Birthday Card to Dad

The Grandmothers

Slumber Party!

Snow Monsters

Tub Fishing



Every year when it hits July, I think of those lucky numbers, 7 and 11, today’s date. My dad was born on 7/11, so I’d say they are lucky for at least me, my siblings, my nieces and my nephews. I’ll let my mom decide for herself if those are her lucky numbers but I suspect that they’re in her top three.

It’s always hard to pick out a birthday card for my dad. I wander through the aisles at CVS hoping something will jump out at me, but that just didn’t happen this year. So I sifted through the cards we have here at home for just such occasions. Somehow Doc. B.’s pack of generic cards from the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts just didn’t fit the bill. Stacks of colorful meditation cushions, seated buddahs and buildings with “Metta” inscriptions above the entrances wouldn’t suffice. There was also a random anniversary card that said “I’m so happy to be sharing life with you”. I guess dad shared his life with me but I would have had to sharpie out the “happy anniversary” part of the card – tacky but frugal – so Dad might have gone for this. Plus, perhaps Doc. B. was saving this card for me – after all, it is our 10/14 year anniversary in October (10 years since ceremony and 14 years since we met).

Eventually I found the last of a box of cards I’ve had since the early 90’s – cards with cats on the cover. There was one that looked like a cat we had when I was growing up – Binky the Siamese mix. That would have to do. I wrote my special note on the inside, sealed up the envelope, placed multiple heart stickers all over the envelope, stamped it and sent it on his way.

Dad is 71 today. And that card just doesn’t seem like enough. Sure, I talked to him on the phone, but I’d so much rather see him in person. But alas, I’m the one that moved to Atlanta. When I called him, he was at my sister’s house. He’d had a great day with my mom and three of their five grandchildren. They had meatball sandwiches for lunch and were building forts and haunted houses when I called. Just like when we were kids.

So here are some pictures from those kid days. My brother and me with our grandmothers. My two sisters having a big old slumber party. My brother and I playing in the snow. And three of us kids fishing from the bathtub. Brings back good memories, huh?

xxxooo Dad!

Bucket List 2011

Doc. B. called me at work a few weeks ago and asked me if I’d ever made up a bucket list. I responded in the negative but said I’d always wanted to. I spent the rest of my day, well, breaks and lunch, working on ideas. When we came home that night, we opened a bottle of wine and shared what items had made it onto our lists.

What made my list? Okay, if you must know, here you go. And by the way, they are in no particular order, I’m just numbering them since I’m sick of bullets. I live in Atlanta for goodness sakes!

1. Watch a match, in person, at Wimbledon.

2. Learn how to ride a motorcycle.

3. Brew a batch of my own beer or wine.

4. Read at least 25 of the top 100 classics.

5. Travel the length of Route 66 in a 1964 convertible Corvair – color doesn’t matter but light blue would be nice.

6. Learn Spanish by doing an immersion course in another country.

7. Attend the Sundance Film Festival.  Bonus bucket points if I bump into Robert Redford or Ashton Kutcher.  Triple bonus bucket points if they give me the evil eye.  Quadruple bonus bucket points if they smile.

8. Wear a big old Southern Baptist Church hat to the Kentucky Derby and bet on the long shot.

9. Open a Swiss bank account.  Even if it's just with the minimum balance.

10. Pick up where my family has left off on researching and keeping up with our family tree.

11. Shave my head – or at least a buzz cut. Maybe when Pam at the hair salon finally agrees to let me go gray?

12. See a psychic – I know – you probably can’t believe I haven’t already seen one.

13. Witness the Northern Lights – doesn’t matter from where.

14. Go to Oktoberfest in Germany and hike in Bavaria (maybe hike first, then beer?).

15. Write a book. Bonus bucket points = write a book and get it published. Triple bonus bucket points = write a book, get it published, and get on Oprah’s book club list – oh wait, will she still do that now that she’s retired?

16. Change my name – first, middle, last or all three – just because I can. Heck, it’s the one thing the legal system might actually let me do.

17. Fly first class to anywhere outside of the continental USA – preferably somewhere in Europe. Maybe that trip to Wimbledon or Germany?

18. Find something to be passionate about. Wonder what that will be? Checking off items on my bucket list perhaps?

What’s on your list? Any of these?

All in the Family

It's Miller Time - should be a good Memorial Day Weekend for these ladies!

I love calling my family. Makes me wonder why I don’t do it more often?

One of the reasons I’ve never liked calling people on the phone is that I always feel like I’m imposing. Like I’m interrupting a much needed nap, the third course of a 5 course dinner, or the planning of a military coup . I can only speculate that it’s a hold-over from the days before caller ID - and even before answering machines I guess. Remember there were those few years when if the phone rang the norm was:

1. Run to the phone,

2. Stand by it as you let the call roll over to the machine,

3. Listen to who was calling, and

4. Decide if you were going to answer it.

Invariably it was someone you didn’t want to talk to saying “pick up!” And remember, once voicemail came onto the scene, there were those people who didn’t get it and they would still say “pick up!”?

Now people just look at their phones and see that it’s you. Or one step better, they’ve got you set up with a special ringtone. I’m pretty sure that Doc. B. has selected “crickets” or “angry cat” as my ringtone. A friend has a “bark” ringtone for her boss. But my favorite was the woman on MARTA who had “gunshots” as her ringtone. Nobody even flinched when her phone rang. But I did see a couple of old guys chuckle.

So, back to my original point. When I call my parents, they don’t look at caller ID because I don’t think they have it. They just answer the phone – period. And they don’t just say “hello”. Sometimes they say “good morning!” or if it’s Thanksgiving, my dad might say “gobble, gobble, gobble.” Or once my dad realizes it’s one of his four offspring, he might say “is this my favorite first-born daughter?” They are so dang sweet! Their voices are upbeat. They seem genuinely happy to hear from me. I can only guess they would sound this way even if an IRS agent called them to schedule an audit. My mom would likely be running to the calendar to “pen it in”. Wait, my mom’s brother is a retired IRS attorney so perhaps they’ve had practice (nod to uncle R. if you are reading this blog!). And not that they have anything to hide from the IRS.

My sisters are the same way. For example today I called to see what middle sis and the kids were up to on this holiday weekend. One of the kids was promptly put on the phone (with my sis guiding the call) to talk about what they’d had for lunch. Carrots, cottage cheese, corn on the cob, chips, cold drinks, catsup and c-hot dogs. All in honor of aunt Care - they were eating a lunch filled with “C’s”.

And my niece even laughed when I asked if they’d had any c-olives for dessert!

I love my family! Happy Memorial Day to all of you! Hug a soldier or the relative of a soldier if you can!

Pulling Weed = Needing Pot

Don’t tell my mom but…

How many times have I started a blog with that line? I should go back and look.

Okay, so let me start again. Don’t tell my mom but, I’m using pot. Neti Pot, that is. For those of you who’ve never heard of a neti pot, it’s a cheap, at-home, saline irrigation system that cleans out all of the crap in your nasal passages. Just heat up 6 ounces of water, dissolve in 1 ½ teaspoons of salt (preferably sea salt or kosher salt harvested directly from Lake Wobegon or Lake Michigan if you can get it) and let it cool down to lukewarm - but NOT matthew, mark or johnwarm. Then pour it into your neti pot. This is where the fun begins. Stick the open end of the neti pot into one of your nostrils, tilt your head and pour half of the solution into one nostril and watch in shock and awe as it comes out the other nostril. Then repeat on the other side with the remaining half of the mixture. Seriously. I’m not kidding. It’s sort of like laughing and having milk come out of your nose but this is on purpose.

April is pollen season in the south and this year, it came early and is overstaying its welcome. I love being in the yard when the temps are good, like right now, but this is getting a bit ridiculous. The neti pot is getting a work out that almost warrants a gym membership. I’m also washing way too many bandanas, and not because they contain “working in the yard” sweat. I’ll leave the “what I’m washing off of them” to your imagination and your own personal nostrils.

I’m off work today. As is always the case when I’m home alone without anyone to talk to but the cat, my mind wanders (or as they say in disability applications when they are trying to get approved for cognitive issues, my mind “wonders.”). Today I was home from work for a specific reason that caused my mind to “wonder” about words that weren’t in my vocabulary until my adult life. Take for example, “Sub-Zero”. This new word is the reason I’m home today; I’m waiting on Seth, the refrigerator diagnostician. You know what that means? It means that I’m going to pay for a service call today and I’m only going to find out what’s wrong with the fridge. Then I’ll have to take another day off work, and pay more money, so that the repair technician can come out and fix it. So here we go in Jeopardy speak: “a large stainless steel chilling apparatus that looks really cool for ten years but ultimately repair costs are the same as a brand new Kenmore. What is Sub-Zero?

In the meantime, at least the beer is a bit colder than lukewarm (who would have thought one could use the word lukewarm twice in just a few short paragraphs?). And since the freezer section is working just fine, there’s plenty of ice for frozen drinks. So while I wait for Seth, I might as well get outside on this blue-sky Atlanta day and pull weeds – even if it means filling my nose with pollen, such that I once again need pot…neti pot…yet another new adult word.

So back we are, full circle, to the net pot. Well, almost. Just one more thing.

Mom hated it when we kids came in from the sandbox and washed our dirty hands in the kitchen sink. In fact she wouldn’t allow it. I’m guessing it’s because it would interfere with the plastic sandwich baggies she had washed and was drying so that they could be used again? Or maybe it was just that she was a home economics major and this was part of her training? Either way we had to go to the bathroom to scrub our grimy mitts. Or if we were at Grandma and Grandpa O’s, we could use the sink in the entry room, where there was always some really cool abrasive soap – the kind that could scrub off tractor engine, chainsaw, cherry picker and snowmobile grease AND I bet could even be added to the laundry to freshen up a well-worn Carhartt jacket.

So if mom hated those dirty paws in the kitchen sink, imagine what she might say if she saw me employing the services of a neti pot over the kitchen sink? There’s no handed down from generation to generation protocol for where to use a neti pot. Maybe next time she’s in town, I’ll give her a demonstration and let her determine the guidelines. Or maybe I’ll just keep pulling weed and using (neti) pot in the kitchen sink.

When are you coming to visit again mom?

For those of you in the Atlanta area – see you at the Inman Park Festival this weekend?

Little Bunny Foo Foo



me and baby brother




I want one Million dollars for that rolling rabbit!



oh look, the cat likes the fake bunny!


With little Maddie Cat in a better place, it’s time for me to move back to a self-deprecating mode. Let’s start with a children’s poem to get us back in the groove.

"Little Bunny Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
Down came the Good Fairy, and she said:
Little Bunny Foo Foo
I don't wanna see you
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
I will give you three chances,
Then POOF you're a Goon".

The well-known moral of this story is “Hare today, goon tomorrow.” Personally, I prefer a different moral to this story as outlined in the book “Lenore, The Cute Dead Girl: Noogies.” In this book, after being chastised by the fairy, Little Bunny Foo Foo starts bopping other animals on the head. The Fairy reappears to remind Little Bunny Foo Foo that you’re not supposed to bop ANY animals on the head. At which point Little Bunny Foo Foo bops the fairy on the head. The moral of this version of the story is “be more specific.”

In our household, I tend to be the whiner, specifically. Sure, Doc B. will complain now and again, but my bouts tend to be more pouty with intermittent lashing out. All that anger and generalized repression has to come out somehow…and sooner or later.

So when I get in one of those moods, Doc. B. (lovingly?) refers to me as Little Bunny Foo Foo (LBFF for short and LB for even shorter). When this first became my nickname, I tried to pretend that “LB” meant “little butt.” Unfortunately, that has not been the case since approximately 8th grade, but who’s measuring? Apparently the neighborhood has a lock on my dimensions because the butt factor was confirmed again for me this afternoon. While bending over to pull weeds on our busy street this morning, only one car honked and whistled. I could swear I heard Sir Mix-a-Lot thumping some bass in the speakers with a remixed rendition of “Baby Got Back.” The “I like big butts and I cannot lie” part of the lyrics stood out like a sore gluteus maximus.

Anyway, as you can see from the baby pictures above, I have an early connection to bunnies. I think I’ll continue to see that as a good thing, butt or no butt.

Maddie Cat

Madison: May 12, 1988 - February 27, 2011

Yesterday, Maddie enjoyed a stroll on the screened porch. It was a wobbly jaunt, but a walk in the fresh air none the less. She circled the perimeter, taking in all of the smells and sights. She lost most of her hearing years ago but I bet she heard a few birds too. This was her last moment in the sun, at least on this earth that is. After three days of difficulty breathing, so much so that she couldn’t purr, she passed away at 7:30 this morning. Doc. B and I petted her as she took in her last few breaths and let go of the very last one. It’s going to be a new world for me. Save for vacations, I never went more than a day without hearing that little girl purr. Almost 23 years of the loudest, sometimes obnoxious, yet most comforting sound I may ever know.


While she didn’t quite reach her 23rd birthday, or the point at which she would have lived half of my life (in December 2011), she lived in 4 decades: May 12, 1988 – February 27, 2011. So many people, jobs and homes have come in and out of my life over that time period and she was there through it all. She was my constant witness to the joys in my life as well as the things I’d just as soon forget. I miss her already.

To all of you who knew and loved her on so many different levels, and who supported me in the decisions I made because that kitty was in my life – I thank you. Hug a pet for me today.

Adults Will Be Adults

Last night I playfully busted the neighbor girls playing ding, dong ditch.  Here’s the routine: they ring the bell and I open the door to quiet giggles in the distance - but of course no one is in view.  So I hide patiently behind the front door, with a smile on my face, waiting for them to tip-toe up the front steps to try it again.  When the bell rings this time, I fling open the front door to catch them in the act and yuck it up with them for a bit on the front porch.  They seem to love it and their obvious goal - to get caught.  I hope these girls are as friendly and chatty when they enter high school but unfortunately, I’m not counting their chickens before they hatch.  These young ladies will probably have to go through an ornery phase, like I did, and do some stupid stuff, like I did, before they turn out to be perfect adults, like I did.  In the meantime, we were able to chat about what they were having for dinner and “weather” or not they’d have school on Monday morning.  4-6 inches of snow and ice falling on Atlanta usually means a day off.  Their fingers, inside their mittens, were crossed.

Even though I’ve never wanted children of my own, I at least try to be supportive and nice to the kids I know.  Okay, maybe I haven’t always wanted them in the house with their grimy paws (just ask Kali), but I’ll eat pizza and play video games with kids (at their parents’ houses) any day of the week. I generally like pre-teens the best - they’re still at that age where they’ll laugh at my Grandpa O. corny jokes and they aren’t too cool for school…yet.

I used to love playing games like ding, dong ditch; kick the can; kickball; Annie, Annie over; spin the bottle (only once Mom!), lets skip school (only a few times Mom!) and of course I loved ALL sports.  Most of the time, the adults in my life encouraged most of these activities.  My parents would let us run free through the neighborhoods – it was safe back then.  We’d meet up with our friends to play street hockey, baseball, go skateboarding and dad would even make us an ice rink in the winter.  My dad also coached my losing 5^th grade basketball team without making us feel bad for not winning.  And my mom cheered for my teammates and me from high up in the bleachers whenever there was a basketball game in the Twin Valley conference (what are the twin valleys anyway?).  Several adults adopted our teams and made sure our pictures got in the local paper.  Numerous teachers gave me breaks because they knew I had a game the next day.  The list of caring adults involved in my youth was thankfully long.

But there are those few adults who I let ruin things for me. 

Could have been my spiritual doorway - but no...(plus, this is not really me)

Like the first time I ever went downhill skiing.  I’m going to guess that I was in 4^th grade yet it seems like just yesterday that I was coming off of my first exhilarating run down the bunny hill.  I was so excited that I wanted to go again and with that, my dad helped me over to the rope tow that pulls you up to the top of the slope.  Apparently I was a bit too anxious and accidentally bumped the man on the tow line in front of me.  "Be careful; you could have hurt me!" he said in a gruff voice - and that was it for me and skiing.  The adult me knows that he was probably having his own insecurities about learning to ski – it didn’t matter then.  I took up cross country skiing later in life but have never been downhill skiing again. 

I prefer strips and no gut, thank you very much

Then there was the time that I went golfing with my baby sister and her then boyfriend.  We were young and new to the game but were careful not to leave too many divots, and we followed the rules of etiquette to the best of our knowledge and ability.  We purposely picked an unpopular time so that we wouldn’t be holding anyone up while we took our extra swings and putts.  Like good sportswomen (and man), we slowed down our play when we came up behind a foursome leaving our putting green for the next hole.  Little did we know there were annoyed adults behind us. From their bloated beer bellies, under the waistlines of plaid pants, they yelled "Hit the ball!  What do you think; you’re going to drive the green?"  So much for etiquette.  I’ve put the faces of those men on many a golf ball at the driving range but haven’t played a game of golf since.  Probably best since it’s so dang expensive not to mention stereotypical (See you at the Dinah Shore in Palm Springs - March 30, 2011?).

He's making 5 million a year, but we're getting a housekeeper, so there!

And finally there was swimming class in Junior High.  The gym teachers would make us strip down, put our clothes in a locker and then get in line outside the swimsuit storage room.  They would eyeball our naked bodies (up, down and around) and then toss each of us a well-worn, navy blue, one-piece tank suit.  My locker room and bathing suit issues started at a very young age thanks to some uncaring adult gym teachers.  From that point on, it always seemed to be "that time of the month," before I even knew what that meant, because that was the only way we could get out of swimming.  But I did, on occasion, swim with Jim Harbaugh, a Tappan Junior High classmate and the new 25 million dollar coach of the San Fran 49ers.  Guess he doesn't have locker room issues.

Time to watch the snow fall!

On Becoming My Mother

It's been happening for a long time, becoming my mother that is.  It started for me at a very early age.  For example, we both know how to rock an outfit, especially if dresses and skirts are involved.

And we both know how sit in a car in a lady-like fashion (I call shotgun!)

Recently, however, the fact that I'm becoming my mother has hit an all time high (or low?).  You guessed it, I'm finding Kleenex in all of my sweater pockets.  This has been both a pleasant surprise and an annoyance so I'm looking for my sweet mom to offer any suggestions she might have up her sleeve (which is where I anticipate finding Kleenex within the next 2-3 years if not sooner).

The pleasant surprise happened yesterday.  I was serving on my last day of jury duty in what was an unforgettable, life-changing experience for me and my 5 fellow jurors.  It was a lose-lose situation for the defendant and the State.  We all teared up in the deliberation room at the conclusion of the trial - even the men.  I was so glad to be able to reach into my sweater pocket and find a tissue waiting for me.

The annoyance part came about a week ago when I forgot to empty out the contents of my pockets before doing the laundry.  I ended up with a couple of crispy one dollar bills and a dryer full of shredded tissue covering my clothes.

Oh well, I'd be happy to become even half of my beautiful mother.  I can live with the annoyances.

SIDE NOTE:  If any of you are voting in the DeKalb County elections this November, please consider voting for incumbent Alvin T. Wong.  He was unbelievable and amazing during my jury service.  Not only did he take care of us jurors like we were his very own children, but he made it a point to remember all of our names - first and last...not just the 6 of us that were selected for the trial but all 24 people who were on the original panel.  I don't know how he did it.  And, he gets bonus points for telling Kid Rock that community service following a Waffle House fight did not include his normal volunteer singing engagements!

We Now Return to our Regularly Scheduled Programming

First Haircut!

From my first haircut with the Wright Beauty Academy of Battle Creek, Michigan (pictured above) to the one I had last night with Pam from Novi, Michigan (she says she’s from Union Lake, Michigan but whatever), some things never change.

This is exactly how I looked last night when Pam plopped a bean bag ashtray on the work station in front of me, stuck a roller (not a joint) in my hand to keep me occupied, and safety-pinned a towel around my formerly chubby (now double-chinned) neck to keep hair clippings (and now Ms. Clairol) off of my t-shirt.

The traveling crew from Wright Beauty Academy had their work "cut" out for them back then and Pam sure has been earning her money with me over the past ten years. Back at age one, it took a Ritz cracker to entertain me. Now it takes a combination of cheap wine, groaning humor delivered with a strong Michigan accent and salon drama.

Seriously, Pam does a great job with what she has to work with and whether she knows it or not, she’s like a part of my family (Pam, if you are reading this, Doc. B. and I send out hugs to you and your hubby on the passing of your beloved dog who had the same name as my beloved mother...).

And speaking of family, I just returned from a trip to Michigan to celebrate my dad’s 70th b-day and attend a family reunion (paternal grandmother's side of the gang). The entire week and a half there was just what I needed to regroup and recharge. Zingerman’s Deli in Ann Arbor, The Boyfriend at the Franke Center for Performing Arts (my mom played Hortense, the French Maid, in her senior high school production), the Welcome to my Garden Tour, a tour of all of my former Michigan residences, an olive burger at the Stage Coach, a meal at Winston’s, time at the Lake Cottage, a ride on the new boat to the Willows, Lake Michigan, time with Doc. B., and much overdue time with my sisters, brother, mom, dad, extended family and family friends. A special thanks to our best bud and pet/house sitter who made it easy to leave the kitties at home without worries (you know who you are but I haven’t thought up a nickname for you yet – help me out!)

Hope you are all finding ways to regroup and recharge in this summer heat and that you have a hair salon just like the one on Steel Magnolias!

Life in the Single Wide

Since I was being all hoity toity about living in Victorian villas and Arts and Crafts abodes, I thought it only right to admit that I also had my dose of mid-century, pre-fab, modern-for-the-times, static caravan, shabby chic, 12’x 60’, living spaces too. Yes, I lived in a trailer.

The first trailer, that I lived in (before birth) was, according to my mom, pink…inside and out. So you know my parents must have gotten a deal on it. Or wait, it was the 60’s so maybe they actually paid top dollar for its trendiness? And look what they’re eating here in the pink trailer: canned peaches, hamburger patties on white bread, and probably milk in those really cool drinking glasses that would no doubt be worth a fortune on eBay this very moment. But hey, there was a candle and gifts on the table – could this have been my parents' first Christmas dinner together? How cute!

Then there’s trailer number 2 where we lived when I was born. Look at the upgrades! For one, it’s not pink – they went with the classic white. Next, it looks like it’s on a corner lot – good call if there’s a kid on the way – fewer neighbors to hear all that baby crying and whining. And is that an attached garage? Who knew! Is that even allowed in trailer parks? I wonder if this is what piqued my dad’s interest in planning and zoning? Oh wait, he already had his degree in urban planning before moving into this trailer so I don't know what to blame.

So there. It’s not all glitz and glamour in my residences like you thought. And to keep us humble in our current home, we bought a double-wide for the cat.

And here's our beloved cat, all ready to open up his very own double wide - some things never change...

Memorial Day 2010

While Doc. B. has been fully immersed in war and her family’s service to our country (including a recent trip to Vietnam), I look back on what I know of my family history and there’s nothing, zilch, nada, zip.

Now, Dad, I’m TOTALLY NOT downplaying your service in the National Guard. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have Mitt’s dad, Michigan Governor George Romney, call you to the 1967 Detroit riots to even attempt to “keep the peace.” 43 dead, almost 500 injured, over 7000 arrested, and 2000+ buildings burned. From what I understand, the whole thing started after a celebratory party for two returning Vietnam Vets. Willie Horton, after playing in a Detroit Tigers game, even tried to calm the crowds, but to no avail. I know my dad’s role was to transport prisoners from Detroit to the prison in Jackson, Michigan (how come prisons are always in Jackson?). I hope he was never in harm’s way, and if he was, he never described it as such.


But beyond my dad’s National Guard service, I don’t know that any of my family members served in a war/conflict. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it just seems curious to me. It’s for sure on my list of research items. If nothing else, perhaps it explains my distaste for conflict?

Go hug a Vet while you are eating your burger and chips! Hugs to you all!

It's in the Blood

Many of you have asked me about the "ubiquitous fruit crates" that I mentioned in a recent post. Well, the above picture about sums it up. This is a picture of my young father down on the farm, moving crates full of fruit (thus the term fruit crate). My Dad is a retired 36th generation fruit farmer (okay, maybe only like 6th generation or something like that). He retired at the ripe (get it, ripe, as in ripe fruit?) old age of (approximately) 21, when he got his college degree from Michigan State University (Go Spartans!). Okay, I guess I'm done with parentheticals this go around. Who knew he could drive a tractor? I guess I should have known given the fact that my quadruplet cousins were driving tractors by about the age of two.
Fruit crates are a part of my life. In our clan, they are considered high-end shelving units. I'm sure I had my stereo system, eight track player included, loaded onto a fruit crate stand at one time or another. And they made the perfect storage container for all of my albums and 45’s. When I moved to my college dormitory room, I loaded my life into fruit crates. And now in my adult life, fruit crates are on the workbench holding tools, in the basement holding emergency food rations, and in the shed holding lord knows what (that shed needs a good cleaning).

Fruit crates are obviously in my blood. I wonder what else is in my blood. Hmm…old homes.

My Dad had me stripping wallpaper in 100 year old Victorian houses since before I could walk.  His idea of a great weekend was climbing up a ladder to scrape exterior paint (he did one side of the house per year as I recall - I'm sure he'll correct me if I'm wrong).  And while Victorian homes are grand and beautiful and I grew up in one, my true love is the 1920’s Arts and Crafts era homes. We now live in one such home, and below is the house my mother grew up in. Guess it makes sense that old homes are also in my blood.

What’s in your blood?

Buddha Belly

"Love the whole world as a mother loves her only child." Quote from Buddha.

Clearly, I was my mother's only child at this point in my life.  The three children that came later were never this chunky!

Given this snapshot, one would think I'd have had my come to Buddha moment much earlier in life. I might as well have been the Buddha's child except for the enlightenment part that wasn't there then and ain't there now. And look, I'm already working toward half lotus before my first birthday!

All Buddha talk aside, I absolutely LOVE this picture of my mother and me.  Isn't it cool how I'm looking at her while she's looking at the camera.  There was no need for her to keep an eye on me because I certainly would have floated if I'd fallen out of the boat.  It was taken at my grandparents’ camp at Stoner Lake in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. It was the first of my many trips from the Midwest “back east”. My Mom tells me that during this trip, she and Dad went to the New York World’s Fair – and recently, they gifted me the tumblers they purchased while there (pictured below). Bet those glasses never had sangria in them until they came to Atlanta.

While Mom and Dad went to the fair, they entrusted their first born with my Mom’s parents in Delmar, New York. My Mom recalls leaving one of her now infamous "notes" (that were really pages and pages of instructions) in a stack of diapers so that my grandparents would know what the heck to do with this roly poly baby. I wonder if she was still writing out those long notes by the time my youngest sister arrived?  I think post-its were invented by then.

How about a couple of quotes from Buddha to wrap this up…

"When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky"

(The only time I remember tilting my head back and laughing at the sky was the day I realized how crazy everything was!)

"To keep the body in good health is a duty...otherwise we shall not be able to keep our mind strong and clear"

(Guess I better work on this – my belly is looking like the Buddha’s again. And who knows how often I can count my mind as being strong and clear other then when I’m deciding which bottle of wine to buy?)

Slip Slidin' Away

Slide shows are in the love/hate category for me. I hate to think about sitting through one of them, but I always love that I did...especially when the slide show includes pictures of me! And I love it even more so when the photos evoke memories, a funny title for the picture, or a good guess at what was going on when the picture was taken.

When I was at Hilton Head with family last month, Dad brought with him a slide show of sorts. He had taken a bunch of old slides, converted them to photos, and put them on a jump drive. I was a bit hesitant when he suggested he just copy the pictures to my laptop, but I’ve looked at these images several times since then and am glad to have a piece of family history in my possession.

Seems like I’ve been watching my Dad’s slide shows since I was in the womb…well, now I have proof that’s true. If my calculations are correct, the above photos were taken by my mother when she was pregnant with me – and that’s Dad there next to the slide projector. Also in the photo: my paternal grandparents and my uncle – my uncle was probably almost 4 years old in these pictures and, get this, he’s four years older than I am. So despite my poor math skills, I was able to put two and two together and get nine months.

The slide show in Hilton Head was really quite nice. My Dad even made me popcorn so it could be just like the old days. I loved seeing all of these memory-provoking photos, and of course being the first born, most were of me. What does this mean? It means there are now mucho opportunities for me to add some of my favorite self-effacing humor to my blog – by posting embarrassing photos of myself.

Stay tuned for the Blue Mailbox slide show. Check the blog when you feel like it and I’ll try to post on a more regular basis. As always – thanks for reading.

Note: see if you can find all of these items in the two photos above:

• record player
• bean bag ash tray
• pack of cigarettes
• movie screen
• pearls
• cat-eye glasses
• funky lamp
• t.v. tray
• the ubiquitous fruit crate (ubiquitous in my family that is!)
• refrigerator (pink and stainless combined?)

Love ya' Grandpa O.

Just a short note to all of my friends that I'm going to Michigan momentarily to attend my grandpa's funeral. He passed away on Tuesday at just a couple of weeks shy of 92. He was a wonderful man with clever sayings, a twinkle in his blue eyes, and a grin that I will never forget.

My favorite saying was: "you should have called to tell me you were coming so that I could be gone." Well, I talked to Grandpa on Thanksgiving day but I didn't tell him I was coming...but he's gone...and I will remember him with a huge smile in my heart. Cheers (with a sprite) to my last grandparent passing on...