Remember Me...

Today is a difficult day for many of us.  It is hard to be devoid of expectations on a day filled with commercial hype…. 

For those of us who have lost our own mother, it is a sad day, too.  And if, like me, you had a difficult relationship with your mother, it can be even harder.  Sometimes, I just wish I could show her that I have “turned out all right” and that I am not a failure… Other times, I feel guilty for thinking how much better off I am without her guilt trips.

As for my own children, I don’t harbor much in the way of expectations.  I am lucky enough to know that they love me, and that’s enough.  I can’t deny that I would love the special brunch, or dinner, or a barbeque in my honor, but it isn’t really necessary.

I look back on the years when my children were young, and I see things I did, or didn’t do, that I would like to change. Of course, that’s not possible.  I have to remind myself that I did the best I could at the time and that I did better than my own mother did for me. 

That’s what it’s about really: doing things better than the last generation.  Doing or undoing things that we remember from childhood.  There are many things from my childhood that I didn’t do to my children and I am grateful for that.  It means that lessons were learned, albeit the hard way.  I am also sure that my mother did better than her strict, Germanic mother did.  It’s a progression, a journey, toward perfection as a mother….

My mother has been gone for thirty-two years, nearly half my life.  I have reviewed and relived many things from the past in my mind, second-guessing her motives and chastising myself for not being different, or “better” than I was….

But it all comes to naught.  The past is the past.  The future isn’t here yet, and today is all we have.  So today, I am grateful to have three beautiful children who have grown into loving, responsible adults.  I am glad that I taught them to be independent and that they mastered it. 

  

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I love my children and I know they love me.  I don’t need anything special on Mother’s Day, just what I hope they do every day: remember me.

And to my children: please know how much you mean to me and how proud I am of you.  I pray for you every day and think about you always.  I see you in your own children and I delight in the memories they evoke for me.  I know you love me and that you appreciate what I did for you, and you are most welcome!

Just please, remember me….

Gym Tales

(Another blog from my archives...)

He walked out of the elevator with his wife by his side.  Gripping his walker, he willed his weak left leg to move forward.  Each step took time.  His wife looked as if she had all the time in the world….  Wearing a ball cap, backwards, he looked straight ahead as he walked.   There were no emotions visible on his face, just determination…

Probably in his mid-fifties, he thin and muscular, as if he was very active—physically—before his stroke.  His hands grip the walker as he moves, his knuckles white from the effort.  At last, he reaches his destination: a weight machine that will firm and strengthen his triceps. 

Slowly, thoughtfully, he moves as close to the seat of the machine as his walker will let him.  Finally satisfied that he can make it, he grabs the machine and plops his rear end in the seat with a thud.  Hovering nearby, but not “babying” him, his wife moves the walker out of the way.

She pulls the handgrips up toward him so he can grab them.  He moves quickly to place his right hand on the grip, firmly holding the machine.  His wife picks up his left hand and places it on the grip, smoothing his fingers around the rubber grip.

He tries to life the weights, but it is too heavy.  His wife reaches down and moves the pin, decreasing the resistance on the machine.  Again, he tries to lift the handlebars and he is successful.  His right arm bicep and triceps are flexed and doing most of the work.  His left hand stays in place on the left grip.

His wife walks over to the nearby chairs and sits down, waiting for him to finish with the machine.  This is repeated many more times as he works on other machines in the gym.  I have seen him at the gym many times, and he uses the machines that strengthen his core and his upper body. 

As I watched him, I was awestruck.  I have cared for so many stroke patients in my life, but few with this level of determination.   Few who have continued to work out after finishing physical therapy.  Few who had a wife who would help.  Few with a caregiver who could assist without taking his dignity away….

There are many other “tales” at the gym.   Tales of overcoming debilitating physical conditions.  Tales of triumph after tragedy.  Tales of determination, and will, and hope. 

Tales that make me smile…..

Cali

Going Home Again...and Again

Then

In an unexpected turn of events, we traveled 25 miles southeast of Podunk to another, even smaller, Podunk…  Having been sick with a cold for more than a week, I was glad to get out of the house and “see the world” as it were…

We traveled to a quaint little town east of Podunk to visit my favorite antiques shop.  Afterwards, we stopped in at the hardware store.  Truly, a hardware store, with creaky wood floors, items displayed in divided shelves, and an old-fashioned heater grate in the floor.

Ever solicitous about my health, he asked me if I wanted to go home…. I said “no” because I was enjoying being out in the sunshine.  And so, he had an adventure in mind: “let’s go to Lindsay (an even smaller Podunk) and find the house you lived in….”

I don’t know why, all these years later, that I remember the name of the street we lived on….But I do.  And I found it on my iPhone’s Google Maps app.  As we drove through town, the little blue dot on the screen was moving with us, ever nearer to Linda Vista Drive.

I remember what the house looked like because I have several photos of family in front of it.  My mother told me once that the house was featured in Sunset Magazine in 1947.  I don’t know if that is true or was invented by a realtor who wanted my parents to buy the house.  I think I may have to look into that at some point…

I felt a lump in my throat as we drove down the street…..and there, at the turn in the road, was the house.  I remember it as being gray—the color of the kitschy cinder-blocks used to build it—and now it is a beigy-gold paint color.  The window frames are still hunter green, and the windows are original, too.  A cooler is precariously perched in one of the bedroom windows, and the lawn is winter dead.

Now

Although we only lived in that house for a couple of years, and I was VERY young, I do remember lots of things about it.  For instance, the bathroom floor was black marble.  Why do I remember that?  Perhaps because I spilled my mother’s face powder on it and she thought she would never get it all cleaned up…

My favorite spaces in that house were all outdoors.  There was a screened-in sleeping porch along the entire back of the house and I would sleep there at night during the long, hot summers.  Just beyond that porch was the back patio, which was huge.  It was angled and free-form to make it blend into the back lawn in a pleasing fashion. 

One of my favorite things to do (remember: I was VERY young) was to push Daddy’s push mower across the patio, delighting in the clackety-clack sounds it made on the cement.  I do remember the last time I did that, too, as Daddy was home for lunch and came outside to ask me to “stop doing that!”

I remember the houses on each side of ours, too.  On the one side was the “elderly” neighbor with the apricot tree.  I amazed my neighborhood friends by being brazen enough to sneak into her back yard and steal an apricot from her tree.  Not only that, I stopped at the faucet under her kitchen window and washed it off before running out front to eat it in front of my cohorts…

On the other side of our house was the home of my best playmate and friend.  She and I had some great adventures, such as painting her porch red with the blooms on my mother’s rose bush.  Also not a popular pastime with adults…

That relationship had its ups and downs, too.  When I was allowed to paint the picket fence on her side of the back yard (remember, I was too young to have read “Tom Sawyer”), she was upset that I wouldn’t let her help me.  I tried to explain that my mother told me just to paint our side of the fence, and that she had to ask her mother before she could paint her side of the fence…..  She was frustrated and slapped me—hard—on my cheek.  Without thinking, I ‘slapped’ her with my paintbrush across her cheek.  After hearing both of us shriek, our mothers both came out of the house and, needless to say, neither one of us got to do any more painting….

We had moved to that little town because that’s where Daddy found a job after the war.  I also remember why we left that house and that town….

It was Christmastime, 1950, and my mother was busy getting ready for Christmas.  One of the things she did to “get ready” was to take down the living room curtains and wash and iron them.  It was a whole day’s chore, I’m sure.  And then, on Christmas Eve, the weather dropped to below freezing.  Since that little town is situated in the middle of miles and miles of orange groves, the night air smelled of the smudge pots burning all around us, keeping the oranges from freezing.

Perhaps it worked, and the crop was saved.  I really don’t know.  What I DO know is that, on Christmas morning, my mother shrieked when she saw her newly-washed and ironed curtains: they were now charcoal gray, thanks to the freezing temperatures and smudge pots…

By the next Christmas, we had moved here, to Podunk, to the very house where I am writing this…

We had prolonged freezing temperatures here in Podunk last night….maybe that’s why I was thinking about that house in that even smaller Podunk, 25 miles away…

Cali

Farewell....

What can I say?  My heart hurts right now.  A beautiful lady who was a huge part of my life for nearly forty years has died….

  

She has had Alzheimer’s disease for more than a decade and didn’t even recognize her own sons when they came to see her.  I know it was hard on them because my ex-husband (her first-born son) and I have talked about it.

My daughter told me today that she is saddened, too.  She thought she “shouldn’t be” because Grandma has been gone from all of us for a long, long time.  As I told her, the fact is that we are never prepared to lose a loved one, no matter how imminent the death might be.

She’s gone.  How can that be?  It isn’t fair, that’s for sure.  She was more to me than a mother-in-law; she was my Other Mother.   She was my shelter from the storm of my relationship with my own mother.  She was everything I wished my mother had been: kind, caring, gentle, loving and approachable.  As odd as it might sound, my mother was never approachable……  Yet my Other Mother was always there for me, as I tried to be for her.

Walking in the orange groves, after supper, so many years ago when I was pregnant with my first child, we would talk.  My husband worked evenings and my in-laws invited me out to their ranch for supper at least one night a week.  So, we talked.  We walked along a row of orange trees highlighted by the setting sun and she answered my questions about my pregnancy.

Over and over again, I asked her to tell me about “labor” and what I would be going through.  I asked her what things I needed to have on hand before the baby came home from the hospital.  And I listened in amazement as she described how I would feel when I saw my baby for the first time.

And she nailed it…

I remember after Steve and I separated that  she hoped we would reconcile.  She even “set us up” by asking each of us to come out to the ranch and help her on a Saturday afternoon.  I hadn’t seen Steve in a while as he was dating someone else and so was I….

It was hard to see her so desperate to fix something that was irretrievably broken, and neither of us could get mad at her for trying so hard.  And neither of us was in a place to try to fix it.  It was over, but NOT my relationship with my Other Mother.

She continued to be my friend and called me frequently to see how I was doing.  After her husband died, she called me and asked me to come by and see her.  She had a gift for me: a beautiful, dark red flower vase.   She wanted me to have something of hers to remember her by.

As if I needed an object to remind me of her…..

And now she’s gone.  Gone to a place where she is whole again and not suffering.  We are left with our memories—wonderful memories—of a beautiful woman, a beautiful person.  We will talk about her often, sharing stories and remembering her with much love and affection.

 

And shed some tears, too….

Cali

Going Back...

I’m taking a scrapbooking class online:  daily word challenges.  We find the meaning of the day’s word in our life, write about it, and add a photo.  The purpose of the class is to help us learn to dig deeper and find what we really think about the everyday things in our lives.

Through posting my daily writing in the online gallery, I have met some wonderful women who share my love for documenting life as it happens.  Through our stories, we have learned about each other and how each of us approaches our life, today.

I feel a touch of the green-eyed monster as I read what others have written.  No, I don’t want to be somebody else, or live somewhere else, or have a different life.  Not really.  What I want is to revisit those wonderful days when my children were little.

I want to be a time traveler, going back a few decades in my own life.  As a time traveler, I can take all the knowledge and experience I have collected through the years and apply it to that time, back then. Perhaps I would make some different decisions, handle situations differently, or respond differently to the scuff and banter of everyday life.

Or maybe I wouldn’t…

Mostly, I would love the opportunity to just sit and watch my children.  Not fix supper, clean house, do laundry, or work in the garden, unless, of course, the children were there doing it with me.  I would know from all the life I have lived that I need to savor the moments.  Savor the special times that occur daily.  The words and voices that were my children.  The things they had to say…

I would discipline differently, trying to find out where the behavior came from instead of just punishing it.  I wouldn’t say “not now” when my children wanted to do something with me.  I would let the housework, or cooking, or laundry wait, instead of the children.

I would tell them how I felt about things and what I saw when I looked at them.  I would tell them how much joy they brought into my life, instead of telling them to “sit down and be quiet.”

Oh how I long for those little voices, those thoughts and ideas, and even that squirming and silliness.  Those days of innocence that pass too quickly, and leave a hole in an old woman’s heart.  I travel only through their photos for now, remembering and smiling as I look at each one…

There is a connection to that past that will never die.  It is emulated, closely, as I look at the faces of my grandchildren, catching fleeting glimpses of their parents at the same age.  I am sure that will come around again, with great grandchildren, if I am lucky.

But I really am lucky: my little ones are all grown up now.  They are good citizens and good parents.  And loving children, still….

Cali

All in a Day's Work....

Sometimes I look at what I have “done” during the day and chastise myself for not doing more.  Since I am retired, I can always do whatever needs to be done “tomorrow” if I want.  Ah, but tomorrow never comes, does it?

So, what did I have to do today that didn’t get done?  Truthfully, nothing.

Maybe I feel guilty because he spent so much of the day outside, mowing the lawn and working in the yard.  I don’t have nearly as much to show for my efforts today….. Let’s see: I have done two loads of laundry, cleaned up the kitchen, put some things away, and worked on my scrapbooking.

Is that enough to do in one day?  Does every day have to have monumental results?  Is there really anyone who would be impressed if I did more?  Or less?

Actually, there is more that I did today.  I was online, finding out more about Harald Hardrada.  He was the King of Norway and my 33^rd great grandfather, on my mother’s side.  Funny thing, he tried to conquer England in September of 1066 but died trying.

 

He was known as the last of the Viking warriors.  After King Edward the Confessor (of England) died, there were three men who claimed the throne: an Englishman, Harold Godwinson, a Norman, William of Normandy, and Harald Hardrada, King of Norway.

After defeating Harald Hardrada at the Battle of Samford Bridge, Harold Godwinson marched his army to Hastings to meet his other foe, William the Conqueror, husband of my 33^rd great grandmother on my father’s side, Matilda of Flanders.  Exhausted from the previous battle and forced march, Harold’s army was defeated by the Norman.  What my maternal ancestors couldn’t accomplish, my paternal ancestors could.

No wonder I’m so tired…

Cali

First Voyage

Recently, when cleaning out boxes in the closet, I came across a treasure.  No, not savings bonds, or rare coins, or the deed to a gold mine.   I found a story written by my father.  And hand-written by him in calligraphy….

On the cover, he wrote: To my beloved daughter….From Daddy, Christmas 1979…

I couldn’t remember seeing it before, yet I obviously did.  I suspect that, since I was working night shift at that time, and had to leave his home to go to work on Christmas Eve, I probably didn’t give it more than a cursory look after he gave it to me.  I know I didn’t read it….

It was a different time then.  He was alive and well.  I was a fairly new RN, working the night shift, married, and raising three children.  Daddy was always in my life, and I couldn’t imagine his being gone from me any time soon, so there was no rush to read his story.

How things have changed.  Daddy has been gone for almost 15 years now.   And somehow, this booklet, with his story, has surfaced again.  What was once a simple Christmas gift has taken on much greater meaning: it is no longer just a story, it is Daddy’s legacy.  To me.  From him. 

I was shaking as I opened the booklet.  On the first page are the words “First Voyage”…..  I was intrigued.   As I read the next page, and the next, I was enthralled.  It is a story of my father’s first trip to Europe, as a young man, and it is a delightful recounting of a trip, yes, but also of a young man who later became my father.

His words make me smile:

"Other eight-year-olds had toy ducks floating in their bathtubs.  I had a wind-up scale model of a World War I battleship.  I wore navy blue “sailor suits” in the winter, and white in the summer.  Both came from Brooks Brothers in New York, where my dad bought his clothes."

There was never any question in my mind as to what I would be when I “grew up”: I would be either Captain of a big liner, or Admiral-in-Chief, U.S. Navy."

He relates that his father met Lord Louis Mountbatten, and through him, Captain Arthur Rostron, RNR, captain of Cunard Line’s HMS Mauretania, “fastest liner in the world”….  He was Captain of the Mauretania when the Titanic sank and was awarded a special Congressional Medal for rescuing the survivors…

As his parents became fast friends with Captain Rostron, they had lunch with him every other Saturday when the Mauretania was in New York.  "I had complete run of the ship; I knew Mauretania from keelson to truck."  Captain Rostron became Sir Arthur Rostron when my father was a teenager. 

The rest of the story is about his first sea voyage.  He was 23, footloose and fancy free.  "Despite youthful dreams of a maritime career, a shrinking Navy, limited berths in the Merchant Marine, and—above all—the Great Depression—made nautical openings hard to find."

So, in 1935, he embarked on the S.S. Black Tern (“a Hog Island single-screw well-deck cargo vessel, built in 1919, and refitted in 1930 with an oil-fueled GE steam turbine, multiple gear power plant.”) He worked his passage as an Ordinary Seaman.  For the grand sum of .01 cent, he worked his way from New York City to Antwerp, Belgium.

In his story, he recounts the tasks he was assigned while aboard ship: polishing the “bright”, chipping paint, and painting, battening down the hatches, and coiling wire cargo halyards, among other things.  The captain took a liking to him and let him stand watch on the bridge. 

As he recounts his voyage, I learn more about my father as a person.  I read his words, first scribbled in his journal, during the journey.  I feel as if I have met my father as a young man.  A man who worked hard and had the respect of his shipmates.  A man who enjoyed the beauty of the ocean and the stars and wasn’t afraid of hard work. 

As the voyage came to an end, he writes:

”For the first time in more than a week, the sea is calm.  No rolling, no pitching, whatsoever.  The water is almost an emerald green.  All about us are ships and birds. To port, we can see the chalk cliffs of Cornwall.  We steam past Penzance, and a thrill runs up my spine at the memories the name evokes of high school operetta days when a certain work-away sailor was Major General Stanley in ‘The Pirates of Penzance.’”

The adventure ends at a restaurant in Antwerp: four shipmates met for lunch and then split the check four ways: 45 cents each.  Daddy was leaving for Brussels and the World’s Fair the next morning.  As he said goodbye to his shipmates, they went off in one direction and he went in another….

The voyage was over, and a new adventure was about to begin…..

Cali

Taking Things For Granted....

Not a good idea, if you ask me. There are no guarantees in life.

Special moments can be fleeting, with lots of time in between. They must be savored when they happened, and remembered for as long as possible.

I went back to work on Thursday. It's been more than seven months since I was able to see patients and give them nursing care. I cannot believe how much I missed it. Perhaps because I have been doing it for thirty-five years, it was an integral part of my life that was missing.

And the time off was not a “practice” session for retirement. When I no longer need to work, and cannot continue doing the difficult work I do, it will be a celebration for me. Conclusion of a time in my life. And an end to the daily drudgery of having a job.

For seven months, I had no purpose, other than to get well. I had no direction, other than to try to get back to work. Just as I could not do the tasks I needed to do at work, I couldn't do those things I wanted to do at home.

Retirement will be different. It will be my choice. My logical next step. On my terms. And, instead of going out with back pain, I will go out with a sense of accomplishment. I will complete the job I started, so many years ago. And I will start my next job: enjoying my life and my love in a relaxed, retired setting.

Somewhere....

I will watch the sunset, and maybe a sunrise or two. I will relish life's little joys, and somehow, get through its sorrows. I will be me, I will be free, and I will enjoy what life brings.....

Every day.

Cali

Two Weeks and Counting....

The countdown has started: back to work in a couple of weeks. I hope. I am ready.

I spend such disorganized days. It takes so long to get up and get going, it seems. I can get up early, I know I can. I've been up before the sun for YEARS; I can do it again.

I think I'm hard-wired to help others. I feel as if I am shirking my duty by not doing things for others. And yet, it has been hard, for all these months, just to do the normal, routine things for myself.

I have one more injection to go and then, fingers crossed, I'll be back at work. Taking care of patients, cursing at all the documentation that is necessary, and looking forward to days off. It's the American way, isn't it?

Today I went shopping. I bought new makeup! It has been so long since I wore any makeup that I have to “practice” for a couple of weeks before I start back to work. Otherwise, I might look like a, well, something out of a scary movie!

This break has taught me a lot: I can handle anything that comes along. But some things are easier to handle than others. And something important: I love my work. I love being able to impact the lives of others positively and help them feel better.

Besides, it's only for fifteen months. Then I retire.

Hallelujah!

Cali

Romance at Wally World...

Went to Wally World this afternoon. Not my favorite place to shop, but their prices are usually very good, so I made the trek to the one south of me.

I had my list made out: Swiffer stuff, saltines, hairspray, fun. Not a big list, except for the “fun”....

As we were looking in the cleaning section, I was pouring over the labels on the Swiffer duster and the Swiffer 360 duster. Ah, which one should I get? I decided on the regular Swiffer duster fairly quickly and for an obvious reason: the refills were cheaper.

And I had just gotten to the next big decision: lavender scented dusters? Citrus scented? Or plain? As if on cue, the store's lights went out and pitched us into darkness. Exactly! When I don't know what to buy, go dark!

We stood where we were. A lady appeared at the end of the aisle and told us to “head for the front of the store.” It wasn't really pitch black in the store: a few lights, on the emergency system, were still lit. But it was close enough to dark.

And yes, Wally World has cash registers that work on emergency power. We checked out at Register #4. I paid cash rather than take a chance on the ATM.

Oh, and I got the plain dusters......how romantic. NOT!

Cali

Thoughts About Being Blonde....

What is it that bothers me about blonde jokes? Is it just because I'm blonde? Or is it the implication that blondes are dumb?

I am not dumb. I was also known in school as “a brain.” That was equally hurtful, in it's own way. And now, it seems like such a dichotomy: to be thought of as dumb because I am blonde and to be thought of as a “brain” because I did so well in school.

It had an impact on me, obviously, because I'm still thinking about it all these years later.

And I wonder: why is it so wrong to make an ethnic comment about other Americans but it's okay to tell blonde jokes?

My ancestors were from Denmark. They were Vikings who went to England and became carpenters. They came to America in 1630, served in every war this country has fought, and have always been Americans, through and through.

And some of us are blonde....

Cali

Mountains.....

I have laundry to do today. It's part of life: things are worn, they get dirty, we wash them, and they get worn again. Cycles happen.

I wonder how many ideas I have “worn” and then had to wash. How many events? How many aspects of my life have been worn and washed so many times that they have been worn out and replaced?

Or is it like it was in childhood? Wear it, grow out of it, and get rid of it....

Ideas come and go. Events come and go. But there always seems to be a mountain of laundry.

I wonder why.....

Cali

A Perfect Christmas...

It's a beautiful day today. The grandkids from next door are out on their razor scooters and bicycles, enjoying the sunshine. It's a perfect day after Christmas....

And it was a perfect Christmas. Perhaps not perfect, but very close. The kids and grandkids were all here. The ones who couldn't be here called yesterday morning. From Italy.

It never ceases to amaze me: a house full of love and laughter, every Christmas. Without fail. The grandkids are growing, and their interests are changing, but the commitment to family and time together is as strong as ever.

No one left early. And no one turned down a meal. Or two.

It was a first, of sorts: the oldest grandchild couldn't be here: he had to work today. Early. And so, he stayed home for Christmas. He's in college now, and having a job is very important. Later on, after college, he'll be back. For Christmas at Grandma's.

And someday, he'll bring his wife and their children.....

Cali

Christmas Cookies....

I baked cookies today. In a little while, my granddaughter and I will decorate them. And then, it will really be Christmas.


I haven't made sugar cookies for the past three or four years. I guess I was too busy. And, as silly as it sounds, Christmas wasn't the same without them. I guess it's true: when you do something for fifty years, it becomes a habit....


I only have one of my mother's cookie cutters left: a star with scalloped edges. The rest of mine are at least thirty or more years old. I have stars and hearts and a gingerbread boy and girl, an angel, a Christmas tree, a hand, and a reindeer.


The way to “share” sugar cookies is to fill the cookie container with the easy cookies, then put a few sugar cookies on top, for show. They are way too labor-intensive to just hand them out, willy-nilly! What it means is, if you get a sugar cookie or two from me, you are special!


I don't know which is more fun, helping my grandchildren decorate the cookies, or watching people enjoy them.


Every year, on Christmas morning, Dylan's Grandpa Jim comes to pick him up to go celebrate with his family. And every year, Jim looks around furtively.....for the sugar cookies. I've had to apologize to him for the last several years, for not making cookies.

He's in for a pleasant surprise this year!


Merry Christmas, All!


Cali

The Silver Lining...

It's a week until Christmas. Next Saturday, at this time, I will be getting ready to serve Christmas Dinner to my family. The gifts will be opened and the excitement of the night before will have settled into mellow contentment.


I haven't been this ready for Christmas in more than thirty years. Of course, for the past 34 years, I have had a job, and been working full time before, during and after the holidays. But not this year....


The Christmas trees have been up for almost three weeks. The mantle decorations, too. The gifts are purchased and wrapped. The Christmas cards and packages have been mailed in plenty of time.


I have actually had time to just sit and look at the Christmas tree and think about things. Important things: family, friends, plans for the future, and all the wonderful memories of Christmas. It's a luxury, not having to rush around and try to get things done. And I truly appreciate it.


It's the silver lining in the cloud, for me.


Cali

Simple Pleasures....

It's funny the things that please us. I have been waiting for over a year for Dave to convert some shelves and drawers in the kitchen for me. Dave is my former daughter-in-law's husband. He is an excellent carpenter and a very nice man.


Today was the day! The new shelves were built and the one drawer, replacing two small ones, is done, too. It only took him about an hour to install them, too.


And now? I have more room for cooking utensils and knives in the one BIG drawer, instead of two, awkward, smaller drawers. And the best part? I now have slide-out shelves for my pots and pans. Open the cupboard doors, slide out the drawer, find the pot or pan I want, and close the drawer.


No more getting down on the ground to dig for the perfect pot or pan!


Right now, I am going to go through all the whatchamajiggies that were in the drawer. If I don't know what it is, or how to use it, I probably don't need to keep it. Everything in the cupboard next to the stove will be clean, neat, and orderly. And, easy to reach!


How cool is that?


Cali

Happiness Is Homemade....

Somewhere, sometime, I heard the saying “Happiness is homemade.” Just what does that mean? We have to make things at home? Doing that will make us happy? No, I don't think so...


I think it means that we are responsible for making our own happiness, rather than depending on others to make us happy. Happiness comes from within.


Being happy requires effort. We have to let go of grudges. Release our negative feelings. Lower, or raise, our expectations of ourselves, and acknowledge our own responsibility in achieving happiness.


Lowering our expectations of happiness means realizing that we don't have to have a lot of money to be happy. Or “true love” or even good health. Happiness does not have modifiers: “if this happens, I can be happy”....


Raising our expectations means that we actively seek happiness. Go outside and watch the sunset. Or get out of our rut and find new places to seek happiness.


Happiness is a choice. Others don't make us happy, or unhappy. We do that all by ourselves. Happiness IS homemade.


In our own hearts....


Cali

I think, therefore, I am.....I think!

I have been trying to clear my head this morning. Trying to think of something to write about. Something of value.

It's hard for me sometimes. It seems that I always have so many thoughts swirling around in my head. Trying to settle them down and focus can be difficult.


I have to laugh: someone close to me always tells me that I think too much. I honestly don't know how to stop thinking, or thinking so much. I will have to think about that.....


Actually, I think thinking a lot is a sign of a healthy brain. It's actively exercising, thinking about lots of different things, imagining things, and working out solutions to problems. Maybe it's “brain aerobics”!


What do you think?


Cali