Patterns in my writing

I   write to write. I write when I am angry, bored, lonely, and curious.

As a young child, once I understood the correlation between the letters in a book and the words spoken by a reader, I had to solve the puzzle. After discovering Curious George, my first attempts in writing cursive ought to have suggested I would have made a great doctor based on the squiggles.

Mrs. Tinker was a little old lady who straightened out my squiggles with her intensive  cursive writing program. That’s all she taught, and from the looks of it, she had been teaching forever, perhaps even before time was created. Even though almost fifty years has passed since Mrs. Tinker would always start class with our putting on our thinking caps; she preferred the tying it on since zipping or buttoning imaginary hats takes away the seriousness of the activity.

Most of our writing was done in the air. We would write and write and then have to erase the air when we were done. Writing well was my first accomplishment. Because I passed her stringent handwriting requrement, I was promoted to Ink. Not only was I first in my class to earn writing in ink, I was the first to lose the privilege.

My first written word was monster. Big Sister B told me I was writing Susan I was excited to be able to write my name. The name monster fit me to a T.

Through the years my journal has been my confidante, a sounding board; it gives me a place where I can play around with words and ideas. I have characters that I visit like old friends.

Sometimes the words I write are too shy to be seen by anyone but me, and that’s okay.

Blending of Realities

I have been thinking about Reality a lot recently with the political storm brewing. Mostly I have taken it in stride and not given Reality much thought. My Realty tends to be black and white. Literally and Figuratively. Right and Wrong. Life is a lot easier when things are just so. No one encouraged me to read inbetween the lines. 

I often wonder how my realty was affected by growing up with a black and white television instead of color.

And then I think about my sisters who came before me. By my 1960 birth, television was in ninety percent of homes, but at the time of B’s birth, the percentage of televisions in a home was only nine percent.

I am going to predict that reading performance took a tumble by the time I toddled around. And I am only talking about one television in the house, not one in every room or on every device.

No wonder people can’t read. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such a political upheaval if people believed that knowledge is power. Money is power. Money trumps knowledge. With the pending appointees, this Reality demonstrates what is in the driver’s seat. Knowledge isn’t even given passage in the back seat. Knowledge is on its keister. Keester? (Something like that) on the side walk after getting booted from the chariot. Big difference between a Wise guy and a wise-guy.

My Body’s Defenses

I am sick with a cold. A bery bery bad head cold. I work with kids. I’m bound to catch a cold or the crud, especially since I’m a substitute that works for sick teachers. Gonna happen. Sneeze. Cough. Sniffle.

I was going to check out what Louise Hays had to say about colds; if she contributes it to mean that I’ve been on the go a lot, and the cold is telling me to take it easy. I’ve got taking it easy down to a science and do as little on the go.

I was feeling a little on the tired side when I showed up at the lanes to bowl, but a day of subbing usually has me feeling that way.

As I stop and pause and reflect, it’s almost as if my cold is talking to me. Since I can’t turn inside out like a turtle or crawl inside a cave and hibernate, my body has decided that enough bad shit has been coming down the pike. The cold is making me having a hard time hearing. My eyes hurt and do better closed. I’m cold, so huddled under my covers is the best place. Okay, so I can hibernate

If I could draw I’d draw The Donald with a King Kong body, but King Kong had a heart. What’s that giant dinosaur that at Japan? Or I’d draw a big baby that’s throwing temper tantrums when no one will change the monster-size’s poopy diaper.  I think the March with the Pussy hats made me mad and he’s lashing out at everyone.

I try to not talk politics, though this year it’s impossible not to. Two of my teammates voted for this incompetent fool. Just give him a chance. Oh, he’s made changes. He’s set the record for causing the most protests in the first week of office.

Of course, I don’t like it when people disagree with me, but when someone’s entire opinion of someone is based and biased on not one iota of fact.  My teammate has told me that she didn’t ever like President Obama because she didn’t think he loved the United States. She probably had believed he wasn’t born here. I was ready to let that go, but when she told me that she never heard President Obama say he loved this country. Well, once she heard or read or was told that Rudi said that Obama didn’t love this country, she probably never heard him in the past eight years say how much he loves this country. There’s a great clip of him saying how much he loves this country over and over and over.

She believes T. Rump even though he’s got a different definition of what a fact is. There are our facts, like this country is going to Hell in a hand basket, and his facts, alternative facts, that more people than ever favor him than any other president, and soon he’ll be running for the office to take over the world.

I’ve had friends who have made stupid decisions and I have stuck by their sides, but I’m not sure if this a hurdle I can get over. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed and not think about anything.

Luck of the Draw


I used to think that my sole desire in coming a month early was to avoid being an Aries and that Pisces was going to serve my personality better. But now I’m wondering if my goal was to be born on Saint Patrick. From what I have been told, I don’t think that there’s an ounce of Irish blood in either side of my family, so St. Paddy’s would have to due. I must have mis diagnosed the wind and the celestial formations as I came up a tad bit short.

I’m not grumbling about being born on Pi Day. I love sharing my birthdate with Albert Einstein. I know that this is why I prefer pie over cake.

To not be a full-term baby with parents of opposite blood, if I were betting against the house, the odds wouldn’t be great. I’m proud to say that all of my sisters rode the dice and came up Lucky. Deb, the third born, set the stage for coming early. I figured that if she could do it, I could do it better. I have no recollection if she were smaller or larger than I at birth. I don’t remember what I weighed in at, but I know that it took me a month in the hospital to get to that magic number five. Five pounds and I could go home.

I try to imagine my mom carting My ten, six, and three year-old-sisters to the hospital from Weston to Boston in the winter. I suspect Gram held court at our house and her apartment. I have a vague recollection that my mom’s mom was going through failing health. The family at 77 Pinecroft Road was not business as usual for a while.

I don’t know if my premature birth had anything to do with the Wilm’s Kidney Cancer that I had when I was twenty-eight, but I do know that my odds of surviving were much better in 1988 than in 1965. And I was extremely lucky in being diagnosed in the first place. I’ve told that story a multitude of times. Ask if you want me to tell you of how soccer saved my life.

I had Luck by the tail from the beginning of my life. I was lucky that my father worked with intensity to give us at least he had in his youth and perhaps more. He might have had motivation to prove to my mother’s family that she had not married below her rank.

Think Stepford Wives and that was my formative years. Close knit community. Neighbors watched each other’s kids. By the time I came along, our neighbors were done raising kids. I still took advantage of the Brodrick’s tennis court, though I did spend a lot of time fetching tennis balls from the woods. I enjoyed wonderful years with the Harvey’s and with Jill’s horses. There were two baseball diamonds with pickup games going most of the time. The best was the Barconia’s pound. The good doctor even put flood lights up for them we played hockey.

Gender is the only area where luck robbed me. My early dreams of playing hockey for the Boston Bruins or baseball with the Red Sox were dashed early.

And then I stepped outside of the Weston bubble when played hockey for the Waltham Angels, which then became the Waltham Wings. The world was different. Waltham was more of a city; Weston was more of a cocoon. I was so protected, naïve, and a bit lagging developmentally.

My teammates gave me a hard time about being from Weston, but that only made me work that much harder. There was a lot for me to learn. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn to hold my temper and spent the majority of the time in the penalty box. Terry O’Reilly was my favorite player, right there with Bobby Orr.

In a perfect world, I would have been lucky to have had my mom by my side longer than twelve years, but the only reason why I experienced hockey and everything else since then was because of my mom’s death.

After yesterday’s powerful march, I ask myself if I have made the most of my Lucky Life, but before I even finish writing the question, I realize that I’d be lying if I said yes. I have a lot of work to do to pay that luck back.



Now What

20170121_113943Yesterday, I experienced true power. Human power. When used is more powerful than wind, water, or even solar power. Nothing in my 56 years compares to what after being swept up by the tidal wave of people. Transformational energy. Simultaneous Combustion. The spark of Washington, D.C. spark simultaneously spread world-wide. Has this ever happened? The Olympics compares and my Ninteen Ninety Something Gay Games in Vancouver, B.C. counts, but people came together in one spot; more time spent organizing. Even Antarctica came out to show their support.img_6628

Before leaving for the Eugene March, I watched with fascination the Washington, D.C. March. Alicia Keyes lit me on fire and  the Indigo Girls poured on gas. Inferno! What is that saying about Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman’s Scorn? Trump ought to know this fury as he has no problem instigating the ire of women. Well, anyone who’s not Caucasian and male.

Lee,Chang W. -  from camera serial number                              NYTCREDIT: Chang W. Lee/The New York Times
Lee,Chang W. – from camera serial number NYTCREDIT: Chang W. Lee/The New York Times

Seeing is not believing. Television img_6655pictures of world-wide crowds excited me, but swimming in a sea of people in Eugene invigorated me. It didn’t matter that sometimes it was cold and rainy, more often than not, being shoulder to shoulder I felt a King Penguin. I just recently saw March of the Penguins. I felt that I was marching to help save our species. Our rights mean nothing if we don’t have a healthy planet to live on.

It was a strange omen when one of the main free parking structure eliminated half of the parking and no one bothered to put a sign out stating it was full. Once in the hive,  you had to go up two floors before having to come down. Conspiracy theory?

img_6656We filed in amongst the walkers, I not really knowing where we were going, Sylvia with a map or two in her pocket. I’m good at following. Sylvia carried an umbrella, a foldable stool, and water. I wore my water bottle on my belt. I had my hands free for taking pictures. Not looking are my favorite kinds of pictures to take, though usually I miss hitting the target. Any target.

img_6622By the time we hit the apex of the mass at the New Federal Courthouse, it was impossible to know where the beginning of the March was going to be. Since Soromundi img_6631Lesbian Choir of Eugene was singing, we swam like Salmon. Surprisingly, even though most of my friends were there, I only crossed paths with a small handful. After glomming onto a pair of Mundi’s, we jumped off the lily pad to find a group gathered at Whole Foods, a very appropriate meeting place. Once the Soromundi sign is found our focus to enliven the crowds, to light them up.

img_6618We finished at the Workers Of the World where we continued to sing out and demonstrate that if we stand up, shout out, and stand out, we’ll be able to stamp out whatever Not My Presi-dent Donald Trump throws our way. No matter how much he wants to pretend that he drew the largest crowd in Presidential history also is pretending that he is wearing clothes and has a brain. We do not have to accept is alternative facts. If we could someone convince someone that he is a danger to himself and to those around him, we could have him and the litany of asskissers that have followed him locked up or at least medicated.

img_6637Love does Trump Hate. But the only way this game is going to work is if we keeping ponying up and continue to anti up.

I started this blog while on my butt, watching football. Since the Patriots aren’t playing yet, I was only sort of watching. The more I wrote, the less I watched. I’m assuming the Falcons are still beating the socks off of the Packers, but I’m not even in the same room anymore.wp-image-594232296jpg.jpg

I suspect that the next time the cry is heard to gather, the numbers will be larger; every time Not My President opens his mouth or some mealy mouse puppet speaks for him, the numbers will inflate. With our numbers we could stop the world! Now this gives me hope.img_6647





Donald Little Trump

Everything about our new presi-dent demonstrates his littleness. Little hands. Little mind. Sub little experience. Everything about him is little. Except for his mouth and his hair.

Now he’s complaining about the small size of the crowd on the  mall and Spicer, accused the media of getting the numbers wrong.  Are they saying that the photos were doctored to make it look like there were fewer people.  Sean Spicer said that numbers couldn’t be verified and went on to say that this was the largest crowd ever to  witness and celebrate an inauguration.

Is this the worst of the problems the white house ought to be concerned about?

Watching the news coverage of the Marches around the country brought me hope; our country has been worse. Together we can do more than merely surviving. We are the We the People.

img_6626And we the people marched and demonstrated our might, our unity. Eugene people poured from all directions, filling the streets.

Hillary Clinton had the support of three million more people than the current Pre-sident. If all of the people around the world who gathered to show solidarity, I wonder if the number was even larger.img_6645

All in a Day’s Work

Two days of working with third graders has me feeling as if I have worked five complete days. It doesn’t help that I had to be at work at 7:30 and getting up in the dark is not my favorite; at least the ice and snow are in our rear view mirrors. Hopefully, though I did see the weather report; why do they want to mess up my parade. Today was flat out balmy. I didn’t care that it rained cats and dogs.

The third graders learned quite early in our two-day relationship that I’m a big softy. I let them come in my room instead of being outside. I had to draw the line at lunch as I wouldn’t survive the day if I didn’t have at least a twenty minute break. They suck me dry of all of my energy; it’s the constant go-go. Lots of drama as the kids work around relationships. I’m not a big fan of Valentine’s Day for this reason. Kids don’t have a filter and will just blurt out who is and who is not their friend, and that status can turn on a penny. Tears and sad looks got them anything. First day that is.

On the second day, I start asking for paybacks of those little things I “gave” them. Today my expectations were a little higher. Yesterday’s math class was hard as I didn’t know where the class range was. In order for me to figure out the average, I have to sort out those who are advanced and those who are behind. I use the behinders as my barometer.

Today’s math lesson was great knowing what I knew about the kids. I had the privilege of starting a unit for fractions. I started with a student’s paper. It had been in the recycling.

I showed the class the paper and asked the class what I had. It took a couple of tries to get a student who said I had a piece of paper. These days I’ll get a kid who will raise their hand, and then when I call on them they say, “they forgot.” I don’t remember this happening when I was in school. Most of the kids I hung out with never raised their hands. Why call attention to yourself?

I shocked the class when I ripped the paper in half. I then ask the student who’s paper it was whether he needed me to tape it back together or not; he panicked for minute before realizing he had done another. The kids were shocked. I was able to hook them after that, especially when I not only kept ripping the paper and talking about smaller fractions, but I threw the pieces up in the air.

I apologized to the janitor since that kind of modeling, only got the room looking like a ticker tape parade. I don’t think Trump will ever have one of those; no one would attend.

My own third grade teacher is probably rolling in her grave hearing me say that I did an amazing job teaching the unit on fractions. I had my brilliant way ahead of the game kid I could go to so I didn’t have to do do any computations, and I had the stragglers who started to get it. I didn’t let up. If I asked what three over three was to a student who didn’t get the answer right, and I would show here on the board and she got it, I would ask the kid right next to them and ask the same question. I had to explain it again. Went through that entire row and the fifth in the row got it. Different numbers, but same answer I started that same row again, and they got it. Every single one.

I noticed that every time I said You Got it, more and more kids were participating. Instead of a couple of white boards held high with the answer, by the end I had an entire class of boards held high.

On my first day with these eight-year-olds, I drank all of my travel mug as well as most of my thermos, and I was still exhausted. I apologize to my choir mates for yawning for two hours. Every time I’d open my mouth to sing, a yawn would take over. Today I didn’t even finish my travel mug. Instead of being drained of energy, I was revitalized. This doesn’t mean that I’m sorry that I have two half days of elementary kids to finish the week. I will enjoy my afternoons off. I have, after all, earned it.

When to let up on the Accelerator

I earned the title of Hollow Legs early on in life; I could even say before that. I count the fact that my March birth wasn’t supposed to be until April, my Mom’s birthday, but I got out of there as soon as I could. I might have wanted to be out of the warm fluid-filled days even earlier, but then I would have started my life under a slide rather than in an incubator. though when I put it that way, I’m regretting I didn’t stay several more months instead.

There were medical reasons for an emergency evacuating, but I like to think that  it was the food in the  real world. I smelled my Grandmother’s Lasagna. I could taste Lobster, but a Lobster Smoothie isn’t the same, not from what I could hear when the Honthumb Clan got together for Lobster and Steam Clambake. I wanted to get my choppers on an ear of corn dripping with butter. By the time my Mom ate the corn and her body processed it for me to consumer, it was worse than Creamed Corn.

But then again, I’m imagining  what life in-vitro would be like. No, I’ve not done any research. I’m just guessing. What an incredible life-style. I can’t imagine a better way to go. The Wonderful Womb. Not a care in the world. I wouldn’t mind kicking back and living leisurely. Food was delivered, and if I kicked hard enough or caused some indigestion, I had some control of what Mom ate. I didn’t even have to go anywhere to did myself of waste. I imagine it would be an amazing way to create new ideas and thoughts. I think it would be cool if I could remember my very first idea stored in my brain. Food or my beagle.

My fast getaway from my Mother’s Womb was the first building block that would then become my personality. I earned the title of Lead Foot upon my gaining opportunity to drive. Maybe if my first car hadn’t been a V-8 Buick Riveria and had been my sister’s Ford Pinto. I never got to drive my Grandmother’s Ford Mustang. Maybe she had a lead foot as well, at least earlier in her years of driving. By the time I experienced her driving, I am positive that driving with Gram was punishment. Anything besides that. Not only was she slow, but she had a hard time staying on her side of the road. By the time they took her license away, that poor Maroon Mustang was all banged up. The final straw was when she ran into a lawn mower and didn’t know it. It was one of those Park-size mower. Did she know it? The rest of my memory of the story is sketchy. I do believe it was a hit and run, though it’s possible she received a citation. I know that right after she traded in the messed up Mustang and brought home a Chevy. I want to say it was a Nova, but the car’s name that I used to know has escaped me, a notice requesting her re-taking a driving test arrived in the mail. She never got to drive her very new car.

I still speed when I think I can get away with it. My Mini Cooper’s Super-charged engine makes me feel as if I am flying or perhaps slalom skiing. Is there a twelve-step program for those who put the petal to the metal as I have tried to stick to the speed limit, though once I am around other people who are pushing the limit, I can’t help but join the party.

One of the in-my-head New Year’s Resolution is to start to pay attention to patterns. What do I do to promote having the best years of the rest of my life. What am I doing to sabotage that goal. I think it was yesterday that I was telling Sylvia that my back was feeling better than usual. So what did I do? First I went bowling.  That wasn’t enough to tip the scale. I had to do some vacuuming. Sure. Why not?

I’m paying the price now and have had to hit the medicine cabinet. One or the other. I know better, but this comes from a person who at one point used to boast of bowling an average of a hundred games a week. I knew no other way if I wanted to become an accomplished bowler. Push through the pain. Do what it takes.

Now that I’ve noticed a characteristic that needs adjustments, I’ve earned a hot bath with a good book or perhaps I can dream of those glorious eight months being joined to my mom.

There are a variety of ways of getting off the Hill

img_6384We live on a hill. Normally there’s not a problem, but this winter has been anything but normal for the Eugene area.

img_6391Ice and snow have caused power outages and dangerous driving conditions. Typically, I lay low and just stay home. These are the days when the only way I am concerned with are the ways around the property I walk the dogs.  Not long ago, I was clearing blackberry vines that had been choking the various paths.img_6507

Schools have been closing their doors exchanging ice-drenched days for potential sun-roasting classrooms. There aren’t enough plows or chains on buses to adequately deal and the hazards are not worth it.

And then there is the difference between the altitude where I live and the altitude on the Willamette Valley floor; we’ll get snow, and they’ll get nothing. In our recent storms, it’s the difference between our snow and ice not melting and their roads becomes safer.

Abandoning my Mini Cooper, I rely on my trusty All-Wheel Drive Subaru Forester to getimg_6275 me down the hill, and even though I have no doubt it could handle the steepest of challenges, I don’t gamble and I take the back route, the long way off the hill.

Now I’ve got SuperTramp’s song, the Long Way Home stuck into my head, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as long as I’m not living the life of the lyrics.img_6006 Becoming part of the furniture is not my idea of living a good life.

So, when need be to get to work, I crept and crawled  on the roads that don’t get as much traffic, but are flatter, going slow enough that I didn’t get out of second gear very often. Sometimes the way isn’t as important as the getting there, and most importantly, getting home again.



I may have to borrow words

I may have to borrow words from the Eskimo’s to describe the various snow/ice/rain combinations that I’ve experienced the last few weeks, but according to Wikipedia, it isn’t true that the Eskimo’s have a broader vocabulary to describe snow.

img_6457Due to low temperatures, the five and a half inches of powdery snow has stuck around.  The sun would come out, encourage snow melt, but merely morph the molecules into different configurations. Icicles.

img_6384Yesterday was my first day of driving off the hill since it snowed. I swore that I would avoid the Chamber’s hill and shaded area, adding another twenty minutes of creep-along driving. Subaru Forester didn’t get that many opportunities to even get into third gear with the going so slow.

img_6383Typically the valley floor has better road conditions than the hills, but I fish-tailed more down there than I did closer to home.

From the jam-packed Albertson’s yesterday afternoon, img_6476everyone in the vicinity were preparing to hunker down this weekend and wait out another wild-weather storm. Ice. Rain. Snow. And various combinations. The sky is almost as white as the snow, though the snow is whiter and brighter. It’s a loud weather day. I can hear the ice mixed in with the snow, hitting against the sagging tree limbs.

img_4667I’ve not heard the sound of transformers blowing or limbs and trees snapping. Hopefully we won’t have a repeat from a several weeks ago or so.

From the looks and sounds of it, there might be a lull in the storm that’s supposed to be with us all weekend, this may be a good time to done the apparel and hang up some suet for the birds. The dogs would appreciate some time out; the Labradors couldn’t care less about the cold and wet. They just want to play.img_6336

Love Stories

I usually don’t read romance novels. You will never catch me with a Harlequin for example, but I won’t criticize those who read them. Any kind of reading is good for the gander.

artworks-000164261503-tf3hio-t500x500I just started a new book. “The Rules of Love & Grammar” by Mary Simses. I have no idea how 0000014953207_p0_v1_s260x185it got onto my Library list. If a book or an author is mentioned in the New Yorker, or if a friend recommends a book or author, I’ll throw it on the list. I order books from the library without having a clue what the book is about.

In the case of Rules of Love & Grammar, I’m an English teacher; of course, I’ll be attracted to a title with the word grammar; grammar has not been my strong suit for most of my life. Another great grammar book is “Eats. Shoots. And Leaves” was a great book. I don’t remember if the title had periods, commas, or nothing. Eats, shoots, and leaves?

6878217I’m a hundred and twenty-one pages into the book, and all of the characters are jumbled up in my mind. It doesn’t help that the most recent book I read,  Lost Dogs & Lonely Hearts, has a similar beginning to the plot line. Girl loses job, house/flat, and job. Lost dogs and Lonely hearts must have done well in publishing as there are several  different covers. The book I was reading: 9780425238875_p0_v1_s260x420

I’m going to have to backtrack on the book. I also have a hard time with first-person books that take a while to give me the I’s identity. Two books back, maybe three, “New Life” the I was anonymous for most of the book. I can’t remember the character’s name, though the number of times the name was mentioned might only have a small reason for my not remembering.

After 121 pages, I know the character has returned to her parents home in Connecticut after she lost her job, lost her boyfriend, and her ceiling collapsed. I don’t remember the city she had been living in. In Lost Dogs, she had been living the life of leisure in London, but she lost her job, her boyfriend, who had been a married man that she worked with, and the flat that was her boyfriend’s. I don’t know which came first, but her aunt died and left her a house and dog kennels and not any money to pay for anything, like estate taxes…

In Rules, she’s grumbling about roofers waking her up. I don’t know why she’s wearing Christmas pj’s; something to do with she didn’t have time to grab much before she had to vacate the apartment premises. She lists all of the things she would be doing on a Normal Thursday, going to the Hamptons with Scott would have been one of them. Someone has money. She can’t really call herself homeless since she’s with her parents in a nice house and on the waterfront. But going back to a small town where everyone knows your business, is a shock than being in the city. What city, I’m not sure.

It just happens that her best friend from elementary school has moved back to town and has forced my mystery first-person character from eating all four or so gallons of icecream in the freezer and getting her out of the house. And it just happens that her old flame from middle school has returned to town and has grown up to be a famous movie director. There’s another classmate who has moved back to town that is the antagonist.

I don’t know how old the character is. Parents, in their early sixties, still work. Mom’s an architecture that has this compulsion to create little shrines in other people’s homes to honor a dead daughter. I’ve read that an accident happened, but what happened and how long ago, I’m not sure. Every year, and yes, it just happens that her move back home,  lands on the anniversary of her sister’s death as well as her dad’s sixty-fifth birthday; they are having a very large party, inviting hundreds of people. The dad is a poet and Literature professor. I don’t know where, though in the list of poets, Wallace Stevens, W.H. Auden, e.e. Cummings and Anne Sexton, the Sexton name pops up. She killed herself when I was a small child, and lived in my hometown. Weston, Massachusetts is a very small town.

Cluny is the name of her best friend from the first day of school at Smithridge  Elementary. I was wrong about the best friend; she didn’t come back to the little town that I’ve already forgotten; she never left. Something Connecticut on a river. Cluny’s got it all, a soaring business creating greeting cards, a  husband, two daughters,  two dogs, two cats, and a canary. I wonder if I’ll meet the canary…

Sometimes I wonder if adding specific  names to items helps or hinders the reader. My main character is leaning against a Chippendale chest. The only Chippendales I know are those male strippers. (I used to bowl on a team that used Chippendale cards. I’ve been on teams, majority male, that use playboy bunnies for their  cards.)

I did mention that her parents had ice cream, didn’t I? Chocolate Chip, mint chocolate chip, cookie crunch, banana swirl, strawberry cheesecake. I still don’t know her name, but I’m only nine pages in as I re-read. Cluny will eventually say her name. Actually, in a re-re-read, I found her name.  Mom had written her a note in her neat architecture manner and started it with Grace. If my daughter came home and I was writing a note about my going to work, I probably wouldn’t have written my daughter’s name. Grace would have known it was from her and who it was from even though it wasn’t signed. Actually, I would have dated the note, written my daughter’s name, and signed it mom, but this note felt like an easy way to tell the reader the name of the  character, and it was only page four. I also missed Cluny saying Grace’s name in her excitement, and that was just three pages later. I’m guessing that they haven’t seen each other in a long time. I do remember the parents lamenting that they don’t see Grace nearly enough.

I think I’ll continue analyzing the book after I eat some lasagna.



Wonder Winter Land in Eugene

img_5833While at choir last night, I heard a rumor that snow was in the forecast. I’m not one to pay much attention to weather reports.

img_5838I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I was looking forward to bowling with seniors. When I saw that school was cancelled, I knew bowling would be cancelled as well. I still hadn’t seen the white, though Sylvia pointed out that the sky light was covered with snow.img_5575

At least it didn’t take much to get the dogs outside. I imagine if Luke the Beagle were here, I’d have to drag or carry him out into the snow. I do miss the little guy.

img_5864Once I put my long johns on and layered, I was ready to play in the snow while it was still snowing. I don’t remember if it was snowing that much to cover Abby or if I just happened to kick some snow on img_5866her.

Lucy and Ricky found what was in the snow img_5938more interesting than anything else, though Ricky was thorough in his investigation and did quite a bit of digging.

img_6180Even though it was still snowing, I had a great time taking pictures of the romping dogs and the wonderful winter scenery. Until my battery died. I borrowed Sylvia’s little camera, but my hands were a bit too shakey. I’ve not seen the photos to see if any came out.  And then her camera died as well.

img_5924By the time my Cannon battery was charged, the sun came out, and with the blue sky, I just had to go out again.img_6281

Even though I’ve barely scratched the surface in sharing the pictures I took today, I’m sure there will be plenty of white winter wonderland to explore tomorrow.