age, there are often more bad days than good days but he is tipping that scale in the wrong direction. The mother is calling the vet this morning.
***
My great-uncle, father to my godmother, is back in the hospital. She spent the end of last week with him and finally took him to the hospital early yesterday morning. She’s conflicted because she needs to work, but once he comes out of the hospital, he’s going to need 24-hour care. The mother is set to help, but I think he is too big and his needs to great for her to handle every aspect of his care.

Such is the curse of the only child.

***

I'm calling for my Zen. I could use some of it about now.

Welcome DST

I love DST. I welcome it. I hate going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark.

One or the other, I can handle. Both is a little much. Starting tomorrow, that won't be an issue,

The only thing is, I lose a little more than the hour the time change reflects.

Care to guess why?

And these are just some of them ...

Connected

Life is quite a disjointed affair. People come in and out of our lives, either voluntarily or involuntarily. And sometimes, life is so hectic, that we can drift away from even those close to us, even those we share a roof with.

Some days, if we're really lucky, we get a chance to renew some of those connections. Today was just such a day for me.

I'd been online for just a bit when I got an email from my very dear friend PlumBelieve who had even called me on the way home last night. It was such a pleasant surprise and so nice to get back in touch.

This morning, the mother, intrigued by a brief article in the local newspaper about a new combination boutique/deli decided we should go check it out. Do some shopping. Have some lunch. Sounded good to me. I just had to get myself off the couch.

I finally got going. I'd showered and had just brushed my teeth when I heard a knock at the door. Imagine my surpise to find my very dear friend CD and her two boys standing on the porch! CD said she could only stay a minute as she was in between soccer games for the eldest.
He'd just finished a game at a school a few blocks from This D*mn House.

"I just couldn't drive by the house without stopping," she told me. And I'm so glad she did!

The deli/boutique had a few interesting things -- which we purchased -- but the food didn't seem nearly as appealing. Luckily, we'd discovered that a highly recommended Chinese restaurant was just across the way. We dined there instead and oh ... there aren't words. SO wonderful to finally find excellent Chinese food again!

On the way home, which took us past the cemetery, the mother asked if we could stop. We visited my great-grandparents' graves and the grave shared by Young Tom and my beautiful grandmother. We drove to the other half of the cemetery and I drove almost straight to the grave of my cousin, Steven. The last trip to the cemetery, I'd spent an hour looking for it without success because the area around it had had so many additions.

I dropped to my knees before it and carefully traced the letters of his name with my fingers. I patted the angel that sits atop the stone. I brushed my hand across the adjacent inscription: He touched many lives. That he did. And mine was lucky enough to be one of them.

So, today I've been blessed with the thoughts and presence of lifelong friends. I've shared an enjoyable day with the mother. And I've had the renewed sense of connection with those whom I can connect with only in my heart.