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You Are That Man! Hope for the One Who Feels Overwhelmed

21 Mar

I’m thinking about my friend K, who is carrying a lot on his shoulders these days, and who I’m sure feels as if he’s taken on too much, certainly more than he can handle. He hasn’t come to me for advice, nor would I expect him to, as there are many other friends on his first line of defense. Although I love him dearly, I’m more like the aunt who lives far away.

But if you ever DID ask what I thought K, I’d probably answer with a story (because I’m a storyteller after all) and I’d put you right smack in the middle of it.

I’d tell you to think of yourself as a Dad, sitting at the Saturday morning breakfast table with your 5-year-old son. You’ve just announced it’s leaf-raking day, and his eyes light up like sparklers.

“Oh, Daddy, let me help!”

You say yes, of course. You don’t need his help, and you can probably get the job done much more quickly without his help, but this will be good for him. Teach him about responsibility. Man’s work. Besides, you so deeply enjoy that bonding time.

To the garage you go, you and your little man. You pick out the lightest rake for him, and direct him to the small, level strip of ground beside the mailbox. He starts smacking that ground with gusto, and leaves fly.

“Hold on, son! You might want to try flipping that thing over.” You demonstrate how to use the rake’s teeth and he gives you that grin that never fails to melt your heart.

“Like this?” He pulls exactly four leaves toward his feet.

“Exactly like that.” You smile and watch him joyfully attack his adversaries, and then you turn to tackle the slope with all the bushes, dislodging a mountain of leaves from beneath the tangled mass of roots and shoots.

You pause to check on your little man, who is now holding his small rake horizontally, balancing a pile of leaves as he brings them across the yard.

“Watch this, Dad!” He shoots the leaves upward, laughing as they fall down upon his head.

You laugh with him and return to your work, prying the wet leaves away from the curb. A little later he calls you to come inspect a wooly caterpillar, clearly ready for winter in his thick brown and black coat. The two of you watch together, heads touching, marveling at nature’s ways as the caterpillar forms a tight ball.

You tussle his hair and stand. All that’s left is the area along the driveway. It’s the toughest part because navigating the delicate flower bulbs is somewhat tricky, but you’re enjoying the day so much you have no trouble slowing down to pull some leaves out by hand. Your son starts singing a silly song and you join in.

These are the good times, you think to yourself.

Finally, you’ve amassed a pile for bagging. Your little man takes one look at it and his shoulders sag as he realizes his area is still not complete.

“Whoa buddy, what’s wrong?” You nearly break when you see the tears welling in those beautiful innocent eyes.

He sniffs and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Daddy, I wanted to do a good job for you, but I didn’t do anything right.” He gives his small pile a disdainful kick.

“Oh I don’t know about that.” You kneel down to look him in the eye, recognizing the yearning heart and the self-condemnation. “My man, you were great company today, and you made me laugh, and you did make this pile of leaves, which helps more than you know.”

You take his hands and press your large callused palms against his soft pink ones.

“These little hands made that little pile, and the big hands made the big pile. The important thing is, we did it together. When your hands get bigger, they will do more work, but for now, you did just enough. Besides…” You glance at the pile…“We’re not done yet.”

He nods and sniffs again, walking over to yank a lawn bag from the box by the trash can. But when he returns, you kneel again, take the bag from his hands, and set it aside.

“What, are you nuts?” You lift him and carry him to the pile. “How often do you get an opportunity to jump into such an incredibly PERFECT landing pad?”

Giggling, he squirms out of your arms and grabs your hand. Together you fly into the pile in a bundle of side-splitting laughter and start throwing leaves at each other. Finally, as you lie side-by-side, panting, your little man reaches for your hand and again gives you his famous, heart-melting grin.

“I love you, Daddy.”

You sigh, letting those precious words settle over your heart.

It’s been a good day.

————–

handsNow K, I know you can relate to this story, because I know you’re a great dad and you’ve had days like this. So I want to remind you to see yourself in this scenario. Read it again and really see yourself, because, my friend, You Are That Man.

No, silly, not Dad. That’s God.

You are the Little Man.

God’s Little Man.

And don’t you forget it.

————————–

His delight is not in the strength of the horse, nor his pleasure in the legs of a man, but the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love. – Psalm 147:10-11

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tiny Tea Cups and a Girl Long Gone

26 Feb

What is truly of great worth?

NOTE: Today’s blog is made possible by a book of writing prompts given to me by my husband on our anniversary, and also by a cold, lazy day that turned out to be good for nothing but sitting by the fire and avoiding work. I will have to write tonight to make up for the lost time, but my brain has decreed this a day for musings.

So, the prompt?
Write about an item you own that is not worth much money but is of great value to you.

My mind immediately brings forth The Tea Set. It represents, not only a bygone era, but a mystery, and, as I think of it, a challenge.

Child's porcelain tea set

Toys? My how things have changed. (By the way, they’re a lot smaller than they look.)

It’s a child’s tea set, made of china, from a pre-plastic era—1885 or so, judging from what I know of the girl I believe was its earliest owner. I cannot determine its manufacturer, as it has no markings, but its design is eclectic at best. The delicate blue and white tea pot is merely four inches tall, wrapped in a rural Asia-like scene of pagoda-topped buildings nestled in the hills and a multi-domed city scape in the distance. My thumb and forefinger look monstrously large as I gingerly grasp the fragile handles on the tiny cups, noting what appears to be a fading fairy sprite hiding in its lush flowery field.

I’m almost afraid to hold the accompanying saucers, which have worn thin and are warped with age, but I can’t resist. They are the same blue and white colors, yet their design seems to be of sparrows darting through a garden.

I try to picture this beautiful, dainty tea service being casually tossed about by some 5-year-old girl; she sitting at a child’s table, pouring imaginary refreshment for the blue-eyed china doll across from her. Why aren’t these dishes cracked and broken? Perhaps children played more calmly back then. Perhaps it was her only toy and she handled it with great care. Or, perhaps, in reverence, she kept them on a shelf, knowing that a woman with a girl’s heart would one day take great joy in their elegance. I’ll always wonder. . .

I know who she was, though, that little girl. But I know so little about her it’s almost shameful. She was my great grandmother, Grace Leahy Craig, who grew up in Wausau, Wisconsin and married Angus Craig, my great grandfather, in June of 1904. When we were children, we were told she linked us to Admiral William Leahy, the Navy’s first five-star admiral, who served during World War II as Roosevelt’s Chief of Staff even before the title had been created, and before that as Chief of Naval Operations, and as governor of Puerto Rico. Sadly, today he is typically only mentioned in jest, for his famous quote about the atomic bomb: “That is the biggest fool thing we have ever done. The atomic bomb will never go off, and I speak as an expert in explosives.”

grace and arthur 54

Grace and Angus in a Newspaper Clipping from 1954.

But as I dig, I’m more and more convinced Grace’s ancestry did not spring from that shoot of the tree. She was raised by Civil War Capt. John E. Leahy and his wife, Mary. However, their death notices do not name her as a daughter. William Leahy’s father was Michael, possibly John’s brother, who does bear that name, which would make her a cousin by adoption at best. Family lore speaks of a terrible ship explosion in Halifax, Nova Scotia that left her an orphan, but I cannot connect those dots yet. Perhaps one day when I’m a famous author I’ll hire an agency to solve this mystery.

 

Grace lived until her 90s, and I do remember visiting her with my grandfather when I was quite young, in the early 60s. We didn’t call her Grace or Grandma, but Dearie. Not sure why. I remember her in the 70s as a frail old woman suffering from Alzheimer’s. Never would I have believed she once played with toys.

I first saw this tea set when my mom inherited it from her mother, sometime around 1995, and I scoffed at its primitiveness. Even then, the plates were warped and the design had faded. However, each time I saw these little pretties I became more intrigued about child who played with them. And when the set came into my possession upon Mom’s death, I fell in love, and today I’d never part with it. I yearn for the simpler time it represents, a time when children played using their imaginations, when it was socially acceptable for girls to play tea party, when one or two toys was considered sufficient.

So what is of great worth? It’s certainly not our possessions, or I’d know more about this set; it’s not in beauty, or I’d feel sad at the faded design; and it’s not our heritage, although that’s interesting — not knowing our past doesn’t make us less amazing people. Great worth is found in the heart. It’s that which makes us care about each other, feel for each other, remember each other. The value is in the loving.

And the challenge? It occurred to me as I started writing this, my mother’s twin brothers still live in Rhode Island. I don’t know why I haven’t thought to contact them about their grandmother. Surely they have a few pieces of the puzzle that I don’t. Of course, this is going to require a trip “up east,” to the land of sandy shores and stone walls, but I’m willing to endure the heartache. Rhode Island-ho!

Thank you, book of prompts, for this trip down memory lane, and for the potential trip ahead.

So tell me, dear readers, what do you have that holds great worth, if only to you?

———–

One gives freely, yet grows all the richer; another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want. Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered. –Prov. 11:24-25

 

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Chocolate Muscles and Frozen Peas: Love is Complicated

13 Jan

Thirty-two years ago, on a Friday the 13th, something wonderful happened when I agreed to drive over to the Justice of the Peace in South Kingstown, RI, with Jerry Fitzsimmons. How could I resist, considering his oh-so-captivating suggestion:

“Do you wanna?”

Why, yes, I did.

Not that it was a rash decision. We’d been engaged for a couple of years, but our plans for a traditional wedding had been repeatedly thwarted by military orders and a life-altering car accident. I wonder sometimes if we’d have gone through with the ceremony if someone had told us the date. That I wore black, the only dress I’d packed for our trip to my parents’ home, only added to the surreal situation, as did the attire of our witnesses, who stood at the opposite ends of decorum’s spectrum – one of my brothers looking spiffy in his Marine Corps dress blues, and the other, a carpenter just off a roofing job, slumped over the justice’s podium wearing dirty, ripped jeans and smelling as if he took his manual labor seriously.

Nevertheless, we took the plunge together and headed off into the world of…well, something a lot less romantic than the phrase “wedded bliss” should be allowed to connote.

In fact, our first years were more like weeded bliss. We each had to compromise more than we might have wanted to, and our compromises were usually less a result of gallantry than argument-induced concessions. He’s a practical, hard-working, methodical, technically proficient detail man and I’m a somewhat flighty, spontaneous, irresponsible, artistic dreamer.

Somehow we survived. We made it through the adjustment years, the parenting young children years, the “what if I missed something better out there” years, the “our children are screwed up and it’s all your fault” years, and even the (still ongoing, but let’s call it a phase) years of, “if she rips open one more bag of frozen peas like that I’m going to give her a frozen peas experience she’s not likely to forget.”

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I had no idea what love is when we married. In fact, if we had relied on love as we defined it in our early years to get us through, we’d never have made it. I formed my idea of love by reading silly romance novels in my 20s, and I think he formed his by watching shoot-‘em-up action movies. Love is not summed up that easily. Were it so, I could have stopped looking when I read, “Her heartbeat quickened and her pulse raced until she felt the crimson heat flush clear up to her cheek bones.” And he would be striving to become the hero in the final scene of a battle saga: “He hoisted the BGM-71 TOW missile launcher effortlessly onto his shoulder, grunting in her direction, ‘C’mere,’ and she followed dutifully, staring wide-eyed at his bulging muscles as if they were made of priceless chocolate.”

Nowadays, our action scene is a little less breath-taking, as in, “He’d just settled down with a nice cold beer in front of the TV to watch ‘Braveheart’ yet again, and she, in those dratted flannel pajamas, had just pulled out the nighttime sleep-aid-enhanced pain medicine and was heading upstairs to find her book, when they turned to each other and said in unison… ‘I thought YOU were picking Charles up from youth group!”

It’s the scene afterward that speaks volumes about love.

We finally got our church wedding on our 25th anniversary, and it was a special moment that solidified, but didn’t change what we have. Our relationship still isn’t perfect. Most likely, I will always tear little gnaw-holes in the frozen peas bag, holes just big enough for eight or nine peas to escape at a time, and he will always tease the cat just as it curls up to snooze on my lap, forcing me to give him that look. I will always cry when I’m tired, and he will spend the rest of his life trying to figure out whether to try to hold me or let me cry it out. (What? Help him figure it out? Are you nuts? Where’s the fun in that?)

RosenJer

A glimpse of the younger, bolder, tougher, but not-so-wise years.

You see, what makes our relationship work is that we’ve become as close as two friends can be without some strange and awkward surgical procedure, and we’ve learned so much about each other that we can’t imagine being with anyone else. We see each other as a gift from God and value that gift as more precious than gold. Who else but he would know I’d get more joy out of the pair of purple “porcupine” socks I found in my stocking this Christmas than any amount of sparkling jewelry? And my joy comes from knowing that, not only does he “get” me, but if I said, even once, that I wanted the sparkling jewelry, he would have moved heaven and earth to get me some.

Because love is not about things, or feelings, or what sort of wedding ceremony binds a couple, or about always being right, or ever being right, for that matter. After 32 years I’m beginning to understand, love is about striving for second place. If I put him first, and he puts me first, well now, we just might make it another 32 years.

Besides, I’ve improved our chances by replacing his copy of “Braveheart” with “Pride and Prejudice.” Next time I cry, he can use that to figure me out…

I love you Jerry. You will always be my hero.

———

“No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.”  – 1 John 4:12

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State of the Portrait Writer Report

31 Dec

How Did We Fare in 2015?

As 2015 draws to a close, it’s time for the now-annual State of the Portrait Writer report, in which I will examine my writing progress thus far. In re-reading my year-old journal entry of expectations for 2015, I’m amazed at how many of the events I planned or promised last year (to myself and others) never materialized. This is to be expected because, as I’ve learned and re-learned throughout the year, I’m not in charge. In fact, if everything had turned out as I planned, it would have been quite the boring year. Instead, it’s been a year of victory and surprises, and a wee bit of sadness. However, it’s also been a year of seeing first-hand what God can do in our lives if we step aside.

Many of you who have been with me from the start might be bored by this list, but in celebration of the 130 new readers I picked up in 2015 (yay, and thank you!), for today’s blog I will recap the highlights of the Portrait Writer’s year:

In January, the hubby and I celebrated 31 years of marriage, which translates into 30 years of him listening to me yammer about being a “real writer” and one year of watching me in action. By that time I’d been working from home for 11 months and still had nothing to show for my efforts. After a financially challenging and emotionally frustrating year, however, he was, and miraculously still is, my greatest supporter, without whom there would be no Portrait Writer…and no cheesecake.

February was a month of learning to listen, or to discern exactly what I should be listening to. I was fooled by imitation voices in I Got Screwed!, and later fooled by lovely noises, in Ask Not for Whom the Phone Rings, both of which brought much frustration, until I wizened up. I sure hope I’m smarter now, but it’s a daily battle.

Willa

Love

March brought sadness and a greater appreciation for love and family, when Willa, the Fitzsimmons’ matriarch, left us for a far better place. Although her four children are still reeling from the loss, and miss her more with every Bronco victory they wish she could be sharing with them this year, they are finding solace in knowing she’s no longer in pain. One beautiful ray of light that has emerged from this cloud, her children—the Fitzsimmons Four, who seemed to have been drifting apart, have created new, tighter bonds. Despite the California/Virginia divide, they spent more time together and kept in e-touch more in 2015 than they have in many years, and we’re all praying this trend will continue.

Food staring

Livin’ in the Fridge…

April started in a delightfully silly way with a foolish fridge, and then devolved into a month of contemplation. We examined the need for sports-fan-like loyalty for one’s spouse in Married for Life, and hubby tackled school lunches in No Fishy Business.

In May I shared with you my love/hate relationship with lists in My Ship Will Float, and I finished out the month on an overwhelming high with the cover reveal for my first book, “Caged Sparrow.” I also made promises I couldn’t keep for June, but that’s an entry for…

…in June, I realized I couldn’t make my self-appointed deadline for “Caged Sparrow,” and contemplated cutting corners, which gave me a new appreciation for my Best Boss Ever, in Deadlines and Rocket Surgery. I chose my next writing project in Who Says you Can’t Go Home Again?” That project quickly fell to the sidelines to make room for another and to show me that, once again, I’m not in charge. Rest assured, the project is still on the horizon.

Sparrow in prison book cover

Caged Sparrow

In July, “Caged Sparrow” became a reality, bringing to fruition my life-long dream of becoming a PUBLISHED AUTHOR. I gave my first Totally Made-up Interview in Let the Caged Sparrow Fly! And, while the book is not exactly flying off the shelves—more like falling off—sales are progressing as expected. Reviews on Amazon are quite kind, and some aren’t even from friends and family. Joe and I wanted only to hear that people’s perspective changed upon reading his story, and we received many notes and comments that this, indeed, is happening. Also in July, Hubby and I hit the open road and all the open doughnut stores between San Francisco and Pittsburgh, in Down Home America. This saga turned out to be so great it rolled into…

Corn and bean field: Succotash

Succotash, get it? Corn and beans? Nevermind.

…August, with Salt, Bugs and Doughnuts, which lulled me into inertia, nearly bringing my writing career to a halt with its Dangerously Pleasant Anchor. I’d say the biggest revelation of August was that not everyone gets my sense of humor. The succotash field pic is a joke. Get with it folks!

In September we explored the undervalue of Teachers (If You Can Read This…) and canines (Treat Each Other like Dogs), both of whom improve our lives significantly.

October was just plain fun. After examining the light in the darkness in Storms May be Brewing, I took you on a somewhat scary journey through a typical ADD writer’s sleep-deprived night in Left Brain, Right Brain. Then I took you to Naples, Florida for a book signing and interview with the now famous Joe Tuttolomondo. What a blast that was, and I haven’t even shared about it yet…hmmm…could be a January blog…

In November and December, I let my blog wind down, paying tribute to my friend Michele in Five Years Strong and Counting, remembering my non-Norman Rockwell Thanksgivings of long ago, and ending the year contemplating the preposterousness of Peace on Earth.

Last year the Portrait Writer published one book, edited two others, wrote 20 short stories and about 30 blog posts—all fulfilling, fun work. The short stories provided enough income to keep me writing, and I’m excited about what’s around the corner. More on that in 2016.

Have a happy and blessed new year, everyone. And remember, you’re not in charge.

————–

In his heart, a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. — Proverbs 16:9

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Not A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving…

25 Nov

The only Thanksgiving element I absolutely cannot do without is family. For me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with loud, boisterous, prank-pulling, bowl-dropping, too-many-in-too-small-a-space, story-telling, story-denying, over-hugging, over-cologned, and occasionally under-showered, family.

As one of nine children, I remember Thanksgiving as the one day of the year we hosted both sets of grandparents (we’ll call them the Ungers and the Maddisons), and one or two relatives whose branches we never quite located on the family tree but were always called Uncle and Ginny. The uncles changed nearly every year. I remember one who was particularly fond of loading chips into his big floppy fishing cap and walking around offering chips to everyone. Never saw anyone but him take from that cap.

…Plus a Saint Bernard and small black mutt with the heart of a lion and teeth of a piranha. And when they both went to puppy heaven, two dogs stepped in to take their place. Always two dogs.

We’re not talking a Norman Rockwell painting here. We’re talking at least one child lying under the living room coffee table with a stomach ache after downing a jar of pickles, another with peas stuck in her nose (you thought I forgot, huh sis?), the always proper Nana going through at least five martinis while Dad played endless pranks trying to get her to swear at him (he always got at least one good shriek out of her—usually involving Pop Rocks or a plastic spider frozen into an ice cube), Grandma doing her best to look unfazed by the chaos but not fooling anyone, and Grampa being the only one of the elders truly having a good time…because he sat in the rocking chair the entire time with his hearing aid off.

There was always a roaring fire in the fireplace, with one or two soot-smudged older boys piling on way too much wood or sword fighting with the pokers. They must fight stealthily to avoid stepping on the Saint Bernard’s massive form splayed in front of the fire, or the youngest siblings who are using him as a pillow. The little dog, for some strange reason, thinks the safest place would be at Mom’s feet. Every so often we’d hear a yelp and a “Someone get this damned dog out of here!” (Sorry about the language, but that was typical Thanksgiving Day vernacular, if not from Mom, then from Nana when Dad finally scored.)

And the rest of us? Let’s just say my Mama didn’t raise any quiet children. By the time we were all seated around the two or three tables, we’d already run up and down the stairs 50 times, played 20 rounds of HORSE at the frozen basketball hoop outside, consumed all the olives (after chasing each other through the house with scary olive fingers, of course) and all the chips, pickles, and anything out of Mom’s slotted spoon range. (Mom was deadly accurate with a slotted spoon.) Frankly, we sat because we were tired. Mom, too, come to think of it.

Here’s where I have to give props to Mom. I don’t remember helping her with Thanksgiving dinner. I honestly don’t. I know for certain the boys didn’t. I do remember the flour on her cheeks and hands, the strand of curly hair that always fell across her face when the steam hit it, and the mounds and mounds of delicious food she put on the table. Every year the feast was fabulous and perfectly cooked, all timed just right and served hot. Pies for days, and gravy the likes of which I’ve not tasted since. If I could send a message to her now in Heaven, it would be, “Mom, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, and I’m amazed, truly.”

Fast forward 40 years to a quieter time. Much quieter. Thanksgiving means so much more to me now, but my family is so much less chaotic. Funny, I only really miss the chaos on Thanksgiving. My siblings all have families of their own, and we live in five different states, so reenactment is highly unlikely, although, combined I think we own a zoo’s worth of dogs and cats.

Thanksgiving_table

Hoping your table is bountiful and your blessings overflowing

To make up for the quiet, and to maximize the joy we feel for this day, my husband and I spend every Thanksgiving in a huge Cabin in Prince William Forest Park with about 70 of our closest friends, primarily our church family and their guests. They won’t run around with peas in their noses or olives on their fingers, nobody will be tripping on dogs (although I hear we may have an Australian Shepherd on site tomorrow who’s also an Afghanistan war veteran, so there’s potential), and everyone will behave, I’m sure.

But I’m bringing Pop Rocks, just in case.

 

Wishing everyone a fantastic Thanksgiving, and praying a grateful thank you to the men and women in uniform, both military around the world and our first responders at home, who will be on duty while we celebrate. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed.

_________________

 

For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. — 1 Tim 4:4-5

 

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Shout Out to Michele: Five Years Strong and Counting!

7 Nov

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”  – C.S. Lewis

Today’s blog is dedicated to good friends, and one in particular. We all have friends—people we love and enjoy being with, but we should also have one or two best friends (spouses aside), who stand above the rest. Those are people we connect with on a deeper level, and for whom we’d go through fire if they needed us to. God has blessed me with two such friends.

The first is Lisa, who lives in Boston, my friend since we the 6th grade (nearly 40 years ago). I could write volumes about the trouble we got into (well, mostly me while she watched) when we were young and foolish (well, mostly me again).  Lisa and I can, and often do, go months without hearing from each other, but when we get together, it’s as if we never parted. I don’t see Lisa often, but she knows if she were to call me tonight and ask me to come to Boston, I’d be packed and on the road within the hour.

The other is Michele, the reason for today’s musings. If Michele and I were fighting in a battle, we’d be the ones standing back-to-back, each watching out for the other the Jonathan and David battled in the Bible. I’ve only known her for about 12 years, but whenever I read about how David was “knit to Jonathan’s soul,” I get it, because that’s how I feel about Michele. And I know she feels the same way about me because she volunteered to (and actually DID) drive me to the airport last month during a Friday afternoon rush hour. Not Dulles; Ronald Reagan. In the city. Knowing that after dropping us off she’d have to merge with the homeward-bound masses on I-95. That’s a friend.

Michele, my friend

My friend, my hero.

Michele is one of the kindest people I know. She has put others before herself all her life. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never stood in the spotlight. In fact, when she sees this, her first reaction will likely be “This is ridiculous. I’m not special.”

But she is. This is a woman who has endured more than the rest of us would consider a fair share of trials and heartwrenchingly wrong turns, and nobody who knows her entire story would have faulted her if she’d turned bitter. Yet she continues to laugh, to encourage others, and give every ounce of herself away.

Michele’s capacity to love is so great, she’s practically a professional worrier because she can’t bear the thought of those she cares about to be hurt. She thinks I’m the strong one because I tend not to be a worrier, but I want to take this opportunity to say, Michele, it’s your strength, your generosity, and your courage that inspires me most.

A little over five years ago, cancer and a series of other potentially debilitating medical issues came crashing into Michele’s life. Do you know what this single mom’s biggest worry was?  That OTHER people’s lives might be impacted. Sure, she went through some serious woe-is-me times, and there were many tears, but except for those incredibly horrible down-for-the-count chemo days, she fought hard throughout those years to ensure her two teenagers’ daily routines went on as unimpeded as possible. Think about those years: weekend college visits, driving lessons, prom dresses, high school graduation, and angst and drama out the wazoo. She mommed with a vengeance and got them both off to college.

Now, thanks to her faith, her stubbornness, her many friends, and some rather outstanding medical practitioners, Michele is celebrating being more than five years out from cancer. She wanted to throw a party, but, as you might have guessed, other people and commitments came first.

So today we’re putting Michele first. Some of her friends and I hijacked her selflessness, and we’re throwing her party. We’ll practically have to tie her hands to a chair to do so, but we’re going to sit her down and make her laugh and eat carrot cake and be waited on until she knows, without a doubt, how special and how inspirational she is to all of us.

Now, if we’d invited ALL her friends and ALL the people she’s helped and ALL the people who love her, we’d have had to rent a stadium. But all we have is a private home, so we’re celebrating with those people she leaned on through the toughest years. However, if you know Michele, or if you don’t know her but can relate to what she’s been through, you can celebrate with us and really make her day all the more special if you leave a WOOT! Or a Way to Go! Or any other words of congratulations on this page for her to read during the party. Yes, I’ll make sure she reads it.

After all, she’ll need something to do while she’s tied to that chair.

———————–

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!” — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

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A Halloween Story

31 Oct

This is based on an old favorite, snazzed up for the occasion, but it should work—particularly if you haven’t heard it…

 

Bat-o-lantern

Bat-o-lantern. Don’t forget to shine your light!

Last year, a young lad who ought to have spent Halloween night studying for the next day’s Chemistry class decided instead to venture out onto the streets and mingle with neighborhood revelers. He would regret that decision.

From the trunk of his Toyota Echo he pulled an enormous blue and white Lugia costume head piece that he’d worn at a recent Anime conference. Its red eyes glowered menacingly. “Perfect,” he thought. He stared ruefully at the rest of the costume, recalling the fumbling clunky-ness of the oversized wing/hands. He settled for the giant blue talon feet and a full-length overcoat

Nobody around here knows who Lugia is anyway.

The lad wasn’t interested in candy, but in terrifying unsuspecting trick-or-treaters, particularly the younger children. He’d pick a tiny tot to stand behind and slowly lean over him, lowering his large red-eyed Lugia head practically up-side down and eye-to-eye with the poor child and saying, “Sqwaaak.”

If a bag of goodies happened to drop in the ensuing mayhem, all the better.

He was having a rather good time until someone’s dad, who happened to be dressed as a cowboy, came out of the shadows and chased him with a cattle prod. Chased him half-way down the road, until the lad ducked into a side street, avoiding the prod but slamming smack-dab into a giant, wood coffin.

“Ow!” He stepped back, eyeing the casket with suspicion.

What’s that doing here?

He shrugged and started to leave, but as soon as he turned, the coffin lid began to open, slowly…creakingly…eerily…  He just had to peek inside. Wouldn’t you?

Two dark, slanted, evil looking eyes glowed out at him, and a bony finger beckoned. He took a step back.

The coffin moved.

The lad turned and raced out of the alley as fast as one can run in giant bird feet. Behind him, he heard a menacing thumping. He chanced a look back and was filled with terror to see the coffin thudding along the sidewalk, steadily gaining on him. He ripped off his head piece and flung it aside, and kicked off the footwear as he ran.

The coffin sped up behind him.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

When he reached his house he used his last ounce of energy to charge up the walkway and fling open the door, pulling it shut behind him and closing the bolt.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

Through the peephole he saw the coffin coming up his front steps. He turned and ran upstairs just as the front door crashed in, and to his horror, the casket started up the steps.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

The lad raced into the bathroom at the end of the hall and closed the door. Trapped! There wasn’t even a window.

Exhausted and near tears, he was ready to give up, when he spied the open medicine cabinet and knew exactly what he had to do. He crossed the room and rummaged hastily through the pill bottles and bandages, coming up at last with a bottle of Vicks-44.

He took a quick breath to steady his nerves, opened the bottle, then yanked the door open and flung the syrupy contents at the approaching menace, soaking it from top to bottom.

And the coffin’ stopped…

 
 

 

 

You’re welcome. Stay safe out there tonight.

Boo.

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“You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.” —1 Thessalonians:5

 

 

 

You’re welcome. Stay safe out there tonight.

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You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness. –1 Thessalonians 5

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Caged Sparrow Launches in Naples!

17 Oct

Who would have thought it possible? Here I am, two hours away from a moment I’ve been dreaming about since I was about 14 – my first official book signing!

And to make life even better, I’m in Naples, Florida, sitting with the no-longer Caged Sparrow himself, Joseph Tuttolomondo, without whom I’d still be sitting in a government cubicle and without whom this day would still only be a dream.

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

Caged Sparrow and his ghost writer

So, of course, for today’s blog, I will interview Joe, the former Buffalo undercover narcotics chief who had the decency to get himself framed and tossed into prison so I could write his story nearly 35 years later. We’re in the First Baptist Church Naples, so if you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop in. It’s the only way you’re going to get not one, but two signatures on your copy of “Caged Sparrow,” Tonight until 8 p.m. and tomorrow 9 a.m. until 1 p.m.

Me: Joe, let’s talk about your story, since that’s why where here. How long have you been thinking about making it into a book?

Joe: Since I was released from prison in 1979. Considering the circumstances and all the surprising things that did and didn’t happen, I just thought there were things that should be told.

Me: Why did it take you so long to write it?

Joe: I couldn’t find a Christian writer who would take it on. I tried a bit right after I got out of prison, but didn’t know how to go about it. One publisher who was referred to me listened to my story and said, “There’s already a lot of that Serpico kind of stuff.” I was discouraged, and over time, although I always wanted and prayed that it be written down, I figured if God wanted it, it would happen.

 

Me: With hindsight, is there anything you would change if you could re-live the whole trial and prison scene?

Joe: None what-so-ever. The results were the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m grateful to all involved.Even those who kicked it off.

Me: What went through your mind when your friend Linda told you someone you never met wanted to write your book?

Joe: I was overwhelmed with joy. It affirmed the fact that the Lord answers prayer. He may take His time, but He answers.

Me: What’s the best part of seeing your book in print?

Joe: First and foremost, I’m thrilled because it glorifies the Lord for who he is and what he did in my life and my children’s lives and for so many I met in prison. Secondly, I’m excited for what this book can accomplish, particularly for those who don’t know Jesus. You can’t stuff Jesus down someone’s throat. He’s a gift you have to offer and the recipient has to accept it voluntarily. This book is a gift to those who are wondering.

Me: What’s your favorite recipe from your Mom’s cookbook?

Joe: That’s easy. Pasta Fazola (macaroni and white kidney beans). You make a roux of caramelized onions and garlic (use chicken stock instead of water), then you marry the roux with some kidney beans and let it simmer. Then you par cook ditalini – a short stubby Italian macaroni. Add the pasta to the beans and cover it with grated parmesan cheese. The first time I fed it to the guys in prison, they turned their noses up at it, but once they tried it, I had them hooked. Even the guards liked it, and you know if the guards don’t like something it doesn’t get served. Pasta Fazola became a regular favorite.

Me: Do you still keep a live turkey tied up in your bathroom as Thanksgiving nears?

Joe: No, only because we no longer have a radiator to tie one to.

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So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. – Matthew 10:31

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Improve the World: Treat Each Other Like Dogs

23 Sep

Today’s blog is brought to you by a reader who will remain unidentified because I didn’t get her permission to splay her name across cyberspace, and I’ve learned that I can burn through friends quickly by shining the spotlight on them when they think they’re hidden.

Anyway, she suggested I write about dogs because their unconditional love is a vital comfort in these troubled times.  I couldn’t agree more, and although I don’t own a dog at this time because our cat simply would not permit it, I’ve been on the receiving end of that unconditional devotion many times, and so, dogs it is…

My friend might chuckle to know that I’m writing this DESPITE my incredibly Pomeranian morning, during which I had to wrestle my neighbor’s pint-sized ball of teeth into the tub, not once, but twice, because her delicate constitution became, well…matted.

Neighbor Pom aside, I do love most dogs.  I cannot remember a time growing up when our family did not have at least one, and usually two canines on duty. My favorite pairing was Barnacle the Saint Bernard (so named because he would help us scrape said critters off the boat hull), and Dickens the mutt (so named because she ran like it. She’d race alongside the car on Sunday mornings when we went to church, which was more than a mile away, and be waiting when we arrived. Dad would unload us all and then whistle for her to get in for the ride home). Dickens, who was about the size of a toaster, had the heart of a Viking warrior. Barnacle was as big as a house and had the heart of a koala. He was a clinger—a loveable, drooling, clearly mis-categorized lap dog.

We particularly enjoyed watching the show whenever the water dude came to our back door to read the meter. He’d eyeball Barnacle like a prison escapee sneaking past a sleeping guard. Barnacle, always an eager greeter, would bound forward as far as his rope would allow (that thing didn’t hold him back, mind you, it just gave visitors a false sense of safety) and just howl. In Barnacle-ese, he was likely saying (through a spray of slobber), “Oh boy, oh boy! Welcome! Come on over and let’s cuddle!” Then, as the unsuspecting victim edged cautiously toward the meter, Dickens would leap out from seemingly nowhere and nip his ankles.

Most of our utility bills were estimates.

Brandy

Brandy, the seafaring Malamute

We even kept a dog when the family moved onto a boat for a while. Brandy, our seafaring Malamute, had to learn how to leap from the ladder to the boat deck, and back to the pier. Occasionally she missed, but she enjoyed any chance to share the joys of life on the water with her humans, and so considered the sporatic sea bath part of the job.

Our family pets were usually large dogs. Good dogs. Well, there was one mean-spirited dachshund named Gidget who only lasted two days because she didn’t care for my dad, but she didn’t understand that his was the hand that fed…and she bit it. Repeatedly. Dad loved his dogs. They were all his before any of us could lay claim. Even my sister’s dog, Boots, a golden retriever mix of some sort, took to my Dad like a surrogate. I think it was Boots my parents found in the kitchen (after they’d been away one evening) standing over a pool of blood, grinning as much as a dog can grin. By the looks of the room, significant activity had taken place there, but they’ll never know what happened except that Boots had done his job.

Boy and dog watching the rain

Jenny, a loyal dog who would never leave you, even when the rain clouds gathered.

We could learn a lot from dogs, particularly with regard to how we treat each other. Dogs are fiercely loyal, quick to forgive, and grateful for our every kindness toward them, and they’re happy to see us come home, whether we’ve been deployed six months in a foreign land or we just stepped out to get the mail. A dog will sit quietly by your side when you’re sad and will dance with you when you’re glad. Dogs will not share your secrets with others or tell you what to do when you tell them your worries. When a dog looks into your eyes, you can see full love and devotion—no deceit, no distraction; you are the center of the universe.

Oh, that we would treat each other the way dogs do. I believe that it would make the world a better place…although perhaps a bit more slobbery.

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Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.   –1 Corinthians 13:4-8

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If you can read this, thank a teacher

2 Sep

I picked up my youngest Monday after his first day of the 11th grade, and, after much grilling about his day, managed to penetrate the layer of, “It was okay,” down to a second layer, which was, “We didn’t do much,” to uncover that hidden bit of substance. He turned to me and said—

(Hold on. I need a moment. Still reeling over the phrase, “First day of the 11th grade.” How the heck did that happen? Deep breath…Okay, I think I can continue.)

—So he turned to me and said, “I like all my teachers.”

And just like that, I knew what I have to write this week. Imagine, all over the country teachers are welcoming a fresh batch of potential rocket scientists and brain surgeons and truck drivers and dot-com entrepreneurs and, yes, teachers. (Regrettably, with those students come attitudes of belligerence and self-righteousness—pointing the blame at teachers for shortcomings that are their own faults. Yes, I’m talking about parents, but I digress.)

So I’m thinking this is the perfect week to applaud the teachers. Teachers are amazing. Theirs is the only profession I know where the employees spend their own money to buy office supplies and posters and story books and anything else that might reach that one child who hasn’t completely taken in a particular lesson. They take work home because their in-school hours are never enough. They offer to stay late to work one-on-one, particularly in the case of high school students, because some topics are difficult to grasp. They take lunch room duty, playground duty, hall monitor duty, and the occasional janitorial duty. They attend school plays, sporting events, and band concerts (that last deserves more than a mere mention—have you ever had to sit through a 5th grade performance? I’ll just say this…clarinets.)

Mr. DeRobbio was my English teacher in the 9th, 11th, and 12th grades. He was also my creative writing teacher, and one of the first people in my life to suggest I should consider writing as a vocation. I could never thank him enough for his patience, his encouragement, and the genuine interest he took in my work. Mr. D. was ancient when I attended school in the 70s, so I’m not even sure he’s still with us, but I’ll hunt him down in Heaven, for sure.

My two boys are 14 years apart, so I’ve been sending someone to school for 25 years now. That’s a lot of parent-teacher meetings, don’t you know. My oldest, my precious Attention Deficit child, was labeled “unteachable” in his early years. I’m going to tell you a special story about the teacher who saved him.

Mrs. Neff taught 3rd grade at a school in Yuma, Arizona, where my oldest had been placed in a “special” classroom for incorrigible students. He hated that class because he loved learning and most of the kids placed there did not. (Sadly, the room earned the nickname “animal house” for the behaviors displayed there). Few people had heard of ADD at that time, and they just thought he was a bad kid. In fact, he was so smart, the teachers just couldn’t keep him busy, and so he self-entertained, often to the point of disruption. Mrs. Neff noticed he had a knack for math and challenged him one day, saying that if he could sit still in her class he could visit her for math class each day.

Well, that young man did such a good job that Mrs. Neff opened the door wider, inviting him to visit during reading time as well, and then for science. She also took on the challenge of learning all about ADD, taking night classes and incorporated many of the tips she learned into her teaching, specifically to keep him engaged. By the end of the school year, my son was fully “mainstreamed” and behaving (for the most part) like the rest of the children. My heart nearly broke to think he would have to start over in the 4th grade with someone new.

But he didn’t. She moved with him. Just to keep his world consistent. And he thrived.

Journal entry for crater in Arizona

Chronicling a cross-country adventure.

When he neared the end of the 4th grade, we received orders to Virginia and had to leave. My son made a scrap book of the trip across country that he mailed to his class when he arrived on the east coast. Mrs. Neff shared the book with the class and had them all write notes of encouragement and well wishes on the pages. Then she sent it back to him.

What a teacher. I swear to this day that she is the reason he didn’t fall through the cracks. Well…there was also his 6th grade biology teacher who pretended she didn’t know he was listening when she said to us, “Frankly, I don’t think he’s got what it takes to make it in my class,” which sparked an “I’ll show her!” attitude that carried through the year. And Mr. Brown, his high school band teacher, who made band a family, and fostered a strict but caring environment that my son loved. For the privilege of staying in the band, he not only made sure to stay out of trouble in his other classes, but he became an accomplished saxophonist and still plays today. And many others.

Today my oldest is a bright, funny, hard-working, compassionate man, and it wasn’t my doing, I assure you. Without just the right people in just the right places, using just the right mix of love and psychology, I honestly don’t know if he would have graduated.

So, today I send kudos to all the teachers out there. Know that you are making a difference. And when you get the “unique” students, don’t wonder why they’re in your life. Ask why you’re in theirs. You matter. A lot.

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Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants. –Deuteronomy 32:2

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NOTE: Thank you to everyone who sent me blog ideas. My list runneth over. I will certainly be drawing from it as the month unfolds. Stay tuned!

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