Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Thank You For Coming

Thank you for coming.
You've been a great addition to our family.
Your sacrificial giving of your time and energy have been without question - an invaluable asset.
You've held our food so carefully and given us hours of science projects.
Whether full to the brim, or not even a tablespoon's worth, you've been faithful.
There's only two things we can fault you for.
You've lost your lid on several occasions. We know its not your fault. Between owner error and those nasty little gremlins that sneak in during the night and plunder, its totally out of your control. Thankfully we know all those missing lids are frolicking with the missing socks in that alternative universe zone.
Our second issue is on a more serious note, however.
We've found out your little secret. You might not be safe. You might make us sick.
Again, we know its not your fault. You were created that way. You live with the hand you're dealt. But we had to draw the line.
We discovered the numbers on your little undersides.

#1 PET - Polyethylene terephthalate.
#2 HDPE - High density polyethylene.
#3 PVC
#4 LDPE -Low Density Polyethylene.
#5 Polystyrene.
#7 Other
BPA - Bisphenol-A.

#2 and #4 are the safest. All the rest are bad news. They cause a world of hurt and illness.
Unfortunately, #2 and #4 were not your numbers. In fact, most of you had no numbers at all. And sad to say, you've been part of our family for years - before they made your kind identify themselves.
So it is with sadness and fond memories we must say, au revoir, arrivedercishalom, dasvidaniya, toodles, - bye bye.
Yes, we see it in your plastic eyes. You feel we've dumped you for someone better.
You watched from your exile bags as we brought in your replacements. It must be painful for you.

Bright, shiny, new glass.

  Although you've multiplied through all these years, we decided it was time to scale down. We've streamlined. We only need a few to replace the many.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Aunt Cora

Don't let that smile fool you, she was a tough cookie - Aunt Cora Jaynes.
My dad was in the Air Force, in Goose Bay, Labrador when I was born. Mom lived in Colorado. Aunt Cora came from North Salem, Indiana to care for my mother and me. My birth was quite traumatic. The doctor couldn't find my heartbeat at one point and my foot was caught on my mother's pubic bone. She was in excruciating pain. So they knocked her out and did who knows what to get me out. It wasn't a c-section. Think military doctors in the early 1950s. She recovered slowly.
Aunt Cora was my father's half-sister/1st cousin. She was old school - very strict. She had one son who she doted on. Her husband came back from WW1 shell shocked. Now they'd call it extreme PTSD. He was locked away in an institution in Kentucky.
Her philosophy on raising children was - spare the rod, spoil the child, give a baby too much attention, spoil the child.

My father was able to return to Colorado to be with us not long after I was born. Aunt Cora went home to Indiana.

Every few years we'd make the trek to Indiana to visit family and friends. Aunt Cora's house was our home base. It smelled musty with a hint of Chihuahua. Skeeter ruled the roost. Nasty little dog that shook when you looked at him, and nipped your nose if you got too close. When I was older, I had to give up the comfort of the double bed I shared with my parents in the spare room for the couch in her compact living room - with a fine layer of dog hair.

Sounds like a miserable time doesn't it? I had a love hate relationship with Aunt Cora and her house.
I looked forward to spending time there. In spite of the irritations, I developed lots of happy memories.
Aunt Cora was the head cafeteria cook at the North Salem elementary school. Their menu
consisted of home made food - home canned fruit and veggies and baked goods to die for. Aunt Cora made it all. During the summer, Mom, Dad and I were the recipients of her cooking TLC.
She had a small mud room in the back of the house with a work bench. That's where my cousins and I cleaned our fish. We'd all line up with knives and buckets of water. If we wanted dinner, we cleaned our own fish. Mind you, we did this at the ripe old age of 7 and 8.
After dinner, we'd eat watermelon on the grass. The adults sat on the front porch swing and various metal chairs in the vast yard, drinking ice tea from metal tumblers or tall, thin rubber spaghetti string glasses while we kids ventured in the back 40 near the apple orchard to catch our nightly firefly allotment. It was dark and spooky back there, but the little lightning bugs thrived among all the trees. Easy pickins'. After a rain storm, it smelled of over ripe apples and wet grass.
On Fridays we'd all venture out in her pink rambler that she affectionately named, Rose Bud. Small neighboring towns held Friday Fish Frys. You could always find one. Fresh fish, greens, potato salad, corn bread and baked beans. And for dessert - an array of hot out of the oven pies made by the local ladies.
Life didn't get much better.

Friday, June 26, 2015

Author Author

I must have been bored one afternoon in my teen years - either that or my mom challenged me with consequences to clean out my bedroom closet. I rummaged through the collection of boxes that housed keepsakes and other useless stuff of childhood. And yes, I still have a penchant for collecting things in boxes. And yes, I know some call it a sickness...
Layered among report cards and papers was a yellow folder. On the cover I'd glued a picture of a hand drawn set of large footprints and a title - The Mystery of the Giant Footprince.
My first attempt at a novel.
I laughed.
It was supposed to have been, The Mystery of the Giant Footprints. I think I was around 8 or 9 when I wrote the beginning of my literary masterpiece. I guess I lost interest, or found it too hard, because it was only a few pages long. And to be honest, I haven't a clue what I wrote. That's how engaging it must have been.
I've always loved to write. I treasured my diary, complete with lock and key. My most secret admissions were tucked safely away from prying eyes. Saucy entries like, "Johnny looked at me today." And, "I hope Jimmy notices me tomorrow in my new skirt."
In high school I took creative writing classes.
In college, my major and double minors took me away from journalism, but I continued to keep a journal. Oh, the angst of those early young adult years.
In the summer, I devoured fiction books, staying up half the night to read, "just one more chapter".
And then life ramped up into full gear - marriage and children.
Except for an occasional season of journaling, my writing took a back seat.
When the life dust settled some, and I had time to think for myself again, I entertained the idea of writing a book.
Then I laughed. Well, that mixed with a tummy flip flop. Too much work. I wouldn't know where to start. Impossible.

God smiled - and planted a story, and characters in my mind one night while I was trying to sleep.
Then He gave me another one, and another.
He reminded me that nothing is impossible with Him in charge.

I'm launching a new page. Story Time
When you enter, you'll notice my published writings and where to purchase them. Check back from time to time - there may be new stories added.