What We Did Last Night

It must have been the very cold temperatures. I was on the computer when our electricity went out-4 times. Thankfully, the last shut off was only for an hour. Hilary worked on her homework by candlelight. (After the accident, I thought she deserved a break, but she needed to study for finals.)

I cozied up in front of the fireplace. What else was there to do? In the eery quiet, I sat waiting to hear that Sarabeth had quit driving in the snow for the night and had settled in to a nice hotel, when the doorbell rang. It is heart-stopping to see 2 sherif officers standing there. What in the world were they doing on a bitter cold night, when I have children out on the road, looking for my neighbor's son???? Sheesh! (Ok, one more thing to be thankful for.)

Sarabeth took her wise mother's advice and stopped in New Mexico for the night. Can't wait to see her.

What A Day It Has Been

I squinted to try to see more clearly. This can't possibly be right. My indoor weather station said the temperature on my back porch was -34 degrees. Impossible! I knew we were supposed to have record cold temperatures, but not this cold. I pushed the button to see the temperature reading for the front of the house. Thirty-one degrees below zero. Typically, our porch readings run a bit warmer than the official temperatures for our area. So how could this thermometer be accurate???

I was a little embarrassed when Michael pointed out the tiny dot between the 3 & 4. So it was really only negative 3.4 degrees outside my window. I quickly dressed as warmly as possible. Normally I don't have to go out so early, but I was taking Christopher and Lauren to the airport. Their best friends are being married in Mexico. They were quite excited to be getting out of the cold of Denver.

Since I was driving Christopher's 4 wheel drive, I handed Hilary the keys to the Suburban. The roads were icy and I was glad she would be driving a 4 wheel drive vehicle also. We left at the same time, headed the same direction. I glanced at the time. Even though the drive was slow going, I thought I would pick up the wedding party in time to get them to the airport.

All of the sudden, an SUV from a side road came flying past the stop sign. I watched in horror as it hit the back of the Suburban Hilary was driving. Life in front of me began moving in slow motion. On impact, the Suburban spun completely around. I began to brake the vehicle I was driving. Everything came to a stop. I'm not sure which is worse, getting a phone call that your child has been in an accident, or witnessing the whole thing.

Thankfully, nobody was hurt. Poor Michael. I ran home and got him out of the shower & dropped him off at the accident. I proceeded on to the airport run. More than 3 hours later, I arrived home. Still shaken.

In a few minutes, another daughter, Sarabeth, will begin driving home from Arizona. Did I mention how cold it is outside? Or how icy the roads are? In Phoenix it might be warm, but once she gets out of town, it is bitter cold and stormy. I will be very happy when I know she is safe at home. In the meantime, I'm going to imagine Christopher sitting on the beach somewhere in sunny Mexico-completely relaxed. And in the background I hear the words to a familiar tune,

"Every blessing you pour out,
I turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say...
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be your name"

A Christmas Child

(Revisiting a previous post)

It was nearing Christmas and I was 32 weeks pregnant with my 3rd child. The hustle and bustle of the season was wearing on me. My focus was not on the true meaning of Christmas but the busyness of a holiday. On that particular morning, I was up extra early. I was determined to have some quiet time before my children awoke. I needed that quiet.

I shivered in the cold morning air. As early as it was, it appeared to be light outside. I opened the drapes of our picture window. I stood in amazement. Snow had fallen overnight and the grass and trees were blankets of white. The sun was not yet up, but the snow glistened in the moonlight. It was one of those moments I wanted to share with others but didn't dare move for fear of missing out on it.

After a bit, I cozied myself into an overstuffed chair by the window to spend some of the quiet. I asked the Lord to help me keep the stillness inside so I could reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. My thoughts drifted to the first Christmas. What was it like to be pregnant with Jesus? Was it a cold night when his mother gave birth, outdoors in a stable? What were her thoughts as she neared the end of her pregnancy? Being with child myself, I knew the hours I spent wondering about my unborn baby. What would she look like? Would she be all girl wearing lace socks and frilly dresses or would she be more of a tomboy preferring to stomp in puddles in mud-stained jeans?

How did Mary deal with the anticipation of the awesome task before her? She was to raise Jesus, the Son of God. God himself. Did she worry about the mistakes she'd make? No parent is perfect. Even if her little boy was without sin, that didn't mean being his parent was easy. She would have sleepless nights, her baby would cry. It was her responsibility to teach him right and wrong, to guide and direct him. Ultimately she would train up her child to be the Savior of the world. I was completely overwhelmed at the thought of what it would be like to be the mother of Jesus. The task was daunting. Just as I imagined my inability to perform this duty the words of Jesus flooded my mind:

"Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

The gravity of it pressed in on me. I could not move, I could hardly breathe. My child, my unborn child, and each one of my children, was no less important than Jesus himself. Being a mom and raising my children right was every bit as serious as it was for Mary to parent Jesus. I sat there for a good long while. I was pregnant with my 3rd child. I wasn't aware that I would be blessed with 2 more precious children. Five. At that moment, 3 was almost terrifying.

But then, just as the snow had blanketed and softened the outdoors, the Lord's presence enveloped me. I knew I was not alone in this task. I was partnered with God. He already knew everything about my unborn child and what she would need for her future. I would surely make mistakes. But if I spent quiet times with Him, silencing the noise around me, God would guide me. He knows the best parenting plan for each one of us

Christmas Memories

Growing up I looked forward to Christmas with great anticipation. The scent of delicious homebaked goodies, mingled with the crisp pine of the tree as we adorned it with freshly strung popcorn. Each day was filled with excitement. I'm not sure how mom and dad kept it going. By the time my parents were 24 and 25 years old, they had 4 children. It wasn't that they started any younger than others of their generation, but they did have 4 children in 4 1/2 years. Consequently, money was tight. But that didn't keep our home from being magical at Christmas time.

Back then gadgets and electronics didn't fill our time. We enjoyed simple things. One of my favorites was listening to music-especially while my dad strummed along on his steel guitar. I loved the Christmas carols on black vinyl records, played on the phonograph. It wasn't often, but sometimes, when dad wasn't playing, he took me in his arms and we danced. I wasn't like my sister, who desired to take ballet and tap dance. I enjoyed waltzing along with a partner.

One particular occasion my dad attempted to show me the foot moves of a dance. I'm sure being so young, I wasn't getting it at all. He told me to step up onto place his black leather shoes so he could better show me. I placed my chubby bare feet atop his warm shoes and we glided and swung around the room. It was glorious!

After that, all I wanted to do was dance. For Christmas I asked for a big doll. Since I also loved baby dolls my mom asked if that was what I wanted. No. I wanted a life-size doll, one as big as me so I could dance with her. Mom told me big dolls were very expensive and she doubted they actually made them that big. That didn't stop me from dreaming.

That Christmas morning, as always, we were up before the sun. I think part of the magic was getting up while it was dark outside. Walking bleary-eyed to where the Christmas tree lights sparkled and shined their glowing lit up the beautifully wrapped packages. Santa usually left a few things unwrapped. That morning as I rubbed my sleepy eyes I could hardly believe what I saw. Not only was there a stroller I'd long coveted, but sitting inside was a huge doll. I never thought that this gift might not be mine. I pulled the life-size doll from her chair and hugged her to my chest. My mom had lovingly made a doll nearly my size. She had blonde curls like mine made from brightly colored yarn. She wore a beautiful dress. ( I later found a matching one for me.) But the best part was under the doll's fabric shoes, my mom had sewn in loops of elastic.

I didn't wait to get dressed. Still wearing pajamas, I quickly put my shoes on. I then slipped the doll's elastic bands over them. My dolls feet rested perfectly atop my shoes-the way mine had on my dad's. Holding her up, I lovingly wrapped my arms around her, and we danced the morning away.

New Faces

Monday morning I sat at my computer as I like to do. I was a bit surprised when my screen no longer looked like this:

Instead what I found is this:

Can you guess who was on my computer over the weekend? I think it was an accident. But I wonder if he deleted anything.

Fifty Sounds Old

The year was 1979. We met through a friend, actually a guy I was dating. I was in high school, my boyfriend wasn't. He lived in a studio apartment that had been converted from an old hotel. Those rooms were tiny, smaller than dorm rooms. The beds doubled as couches.

On the top floor of this complex lived four guys in adjacent apartments. Actually, one of them lived on the other side of the pool, but it's easier to assume they all lived on the same floor. They might as well have, as they hung out together a lot. Being in such cramped quarters, I got to know these guys quite well. None of them were dating at the time.

One of them I liked more than the rest. Larry had a great sense of humor. He was just finishing college, was ambitious and seemed like an all-around good guy. We got along well so I wasn't surprised when one day he asked me if I had a sister. "As a matter of fact, I do. Would you like to meet her?"

On November 28th, Larry and my sister celebrated their 28th anniversary. Today is Larry's 50th birthday. So to Larry, Happy 5oth Birthday! Thank-you for being a wonderful husband to my sister and for the years of joy you have given her. You are a blessing to our entire family.

Music To My Ears

You have no idea how excited I get when I hear the 'T' sound. Ethan's latest love is trucks. We'd be driving along and he would begin making noises and pointing. Each time I turned, I didn't see anything. The problem was, I just looked past the big semi-rigs. I had no idea that these large machines fascinated him so.

His mom noticed. So she set out on teaching him how to communicate this. I don't know how she did it, but she taught him to say 'Tttttt.' So now when I hear the 'T' I look with enthusiasm to see what he is referring to. And I try to reinforce the 't'ruck when I see it. The only problem is he also likes Trains, Tractors, & Transformers and has found the 't' sound works for all of those.

But it brings such great pleasure hearing him 't', 't' 't'ing. He is communicating.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Growing up, my mom never insisted that I make my bed. She had more important things to think about. Besides, if I'd made my bed, it would have taken the fun out of jumping on it. As an adult, I love having a nicely made bed. It makes my bedroom look clean and tidy.

Sometime last year, I made a deal with Michael. Whoever crawls out of bed last makes the bed. This sounded like a perfect arrangement to me. You see, 5 days a week, I get up first. On the weekends I sleep later. Plus it makes sense. If I get up first, I can't make the bed right away. It's a chore to come back later just to make the bed.

It never ceases to put a smile on my face when I walk into the bedroom & find the bed made. For me, it looks like a beautiful gift, wrapped in perfect packaging. Michael makes the bed so much nicer than I do. I've never actually watched him do it, but it looks like it takes him a long time. The pillows aren't just thrown, but neatly placed. (I figure throw pillows should be tossed and land where they may.) The comforter hangs down evenly. The sheets and blankets are tucked so they don't fall below the comforter. A simply delightful gift that brings joy each time it is presented.

The bed makers gift? He gets to sleep a little longer.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

Outside everything is blanketed in snow. I love how it clings to the bare tree branches, as if to clothe their winter nakedness. It's a perfect day to put on a pot of homemade soup and bake bread. So soon after Thanksgiving, one would think I'd whip up turkey vegetable soup. And I would. If I could.

After a lovely Thanksgiving dinner, our wonderful guests cleaned up everything. It wasn't as if I just kicked back and did nothing. I put a few things away. But as I looked at the paltry leftovers in the refrigerator, I couldn't recall stripping the last of the turkey meat from the bones. Nothing was saved for soup-making. Michael, as usual, carved our bird. He removed only as much meat as he thought we'd eat, and saved the rest to be removed later. In their zeal to help, someone must have ditched the carcass without realizing how much meat was left. Sigh. Oh well. I did feel sorry that we had no leftovers to share with our guests. There was only enough for us to enjoy sandwiches the next day. Selfish, I know.

When I awoke the next morning, I found a dirty pan sitting on my clean, kitchen counter. Sometime during the night, Michael had awakened. I don't why, but he remembered putting the turkey back in the oven when we sat down to eat. And there it sat for the next 12 hours or so. When he remembered at 5, bagged it up and threw it out. I chastised myself for mentally accusing my dinner guests of disposing of the remaining turkey. I really feel guilty for not sharing the leftover bits.

So instead of turkey stew, a big pot of chili is in the crockpot.

On a more positive note, I do have a leftover can of whipping cream. MMMM...my mocha mint coffee was delicious topped with whipped cream, and a dash of red sprinkles.

Thankful

I wish I'd cleaned my oven before today.
I wish I'd cleaned my refrigerator out too.

But I'm thankful that I have a lovely oven and a refrigerator full of food.

I wish I hadn't gotten a root canal right before Thanksgiving.
I wish I didn't have to get another root canal.

But I'm thankful I can still chew, just very carefully.

Thanksgiving Memories

Thanksgiving Memories
(Previously posted, but as I prepare for Thanksgiving, and pumpkin pies, this memory comes to mind.)

My first attempt to make an entire Thanksgiving meal on my own, and my inlaws were coming to visit. I had 2 small children, and I worried how I would get everything done. Preparing for houseguests was stressful. Cleaning our 3 bedroom home, picking up toys, the day to day activity of a 4 year old, compounded by a toddler that loved making messes...did I mention lots of cleaning? Add that to Thanksgiving with all of the trimmings, & I felt more than overwhelmed. I wanted so much to provide a comfortable, relaxed home for my inlaws to enjoy & to serve a delicious meal, eaten in the company of sweet, well-behaved grandchildren.

The day before Thanksgiving, our guests arrived the day. I stayed up late that night, wanting to get a start on the big day. After everyone had gone to bed, I baked the pumpkin pies. The next morning, I was exhausted, and didn't hear my children get up. How must that look to the grandparents? A mother who doesn't get up and have breakfast waiting for her children? I dressed quickly and went to the kitchen. There stood my little boy.

"Yum, yum! This is good Mommy."

Christopher was covered in orange goo. So was the chair he stood atop and the table. Both pies were missing most of the pumpkin. This was before digital cameras, but I doubt I would have grabbed the camera. This was not a Kodak moment. I started to cry.

Thankfully, I have the best inlaws in the world and should not have worried. In fact they probably cooked more of the dinner than I did. They were a huge help and very encouraging. I never felt the need to impress them again. Afterall, they'd had 5 kids and understood that little boys loved eating pumpkin pie. Somehow, when you are a grandparent you don't stress over those things.

Eighteen years later when I awoke to find another small boy eating the middles of my pumpkin pies, I grabbed my camera. Yum, yum! I love being a grandparent to Ethan.

Thunk Thursday on Friday

How hard is it to say, "You're Welcome?" The phrase is traditionally said after the "thank-you" offering. So where does a "no problem" response fit in this equation? People, it doesn't.

I'm walking along. The woman passing through the door in front of me stops to hold it open. I turn and say, "thank-you." Flippantly, the phrase seems to roll off her lips, "no problem." I'm sorry. I didn't think it WAS a problem. Was it really that difficult of a task that you felt the need to let me know it wasn't really a problem? Next time I'll hold my own door, thank-you-very-much.

Is "you're welcome" more difficult to say than no problem? It's 3 syllables. It isn't as if "no problem" is quicker and easier to blurt out. Like I said, 3 syllables.

"You're welcome" implies that the person was glad to offer their service to you. To me, it's a simple way to say, "anytime you need the door held open, I'm happy to do it for you." It sounds kind, courteous.

The "no problem" response does not express this same friendly attitude. It comes off as, "I'm trying not be rude, so I'll answer "no problem," but truthfully my action to help you out IS an annoyance to me.

I phoned the doctor's office this morning. It took some doing to schedule an appointment. I thanked the receptionist for the extra effort she put towards working with me. Her response: "no problem." Grrr...this is my newest pet peeve.

The next time I hear someone squelch my thank-you with "no problem," I'm going to ask, "is it sometimes a problem?" Or maybe, "I'm sorry, is it often a problem for you to hold the door open?" Or what if I am rude back and tell the receptionist, "you're right, it wasn't a problem for you to set the appointment. It was your job."

Wordless Wednesday

Thankfulness: I am thankful to live in such a beautiful state and witness the handiwork of God every day.

Urgent Text Message

I am in the kitchen washing dishes, when I hear the ping of my phone. I dry my hands wondering who is sending me a message. I read:

~Mom, are you near the computer?~

I remember 9/11. We were glued to the t.v. all day watching with horror. It couldn't be anything like that, Michael was at his computer. He checks in with CNN regularly. I text her back:

~No~

I remember April 20, 1999. It was another day in Colorado we sat riveted to the screen as we watched the tragedy of the shooting at Columbine High School. Ping! My hands are wet again. I grab a towel.

~Can you get on the computer for me real quick?~

Cell phone in one hand, a kitchen towel in the other, I head to the computer.

~Ok, what do you need?~

~You know that chicken on bugs bunny and friends and his name was like Colonel something and he was big what was his name? My history class wants to know.~

I'm a little confused. But like any good mom, I begin a google search.

~Foghorn Leghorn~

~Well which is it?~

~No, that is his whole name.~

~LOL cool thanks~

I'm still texting my reply

~Foghorn is his first name, he played with the dog. Nobody said his name really.~

~Thanks Mom! That was driving us crazy~

That evening I ask her what that was all about. She said she was in history class and they couldn't remember the chicken's name. It was driving the teacher crazy that nobody could come up with it. So he told her, "Hilary, text your mom. You're always texting her in class anyway."

I'm thinking I need a raise for providing entertainment to the school history class. Either that or I just need to get a job. I obviously have way too much time on my hands-at least that's what everyone thinks.

Thankfulness: I am so very thankful I've been able to stay home and raise my children.

Bad Grandma

Not only did Ethan not take his leg braces home with him, but this is what happened to his other pair of shoes.

We All Need Support

Ethan & Christina came over on Saturday. As usual, the first thing he did when he came inside is kick off his shoes. There was one differnce. He was also wearing his braces. Those came off too.

He stayed with me Saturday evening, while Christina had a night out. We played cars, watched a movie and did laundry-Ethan's choice. (I am thankful I remembered to cap everything tightly.) We filled the washer with dirty clothes. When it was full, Ethan insisted on filling the dryer with them too. Made me wish I'd taken the clean clothes out first.

Before he went to bed that night, I set his braces neatly on the bottom shelf, so they'd be easy to find. But when Christina went to leave yesterday, they were no where to be found. She and I searched for over an hour. The clothes hampers, laundry chute, the toy boxes...all of the places he'd been where he might have placed them. I couldn't imagine when they were moved or where. We finally gave up and they left without his braces.

I was frustrated, as I'd been so careful to put them neatly away. This doesn't happen often. I continued wandering around the house trying to imagine what a 6 year old might do with his foot/leg supports. And then I prayed.

"God where are these? I know that YOU know what happened to them." I wondered aloud if he even needed them. Were they doing him any good? Maybe it was good they were lost. "But Lord, it would be nice to know what has happened to them. Would you please help me find them?"

I went into my bedroom & opened the storage closet. There atop my boxes sat the braces. I have no idea why he would put them there & shut the door. But I am thankful that God answers prayer.

(Speaking of prayer, in my sidebar is a link to Terry's blog. His wife Julee is having a biopsy of her breast today.)

A Bad Hair Day/Updated

Maybe he is more observant than I thought. Or maybe not. Michael was perusing my blog and the photos from yesterday's post. He noticed something "strange." So he asked me about it.

"When did your dad begin parting his hair on the other side?"

"What?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

He went on to point out that in the older photos his hair was parted on the left, but the newest one it is on the right.

Do men really care or notice these things? (I think I could come home with my hair blue and it would be awhile before he noticed.)

I surmised that in older pictures, taken with film, the image was possibly flipped. While in newer, digital photos, they were correctly oriented.

We studied more photos. Nope. Michael pointed out that in one photo Dad had a pen in his pocket. He assured me he had it on the left side of his shirt. I argued that my dad is left handed and maybe he put them in his right pocket. My detail-oriented husband noted that his shirt only had one pocket. Men's dress shirts often have only one pocket, I was informed. And that would be on the right. Who knew these things?

So we are waiting for my dad's response. Why would he begin parting his hair on the "wrong" side? As women, we do side parts, middle parts, no parts. Men do not change the side on which they part their hair. Not a man who goes to the barber shop. I've been told.

So Dad, which is it? My last guess is that occassionally the barber parts it incorrectly and cuts it that way. Dad then has to live with it until the next haircut. To me, that would be like having a bad hair day for like a month. Horrors! I would hate that.

I received this response from my dad:

I grew up with my hair being parted on the left side. I never questioned it, that is just the way it was. I don't know if my mother parted it that way because I was left handed and it would be easier or if the crown was more on the left. Anyway, years later after I quit parting my hair and just combed it straight back, I decided to start parting it again. I noticed it didn't seem to part so easily on the left side, but my hair seemed to naturally lay over to the left making it easier to part on the right. I started parting it on the right and have done so ever since. Being left handed, it would be easier to part on the left, but my hair doesn't seem to cooperate. Funny you should bring that up. It has been quite awhile now that I parted it on the right. Can't remember the last time I parted it on the left.

One Week Later

Last Friday we celebrated my parents' 50th wedding anniversary.

I flew into town on Wednesday evening. Friday morning we met at Greg's home and began working feverishly. Greg cleaned and moved furniture. His wife, my sisters, and I decorated & cooked. As we worked, I couldn't help but notice how each one of us gave of our gifts and talents. The creativity & organization was truly amazing. I caught a glimpse of how God gifts His people and by working together we can do awesome things. Everything flowed smoothly and a great time was had by all.

Thank-you Mom & Dad for being the best parents ever. We've gleaned much from your guidance & wisdom in knowing when to speak truth to us and when to step back and give us room to learn from our mistakes.

Your love and generosity extends not only to family, but so many others.

Your faith and commitment have stood strong and set a firm foundation for your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren & future generations.

Your spirit of adventure gives us the courage to journey into deeper waters.

Happy 50th Anniversary Mom & Dad!

I'd share the video I we gave to mom & dad, but it's 12 minutes long. Instead, here are a few photos from it:


November 8, 1958-Mom & Dad's Wedding
(Yes, they were teenagers, 18 & 19)


Mom & Dad 2007

And just for fun, I submit the following:


1975-Me & Dad, My Confirmation



Homecoming 1976, My date, Me, my brother Greg and his wife Kathleen



1976 Mom & I with their first grandbaby, Michael (& yes, those were my silver teeth years)



1978 Me, Dad, and the first grandchild, Michael (and the fancy van conversion dad bought as he neared his 40th birthday)


1989 Me holding Elisabeth, my mom holding Sarabeth the day we had her dedicated, Christina & Christopher


Mom, my sisters Carolyn & Laurie, Me Can you guess the year by the hair and big glasses? (Since I have curly hair, I wasn't sporting the perm look and didn't need glasses, lol.)

Do you hate going to the dentist?

I often hear people complain how much they hate going to the dentist. When asked why, their answer usually suprises me. I expect to hear a horror story of a mad, tooth-yanking dentist with wild eyes and a crazed look. Usually I hear, "I don't like someone having their hands in my mouth," or "I hate it when he scrapes the plaque off my teeth."

Normally I don't mind going to the dentist. Running my tongue over perfectly polished teeth gives me a thrill. But at my most recent dental visit, I fought off tears throughout. Several times the doctor's assistant patted my shoulder in her attempt to comfort me. The funny thing is, I LIKE this dentist.

I don't have a harrowing story to recollect for you, at least not outside of my own imagination.

After this particular visit, I climbed into my car. I told myself "this isn't a big deal, why the tears and emotion?" I found the answer in an old familiar sadness, perched atop my heart. I recognized the message it was transmitting: Forever Changed, never the same. It was as if I'd just received the permanent stamp marked "defective."

Even my beloved dentist had said more than once during this visit, "I wish I had a magic wand to wave, that would take you back to before you had this dental work done. But I don't." I had so hoped he could work a miracle, & change what another dentist had done. But his words told me know he didn't possess that kind of power.

What brought about this wish to go back to before? A crown. Plain and simple, only it wasn't. I suppose I was naive about the true definition of "crown." It actually sounds a bit glorified. I imagined a crowning bit of gold atop my tooth, raising it to the status of royalty. A crowned king. The dentist never explained that to crown my tooth he would attack it with mighty power tools. He would grind it down to a mere nub, cover it up with an imposter tooth causing excruciating, unending pain. Then he would declare it call it a king, er, crown. And that is what he did.

My life isn't the same. I don't like the change. I want my old tooth back. The one that emerged 44 years ago. I've experienced this before.

I remember having the same painful desires from November, 1971. I woke up that cold morning, hoping it had all been a dream. The night before, my siblings and I had created a slick ice slide. Outside our back door stood a long ramp leading to the back yard. Originally built to accomodate a wheelchair, it became a form of amusement to the four of us. We were fascinated to find that a glass of water, when spilled at the top, would freeze before reaching the bottom. We tried larger cups of water. To our amazement, no matter how much water we poured, it froze fast to the cement. We began using buckets. Before long, we had our very own tilted ice rink.

Two at a time, we raced to the bottom of the ramp. This continued until we were shivering cold. My competitive brother challenged me to one final race. Just wanting to go indoors and get warm, I reluctantly agreed.

"On your mark. Get set. Go!"

Down we went. Realizing he was about to lose, Greg swung his arms forward. Using me as a spring board, he shoved ahead to win. My feet slipped beneath me and I fell face forward, leaving my 2 front teeth broken off & stuck in the ice.

An emergency trip to the dentist left me with 2 new teeth. Nobody called them crowns, and they weren't made of gold. When I looked in the mirror the next morning all I saw were shiny silver teeth.


I wanted my old teeth back. The ones I'd had before. I wore sadness. Life would never the be the same. Marked with "forever changed/defective," my smile was stamped shiny and metallic. Forever was 10 long years.

My teeth now sport white fronts, but the silver backs remind me that they are unnatural. The pain of my crowned tooth speaks the same. I want my old tooth back.

I've joined the group that hates going to the dentist.

I'm Back

I didn't think I could do it. I went an entire week without so much as logging on to the computer. It wasn't necessarily by choice. Did you know most airlines now charge $15/each way to check a bag? This coupled with the fact that I don't own a laptop, I managed to do avoid staring at a computer screen for days. My eyes are rested, as are my fingers. I think my elbow feels better too. But gosh, do I feel out of touch. I didn't realize how much time I spend on here.

The last week of October, I did it. It must be contagious. I began playing Christmas music. The very next day, across the street, the neighbors lights showed up. No, they weren't for Halloween. These are most certainly for Christmas. When I arrived home this week, Christmas lights twinkled next door also. It is beginning to look and sound like Christmas. (I wonder if it is too late to decorate for Thanksgiving.)

I had a wonderful time while I was gone, but it is good to be home.