His Stories Are Timeless

I was so pleased when my youngest son, Benjamin, came home from school today, reciting the opening lines to The Raven. I turned and said to him, "Hey, that is The Raven!"

He told me they read two "interesting" (his choice of words) stories in school today by Edgar Allen Poe. I asked what the other one was.

He said he couldn't remember the name of the other story, but "It was really creepy. It had to do with this guy and how he didn't like another guy's eye, so he killed him. But he kept hearing his heart beat even after he killed him and I think he went crazy."

I said, "That story is The Tell-Tale Heart. What did you think?"

He looked at me with those big blue eyes, and said, "It was creepy!"

I think Poe would be please to know, 162 years after his death, a twelve year old boy thinks his stories are creepy. Talk about timeless.

Happy Halloween!

Afraid of the Dark

With Halloween upon us, it is time for me to reveal my fears. I am afraid of noises in the middle of the night. As an adult, I avoid reading scary books or watching horror movies. And you know what really scares me? Top two fears. Being trapped in the dark and haunted houses.

When I was growing up, I don't remember not being afraid of the dark. When I was about four years old, my family lived in Pennsylvania. It was a coal mining town, Pittson, and the streets were very hilly. We lived in an apartment above a building on the main street. The main floor was a store front, and it was mentioned a few years ago that my parents intended on opening a day care center, but never did. I do remember the basement of the building. The basement was dug out, the walls were actually black coal, cold to the touch and it was very dark. I would never go down there by myself.

My mom's brothers came to visit and the grown-ups decided to play a prank on an unsuspecting uncle of mine. He was the youngest brother in the family, who was closer in age to my sister than his siblings, so I think he was around eight years old.

Somehow, the grown-ups convinced us we needed to go down in the basement. With my young uncle in the lead, we descended the stairs into the dark, chilly basement. I remember being so scared, and huddled with my young uncle and sister as we went down the stairs. When we reached the bottom of the staircase, out stepped a person, flashed a light and revealed a skeleton face.

We all screamed, and stumbled over each other to climb the staircase. I was so scared, fell, and we all tumbled over each other. I remember the pounding of my heart, and the fear I would never leave the dark basement, and I would have to stay with the skeleton.

In all fairness to my parents, to this day they attest they warned my sister and I about what was going to happen. I don't doubt that they did, but maybe my four year old brain was too young to handle the concept. Maybe this was the first time I was ever scared.

Later in life, when I was about eight years old, my dad convinced me to go in a haunted house with him. Not sure why I ever agreed to go inside since haunted houses are traditionally dark, and everyone knew I was afraid of the dark.

I remember clinging to my dad. He walked in front of me, I held tight onto his back and buried my head in his jacket. I knew I would be okay since my dad would take care of me, but I was really scared. My face stayed buried until we walked into the last room. It was dark and lightening flashed. There were skeletons hanging down from the ceiling and you had to walk though them to get to the door.

My dad kept assuring me it would be okay, and I am sure by this time he fully regretted encouraging me to go through the haunted house with him. As we worked our way across the room, the people in front of us closed the exit door. The room was dark and then the lightening flashed. I remember my dad's voice, with a hint of panic, asking aloud to anyone who would listen, "How do we get out?"

His voice became angry as he reached the wall and started searching for the door. I clung onto his jacket with my heart beating. The door eventually opened, but the damage was done. Now, not only was I afraid of the dark, but haunted houses were also added to my list of fears.

Entwined into A Beautiful Melody

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

-The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Oh, how I love Edgar Allen Poe! I love the way he takes words, and entwines them into a beautiful melody when you read them aloud. And when you think about it, it is some pretty scary stuff!

Color Outside the Lines

"To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.”

-Joseph Chilton Pearce

I was very fortunate to be raised by a woman who let me color outside the lines.

She raised her daughters singing and playing the guitar to us, and always made the time to read aloud. She has a beautiful range to her voice. Her artistic talents and tastes are different than my own, but she always praises and complements every thing I do.

I remember once my daughter was coloring a coloring book picture at my father-in-law's house. As he watched her, he kept pointing out that she needed to color inside the lines. Unable to bite my lip any longer, I smiled and gently told my daughter "It is okay to color outside the lines."

I learned that from my mom.

Alliance with Patience

I continue on my journey.

I see my life as a series of paths, and I am faced with many choices. When I speak of this journey, it is not as if I am ignoring my family and friends, but it is more of a journey within myself. A journey for me to determine who I am, who I want to be and who I will be remembered as.

What I have learned, thus far, is it isn't going to be easy, and my journey would be better served by entering into an alliance with patience.

I now need to find the path where patience resides.

Stories to Tell

I have so many stories I want to tell, but like most writers, I think it would help if I organized my thoughts. But for someone who doesn't want to make lists, this is almost impossible!

Life

Like, Love or In Love

Yesterday, I was so compelled to write about how much I miss my priest who is on a six month sabbatical. What made me realize how much I miss him, was going to church yesterday morning and sitting through a Mass listening to the priest filling in for him.

I listened as the replacement priest talked about his theory of “love” and “in love.” He stated that when people get married they are making a commitment to “love,” but not to be “in love.” So basically, too bad. If you are not “in love” any longer, regardless of your situation, you need to stay in the marriage because you made the commitment to “love.” No exceptions.

Wow.

I disagree, but I started thinking about “like,” “love” and “in love” and the difference between the three. I read an article with a good analogy. The article compared how a person would feel if someone they knew died.

If they “liked” the person they would be sad, and maybe cry once or twice.

If they “loved” the person, they would be devastated; the death would leave a lasting impression, impacting their life. They would cry a lot more.

If they were “in love” with someone, they would want their own life to end. I think when you are “in love” it means you can’t see yourself living without the other person by your side.

I don't think anyone explained the difference between "like," "love" and "in love" to the priest. And based on what he said, I don't think it would matter anyways.

How Did He Know?

The priest at my church is on a six month sabbatical leave traveling in Europe, spending the time learning to listen. I miss him very much.

I have to say, I really like my priest.

He is different than any other priest I have ever encountered. He has a hearty laugh, angelic voice and a peaceful calmness about him. He sings the Eucharistic prayers and when he stands on the alter and gives his homily, he speaks with grace and passion.

He is a tall man, somewhere in his upper 50s and smiles all the time. He lives in a house on the church property, along with his ailing sister, and has a golden retriever dog who spends her dog days with the priest. He holds a blessing of the pets ceremony every year, and the area where we live is rural enough where people have brought horses for the blessing. The priest walks around with the holy water making sure to bless all the creatures, big and small. Once, we took a gerbil, so we qualified for the smallest pet.

My children are not intimidated by him and he always welcomes them with open arms, cups their faces in his hands and teases them. One time my children were talking to the priest at a church function and they found out he is a Harry Potter fan. Because some churches have made the series out to be about witchcraft they looked at him with curious eyes as he talked about how the series is just about good vs. evil. He won them over.

I remember one time a few years ago, after mass I was standing in the atrium of the church, and the look in my eyes must have been one of being lost. He walked up to me, placed his hands on my cheeks, told me it would be okay, he kindly kissed my forehead and hugged me.

I was actually standing there, watching my children in the distance, wishing that time could stand still a little bit longer, so they wouldn't grow up so fast. How did he know all I needed was someone to tell me it was going to be okay?

I miss my priest.

Embracing Death

Death. No one ever wants to talk about it. I guess I can understand why. It all depends on your view of what happens after this life to determine if you are ready to talk about what might happen at the moment of death.

Over the years, I have had friends who are agnostic, atheist, and to sum it up, pretty much every religion. But one of the most interesting, intelligent people I know, signed an agreement about 20 years ago with a cyronics company to have his head suspended in liquid nitrogen after his death.

I have thought about it over the years because it is such a unique belief. He is an atheist so he doesn't believe there is anything after death, so his logic is why not take a chance that he can come back in the future?

Not me. I hope at the moment of my death, I embrace it. I hope I live a long life, can look back on it with happiness and die smiling. That works for me.

Truth

"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."

-Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh

It Really Did Splat

For most of my childhood, I grew up in a suburban home. About nine years ago, we moved our family to what some consider to be a more rural environment. When we moved here, I felt we would not be so displaced from the urban environment since there was a Panera Bread, Barnes & Noble and Costco.

Little did I know, my children would be going to school with a mixture of kids. They go to school with families who still run dairy farms and the children work after school starting at a very young age. The school has an equestrian team and many children have farm homes. However, there are also kids who come from very wealthy families living in countryside estates.

However, what opened my eyes to how rural of an area we live in is the number of animals we have encountered in our own backyard. We live in a rolling subdivision on just under two acres, in a beautiful neighborhood. Not at all what I would consider farmland.

The most shocking, and eye opening experience was within the first year of living here. First thing in the morning, I would let our dog Carson outside, and he would return to the door wall at the walk out basement when he was ready to come back. One morning, he greeted me at the door with something in his mouth. Having no idea what it was, I tried to get him to drop it on the cement. He wouldn't drop whatever it was. Finally, my husband brought some treats out, and Carson, dropped the item on the cement. The object made a splatting sound on the concrete, and I can only imagine the expression on my face when I realized what Carson had been holding in his mouth.

A raccoon head stared back up at me from the ground.

This was only the beginning. Many years ago, there was the chipmunk in the garage that Linus, our indoor cat, chased around as a toy. This summer, the chipmunk population has increased since Carson is no longer here to chase them away. Just a few weeks ago, I was standing in the garage and one came running in. He didn't see me and it was so funny, when I said hello aloud. I swear, I scared him half to death.

There was the baby bunny found in the yard with injuries that was taken to a local nature center, and he later died. The nature center also helped us out when we found three baby mice in a bucket with their dead mother by their side. They were named the "three blind mice" and promptly taken to the nature center with a cash donation to nurse them back to health.

Once I walked in the garage and a snake slithered past me. The first summer in the house I remember looking out the office window, swearing the giant box turtle walking across the lawn looked like a prehistoric dinosaur. He stayed in a box with us for a few days.

And of course there are the critters who made it to the attic. Once I kept hearing noises in the ceiling and thought there must be mice in the attic. No, those lovely field mice never made it into the attic. Turns out it was a bat. Sadly, he ended up getting caught in a mouse trap, and didn't die right away. I will never forget the awful hissing sound he made as he was dying. Another time, we heard something bigger in the attic, and set a live trap. Turns out it was a baby squirrel who we relocated to a park 25 miles away.

We have our share of deer in the forest, and many fawns. The kids love to throw apples from the deck into the forest, knowing the deer will come and eat them. It is so beautiful to see them looking up at the house.

Toads, frogs and salamanders are always around in the warmer months. Occasionally, they will make it into the house with my youngest son, Benjamin. Many of tree frogs have jumped at me, and have been chased around the house. When Benjamin was younger, he collected as many toads as he could find and built them houses in the garage. He called the game "Extreme Home Make-Over - Toad Edition." I swear, those toads had the nicest houses in all of toad world.

Of course, the house has been invaded by bees twice and the Bee Lady had to come out and remove the nests. This summer the chimney swifts invaded the fireplace and sadly some of the babies didn't live. Another call to the nature center.

The dead possum in the garden box was kind of creepy. I could never plant vegetables in that area of the garden again. And don't get me started about voles - I had no idea what they were until we moved here.

Yes, I realized I live in a rural area, when the raccoon head splat on the sidewalk, and I now know to call the nature center for critter questions. However, I still believe I have the best of both worlds, urban and rural.

The Illusion Feels Real

"The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true."

-John Steinbeck

Both Madeline and Andrew, upon selecting classes for their freshman year in high school were chosen by the teachers to be placed in Honors English. One of the required readings over the summer was The Pearl by John Steinbeck.

Although this is a relatively short book, I have found that people either love or hate Steinbeck's descriptive writing.

I love it.

As an author, he has the ability to write in such way that when you are reading the words, you close your eyes and look around you, and can visualize everything Steinbeck has created. You can taste the food, feel the warmth of the sun, touch the sand and brush the cheek of the characters. And even though they were all created in Steinbeck's imagination, the illusion feels real.

Because Steinbeck's style of writing is so different than anything she had ever read, Madeline was having a difficult time reading the story. I agreed to read it aloud to her and anyone else who wanted to listen. My children have grown up listening to the written word read aloud to them because I do believe some stories are meant to be heard, and I think anything written by Steinbeck falls into that category.

As we sat near the marina on a blanket at Metro Beach, Madeline and I took turns reading aloud the sad story of The Pearl. My youngest son, Benjamin, only nine years old at the time was fascinated by the story. It quickly became his favorite book, reading it many times over the past three years.

He is now is seventh grade and last week, he took The Pearl with him to school to read during silent reading time. His English teacher saw it and asked him how he liked it. After some discussion and the acknowledgement of his advanced reading level, she suggested he read Of Mice and Men.

First thing in the morning, I went to the bookstore, purchased a copy Of Mice and Men, and left it for him to find after school. He was so excited and started reading it right away.

That is what Steinbeck's style does to you. You want to read the story, so you can feel yourself in his illusion, and just for a few moments be someplace else, glimpsing in another's imagination.

A Purging of Fashion

Even though technically autumn began a few weeks ago, today, I finally ventured into my closet, and committed myself to start the process of cleaning it out. As I stood there, surrounded by hangers and hangers of clothes, I smiled.

This year is different for me. This is a year of change, and I will not stand with a heavy heart, as I try to decide what is worthy of keeping. I am happy when I look in my closet because I am guessing seventy percent of my clothes will be heading to the donate bin.

And even though some of my favorite sweaters that are too large will remain (because how can you bear to part with an old friend?) I am ready to purge all of the clothes that no longer fit either my body or personality.

A purging of fashion. I am so ready for it.

You see, I really love clothes. I love the feel, the smell and don't get me started on the fabric. Of course, I have a list of new items I either need to replace or add to my collection.

Some things are just classic, and I bear no sadness, getting rid of the pieces that don't fit any longer and replacing them with ones that do. Time to shop for a new denim jacket, white button down shirt, pencil straight skirt and a black dress. That is just the beginning.

This time I won't be sad purging my closet. I am ready to move on.

Can We Buy It?

I worked for many years in downtown Detroit. My favorite office I occupied was on the 12th floor of Mackenzie Hall, a hotel built in the early 1900s, that was later converted to office space.

I had french doors where I could walk out onto a beautiful balcony and look over the city buildings. It was a very unique office, and I appreciated so much being able to open the french doors when the weather was nice.

The best part of the view was the ability to see the Detroit Institute of Arts. It seemed like at least once a week, I would walk over to the museum, for lunch with co-workers. However, my favorite visits to the museum were ones I took alone.

Early on in my explorations of the exhibits, I found the painting that has remained my favorite in the museum's collection. An 1882 oil painting by William Adolphe Bouguereau titled The Nut Gatherers.

The painting is fairly large, I think about three feet by four feet, and is one of the museums most popular paintings. From whatever angle you look at the piece, the girls look so real - almost like a photograph. Their faces are so innocent and relaxed, and you just want reach out and brush the soil from their feet.

When my daughter was five, I took her to the museum to see a Van Gogh exhibit. She walked around the museum, and carried a drawing pad with her. She would sit on the floor in front of a piece of art, and diligently draw it in her notebook. I remember telling her I wanted to show her my favorite painting.

As she stood in front of The Nut Gatherers, I smiled as she noticed the dirt on the young girl's feet. Standing there looking at my daughter and the two girls who had mesmerized me for years, I saw the similarities in their faces. What struck me was the beauty of my favorite painting, and my beautiful daughter gazing at the faces of the young girls.

Madeline turned to me and asked if we could buy the painting and take it home. The nearby security guard and I shared a smile, and I told Madeline, "We need to leave the painting in the museum so everyone could enjoy it."

Madeline and I walked out of the museum. My priceless work of art, was holding my hand.

Freeing Up Precious Brain Space

One of the most challenging things about writing a blog, is thinking about who is my audience. Who is taking the time to read my random thoughts, and are they worthy of being read?

I am conscience when I write, reminding myself I don't want to hurt anyone I love or care about. That would never be my intent, it is just not who I am.

I write what comes to mind, and writing the words sets them free from consuming my thoughts. Maybe in a weird way, it frees up precious brain space. Unfortunately, as much as I try not to sanitize the words I write, I know it can't be avoided if I am putting it out there for the world to see. Oddly, it is easier to think of strangers reading my blog, than my friends and family.

Imagine, someone you have never met finding and reading your journal. Now imagine, someone you know, finding and reading your journal, and reading your private thoughts about them. Big difference.

It is never my intent to hurt anyone, these are just my random thoughts, nothing more. Just freeing up some precious brain space.

Love is Love

Why am I so fascinated with romantic books and movies set in another time period?

It arouses my curiosity to another time and place, but what I always come back to the is idea that love is love.

No matter the time, the place, the characters or the setting.

Love is constant.

Unrequited love. Passionate love. Romantic love.

Love is love.

Fear of the Playground

I had two horrible playground accidents as a child. I am not sure how old I was when the first one happened, but I think I was maybe 5 or 6 years old. My family was visiting my mom's cousins and all the kids walked to the local school playground for the afternoon. There was one of the old-fashioned, really tall slides made completely of metal. I remember climbing really, really slow up the ladder portion of the slide. When I got to the top of the slide, I remember just standing there thinking about being up so high. I wasn't afraid of the height, I just remember feeling emptiness and space around me.

And I remember falling. Falling, backwards towards the ground. Not sure what happened when I stood at the top of the slide, maybe I closed my eyes to feel the wind on my face, I don't know. I still remember the feeling of falling, and how the air rushed around me, and I felt breathless. I don't remember hitting the ground.

Apparently, I passed out when I landed. The children in the group walked me back to my great-aunt's house, and I played inside the rest of the day.

The second accident occurred when I was about ten years old. On the school playground, during recess, I was sitting on the parallel bars when I lost balance and hit the back of my head, just above the nape of my neck on the other parallel bar. I don't remember the actual accident, but I do remember the pain. I was taken to a hospital and observed for a concussion. I distinctly remember reaching around to touch the back of my head and it felt, the best, but yet the grossest way to describe it, spongy. Apparently, it was filled with blood. Even today when I touch the back of my head, I can imagine the pain I felt as a fourth grader.

So how did my two playground accidents affect me as an adult?

I have very few vivid memories of my childhood and I suspect it is partially as a result of these two accidents. I can look at pictures and my sister will tell me stories of our childhood, but I can't honestly say I remember the actual event.

The other impact it had is my fear of my children getting injured on playground equipment. Although they are all older now, when they were younger, it was very hard for me to watch them play at the playground. There was a park we use to go to once a year up north that still had an old, large metal slide and I still remember Madeline climbing up the ladder, and how I felt dizzy watching her.

But I kept my fear inside, because I do remember how fun it was to slide towards the ground on the shiny metal. To let them enjoy the fun of slides, swings and monkey bars, and not to let my fears spoil their fun, Ben willingly took them to the playground.

I Love Andy Warhol

A year ago, our family took a trip to Indianapolis to see a Titanic exhibit at the Indiana State Museum. And although the exhibit was touching, I was so excited when we visited the Indiana Museum of Art, and the staff was preparing for the Andy Warhol exhibit opening the next day.

Although everyone in the family did not want to see the exhibit, I convinced enough members of the family, to stay an extra day so we could go.

You see, I love Andy Warhol.

His art. His quotes. His hair. He was a master at marketing his art.

Not that I would surround myself with the art of his world, I just appreciate it. I don't think I stopped smiling throughout the entire exhibit. I think I was just in awe to be near his work.

I think some people are surprised that I do love Andy Warhol because his work is so extreme compared to my taste. But how can you not smile when you are standing in front of a silk-screened Marilyn Monroe?

Yes, I love Andy Warhol.

Did She Have Passion?

"You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died. Did he have passion?"

- Jeremy Piven, in the movie, Serendipity

Passion. Does everyone have it? Or, do some spend their entire life trying to find it? Or, is even more likely that we go through phases in life, and our passions fluctuate with the years?

I think most people, if asked, will adamantly say they have passion. Some may define it in their passion for their career they have chosen in life. For another, it is the children they have brought into the world, or their family life. For someone else, it may be their talents.

So going seriously against the mainstream, at a risk of shocking the conformists of the world, I am prepared to share what could be perceived as a negative opinion.

I can honestly say, deep breath here, at this stage in my life, I don't really know anymore what my passion, in the sense of personal passion, really is. Would I be considered a unpassionate person? I don't think so. Just honest.

You see, maybe I don't think of just one thing as my passion. I would like to think I am passionate about everything I do. I often tell family and friends that I can't multitask since I like to give 100% to what I am doing at at given time.

Maybe your passion can only be defined after death. Someone else will look back at my life, and they will define what I was passionate about. They get to pick.

I like that idea.

The Smell of Fall

Although people who live in Michigan have a tendency to complain about the weather all the time, I for one, appreciate the changes of the seasons. The autumn months are beautiful with the changing color of the trees, and considering my olfactory senses are strong, the smell of the air. Although there are still many green trees, some are already starting to drop their leaves. The leaves on the ground just adds to the sensory experience of being outside, and the crunching sound reminds us that Fall is here.

Temperatures are a bit unpredictable, as for the last few days the thermometer is reading close to 80 degrees. The end of this week is suppose to be in the low 60s. Sunrises and sunsets are phenomenal - and the moon at night and in the early morning hours is beautiful. This morning when I was taking the boys to school, we walked out to the driveway, and the sky was clear. The stars were bright and I pointed out to Benjamin the belt of Orion over our roof top.

Although I sympathize with the people who only like the summer in Michigan, I choose to embrace the change, maybe because I love the smell of Fall.

Growing Pains

It is always so exciting to me to hear my children's point of view. Having three teenagers at different stages in life, gives me the unique opportunity to share their exposure to different forms of literature, opinions, movies, current events and politics.

My daughter took center stage at the dinner table today, sharing her thoughts on Martin Luther, history of the Catholic Church and leadership, along with her opinions of President Obama.

My middle son shared his reading of the short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, the symbolism in the story along with his opinion of teaching of health at school.

My youngest son was quiet at the table this evening. I was standing in the kitchen yesterday morning and when he walked by I noticed a change in his height. Could he already be almost as tall as I?

Every birthday, the height of each child is recorded on a board and they sign their name next to their height. Yesterday, when we measured his height, I realized he has grown close to two inches in three months.

I guess when your body is busy growing, you don't have the extra energy to share your thoughts. Or maybe, his sister's chattering was non-stop at the table and he couldn't get a word in. Either way, I missed hearing about his day.

He Loved Me More Than Food

I have always loved animals. Growing up, it seemed like there was always a furry friend living in our house, so it seemed natural when I was older to have pets. My first dog was a Golden Retriever who I promptly named Clifford, after one of my favorite children's books, Clifford the Big Red Dog. He was a college graduation gift from my husband, Ben, and I was faced with the responsibility of taking care of a new puppy. He was the biggest puppy in the litter and was a deep, dark red. When he was older, many of times people would ask if he was an Irish Setter.

Little did I know the responsibility I would be faced with! Ben and I worked with him taking him to puppy classes to socialize him, always trying to do the right thing so we would have a well-behaved dog.

After having Clifford for a year, we went to the local anti-cruelly society to drop off some donations. Since I wear my heart on my sleeve, I decided to wait in the car. Within minutes, Ben returned and informed me that he couldn't resist the temptation of looking at the adoptable dogs. He told me about a light-color golden retriever named Buster, who was being fed hot dogs since it would be his last day before he would be euthanized, due to lack of space at the shelter. Of course, we headed back in and promptly adopted the affectionate dog, who we renamed Biscuit.

Sadly, Clifford developed kidney disease around the time he turned three. Our veterinarian tried for a few weeks to save him, but the most humane thing to do would be to end his short life. I was sad to let him go, and returning home to see Biscuit without his companion in tow, was difficult, but I knew it was for the best.

Biscuit was a wonderful dog to have with three small children. I still remember when my youngest was teething and decided to climb upon Biscuit who was sleeping and chew on his ear. As I turned around and saw what was happening, I was fearful Biscuit might snap at my small toddler. Biscuit looked at me with his big brown eyes, whimpered a small sound and didn't move. He was the most gentle dog I have ever seen.

Of course, it was heartbreaking to see him age. I would help him up the stairs when he could no longer walk, and spent many nights sleeping on the living room floor by his side. Eventually, I was faced with the decision of ending his life humanely.

About a year after Biscuit died, even in a house surrounded by three children, I was lonely for a dog. I searched for a new puppy to join our family and I applied to a Golden Retriever rescue society and because of my experience with Goldens, I was fortunate to be moved to the top of the list to adopt a puppy. Although we had to drive to the other side of the state, with three small children, we all immediately fell in love with the last puppy remaining. Of course, like my first dog, this dog was the largest in the litter and his foster family named him Fatty.

I always liked the name Carson, after the author Carson McCullers, and since I wasn't brave enough to give the name to one of my children, bestowed the name upon our new puppy.

Carson was such a sweet dog. As he aged, he mellowed out like all Golden Retrievers do, and spent many hours curled up in a chair in my foyer. Once I proclaimed that Carson loved me more than food. Of course, my husband put it to the test and my friend, Carson, didn't let me down. He turned to me and did what I loved about him.

He hugged me.

He would push himself as close as he could to me, and look up at me with his knowing eyes. Yes, Carson loved me more than food.

I could sense his time with me was getting shorter over the past year. The look in his eyes changed and once he was diagnosed with bone cancer, I knew the time we had together would soon end. Although I loved my first dog, Clifford, and his companion,Biscuit, Carson was the most special dog to me.

As I was by his side at the end of his life, I whispered to him that we would see each other again. He looked up at me with his amber eyes, and I believe he understood. At that point I knew, Carson would hug me again someday.

Something to Think About

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone."

Heart Stone Park

My youngest son, Benjamin, and I share a love of walking the beach for hours collecting rocks and shells. He and I have spent countless hours scouring the shoreline for bits of nature worthy of taking home. One thought both he and I share, is to to be very selective of the pieces we chose.

We both agree not every rock or shell is worthy of bringing home just because it catches your eye on the shore. Although over the years we both have collected buckets and pocketfuls of rocks and shells, we always take the time to evaluate the collection, only selecting ones we truly want to bring home.

Even then, few rocks and shells actually make it into the house. Of course, we have our share of petosky stones and bits of blue slag from Lake Michigan, along with a decent sea shell collection including starfish and sand dollars from the Outer Banks. We love the bottles of sand we have scooped up from the many beaches we have visited together. However, nothing compares to the find he made one day along the shores of Lake Michigan.

We were scouring the beach at a park when he was so excited to show me his find for the day - a beautiful rock in the shape of a heart. Proudly, he brought the rock home and we framed it in a shadow box placing it on the mantel. Every time I look at it, I remember the small boy who brought the rock to me. To this day, when we are up north, he still refers to the park as Heart Stone Park.

We both laugh because somewhere along the way, we agreed that we like to think if we throw the mediocre rocks and shells back to the water, we will be rewarded with an even better find. I think the best reward is the the memories he and I share of our walks on the beach.

Romeo and Juliet

Today, my middle child, Andrew, told me he would be reading Romeo and Juliet in his freshman honor's English class. We talked about how the play is one of the most quoted of Shakespeare's plays. Because his older sister had the same class with the same teacher two years ago, he is pretty familiar with the curriculum.

Andrew and I laughed when we talked about how he and his siblings took me to Gnomeo and Juliet on my birthday. After the movie was over, they looked at me and said "Why did you want to see this? It was awful!" My daughter and I have watched the 1968 and 1996 versions of Romeo and Juliet multiple times, and as tragic as the story, how can you not get light-headed thinking of the love they shared?

Yes, references to Romeo and Juliet are so abound in popular culture, and I would like to make a CD with all the songs referring to the star-crossed lovers. Quite a few songs are already on my IPod with references to the tragic lovers.

Of course, like many romantics, my favorite scene in the play is Capulet's Orchard, but for now, I can only reflect on my one of my favorite quotes:

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Sigh. How can that not make your heart pitter-patter?

My Forever Friend

Little Teddy has been with me forever. I inherited him from my uncle when I was maybe five years old. He is about eight inches tall and has experienced many grand adventures. Little Teddy is certainly my velveteen rabbit.

Once in our youth, Little Teddy and I went swimming in the ocean. I lost him, and my sister found him washed up on the shore. Tragedy struck when I was much older, and Little Teddy was enjoying the companionship of my daughter. She left him on the floor and our new puppy, Carson, decided to have a playdate with Little Teddy. When the date was over, Little Teddy required major surgery with an ear and foot transplant. Of course, a few years later, my youngest son was sad that Little Teddy didn't have any eyes, and an online search for the perfect pair resulted in a new pair of brown eyes.

Yes, Little Teddy, you are my forever friend, flaws and all.

My Caterpillar Tree

When I was very young, my mom always took my sister and I to the library. For some reason, I have very few vivid memories from my childhood, but I do remember going to the library.

I remember the wood furniture and the card catalogs filled with the secret location of the books. I remember the musty smell of the room, and the stillness, and the quiet I love so much. I remember Charlotte's Web was high on the shelf, but my most vivid memory is the location of one book.

I would walk straight ahead and there was a covered bench. On the low book shelves I would search for my favorite book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. I remember the happy feeling when I found the book on the shelf, and I would huddle on the floor next to the bench mesmerized by the bright collages, and the way the caterpillar worked his way through the book.

When my children were born, I wrote to Eric Carle and shared with him my story. He was kind enough to sign the books I sent to him for my children, and sign my copy of the The Art of Eric Carle. He even drew me a caterpillar.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that the library is a haven for me. When I die, I would love a tree planted for me outside a library, and I would hope caterpillars would build cocoons in the branches.

Lists to Contain My Dreams

I confess.

I am a closet list writer.

Friends, who know me well, know I absolutely despise making “to do lists.” Seems like such a waste of time, when I already know what needs to get done, so why should I write it down? For me, making a “to do list” does not help me organize my thoughts, it usually only muddles them. And if you know me, God knows I don’t need to muddle my thoughts any more than they already are!

However, back to my confession, I secretly love to make different types of lists. Some of my current lists include:

Songs to put on my IPod
Books to read
Blog Ideas
Movies to Watch
Countries to Visit Someday
Stories to Write
Things to tell (fill in a name)
Quotes to Remember
Things to Write in My Journal
Things to Learn to Do

Sometimes they are elaborate, and sometimes they are written on post it notes. Even in this electronic age, I still prefer to put pen to paper, all the while doodling on my lists. Many of the lists are only dreams for me, but putting them on paper makes them real.

Who needs a list to remind them what to do in a day? I need lists to contain my dreams.

Jane Eyre

“The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.”

-Charlotte Bronte

Let What You Love, Be What You Do

Although I am biased, I think my daughter is the most beautiful girl in the world, and today, I watched her transform into a young lady just shy of princess status. Today is her junior year Homecoming dance, and her younger brother is attending for his freshman year.

Although I love fashion and clothes, my daughter was never overly interested in investing time into her appearance. I have always been thankful her concerns and focus are in other areas besides her beauty, and sometimes I think it even adds more to her attractiveness.

People tell her she should model since she has the height, figure and features to go into modeling as a career, and she politely tells them she isn't interested. Sometimes I secretly hope she will change her mind, but I believe in "Let what you love, be what you do." It is the only way she will live a fulfilled life.

So Homecoming is the day where I get to help her style herself into a a head turner and purchase classic rhinestone jewelry I will add to my collection. She politely smiles her beautiful smile and says "Thanks, Mom. Love you."