tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52308303499145626272024-03-03T02:32:53.848-08:00The Brandywine ChroniclesBrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-19212073804617592502020-05-18T12:11:00.001-07:002020-05-20T18:51:20.326-07:00My Christmas Letter 2019<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“Silence, Earthling! My name is Darth Vader. I am an extraterrestrial from the planet Vulcan.” </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>Back to the Future</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<b>“Nothing is as far away as one minute ago.” </b><br />
<b><i>Jim Bishop</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is May 17<sup>th</sup>, or 18<sup>th</sup>…May 18<sup>th</sup>
as I just checked my smart phone. And I’m pretty confident it’s a Monday for
whatever that is worth today. On this cloudy, unseasonalble cool May in
North Carolina I became inspired to write my Christmas letter 2019. I wrote
several drafts previously – back in December, and maybe a short one in January,
though I never sent my cards. I figured I’d send them for Valentine’s Day –
that nutty MB, sending her Christmas cards for Valentine’s. Not too many
friends would be surprised. Then that romantic holiday passed. St Patty’s Day –
feeling the luck of my Irish, too caught up in this novel virus and all the
swirling drama and talk, those cards collected dust. Today, Monday, May 18<sup>th</sup>,
my cards sit, in a corner, neatly stacked, waiting for the trash or a wacky red
head to pop in the mail in May (or June, or Christmas in July). We shall see. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t written a blog in well over a year. Up until recently, I’ve been too
busy with life, shuffling here and there for this and that, running in circles,
treading water to complete a task amongst ten other tasks. I’ve pretty much
given up on “keeping in touch” with new friends, never mind old friends,
sometimes don’t even keep in touch with family. Sit down dinners? Who has time for
them? All the prep, the time, for a moment on the lips, a mess that lingers
sometimes till morn, and half the time maybe I have one customer who sits to
eat? I succumbed to life as a newly crowned happy hermit, me and the hubby, with
life just passing us by, kids one foot out the door. How I wished for life to
slow, how I longed for the days when I was stuck at home with the kiddies,
shackled to nap schedules, feeding and snack time, bath time, bedtime story
snuggles. Those were the days! If I could just have one moment in time to
relive those days. I know I’m not alone. But I pinched myself back to reality, I figured those days were long gone. Life is good, keep calm and carry on. Livin’ the dream. Be careful what you wish for they say cause welcome to a new age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2019 was a good year, though I don’t remember it in its
entirety, it was a good year. I think my first draft went something like this…Kids
are good, all did well in school. Daughter a junior at college, pictured here
with her boyfriend of 4 years. We love him. She works really hard in
school, straight A’s, and various part time jobs and volunteer causes. She just
got accepted to an overseas school this summer as part of her major – we can’t
wait to visit! Daughter #2 living the beach life while attending school, hard to
pin her down for a picture.<br />
<br />
Son, pictured with his lacrosse gear, is heading
into his junior year so we took a college tour –see the orange and purple tiger mascot in the background?
With Clemson Engineering as his goal, he’s working really hard in school and so far it’s
paying off with straight A’s. He's working really hard at lacrosse, attending off
season workouts and even forgoing joining the swim team, demonstrating his commitment to the coach for a spot on varsity. He’s also become quite the classical pianist
which fills the house with music which does my heart proud.<br />
<br />
Daughter number 3 working hard her first year of high school. She’s
making the grades, dancing and volunteering at her studio 5 days a week, and
after school practices for dance team. I’m worried she’ll burn herself out she’s
so busy. See her in her JV dance uniform? She’s so pretty.<br />
<br />
The "baby" started the
fall as a 6<sup>th</sup> grade middle schooler, he loves baseball and Xbox. He
made a traveling baseball team after trying out for 4 teams. He’s now a Havoc! Look at him in his uniform! I know he's MLB bound. So proud of his perseverance. We can’t wait for the season to start!<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hubby and I bought a boat and spent the summer exploring
the Pamlico waters with many adventures. Here we are, he as captain, aye aye his first mate. The highlight that brought 2019 to a
close was our 120 year old Washington, NC home was part of the Christmas
historic tour. We had over 500 people tour our home from top to bottom. See us pictured at our mantle with our official historic society nametags to commemorate the event. I
worried up to the day of all these strangers trapesing through our home, the
possible germs – you know with flu season in motion, the wear and tear on the
old floors – but alas it was a wonderful experience with many new friends made. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2020!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here's a preview of Christmas card 2020:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daughter #1 summer school program cancelled. College studies
online. She’s taking life in stride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Older son did not make varsity lacrosse or find a prom date.
That turned out to be ok with him because school and prom and lacrosse all
cancelled. He’s discovered a whole new world of activity that involves social
distancing: kayaking, fishing, golfing, mountain biking and drive in movie
theaters. Everyone gets an A. He’s loving life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daughter #3 has been dancing virtually. She spent two months,
hours a day, practicing to make the varsity team via virtual tryouts.
Unfortunately she did not make varsity though I’m not so sure there will even
be a football season to perform. She was set to get her driver’s permit – that got
put on hold. She was set to become a lifeguard and work at a pool this summer –
that too on hold. The most social of the bunch, she misses her friends. But we
painted her room pink and gray and created a virtual wonderland.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The traveling Havocs season was short. My tween is lost in a
black hole called “The Xbox.” Someone send out an SOS please, he needs rescuing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hubby still heads to work, mask on, daily temperature taken, his business considered
essential. We are grateful he has a job.<br />
<br />
Everyone boating, every day of the week, the water so crowded we are standing by the river's edge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me, truth be told, aside from the tragedy of this pandemic
and all the horrid implications for many, my YMCA membership on hold, my quest for toilet paper (and now brown sugar - who knew?) I’m happy as a clam. I have stepped back to a
time I truly thought was gone except for the snapshot of a year preserved on a holiday card tradition, this is as close to time travel as I'm gonna get. I’ve got my family home, life has slowed, and I
can breathe (knock on wood!). It’s an opportunity to get caught up, stop and smell the roses, and prepare for a new day.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXhBpr_R-7J3akec_B0OvXEijJkh5KXoBuH0UdqKyt6uPAv24PmMlRSmwIyeAP1e2zF7r62Tq5_qGgGcLmRjiZNhOLNtA8k_bZUrdGyAo6xg_fwYc-5OeL_mfldKubBsFgf6rWKCWvZ14/s1600/FB479E6E-A1E9-4399-97AA-96A7E13C77D6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXhBpr_R-7J3akec_B0OvXEijJkh5KXoBuH0UdqKyt6uPAv24PmMlRSmwIyeAP1e2zF7r62Tq5_qGgGcLmRjiZNhOLNtA8k_bZUrdGyAo6xg_fwYc-5OeL_mfldKubBsFgf6rWKCWvZ14/s320/FB479E6E-A1E9-4399-97AA-96A7E13C77D6.jpeg" width="235" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-67292590425998869662018-09-01T10:41:00.001-07:002019-05-21T12:02:36.463-07:00“Red Bricks and Ivory Notes”<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i>"Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you've split yourself open.</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<i>And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays." - Francesca Lia Block</i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Walking towards the 1920’s white colonial, along the red
brick pathway, uneven with roots that have jumbled with time, I anxiously carry
my sheets of music, anticipating another season of piano. Magnolia seedlings
have sprouted, planting stakes of what will be grand hallmarks with lilies of
the valley growing freely throughout the garden beds. A stray red bud or two
has lost its way and azaleas and boxwood are grounded in the yard. The great
big oak that once stood at the border of her yard lived a long life and all
that remains is a pile of saw dust sinking in a hole. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I take a step onto her
tiny front porch I notice a little bird’s nest perched in a corner of the eave
amongst a background of painted shutters and shingles of infinite layers. I
ring the doorbell but soon remember it doesn’t produce any sound. I knock a
once or twice with no response. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I know Ms. Kathaleen is expecting me. My lesson is at 2:30.
Originally it was scheduled for 1 but as usual, she accommodates my crazy, erratic
and disorganized time management and allows me to change lesson time at the
last minute. I always call frantic with an excuse, but really I’m just a big hot
mess, on a treadmill. I probably
have no business trying to fit time in for myself. Yet here I am, on time for
once, but someone else is playing.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maybe she finally, after all these years, got fed up with me
and took another lesson, just to teach me about the value of other people’s
schedules. No, that’s not her style. Don’t think I have ever seen her not
smiling, not greeting you like she hasn’t seen you for ages and is so happy you’re
here, so grateful to have your presence. Her calm yet vivacious, infectious
moods are always so consistent. She’s no pushover mind you, no ma’am, she’s
not. She’s tough in a quiet manner. And you’d think she was actually organized
with all the lessons she juggles, keeping track of sheets of music and books
she purchases and passes along to her students, the great recitals she
organizes, forty years of lessons and counting, but no, I think she’s as hot a
mess as I am. At least that’s what she tells me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She always says, “Mary Beth, you’re just like me. We don’t
know if we’re coming or going. That’s the mind of a musician.” Or something to
that effect. “Time doesn’t matter to us, at least it has no boundaries. It just
flows and we roll with it.” Or something like that. “Playing piano keeps your
mind fresh, keeps your memory alive. All my students are smart, do well in
school and go on to do great things.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I peer through her window, the pane slightly rippled and
cloudy, I see there is not another student taking my spot but Ms. Kathaleen at
her grand piano, playing my piece. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I oftentimes phone her out of the blue and announce
enthusiastically “I just heard this piece on Classic FM and want to learn to
play it.” It’s typically a Chopin piece as he’s my favorite composer. She’ll
respond so delighted that I called, she’ll give a little chuckle in a high
pitched note and respond in a deep pitched voice with a soft southern drawl, “Oh
Mary Beth, you’ll have your hands full with that one but we can try it.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m currently working on Chopin’s Grande Valse Brillante
Ballade Op. 34 Nr2. It might take me a lifetime to learn. I’ve been working on
Beethoven’s third movement of Moonlight Sonata, having mastered the first and
second. The third is quite intimidating though, so much I often just sit and
stare at the notes in an anxious panic. I’ll learn them before I die, but maybe
not for spring recital this year. Well at least I’ll try. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There was one piece I called her about that sounded simple
enough: Chopin’s Berceuse. It’s a stunningly beautiful piece. Slow and melodic,
with flat notes of D, E, G, A, and B and scales going from naturals to flats to
sharps and back again. The treble clef remains fairly constant. It’s one of the
pieces that makes me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I haven’t been playing piano for very long. I’m almost forty
seven and I’ve only learned to read notes a few years ago. I tried for decades
to learn to read music but no one could teach me. I play by ear so the pieces I
started with had always been so simple I ended up taking the easy route and
sounding them out instead. The instructors assumed I was reading notes because
I was playing “Stepping Up and Down” notes C, D and E. I wasn’t reading or
learning though, they thought I was, but I never got past the basic kid piano
books. I must have gone through about five instructors during my youth, with
the same pattern of learning the same silly song, no progress, and so I’d
quickly get bored and quit instead of wasting everyone’s resources.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Though my desire never waned. I yearned to play true
classical music, I yearned for it, just to have my fingers dance over the keys
and fill a room with great beauty. I was determined. So the summer of my
sixteenth birthday, which I recall being particularly rainy and boring, I sounded
out the entire first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I had a pink
boom box with a cassette player my father bought for me. I would play and
rewind, play and rewind all summer long until I felt I mastered the piece. It
was the first time I danced with the ivories and I was so proud, as were my
parents. I felt I had truly accomplished something great: the entire piece, learned
by ear, note for note.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My pride was shattered though when I played one day for my
mom’s friend, a fellow pianist like myself. She told me in no unforgiving, sympathetic
terms that I had spent the whole summer sounding out the piece in the wrong
key. I felt deflated. I cut myself a break though. After all, I was playing on
a hundred year old piano rescued from the basement of my grandmother’s house,
with sticky keys and broken strings, glue coming undone on the felt. I doubt
that piano had ever been tuned. Maybe someday I’ll have a new piano and I’ll
gracefully dance along the keys.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time passed, a marriage and three kids later, I got my piano:
brand new and well-tuned, an upright Young Chang, pretty with cherry wood, no
Steinway, but still of good stock. Now what to do with this piano? My ear could
only take me so far and that’s how I stumbled upon Ms. Kathaleen.</span><b></b><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I would show up at Ms. Kathaleen’s home with my music books, a
bag of goldfish, and Pack-and-Play in hand. I would plop down my one year old
son, toss him the fish and have my thirty minute lesson. And I learned, truly
learned to read notes. Ms. Kathaleen didn’t start me on the baby stuff. She
started me on Chopin. And I played that year in my very first recital, in front
of a crowd of other adults in a beautiful chapel with outstanding acoustics.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I choked. I got up to play, my piece so well practiced I
didn’t even need the sheet music to play. I had it memorized like every great
pianist before and after me. I was confident until I sat down to play. I
imploded. I forgot bits and pieces, I stalled, I stumbled, my hands shaking, my
brow sweating. I was mortified.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stormed off, no customary bow, and I was embarrassed and
ashamed but looked angry with fire blazing from my red head. I had no plans to
return and spent the summer cowering in self-pity as my infamous piano choking
turned out to be a precursor of sorts, a life’s metaphor for the catastrophe
that was about to unfold.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The summer, dark and cold, even with a burning Carolina sun, was ending until a fresh breeze blew my way. Ms. Kathaleen called me, “Would you like
to schedule your lessons for the new season?” I didn’t know what to say. Wasn’t
she offended by my behavior? I mean, I didn’t even walk up to the stage to
accept my certificate. I sent my five year old daughter up in my place. My husband
even scolded me for my behavior, telling me he was embarrassed and ashamed of
me. Yet she was calling me to start again.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But Ms. Kathaleen, I choked and then I stormed off that
stage.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Oh Mary Beth, you’re just like all those other great
musicians who get flustered and throw a tantrum. That just means you’re a true pianist.
So when do you want to come for your lesson?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The summer of my fortieth birthday, that a dark and ever so dreary summer, I needed saving. I had
three beautiful children and a piano but I didn’t feel my value. The music I so longed to play since I was just a little girl had been silenced. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I showed up at my scheduled lesson, probably late and a big
hot mess as usual. Maybe I should have stayed in my cocoon. But I'm an open book and I couldn’t help myself. I broke down and told her my story, my story
of shame, of devastation, my story of loss and sadness and fear. I figured this
women, so well revered by many, so full of grace, would have no understanding of
what I was experiencing. The thing I valued more than anything was slipping from me forever, never to be recreated, with only memories that held onto the pain. But she said, “Oh Mary Beth, I been
there. Now let’s play.” And so I played.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Eight year later, as I peered into Ms. Kathaleen’s window she
was playing my piece: Berceuse. Oh what a gift! I peered and listened, I closed
my eyes, soaking in the notes, my eyes watering with sheer joy in the sound.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I continued to peer into her window as she sat on the stool
of her grand Steinway, her back towards me. Her pure white, short yet wavy
coiffed hair, her shoulders hunched slightly, a pretty purple shirt, and her
fingers dancing along the keys. Maybe not with the vim and vigor of her early
days, like the red brick pathway uneven with roots jumbled by time, she played
and I listened. Oh what sound, what beauty, what a moment to be cherished, what
a life, what value, oh what a gift, what simplicity, what a reflection.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She finally came to the door and I thanked her, with a tear
in my eye, I thanked her for her gift. She chuckled in a high pitched note, then
in a deep and sweet southern drawl, she hugged me, and said, “Oh Mary Beth, what am I going to do with you? You
mean with my slow aging fingers, I’m stumbling through the piece” or something
to that effect. I said, “Oh no, it was beautiful. I can’t wait to learn it now.”
She said, “Well it will be much easier than that Ballade. Now let’s play.”</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgW3rqX283wiDLcPjwDJdgzVTVHPZUUmqayhhj6jQk8KswrU23MkQtH64rykjhObmMGNA7xWB-bNRL-y56C38wAtetevXbta6WSjCLJ_t2dijDz11f-7za-5CPNXC8_r0BGu6BsMQ1VReZ/s1600/RedBrickIvoryNotes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgW3rqX283wiDLcPjwDJdgzVTVHPZUUmqayhhj6jQk8KswrU23MkQtH64rykjhObmMGNA7xWB-bNRL-y56C38wAtetevXbta6WSjCLJ_t2dijDz11f-7za-5CPNXC8_r0BGu6BsMQ1VReZ/s1600/RedBrickIvoryNotes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 16px; margin-left: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgW3rqX283wiDLcPjwDJdgzVTVHPZUUmqayhhj6jQk8KswrU23MkQtH64rykjhObmMGNA7xWB-bNRL-y56C38wAtetevXbta6WSjCLJ_t2dijDz11f-7za-5CPNXC8_r0BGu6BsMQ1VReZ/s320/RedBrickIvoryNotes.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-25866764451533859902018-06-13T07:23:00.003-07:002018-06-13T11:29:31.348-07:00THE "MAGICAL" ORIOLES<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Baseball is like church. Many attend, but few understand.” Wes
Westrum, Mets Manager</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“It ain’t nothin’ till I call it,” Umpire Bill Klem</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
Jackie Robinson</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Is this heaven? It’s Iowa.” Field of Dreams</span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Whomever doesn’t understand why baseball is a great sport
well, my grandmother taught me not to judge, but let’s just say for those who
just don’t get baseball they must be missing an American gene, or a gene of
humanity, some lack of sentimentality, or something missing from the heart. I’m
not referring to the rules, I mean the game! </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This spring season of 2018 we were a part of the Orioles,
not the Baltimore Orioles, the North Wake County, North Carolina Orioles. I’ve
got Yankees blood in me born from my father who bleeds Yankees blood,
but for the spring 2018 season, we were Orioles, loud and proud.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The season started out like any other little league season
with the exception of this being the first season of “kid pitch” for Graham, my
nine year old son. Kid pitch differs from adult pitch because it starts to test
eye hand coordination maybe before a nine year old has fully developed this
motor skill. Pitches are faster and more erratic. Put in laymen’s terms, the
ball just doesn’t land on the bat. A batter has to wait for the right ball and
be ready. And that ball may not come while the batter is up.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If you think this sounds hard on a nine year old kid just
itching for the sound of a ball to crack his bat, it’s even harder on a parent.
I had to ride home listening to my son talk about how he’ll never make the MLB
because he can’t hit. He was downright despondent, which, for a mom, is so painful hearing such disappointment in your child’s voice. I just listened, then I
asked him, “What’s the MLB?” “Mom, Major League Baseball!” “Oh,” I said, “Well
Graham, you don’t want to be too good too soon. If you peak too early you’ll
never make it to the MLB so just keep trying and don’t give up.” He was ready
to quit but he didn’t give up. He shed some tears with every strike out but
after a while he learned to shake it off and get back to the game.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The start of any baseball season is a little awkward. The
team is new, most parents and kids not knowing each other. It’s like the first
day of school. The start of the Oriole season was no different. Parents and
kids were shy when introducing themselves to one another, the team feeling each
other out, parents trying to remember names and whose kid belonged to whom, but
then we started to play. Cheers from the bleachers were hesitant and quiet at
first, and the boys and their team camaraderie was in an infancy stage. We lost
our first game to the Braves, coached by the only female coach in the league.
She was my son’s coach from the previous season and she was a good coach,
competitive and tough. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I liked her last
season but not this season. She beat us.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Orioles got off to a rough start with their first loss
but then they became a force of reckoning. They became number one in the league,
undefeated from their next win on out. This was not just luck, this, this sweep was hard work,
strategy, good coaching, competitiveness (after all this is a game where
winning matters and losing really stinks, this isn’t everyone gets a trophy –
this is baseball!). The team’s specialty: stealing bases. We were feared in the
league. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Parents’ cheers from the stands became louder, we became more
opinionated. “That umpire isn’t very good.” “Hey, that’s the second out called
on our boys. Someone start video recording, we want an instant replay.” “What,
that’s not the same call you made for the other team. What rule book are you
using?” “That pitcher is wild, he’s gonna hurt someone.” “He was blocking the
base!?#@” “Tell that boy to back down.” “He dropped the ball!” “He didn’t tag
him!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then there were cheers FOR our kids. “Wait for your pitch” “Good
eye” “Good Swing” “Come on – insert parent pet name – you can do this, you got
this” “RUN!” “OMG, I can’t watch, he’s trying to steal!” “He’s off his game
today, what’s wrong with my child!?” “Shake it off buddy!” “What do you mean?!
He touched the base!” “Oh wait, I just missed it.” “Couldn’t get a good
picture.” “I got a good action shot!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There were cheers from the coaches “Just you and the mitt” “Let’s
take this ball on a ride” “Baseball ready” “Get ready to run” “Outfield, wake
up!” “You got this one.” “Tuck in your shirt!” And there were probably a few
others I missed because I was busy chatting in the stands.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And of course we can’t forget the umpires: “OUT!” “SAFE!” “STRIKE!”
“BALL!” and warnings “If you throw your bat at me one more time you’re OUT!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then there was Coach Chris, the leader of our team, hard
core and full of heart for the boys and the game. If there was a call he didn’t
like he’d shout a time out, march out to home base and fight his case. He often
didn’t win his protest but at least he didn’t kick up dirt and spit in the umps face. He
walked away with grace and said “Alright boys, let’s get back to playing.” The
players would say, “Shake it off coach.” He was always ready with praise,
inspirational speeches, baseball words of wisdom, recognizing every little achievement
with patches handed out after each game, our boys’ hats became maps of pride. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This season we had players with a broken finger, a broken
ankle, and a broken arm. These boys showed up even when they couldn’t play just
to cheer on their teammates, and then, probably a little too prematurely, they
were back out playing. Tyler and his broken ankle gave us all some cringes like
when he went running for home base fresh out of his cast. We all shouted, “Don’t
slide!” Austin pitching when last time we saw him his arm was in a sling. He
threw strikes.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We ended one game with a tie. A tie? What the heck is that?
So a few days later Coach Chris sends out an email letting the parents know
that he went to bat for the team, called the league, argued the call that cost
us a run and this time, his persistent protesting pulled a win for our team. Well done
Coach Chris! Perhaps some thought this was an unconventional move for little
league, a little too competitive? But I gather every parent on the Orioles was
quite pleased. I think some even egged him on to debate the call in the first
place.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The parents, the parents were great. Every one with a story,
I could write a book. But that’s baseball, everyone has a story but everyone
keeps playing. We all share in the dream. The dream that our little guy who’s
growing faster every day, gets a hit at bat because with every swing, and every
stolen base, and every run scored or ball fielded well, they grow. And parents
beam with pride and their hearts swell and, like that ball hit far into the
field, we are taken on a ride. And all the coaches, parents and kids ride that
ride together and it becomes a bond that will become a memory, a really good
memory.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This team has been magical. See, baseball is making me
sentimental. I get it, I may not know all the rules but I get it. We’ve got one
more game, the big championship game. We made it to the top. Win or lose – of course
winning is better – the boys, parents and coaches will play their hearts out tonight. Then the season will end, and like most little league teams, we will all part ways.
Maybe we’ll run into each other at Target or somewhere. Maybe some of us will
play on the same team again, maybe some of the parents will keep in touch,
probably through Facebook, a random text here and there. Maybe some of our
little guys will grow up to be big guys and stand on a Major League Baseball
field - the MLB! and we'll catch them and say we remembered them when...Maybe. I’ll tell you though, doesn’t matter because this field, this
season, this was baseball.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i><b>Thanks to all the coaches for their hard work and
dedication. You gave of your time which is very precious. Hats off to Coach
Chris, Coach Brian, Coach Todd, Coach Adam, Coach Kyle and if there is a coach I missed,
then my bad. I don’t remember my own kids’ names sometimes. Play Ball!</b></i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABZizeHhudn6ZlJlqpBeyn3-y26Aj4_iDhMrGc3oCdSsnWPFOeDtOSv3MRDb8qasmVBt10ApC6ZCarrvNXO6Ie2ba9_-t1_Z4Qf6mlPEzvB6hJrsQqFPOO5ajtBKz3hAEZ7Qmzs8KyFQo/s1600/image1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABZizeHhudn6ZlJlqpBeyn3-y26Aj4_iDhMrGc3oCdSsnWPFOeDtOSv3MRDb8qasmVBt10ApC6ZCarrvNXO6Ie2ba9_-t1_Z4Qf6mlPEzvB6hJrsQqFPOO5ajtBKz3hAEZ7Qmzs8KyFQo/s320/image1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></b></i></span></div>
</div>
<u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><i></i><b></b>BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-25167594882001350662017-04-13T07:38:00.000-07:002017-04-13T08:00:49.995-07:00"Middle Age Adventures in Pet Sitting"<b><i>"Pets are humanizing. They remind us we have an obligation and responsibility to preserve and nurture and care for all life."</i> </b><br />
James Cromwell<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">First of all,
this is the first time I have personally referred to myself as middle
aged.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I still think of myself as 25, and
often act like it too. I have boundless energy and often times take on more
than I can chew. I also have the confidence of a flea, if a flea has confidence,
which has nothing to do with feeling 25 it’s just a personal confession I am
making to the world or my 20 viewers. Magnum, my husband, would caution me to
say such things should I ever interview for a job. Such an announcement would
give reason for an employer not to hire me. But I don’t care because first of
all, this is my pen name! No one knows the real me! Secondly, since I have no
confidence, I have no worries that anyone would hire me in the professional
workforce anyway. After all, I believe I have failed at most careers ventures.
I either have too much ‘Jersey’ attitude or am not detailed oriented enough.
But this subject is a whole other blog I’ve been wanting to write and will
originally and creatively title “YOU’RE FIRED!” Be on the lookout.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Today I will
write about my latest attempt to earn a penny: pet sitting. I’ve been busy pet
sitting and have neglected my trilogy blog “Life of Jack and Jane” I started a
few weeks back. I know, the suspense of those stories, I’ve left you all
hanging. Anyway, my middle age adventures in pet sitting all began a year ago
when I posted on our neighborhood website that my son is available for pet
sitting. I was trying to help him earn a buck in an honest and age appropriate
way. We got no response so I figured the competition for pet sitting in the
hood was steep.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Flash
forward to a year later and our first client reached out to us; traffic source
the NEXTDOOR site from our post a year ago. Of course we jumped at the chance.
Problem was, Tommy, my son, was not available the entire time because he goes
to school, has sports and divides his weekends with his dad. But I did not want
to lose this opportunity in a tough pet market so I said yes and it became a
joint venture.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Brady the
dog and Lucy the cat was our first gig, our first pet clients. I don’t like
cats but I love Lucy! And Brady is just the sweetest little, white dog. So we
very much enjoyed watching these pets and their owners have been a steady
client. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Next our
neighbor around the corner asked my daughter Halley to watch her two cats. Once
again we said yes but my help and time was needed to assist in the process so
it once again became a joint venture. We were told their one cat had separation
anxiety and often misbehaved when they went out of town. Well this cat threw up
and broke a pot with dirt all over the floor and ceramic and a big mess. Not a
big deal for Halley or me but I felt bad for the rug and pot and would have to “break”
the news that damage occurred on our watch.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Cats are
easy to watch. You check on them once a day, make sure they have food and water
and refresh the litter box. If they want a hug, you give them one, and
typically cats don’t want hugs, except for Lucy, whom I love. Well this naughty
little cat disappeared for the rest of the week. I kept checking for dead cat
in the corner, sniffing for foul, rotting flesh, I mean I was concerned! I had
to notify the cat owners, though I was tempted to go to the local shelter to
bring home a look alike. Long story short, cat was found, safe and sound.
Rascally pet!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Even with
the missing cat, I suppose word got out about our pet sitting and business
began to boom. The neighbors were coming out of their dog houses. I got another
reach out to watch two Shitzus. I always feel like I’m cussing when I say
Shitzu. Shatzi and Max, two adorable Shitzus full of personality. Shatzi has
kidney disease and needed to be walked frequently. My time with Shatzi and Max
was uneventful. I walked and fed them once, gave them hugs and cuddles and they
survived my pet sitting. I refused pay since I did it as a neighborly gesture
and enjoyed being helpful. They paid me with a bottle of wine which was overly
generous and I believe I made friends with the dogs and owners, they are such a
nice couple. Perhaps Magnum and I and the owners can get together some time.
Anyway, I digress as is my habit.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I was
feeling good about myself and ability to pet sit, even if I had misplaced a
cat. Maybe I did have worth outside of the home. I felt aside from being a mom
and wife, this could be my thing, my little side gig. After all, I could give
attitude to a dog and they would still lick my hand and there was no photo
copying or filing for me to have to be detailed and screw up. Pet sitting
boosted my confidence in my ability to work outside of the home. This psychosis
in my neurosis about my anxiety in my working ability may sound psychotic but
once I write and readers read my blog “YOU’RE FIRED” any borderline worry about
my mental state will be quickly understood as just a temporary state of
insanity, I think. Wait, what did you say? I thought I heard something, a
strange voice. This dang fly won’t stop bugging me. What fly? The one I’m
swatting. Huh? What was I doing? I’m not crazy, how dare you…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Anyway, like
I said, business started to boom. Another neighbor reached out to me to watch
her 10 week old yellow lab Zoey. She wanted me to let Zoey out twice a day. I
said no problem but offered to take Zoey back to hang with our lab Daisy for a
few hours a day since I felt it was too much for a pup to be left alone for
such a long time. She seemed thrilled with that idea. I took Zoey home and had
her on leash. My neighbor’s dog across the street came over unleashed to our
house. He sniffed Zoey and then tried to attack her. Fortunately I don’t think
he tried to bite her but was just showing his dominance. This was a close call
though and I started to rethink, perhaps, it’s not my place to decide what is
best for someone’s else’s puppy, that I will just leave Zoey in her crate and
do as the neighbor requested and check on her twice a day. Even if puppy cries
tear at my heart strings, not my dog.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Then came
Toby. Another neighbor reached out for me to keep Zoey at our house for 8 days.
Wait, did I say Zoey, I meant Toby, I can't keep track of all these pets! Anyway, before I said yes to being a doggy room and board I checked with Magnum who was becoming a bit concerned that our home was
turning into a kennel. Magnum loves pets though and seemed happy to have Toby.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Toby has
been a gem. He is a poodle spaniel mix, black and white. He doesn’t shed, he’s
quiet, and he and Daisy have become great friends. Toby quickly became attached
to me and is very Velcro, which means for those that don’t know, he attaches
himself to me, he’s my shadow. All this was very endearing to me. I felt I was
giving Toby a five star stay which would please his owners. After all, his lady
master told me this was the first dog she ever owned and Toby means the world
to her.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">At first I
let Toby out on a leash as my yard only has one of those invisible fence
things. But seeing that Toby was Velcro ,I became very comfortable that if I
kept a close eye he would stay within 10 feet of me. Between the puppy, Daisy,
and Toby, all three dogs were having fun in the sunshine and pet sitting, even
with the lost cat and mauled puppy, was going great.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Then, and I
know this is a longer blog, but hang in there, almost getting to the climax.
But then Toby took a poopie in the yard. So I took 10 steps into our detached
third car garage to grab a poopie bag. I turned my
back on Toby for maybe three seconds. When I came out of the garage, closed the
door, Toby vanished into thin air. Holy Shitzu, a pet sitter’s worst nightmare,
the dog was gone.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I figured he
wandered around the house so I hollered his name. He was NO WHERE in sight!
Even Daisy began to panic. I think I was on the verge of entering a state of shock.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I rallied
the three kids to hop on their bikes and search for him. A white dog against
the green backdrop of trees and springtime shouldn’t be hard to spot. But he
was NO WHERE to be found. How could this happen?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I rallied a
few neighbors to help me in the search. I immediately posted on NEXTDOOR an
urgent message to find Toby. I’ve lost our dog Daisy before, we have tons of
dogs roaming and wandering and they always find their way home. This is a very
dog friendly neighborhood. But Toby is not my dog and who knows his psychosis.
Maybe he bolted to find his family? It was a nightmare. And the sun was going
down. Darkness was about to set.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Worse yet,
since I publicly posted an urgent alert about my pet sitting incompetence I had to call Toby’s owners
to notify them before they read on social media that their beloved dog, member of their family that they entrusted me to watch, was missing. The lady master was
naturally very distraught and I could hear panic in her voice. I not only lost their fur baby, I ruined their very
expensive Disney vacation high.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">After another shout out for "Toby" and two of my three kids riding their bikes all over the neighborhood looking for Toby, neighbors posting leaflets - exaggeration, ten minutes
after I hung up with Toby's lady master breaking the potentially devastating news to her that I lost her dog, Tommy, my son, found Toby – in our third car garage.
Unbeknownst to me, Toby followed me into the garage and I closed the door on him. My lack of attention to
detail got me again. Toby is now on doggie lock down.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I quickly
called back Toby’s lady master. She was relieved, naturally, but told me to
please keep a better watch on Toby. I was sick to my stomach over the whole
ordeal. I vowed then and there that I would end my pet sitting venture, and
I became a flea once again. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">All’s well
that ends well, as the saying goes, except I publicly humiliated my pet sitting
failure for all current and previously potential pet clients. I announced it on
social media! But even worse, I ruined Toby’s owner’s confidence in me and
their Disney vacation. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Someday I’m
sure I’ll be able to laugh at all of this shenanigans but for now I opened that
bottle of wine Shatzi and Max Shitzu owners brought me. I disclosed my
misgivings as a pet sitter to Brady and Lucy's owners and I’ve given up watching the
puppy at my home. The biggest lesson learned though is don’t let dogs off
leashes.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">After my
disclosure to Brady and Lucy’s owner, she laughed but warned me that Lucy is a
little escape artist so when I watch her pets this weekend, yes she still
trusts me, and I made a commitment to her, watch out.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><b>LUCY!</b></span><br />
<br />
<i>"If you are a dog and your owner suggests that you wear a sweater suggest that he wear a tail"</i> <br />
Fran Lebowitz</div>
<br />BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-13511546036002694042017-03-24T11:23:00.000-07:002017-03-24T14:26:29.794-07:00Life with Jack and Jane: Part II Jane, "Queen of Queens"<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I gave a little character description of Uncle Jack in
Part I of Life with Jack and Jane (read: <a href="http://thebrandywinechronicles.blogspot.com/2017/03/life-with-jack-and-jane-part-1-moving.html">http://thebrandywinechronicles.blogspot.com/2017/03/life-with-jack-and-jane-part-1-moving.html</a>). Jane, Aunt Jane, Uncle Jack’s common law
spouse, was in complete contrast to my Uncle Jack. My Uncle Jack was 100% Irish
Catholic. Jane was 100% Jewish. Uncle Jack, six foot something plus, Jane, four
foot eleven on a good day. Jack was a comedian, never to be taken too
seriously. He drank and ate too much and did other stuff too much. He even
cussed. Jane did not. She laughed all the time, mostly at Jack, but she had not
a comedic bone in her tiny frame.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Speaking of her tiny frame, Jane was one round ball from
head to toe. She ate like a bird but looked like a hippo. There were no lines
stopping to define where her head met her chin all the way to her ankles
meeting her feet. Her hair was a frizzy, mousy brown, cut short with big, dark
rimmed glasses, sallow skin that makeup may have addressed, and a really large
gap in her two front teeth. She smelled like lilacs and intense body odor with
maybe a hint of moth balls and soot she picked up from living with Jack.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Appearances don’t matter when you are the sweetest "Queen of
Queens."</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jane was one of the finest people I have ever known. Not
only was she lacking a funny, comedic bone but she also was missing a mean bone. I never
heard her speak a bad word about anyone or anything. She always saw the best in
everything. She was also extremely respectful of everyone, she never judged,
her manners and taste were impeccable. She was dainty and polite. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Generous and thoughtful with Jane were a given. She minded
her business and never got in anyone’s way. I honestly do not think she
ventured much past Queens other than to travel to work. Maybe she took the occasional
trip to New Jersey to visit her sisters or our family. But other than that, I
really don’t think she left Queens. She may not have been a worldly queen but
she guarded and preserved her territory like any great ruler.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">That’s why I crown Jane "Queen of Queens!"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jane, a native Jew from Queens, was married once before to another native Queens Jewish man whose parents
escaped a Nazi concentration camp, or were rescued by the Americans from a camp
at the end of the war. Whatever the specific details of the story, that’s how they ended up in America.
They were Holocaust survivors that went on to live the American dream. They built a fortune in American in, if memory serves me,
the steel industry. They had a son, Jane’s husband. Jane and her husband had a
child named Jill. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jane and I would spend countless hours talking, mostly every
Friday evening when she would end her work week at the United Nations and mine
at Simon and Schuster publishing firm. We’d commence the long week
by ordering Chinese, sitting at her traditionally appointed mahogany dining table,
eating our broccoli with chicken and brown sauce. We would talk and talk while Uncle Jack, um, hmm... tended to his plants.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I often wondered what happened in her marriage and why she
and my Uncle Jack after all these years of committing to one another had never
married. I began to inquire, like any novice investigative reporter, in a very
nonchalant, quasi manipulative manner. Knowing such an answer to my question
would require her to delve much past the point of my inquiry’s origin I proceeded
to ask, "How did you and Jack meet?"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In her Minnie Mouse voice, in contrast to my Uncle Jack’s
Frosty the Snowman loud, husky diction, she told me Jack had just returned from
Vietnam and she was recently a widow.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes, I was told your husband had passed away. How did it happen if I
may ask?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Now one thing about Jane, "Queen of Queens," she was so
sweet she put a sugary spin on everything. She never would say a single bad
word about anyone or anything. In her thick Queens’s accent she began to tell me her story, “Oh, he was verwee, verwee sick. He was in horwible pain. He had,
sorwt of like a brwain tuma, you know like a big mass in his brwain, cawsed him
terrwible, terrwible pain. It got werse, and werse and he eventually died." </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m thinking he had a brain tumor and that’s what killed
him. No, that’s not what happened. She continued with her story, “He shot
himself in the head from the tuma. I trwied to take the gun frwom him but he
pointed it towards me and my little gurl and luckily we were fine but he shot
himself.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I continued to listen. “It wasn’t his fawlt ya know, he was
verwee, verwee sick. He hearwd voices and stuff so he didn’t know any better. And
so I was verwee, verwee sad. My little gurl, she was verwee young. But he died.
He had a lot of demons in his head that herwt him so I can’t blame him. He had
no choice.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"My little gurl and I ran to the closet. We were vewry scaed. I was worried. Ya know, back then we didn't have cawdless phones so I could cawl anyone. We just waited and hearwd the gun and well, he died. We came out of the closet and he was on the flowa and he must have been in so much pain from the tuma, I can only imagine. He was suffering so much he had to do it. He was vewry sick."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I didn't know what to say so I said nothing. I felt I had pried too much, perhaps overstepped boundaries for her to share such a painful memory over Chinese food, on a Friday, after a long work week. But Jane was happy to continue down memory lane. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I met yaw Uncle Jack on the street one day. He stopped to tawk to me. Yaw Uncle Jack was so sweet to me and my little gurl. And he was so vewry handsome. And chaming. And from there the rest is histowry.” She ended with a little giggle, covering her mouth as her body jiggled from laughter.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Handsome and charming? I was startled, “Uncle Jack, handsome?" I said.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"Oh yes, vewry handsome." She covered her mouth again as she giggled a body jiggle. She was so proud and glowing as she spoke of him. "Heyr, let me show you some pictchas." She pulled out some pictures of her and Uncle Jack, circa 1970 something, with bell bottoms and platform shoes, hairy chests sprouting from collared polyester shirts. My Uncle Jack was, to put it in a non-weird niece way, hot! Tall, tan,
golden, blond hair, no mustache, no oversized tie-dye t-shirt, muscular, obviously
carrying the confidence of someone who feels the world is their oyster and they
are young and invincible. Jane likewise was hot! Slender, curvaceous, stylish, well-coiffed
hair, accessorized, beautiful makeup, just drop dead gorgeous. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Who were these people and what happened to them?” I asked
myself.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Upon viewing the photos I began to string together my own
answers to my curiosity about Jack and Jane. It was like “Bizarro World” out of the movie Superman, reenacted in the popular sitcom of the times “Seinfeld” nothing was as it seemed but it all made sense. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They had both been to battle and were survivors, living with their scars, keeping them tucked away in a compartment, occasionally recounting them in a soliloquy for the young and stupid like me. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was given a glimpse into my future. Who I am today may not be who I am tomorrow. Of course we're always changing and growing but to an unrecognizable point? Yes, quite possibly, what happens today will catch up
with my tomorrows and over power my yesteryears. Today I have youthful exuberance glowing from my naïve and untested
soul. Years from now I could become a vestige of my former self, unrecognizable to me
but judged by strangers for my imperfections carved by life’s trials, in what form, in what story, I yet to
know will present themselves but I know they're waiting. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was haunted, once again.</span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-27855444782365447192017-03-16T07:46:00.001-07:002017-03-16T12:48:37.754-07:00Life with Jack and Jane: Part 1 “Moving On Up”<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 16px 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><i><b>“I installed a skylight in my apartment…</b></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 16px 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><i><b>the people who live above me are very furious!”</b></i><b> </b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><b>Steven Wright</b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">With my few
belonging I packed up and headed to Queens, NY. I left my sheltered, suburban
life behind. In one trip, all that I knew was a thing of the past and what lay
ahead I hadn’t a clue.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Jack and
Jane were common law spouses. They had lived together for over twenty years.
They resided in a rent controlled, pre-war apartment building in Forest Hills,
Queens, NY. Forest Hills was considered a ritzy borough. To me, it was a city: dirty,
crowded, and concrete. They did live in a really nice building. The lobby was grand, with black and white marble floors, brass accents, spacious, like a page out of a featured art deco design in an Architectural Digest magazine.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Their
apartment was comfortable and loaded with character. Beautiful built-ins and
shelving, crown molding everywhere, hard wood floors throughout, a modest
dining room with French doors, a large landing that stepped down into a
generous living room. The kitchen was galley style but it had a nice window. A
long hallway led to two very spacious bedrooms with windows that let in a lot
of natural light. And of course one bathroom for three adults to share.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I had my own
room with a king size bed, a black and white TV, and a pretty, peach satin
fabric chair and ottoman. I moved in the summer of 1996.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">The
apartment had no air conditioning and New York City summers are hot and humid,
sticky and stinky. I slept with my window open as wide as it would open just to
let some type of breeze blow through and reach my clammy, perspiring skin.
Every now and then a light, feathery gust would whisper through but mostly the
sound of JFK airport two miles away, car alarms, and neighbors arguing and
shouting their home life dysfunction was the only breeze I felt.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">The building
was a block away from the subway so I could walk and then ride to my city job
at a large publishing house. Groceries could be delivered or a quick walk
across a four lane highway could fetch one the necessities of nourishment.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Forest Hills
had a street lined shopping district which was fun to browse. The original US
Open tennis stadium was around the corner, and a slice of suburbia was tucked
away, filled with glorious and gorgeous historic Tudors and mini-mansions. I
loved walking those streets. I would catch families coming out of their homes,
getting in their cars for a weekend excursion. I wondered, “Did their mom just
finish making them blueberry pancakes?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Yes, I very
much missed my family but this was a new chapter in my life. I was an adult,
still not fully independent, but those days of Saturday morning pancakes made by
mom with Bisquick and blueberries, would have to be saved in a box and pulled
out years later like a recipe passed down from generation to generation. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Life with
Jack and Jane was good. They rescued me and I am eternally grateful. If I could
ever repay the favor, not sure how, but maybe someday I would if I could. I was
still in survival mode though so such a thought was brief.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Jack was my
mom’s oldest brother. He was about six feet plus and inch or two, looked like
Santa Claus with his big belly on his 300 pound frame. He sounded, and picture
this because this is truly how he sounded, his voice sounded like Frosty the
Snowman. Like when Frosty comes to life and says “Happy Birthday” that was my
Uncle Jack’s voice.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Jack was
always cheery, happy, easy going, thoughtful, kind, and generous. He always
liked to try to make you laugh or put a smile on your face even if he paid a
self-deprecation expense. He reminded me so much of my grandmother, his mother,
except with a mustache and shorter hair. Even their hands were the same. I
think they even smelled the same. Like moth balls, cologne, and soot with a hint
of body odor. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Yes Jack
always seemed happy. A fifty something Vietnam veteran hippie with a green
thumb. He grew these funny looking plants in his living room window. They had
these little brownish, black seeds I used to find all over the apartment. I’m
not sure what type of plant it was but it sure made him happy – and hungry!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Every night
he’d hunker down in his room after a long day of cleaning the subways. Some funky
smell emanated from under the crack of the door. I knew he had a six pack of
beer that he finished every night so I gather he had a touch of the Irish in
his bones. But then he’d get the munchies and finish off a gallon of milk and an
entire Entenmann’s yellow cake with fudge icing.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I learned
not to mess with his cake. One day I couldn’t resist and figured he wouldn’t
mind if I had a slice or two. I probably should have asked before I ate but we
were family. Never again! That was the first time I saw Uncle Jack cranky,
anger, and quite frankly bitter. Never again would I touch his chocolate cake.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Life with
Jack and Jane was so easy going. We were three peas in a pod. They said I was
like a ray of sunshine to them which was nice to hear. We would talk and talk
and talk about anything and everything. One time Uncle Jack even broke out some
old photos of his days in Nam. After two tours of duty, he told me he’d go back
there in a heartbeat. He told me part of him never left and there was the
happiest days of his life.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I asked him,
“So you really enjoyed being a cook?” He said, “Cook?! No darlin’ I was on the
frontline.” And then he proceeded to tell me how he was crossing this field in
Vietnam, by himself and out from the woods or jungle comes another American
soldier, his cousin Noelle whom he grew up with in Bel Harbor, NY. Neither one
had any idea the other was in Nam. They stood there, just the two of them in the
field, talking, reminiscing, very surreal, a moment of extreme euphoria and then headed back
towards their assigned platoons.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I said, “Hmm,
I always thought you were a cook.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He said, “Nah,
that’s just what I told my motha so she wouldn’t worry.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Yes, life
with Jack and Jane would teach me a lot.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Following is the link to the prelude if interested in starting from the beginning:</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://thebrandywinechronicles.blogspot.com/2017/02/life-with-jack-and-jane-prelude-to-story.html">http://thebrandywinechronicles.blogspot.com/2017/02/life-with-jack-and-jane-prelude-to-story.html</a></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-22428833250044264212017-02-21T07:09:00.001-08:002017-02-23T06:35:40.146-08:00Life with Jack and Jane: Prelude to a Story<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I have dreamt in my
life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they
have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the
color of my mind. And this is one: I’m going to tell it – but take care not to
smile at any part of it.”</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was alone and scared, and desperate, living beneath the
eaves of a great home, filled with young children and a loving couple, who gave
me refuge within their castle. Cast away in the basement, I hid from shame, I
covered my mind from fear, cowering at my present situation. I was homeless and
penniless when it seemed just yesterday I was a princess in my own castle, with
a family filled with love and warmth. But that time passed and I was alone
and cold.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I would hear noises in the basement. They sounded like
voices of demons and ghosts and they frightened me, but I knew it was just the
air conditioner preparing to exhale. The basement was so dark I saw visions
floating past me, but I realized my eyes were just closed and my imagination
was catching me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I couldn’t sleep for when I did, I was haunted. I would
dream of her but she was unreachable. I dreamt we were at a large arena filled
with familiar faces of everyday life. Sitting in the stands I was at the bottom
of the bleachers searching for her and I spotted her way up top. I called out
to her “Mom!” but she did not hear me. She was too busy talking to others. I
reached out to her for one last embrace, to cherish her being, but the dream
ended and she was gone. I dreamt this dream over and over, waking to tears
flooding from me, dripping onto my already cold skin.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As much as I wished, and wrenched my heart wishing it so,
those were days long gone. Instead I found myself alone, shunned from all I knew, knowing I must
leave. "This is not my home. I am not a guest. I am a bum who has
graciously been given temporary shelter. I don’t belong here and my welcome is
a burden."</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My wound still had not even begun to heal, and it was fresh,
raw and hurting. The healing process had not even started. I wished I were a
little girl again when my mom was there to hold me and make it all better. She
would always say to me that the pain means, “It’s getting better, getting
better” as she'd sing a little tune. And I believed it. But she was gone and the
pain was getting worse.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My wound couldn't be seen, but my anger spoke of it, “Till it
happens to you, you won’t know how I feel.” I needed to pull myself together, and
I’d be fine. Hold my head up and be strong, I needed to get up and move on. But
what the hell did I know?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tears still poured from me. My fear of the ghosts and demons
paralyzed me. My eyes clenched shut I prayed for reprieve, for an answer. And
then my prayer was answered. I saw my grandmother, with her bright red hair,
glowing skin, eyes filled with rays, her full and portly figure. I loved and
missed her very much. She always had a smile on her face and gave when she had
nothing to give. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She spoke to me, “Call your Uncle Jack.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The next morning, light filtered in from the basement window
well, reminding me the day was new. I called my Uncle Jack. I had a job offer
in the big city but the pay was too little for me to afford rent. But it was a
job. If I could find a way to make it work things would work out. Maybe if
Uncle Jack would let me live with him and my Aunt Jane, things would be ok?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I dialed his number. The phone rang. My Aunt Jane picked up.
Before I could even get the words out to ask, she said, in her Minnie Mouse
voice with thick New York accent, “You come live with us.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I asked him how they knew why I was calling. My
Uncle Jack told me that he was at church one Sunday and this lady was in front
of him. She had bright red hair, glowing skin, eyes filled with rays, and a
full and portly figure. “For a moment, I thought it was my mother,” he said. “And
when you called, we just knew.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And just like that, I moved on.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><b></b>BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-76020688682798349252017-02-09T07:21:00.000-08:002017-02-09T07:22:49.847-08:00The Allman Brothers<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Lord, I was born a rambling’
man, Trying’ to make a livin’ and doin’ the best I can. And when it’s time for
leavin’, I hope you’ll understand, That I was born a ramblin’ man.”</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Allman Brothers Band “Ramblin' Man”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The other night Magnum* and I had a lovely dinner at a local
pub. We hopped in our car and headed home. We randomly popped in the first CD
we grabbed (I know, who uses CD’s anymore?!). The Allman Brother’s Band began
to play. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Instead of heading home we decided to go for a drive on a
long, country road with nothing but the evening stars above us, farm fields
beside us, and the open road in front of us. Traveling with the top down, cruising
at 60 mph, the glorious sounds of the Brothers emanating throughout.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The guitar, the piano, the voices became intoxicating and
hypnotic. Amazed at the talent of the band, we jokingly mimicked a fictitious
account of their parent’s discovery in their children. Good Lord, their parents
must have been proud. Their mama sure popped out some talented boys. Can you
imagine, giving birth to these boys, washing dishes and all of a sudden you
hear this talent coming from the garage? The conversation must have gone
something like this: </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Mama, what’s that sound?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Papa I done don’t know but it sure sounds real good.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Mama, that’s them our boys. Well shoot, who knew they could
play? I think we got ourselves something here.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Darn Papa, we sure do have some good genes. Let’s go make us
some more.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Well I did a little research and their mama was indeed
referred to as Mama, Mama A to be exact, but their Papa died when they boys were
very young. He was murdered. Then Duane Allman died in a motorcycle crash at
the age of 25. Drug addiction, trials, stereotypical popular band tribulations…Boy
I’m sure glad I didn’t know about this tragic history when we were cruising on
the country road. That’s just darn near depressing!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Instead we immersed ourselves on an adventure, sheer joy
from the Allman Brother’s Band guided us. My favorite Allman Brother’s song is
Jessica. It’s strictly an instrumental song. Nothing but pure Southern Rock,
interspersed with blues and jazz played out on an epic, musical journey. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Starting with the guitar, piano joining in, electric guitar,
just riding along, happy go lucky, bouncing, little drum, then a little depth
and soul climaxing back to the happy go lucky tune. Like climbing a mountain,
or running a marathon, the instruments single out then slowly build, joining,
teasing the listener, and then POW, the piano breaks out and WOW! It’ an
adrenaline pumper for sure and it goes on and on for over seven minutes. It’s
such a happy, confident, carefree, revolutionary tune. It’s genius. The
antithesis of every wandering instinct inbred in man.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remember the song Jessica playing in the movie “Field of
Dreams” when James Earl Jones and Kevin Costner were cruising in their VW van
to go find the ghosts of baseball past. There they were, two grown men, acting
like kids, out on a country road, pursuing a crazy scavenger hunt to find The
Babe. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then my mind wandered to a more personal memory, back when I
was a young teen, oh maybe 14 years of age. Summertime on the Eastern Shore of
Maryland. Hot, humid, salty, sailing and heaven. I was sailing on the
Chesapeake Bay as part of a summer camp my grandmother had given as a gift. My
cousin Jimmy would pick me up at the end of each day in his little, blue MG. And
we would cruise back to our grandmother’s house on a long, 10 mile open road from
Oxford to Easton with farm fields beside us, the bay beyond the fields, the
blue sky with scorching sun above us, and nothing but youth in front of us.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jimmy must have gotten that little blue car up to 100 mph.
And Jimmy wasn’t and isn’t a reckless boy. Highly intelligent, calculated,
cautious, play by the rules sort of guy. I don’t know if he was just showing
off to his little cousin but we were flying and it was awesome! And Jessica
came blasting on the radio.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Such freedom with carelessness abandoned, with the wind and
the sun and the salt air, I was giddy as I felt my independence on the horizon,
clueless to the impending finality of my childhood. We were young and the song
sang out to our youth and rebellion. Such a fond memory immortalized by a song.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Magnum and I continued to cruise down the long, country road,
living freely in the moment, with no destination, just enjoying the ride and
the legends. Two crazy kids on the open road.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">*Magnum is my husband’s
character name. Any likeness to a similar character is strictly coincidental.</span></i></div>
<br />BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-60520472253981654992017-01-24T14:08:00.004-08:002017-02-07T10:50:14.367-08:00Good Fella<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“You mean, let me
understand this…cuz I…maybe it’s me, maybe I’m a little f---‘d up maybe. I’m
funny how? I mean funny, like I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m
here to f----in’ amuse you? Whattya you mean funny? Funny how? How am I funny?”
</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tommy DeVito, Goodfellas</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Why the long
face?” I tell this joke all the time. It’s the only one I remember, it’s
usually not offensive, no cussing or crudeness involved, and I like horses. And
quite frankly, it makes me laugh. Not because it’s so funny, though I think it
is, but the person whom first delivered it to me was a very funny man, and
pretty much any joke or story he told was funny no matter how bad the joke. So
when I tell it, because it’s the only joke I know, I always think of him and
chuckle because I picture him telling it, with everyone laughing because he’s
funny. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mr. T was a funny man. He was also a good
fella. I didn’t know him all that well but I knew him well enough. He was a
good family friend and all us kids grew up together, the adults led the way. Now we are all grown with our own families and kids.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mr. T built a sandwich shop franchise and, while he
may not have realized it, was a local celebrity. Everyone from the area knew of
him and his sandwiches. He even had a United States president stop in for a
sandwich!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He worked all hours, day and night, every day of the week. And
with all his hard work and earnings, he was very generous and humble man who always made everyone feel welcome. A quiet
man but the headliner of the show. He always had a funny story to tell, such a natural in his delivery, yet so humble he never seemed to want to take credit for being such a great story teller.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The adults spent many nights around the kitchen island
countertop of the T's home snacking and sipping cocktails. Heading into the
wee hours of the morning, jokes and stories were told with Mr. T the headliner of
the show. The room filled with comraderies of families forged throughout
the decades, laughter the enduring fabric. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The old saying goes "the show must go on" but it also says "all good things come to an end." Mr. T was diagnosed with cancer. Hard to put a funny spin on that story. This was a very unfunny diagnosis for a man whose life blood seemed to infuse humor into the veins of everyone around him.
Fortunately, he was told, his diagnosis was not an immediate death sentence. Medicine would prolong the inevitable for years. So while this horrible black cloud
hung over him and his family and all who loved him, there was time enough for plenty of acts. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Until after only a year of treatment an emergency trip to the ER proved otherwise. The medicine was failing him. After</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> a week or two in the hospital he was stabilized enough to
go home. He was acutely aware though that his trip home would be just a visit and a final goodbye. He
was terminal. There would be no second act.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He would not go silently into that good night. He had one more punch line for the crowd. On the final leg of his tour, he shared a room
with another terminal patient. The roommate,
surrounded by family, brought in a reiki therapist. The reiki therapist
proceeded to perform reiki therapy as perhaps a last rite sort of ritual.
Incense burning, music droning, the therapist proceeded to utter sentences of
abstraction and unsoundness, “I release you, continue on your journey, your
soul is free like a bird, you are releasing like a butterfly from your cocoon,
fly, fly, fly. Lift yourself up. Hum, hum, hum.” Incense burning, smoke
drifting. “Your darkest hours upon you, your mind and body but a vehicle, free
your soul, free yourself, rise above, feel my energy as I touch you and lift
you, release, release, release…”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mr. T lay in the bed next to his roommate listening to this
bizarre affair. With a puzzled glance, he listened and watched this strange
performance. When it was over, the reiki therapist grabbed her incense and
exited the room. There was silence. Then in true Mr. T fashion, with his wife at his bedside who later recounted the story, he turned to her, paused for a moment, and in a calm and
serious voice, a hint of annoyance and expression of confusion, a grimace under
his breath, steady and with perfect delivery said, “What the fuck was that all
about?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In a time of immense sorrow and finality, Mr.
T put on a brave face and told the crowd that the show must still go on. During even the hardest and saddest of times, he made
us laugh and continues to make me laugh. He was a good soul. He was funny.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mr. T left me, just a little family friend, with a joke about a horse and a story that I would tell to another great headliner, my mother in law. Less than a day after Mr. T passed, she too would pass unexpectedly from cancer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They say the last of our senses to go before we leave this earth is our hearing. As my mother in law lay in hospice, body swollen, breathing labored, I told her Mr. T's story. I chuckled as I delivered Mr. T's punch line, and I know she did too. </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b>BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-47930206899755321412017-01-17T17:26:00.001-08:002017-02-23T06:25:16.944-08:00Up on the Roof<span style="color: orange;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I don’t know if we
have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a
breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both. Maybe both is happening at the same
time.” </span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Forest Gump</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I used to ride the New York subway. I believe it was the
blue “E” or the orange “F” train if memory and color recollection serve me. My route
was from Forest Hills, Queens to Rockefeller Center, NYC. Sounds like swanky real
estate for those familiar with the city. And in many ways if I had to be a city
girl, unable to afford city rent, which I couldn’t, it was as swank as I was
going to get. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">However, I really don't think there's anything swanky about the subway. And for a young twenty something, naïve
girl from the burbs moving to the big city, uneducated and
inexperienced at the time to political correctness and city hustling and crowds,
homesickness for my boring, small commuter town grew all the more. But there I was.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Most people start their day off with a good cup of Joe.
Subway riders wake up their senses to urine aromatherapy mixed with the
distinct scent of oily soot, followed by a game of “Don’t Step on the Mother
Roach” and “I Spy a Giant Rat!” played in a dark, dank cave deep underground
where sunlight was an anomaly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After spotting the rat it was time to enter the race, fighting for an inch on the train.
Then a little role play of acting like a sardine in a can of stinky olive oil, just to claim an ounce of territory for the commute. Cussing from strangers for space invasion or happy nappy time on the shoulders of a stuck passenger pigeon holed into another were common occurrences. I often chuckled and cringed at those who played their Walkman
cassettes or CD’s, either air singing and dancing, or flat out shouting the
tune because the music blared so loudly in their ears. They looked so silly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I often witnessed courteous acts of train sacrifice which reminded me on the bleak ride that humanity wasn’t extinct; those who’d give up their rare seat to the
pregnant or elderly. People watching was pretty good. My eyes
wandered around the car analyzing each individual, creating stories in my head
about their history or being. Sometimes a rider would give the dark lord stare like they
wanted to kill for reasons unbeknownst to me. Perhaps they didn't want to be included in my people watching game.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Acclimation took hold and I was soon part of the daily subway grind. I became
oblivious to those around me even though our bodies were pressed up against one
another. I honed my Walkman CD and spent the summer closing myself out from those around me. I too became the silly fool that sang out loud. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I learned to ride the subway and I even learned to like it.
It became a comforting cocoon in my daily ritual of a world I wasn’t sure how
I had arrived, if I even had arrived or perhaps I was just a passenger on the
train waiting for my stop.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Overnight I became a city girl living in a cockroach infested apartment, stone’s throw from the incessant noise of JFK
airport, no air conditioning on a humid city's summer’s day, away from home with a
new set of characters. And I rode the subway.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">One day, on my usual route home, I hopped on my usual train line. The car
was empty, which was so unusual but welcome. I had the whole car to myself. I
had whatever seat I wanted. Just the sounds of the ball bearings screeching as
the car jumbled over tracks and turns. Then suddenly an interruption to my
peace and blissful serenity, as a homeless man that reminded me of Mr. Bo Jangles,
straggly, scrawny and disheveled came passing my way. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My new city instincts took over as I did not let my glance meet
his. I kept to myself, my guard at high, bracing myself until he’d move onto
the next car. Did he want money, was he a drunk or druggie, a lunatic, a rapist?
I didn’t know of his purpose or direction but I was alone with this strange
man.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He swung from pole to pole like Jimmy Stewart in "Singing in the Rain" and began to sing to me. He serenaded
me with The Drifter’s tune “Up on the Roof." I lifted my
head and gave him my full attention, released my tensed brace and embraced his
fluid and melodic voice, immersing myself in the lyrics:</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When this old world
starts getting me down</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And people are just
too much for me to face</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I climb way up to
the top of the stairs</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And all my cares
just drift right into space</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the roof, it’s
peaceful as can be</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And there the world
below can’t bother me</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Let me tell you now</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I come home
feelin’ tired and beat</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I go up where the
air is fresh and sweet (up on the roof)</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I get away from the
hustling crowd</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And all that
rat-race noise down in the street (up on the roof)</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the roof, the
only place I know</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Where you just have
to wish to make it so</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Let’s go up the
roof (up on the roof)</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">At night the stars
put on a show for free</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And, darling, you
can share it all with me</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I keep a-tellin’
you</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Right smack dab in
the middle of town</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve found a
paradise that’s trouble proof (up on the roof)</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And if this world
starts getting you down</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">There’s room enough
for two</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Up on the
roof…Everything is all right (up on the roof)</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He was a stranger who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He appeared to
have nothing but a song. He
put an unexpected smile on my face that awakened my spirit to the everyday drudgery of a lone subway ride. I thought to myself that no matter our lot or place in time we can shut out all the ugliness and escape in our minds until we are ready to move to the next car. We are free; the rest is just a distraction. We may not know our
destiny and we may be drifting along like a feather in a breeze floating
aimlessly in a strange land but we have purpose and a destiny. Until then, there’s room enough up on the roof.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was an odd encounter.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">How could a stranger, a drifter, a wandering figure, etch
such a memory in my mind and heart decades later? He sang for me as he floated
along. He asked for nothing, no money, nothing. Maybe he was crazy, mentally
ill, maybe he was lost? Maybe he just felt like riding the subway and signing a
song to any who would listen. And I did listen. To this day whenever I hear the
song either on the radio or in my head, I think of that moment, am thankful for
it, and I smile.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-7277280843393307922016-01-23T11:21:00.001-08:002016-01-24T08:12:51.829-08:00Reflecting on this Snowy Day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The Snow Man” by Wallace Stevens<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">One must have a mind of winter<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">To regard the frost and the boughs<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And have been cold a long time<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">To behold the junipers shagged with ice,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The spruces rough in the distant glitter<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of the January sun; and not to think<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of any misery in the sound of the wind,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">In the sound of a few leaves,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Which is the sound of the land<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Full of the same wind<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">That is blowing in the same bare place<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">For the listener, who listens in the
snow,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And, nothing himself, beholds<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing that is not there and the
nothing that is.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remember the hill today, in particular. And I feel a small
pit in my heart for I’m not there, the moment has passed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Today I sit under a warm roof, watching the snowflakes fall
delicately on the bare branches. The sky gray, the earth silent. I sit in
remembrance of days like this on the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The evening before great anticipation swelled in the house,
ready to burst with excitement for a day off and a day of play. Childhood
memories are built upon such nights. Procrastinating bedtime in preparation for
school the next day but overtly hoping to wake up to mom saying, “No school
today!” then back to a warm bed to finish a dream then rise with great vivre. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maybe pancakes would be made or a steaming bowl of oats but
as soon as the energy was gobbled down the time came for the great bundle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ah, the great bundle. I dreaded these times. The toil and
sweat to prepare three kids for the cold, dressing them in bulky, obstructive
snow suits, squeezing their little piggies into rubbery, fleece lined boots
while shoving mittens on their little kittens, placing the cherry of a pom-pom
hat on their head, remnants of baby hair making one last stance before the
strands of time fade to extinction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The fussing and whining at such an effort. Boy, I was
frustrated. Shame I couldn’t savor such fleeting tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then out the door, a wave of arctic air flushing through,
waking up whatever senses still lay sleeping. Sleds and saucers gathered and
off they went. At this point I was typically still in my pajamas and robe,
skating through the snowy, icy driveway in slippers, long enough to get the
kiddies set up for some fun on the hill before I returned inside for a grasp at
silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We lived on quite the hill. Not great topography for a
family with three young kids, but when a winter storm hit, our house was the
place all the neighbors, young and old, flocked. Life and limb was risked
tearing down that hill, sometimes fast and far enough to skirt across the road
and down the wooded ditch. Those were fun times, filled with reckless
abandonment, liberatingly wild and carefree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At first I would watch through the frosty window and laugh
and giggle from a distance. I’d watch as the kids would fly down the hill,
getting smaller and smaller from my line of vision until they’d crash to a stop
laughing all the way, then trek back up for another adventure. It looked like such a
joy ride and it was! I’d break out the camera and take some shots, then I would
drag myself to partake in the fun, reminding myself that such activity would
invigorate my aging soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was cold outside but the smiles and excitement from the
kids at their mom showing up to be a kid motivated me to brave the elements.
And we rode down that hill, dodging trees and gullies. Gathering branches and
stones, carrots, old scarves and hats, we built snowmen and named them. Stepping
back into my childhood, I became one with my own kids, for that moment and
that day, investing in a memory that I didn’t realize would become so etched in
my mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time to come in from the storm and have some hot chocolate
and bake some cookies. Sipping coco by the fire, cheeks defrosting and pink,
mittens hung to dry until a second wind blew by ready to start the winter dance
all over again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Today I sit in my warm, new home on a flat lot perfect for a
young family, except when there is snow on the ground and no hill to ride down.
And as happy and at peace as I am, I reflect with a dull ache in my heart on
those days and times on the hill. All is quiet here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I longed for today, a day to savor silence, not having to
deal with the great dance of a winter bundle and attendance to three dependent,
young heartbeats. Today is that day. There are no suits to stuff mittens in
kittens and cherries on tops. Visions of hot coco and cookies are saved for
another snow fall. This storm is calmer. Yet as calm and as peaceful and as
blessed as today is, I have a small ache as I remember the hill and those days.
And the memory pleads to ride them once again. If just for a moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Today, on this quiet, kid free day, in the warmth of a new
life, I pause, close my eyes, take a sip from a phantom vision, knowing and grateful that life is good,
then swallow the nostalgia triggered by a gentle flake falling on
a tree under a gray, wintery sky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-12578871324669580782016-01-07T09:48:00.000-08:002016-01-08T08:36:34.190-08:00Christmas Card 2015<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>“You can
tell a lot about a person by the way they handle three things: a rainy day,
lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights.”</em></strong> Maya Angelou<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know
sending out Christmas cards, or “holiday” cards as is the more politically
correct terminology, is becoming a dying fashion. However, I am old fashioned
and feel strongly about keeping on my massive sized holiday “to-do” list. Yes,
I could cut out the practice and save a couple of hundred dollars between
stamps and custom ordered picture cards, but I take joy and spirit in creating,
chronicling and reminiscing on the past year. I know those I send it to give it
a warm glance then toss in the trash, maybe keeping until the season’s end, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but I keep my keepsake card and every year
pull out to display and reflect on Christmas’s past.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the
really old days I’d send generic, store bought cards with pictures of sleighs,
snow, and Santa. I’ve gone all out with expensive, customized, photo, fold
cards that allow more room to write personalized, hand written notes. In the more
recent years I’ve settled on the standard, 5 x 7 contemporary photo printed
card which is a compromise between the two. I’ve included Christmas letters a
few years and write them brimming with pride only to review months later and
realize they sound stupid and braggadocio. I always add photos of the kids and
sometime I myself am featured, and every now and then the pets make an
appearance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes I
get the cards out on time, sometimes they become a New Year’s greeting. I
always get them out and they always have pictures, those are two constants a
recipient can always expect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year’s
card served to announce to my annual greeting card circle that I married and
now have a blended family. We used a wonderful picture taken at our wedding
celebration (we eloped!) of our big, happy blended family: seven total, two
adults and five kids, at the time ages 6 through 16, three of mine, two teenage
daughters of his. One big, happy blended family and a gorgeous card with me in
my ivory gown, Kentucky derby party theme dressed crew with a big bouquet of
red roses in my hand, fresh spring greenery in the background and all of us
looking happily blended. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In response
to the card I received many congratulations, and we framed the card in all its
beauty and glory. This year I brought out the nicely framed card and displayed
it on our foyer entry table next to the nativity scene. Time to create our
Christmas card 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Problem with
this year was we didn’t have a group photo or photos of all the kids or any
pictures of his teenage girls. Our big, happy blended family, in all
truthfulness was not happy for everyone. Put it this way, I am a step mom to
two teenage step daughters. Teenage, step, and girls. Read between the lines. There
was no happy, blended family picture to be taken. I asked Magnum, “What should
we do?” The brilliant man that he is suggested we just use a picture of our new
home and have that also serve as a moving announcement. Wonderful!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I waited
until I decorated the entire exterior to take the perfect shot of our new,
festive home. I got a few good shots, along with our two dogs in the foreground
lovingly chewing on some of the displayed, holiday arrangements in the urns.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then I got
carried away. I had done such a nice job decorating the interior of the house
that I thought it wouldn’t hurt to add a couple of collage photos as well. I
added a couple photos of us decorating the tree, (the figures of the younger
three kids barely distinguishable), one of the piano with three nutcrackers and
a Merry Christmas sign, and another of the foyer table with our card from last
year. These were thumb print sized photos but I was satisfied as it represented
not just our new home but of the joy taking place inside. In the process I managed
to sneak an annual photo of my three kids which I have been doing since their
birth while also getting the girls’ photo into the card, albeit a symbolic gesture
in the thumb print sized photo of last years’ card next to the nativity scene.
I felt like I had created a Christmas miracle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ordered 75
cards which totaled $165. I spend a moment reminiscing, proud that I completed
Christmas card 2015 and quickly shared my genius with my mother. Her response
was lack luster when I described the photo. “Well, don’t you think Magnum would
be hurt that his girls aren’t in the card but your kids are?” I said, “What do
you mean? They are in the card, in last year’s photo that I took a picture of
and included.” To which my mom continued to harp that it wasn’t the same and
wasn’t worth hurting feelings. To which I agreed and realized my genius
creation was not genius but perhaps thoughtless and insensitive and selfish.
Maybe I was a wicked step monster!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I began
to panic. I already ordered the cards. I didn’t think I could cancel the online
order. My mother told me to forget about the money and make a new card. I made
a last ditch effort to win her over for support by sending her a picture of the
card so she could see it wasn’t that bad, so she could see the genius of my
creation!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A little
side note, I recently sent one of my teenage step daughters a friendly text
message.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Technology
being what it is, I sent my mom the photo of the card then, somehow when I
followed up with my mother to ask her what she thought of the card, my follow
up was sent to my step daughter. The text message read something like this: “So
what do you think? If you zoom in you can better tell the pics. Is this
offensive or hurtful cause girls are missing from photo?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To which my
step daughter responded, “What?” or also interpreted in texting slang, “WTF?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Holy Christmas,
I just created Armageddon! I was just about to pick Magnum up from the airport
when I realized this guffaw. I started to panic. As a former special ops, you
don’t get much past Magnum. He can read me like a book. I was in a Christmas
pickle. First I had to respond to my step daughter before she reached out to
her dad for an explanation. It was an honest mistake with sincere intentions
but if I couldn’t explain myself then this situation could get out of control
fast. Though before I was able to attempt damage control, Magnum was at the car
door, tired from an overseas trip. We lovingly greeted one another then he immediately
sensed something was wrong which didn’t take a human lie detector to
distinguish. My face was beat red, my heart rate was elevated and I blurted
out, “I did something very bad!” After an anxiety attack or two I told him
about the Christmas card predicament.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Without
going into too much detail, it wasn’t as big a deal as I envisioned. Call me a
drama queen, I earned it. Magnum was cool and fine but did request I do a more
generic card. I took the approach of honesty when explaining my bizarre text to
my step daughter. I explained to her that I was just trying to create the
perfect blended family Christmas card but didn’t have a recent group shot, and
she responded, “Oh, lol.” I was able to cancel my first Christmas card order so
that was a relief and, in the end, I created a “nice” moving announcement in
the form of a festive, red and green themed Christmas card, wreaths and all.
Our dogs Buddy and Daisy were featured and captured destroying my exterior
Christmas décor which added an element of humor to such a behind the scenes
drama laden card. And believe it or not I got it out BEFORE Christmas! In the
end this really was a Christmas miracle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So if you
were one of the lucky ones to receive a lovely holiday greeting from us, there
was a lot that went into this year’s card. You never know what goes on behind
some people’s closed doors! My hope and wish for 2016’s Christmas card is to
display one nice, happily blended family group shot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Happy New
Year!</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvmFSkOQGApanE4pvYb_vgXCK04TjLgK4xiA9BX5Jf-3AhZr26dDhp7VetZ_C7sKSYct8QKwyiNzgtNwwcRsMPl9yz7Jf4UlZX-V2PGE84REChUu6oKD_kqkn6BEi77fCx1VMNF3DAVT8/s1600/IMG_1710%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvmFSkOQGApanE4pvYb_vgXCK04TjLgK4xiA9BX5Jf-3AhZr26dDhp7VetZ_C7sKSYct8QKwyiNzgtNwwcRsMPl9yz7Jf4UlZX-V2PGE84REChUu6oKD_kqkn6BEi77fCx1VMNF3DAVT8/s320/IMG_1710%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Card</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhbf4S-s9G0UNgAFBCm68iEPM1s-ZCDNeeahLhQrFikFWxkQNZq48WnY62sWvwweKdOk3z82ckIPFrInglUwXeDGtKraLnIeMSxVfLVDSmSg6iT3yG5Br7EnXmO6AOHNUQfs5KvTQUbSL/s1600/IMG_1708%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhbf4S-s9G0UNgAFBCm68iEPM1s-ZCDNeeahLhQrFikFWxkQNZq48WnY62sWvwweKdOk3z82ckIPFrInglUwXeDGtKraLnIeMSxVfLVDSmSg6iT3yG5Br7EnXmO6AOHNUQfs5KvTQUbSL/s320/IMG_1708%255B1%255D.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final Draft</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMYNdQvUnk41S5THmCnUuu1jchgF-swalVzrBjRr2P6ebgJACsMyFCG02_dt5bFrB6Je0qnflKE4CCU6XUliIA0_JSZ5rJd32MH5MQoO81ejyO8mWGlPf3aWWv7ZDmAdLX_4LmVcWK_kc/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMYNdQvUnk41S5THmCnUuu1jchgF-swalVzrBjRr2P6ebgJACsMyFCG02_dt5bFrB6Je0qnflKE4CCU6XUliIA0_JSZ5rJd32MH5MQoO81ejyO8mWGlPf3aWWv7ZDmAdLX_4LmVcWK_kc/s320/FullSizeRender+%25284%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dogs destroying décor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-64489278415235893022015-10-23T13:31:00.003-07:002015-10-23T13:31:38.026-07:00Marathon Woman
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A couple of years ago I ran my first marathon. It almost
killed me. In the end, it saved my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had never been much of a runner. I was a tennis player.
Tennis involves very quick foot action, moving side to side with quick sprints.
Distance running involves a forward movement, with a steady, enduring pace; two
very opposing actions. Therefore, any forward movement presented a challenge
for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being a mom of three, with little care for myself, my
fitness level was at an all-time low. I needed activity. I joined the YMCA and
began with the stair master. Boy could I climb stairs! I was then inspired by
my good friend and neighbor, an avid cyclist, to kick it up a notch. She encouraged
me to try “spinning” classes. They were hard but I was hooked, and I began to
see results.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Y had a weekly class that incorporated running a mile
in-between spinning. My competitive nature got the best of me and, when I
couldn’t run as fast or as far as some of the other spinners, I got fired up to
try harder. But how? I could barely run a mile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I posed this question to a fellow spinner and future fitness
trainer named Deb. She said, “Every time you run, run a little extra each time.”
Sounded simple enough so I tried it and before I realized her small piece of advice
was working. I was up to three miles. Three miles became five miles and
suddenly I was a runner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I trained and ran in my first half marathon. My family was waiting
for me at the finish line, beaming with pride. My sights were set higher
though. The buzz around town was of this mom or that mom training for marathons
and I said “Why not me?” So I signed up for the Outerbanks Marathon in North
Carolina, scheduled for the fall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I trained in all conditions, any hour of the day. I ran in
the winter, running along a country, hillside road in ice and snow, in 16
degree weather. I’d run in 100 degree temperatures. I’d run before the sun came
up. I ran with migraines. I’d fit runs in-between drop offs and kid pick-ups. A
few times I ran 11 plus miles on the treadmill. I was an animal! I’d run
thirteen miles, come home and do three hours of hard, manual yard work. I did
what it took to get my miles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ran to music. Every song gave me unique inspiration and
drive. The music helped me work out all sorts of thoughts swimming around. They
helped me run harder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Billy Joel’s “Angry Young Man” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
believe I've passed the age of consciousness and righteous rage, I've found
that just surviving was a noble fight. I once believed in causes too, had my
pointless point of view. Life went on no matter who was right or wrong.</span><span lang="EN"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Rolling Stones “Sympathy for the Devil” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name What's
puzzling you Is the nature of my game<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Phil Collins “I Don’t Care Anymore” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">'Cause I
remember all the times I tried so hard And you laughed in my face 'cause you
held all the cards. I don't care anymore. And I really ain't bothered what you
think of me 'Cause all I want of you is just a let me be. I don't care anymore
d'you hear? I don't care no more <o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Running wasn’t an addiction, it was my lifeline. My anxiety
level was so high I almost couldn’t function. I didn’t know why I had such high
anxiety. I was living such a charmed life, the American dream. I had a loyal
family, a coveted house, a secure home, and an ornery dog. But I had horrible
anxiety, so badly that I thought I was losing my mind. Running helped work out
some of this noose around my neck that was suffocating me. I had such obsessive
thoughts that would not leave me alone. Something had to give.<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One night I woke up from a fitful sleep with more nagging,
obsessive thoughts. In a very conscious yet trance like state I walked
downstairs to the cell phone, typed in a password that randomly appeared in my
head. There before me was the reason for my intense anxiety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart froze and I lost the ability to breathe. I started
hyperventilating. All the anxiety of the past two years melted and morphed into
a paralyzing and crushing fear. So I ran and I ran and I ran. Music was my
companion, my confident. I became stronger with every mile. My confidence grew.
I was a champion and could conquer all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The time had come: Marathon day! I had spent a year training
for this moment. The sun was just rising, dew was in the air and on the ground.
The crowd of runners were eerily quiet. Perhaps the anticipation of the miles
ahead was a deafening thought. I was by myself, no friend or partner to share
in the moment, but that did not deter my excitement. The cool, fall sea air was
invigorating with the scent of salt and marsh wafting about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And they’re off! I began at a steady pace staying to the
middle of the pack. Stocked with a good supply of mini Snicker bars and watered
down Coca Cola per my brother’s advice, I was sure to have enough carbs, energy
and hydration to keep me fueled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I don’t remember the exact route, I do remember
running along the sound then entering the shade of the wooded sand dunes. There
were many hills along these dunes which was unexpected for a run along the
coast. Entering upon mile 13 I became melancholy realizing the race was half
over. I wanted it to go on forever. I felt strong, I felt invincible as I
soared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, after a few shots of candy and coke, my digestive
system rebelled! Once I answered nature’s call I was back on the road but my
legs were left behind me. The pain and exhaustion hit. I could barely walk. My
IT band in my hip tensed up shooting pain into my knee and down my calf. My
legs were on fire, burning and numb. An inner voice said “Don’t stop. Walk then
run, walk then run but don’t stop.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Edging up to mile 18 I didn’t know if I could go any
further. All along the mile marks were icy hot lotion? but I resisted. Now I
was desperate and I dove into the jar, plunging my sore, achy muscles into the
miraculous goo. It took the edge off and I began to run once again. Mile 19,
20, 21 and then the bridge that looked out onto the sea. I turned and looked at
the horizon, gone from sight “I stand and watch her until at length she hangs
like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each
other. Then, someone at my side says; “There, she is gone!” leaving my load of
living freight to my destined port, gone from my sight.” (Henry Van Dyke) I
said goodbye, turned away and moved forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I turned away from the horizon and ran the final 6.4 miles towards
the finish line with Rage Against the Machine “Guerilla Warfare” playing over
and over again…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="bparactl" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It has to start somewhere, it has to start sometime<br />
What better place than here, what better time than now?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="bparactl" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">All hell can't stop us now<br />
All hell can't stop us now<br />
All hell can't stop us now<br />
All hell can't stop us now<br />
All hell can't stop us now<br />
All hell can't stop us now<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People, strangers were cheering for me, other finishers were
receiving hugs from their loved ones, having water poured over their heads as
if baptized, jackets trapping warmth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did it! I’m liberated and free. This moment is mine to
share. Yet there were no hugs from loved ones, no blankets of warmth. I was
utterly alone. I was liberated but alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found some random chair in an alley and sat down and began
to cry. I cried hard. I cried from exhaustion and I cried from sadness. I was
by myself and it was a sad feeling. I was no longer afraid though. I had just
finished the race of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My dad reminded me before the race, when I was complaining
about my slow pace, that sometimes it’s not about winning or how fast you are.
No one ever remembers who wins what marathon. To finish is accomplishment
enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My dad also reminded me that the first man to run a marathon
died after he crossed the finish line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning I woke up, stood up, threw up and, while
collapsing, reached for the phone to dial 911. I was passing out and white
lights flickered in my eyes and my body felt like it was drifting away from my
soul, I thought, “Gee, the marathon really did kill. Well that was stupid.” I
passed out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a few seconds of unconsciousness I awoke and swore I’d
never do that again. I was a one marathon runner and done. Grateful to have my
life, I echoed that cliché verse of “That which does not kill us can only makes
us stronger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am stronger indeed.
I am Marathon Woman, hear me roar!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-12547631486075305702015-10-06T08:16:00.001-07:002015-10-06T08:17:52.573-07:00THE LEGEND OF LAKE MB<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>"If I'm such a legend, then why am I so lonely? Let me tell you, legends are all very well if you've got somebody around who loves you."</em> </strong>Judy Garland</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The morning was cold. Sixteen degrees to be exact. The month
was February and a storm was coming deep in the heart of the Piedmont plains of
North Carolina. On that crisp, calm morning I was alone. Kids were at school
and I had a debt to pay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I owed my neighbor and best friend Debbie money. Twenty
dollars to be exact. Why? I could not tell you. I was always owing her
something. Good friends do a lot for a loner like me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Truth be told I was fixing to end my loneliness. I had met a
man. A good man. And while it was cold that morning, my heart was warm from the
fire of our love. After a short but story book courtship, we were set to be married in a couple of weeks .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When you know, you know and that’s how you know when it’s
right. And he was the one for me. Still nerves were getting the best of me. A
newly single mom of three charting territory of a new frontier, the whirlwind
was all that was on my mind. My head was in the clouds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never the less I had a debt to pay so after I dropped the
kids off at school I drove my silver Honda Pilot to Debbie’s house. Now this
Pilot has a story to tell as well, a story perhaps meant for another day.
Suffice it to say, this vehicle represented more than just wheels. It was the
first car I purchased since gaining my independence, and it represented freedom
and empowerment. Plus, it was a good car and good looking too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I pulled into Debbie’s driveway I suspected she wasn’t
home. But I was on a mission to pay my debt and maybe, on the off chance, have
some coffee talk too. Just in case she wasn’t home, I made the fatal decision
to keep my car running so I could make a quick escape. It was really cold and I
didn’t want to get into a cold car. Remember a storm was brewing in the
distance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I kept the car running and put it in neutral, uh, I mean
park. I hesitated and was about to reach for my emergency brake as is my usual
practice, but I told myself not to be so obsessive, her driveway was flat on
the front top so my Pilot was safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I rang the bell and no answer. Usually the dogs bark but all
was silent. Perhaps Debbie was home after all. So I rang the bell a second
time, desperate for some coffee talk with my best friend. I waited for the dogs
to announce my visit but still no sound. Just as I was about to head back
towards my car, I heard some rustling. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “was my
neighbor Marsha trimming bushes? Strange," I thought, though it was clear to me that
she must be home working in the yard with all that bush rustling. I found this
very odd for a cold morning in February with a storm on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I shrugged my shoulders and surrendered to the fact that
Debbie wasn’t home and my debt would have to hang on my conscience for another
day. As I turned to walk away from the door, the dogs started to bark from
inside. Why they stayed so silent to my presence at their door for so long, at
the time I did not know, but their barking signaled me to head back to my car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I began my departure and headed towards the driveway. As I
approached the driveway I was perplexed. I paused, scratched my head and
glanced to the side in confusion. My car was missing. “Where was my car? It was
here but a minute ago? Cars just don’t disappear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then an alarm sounded guiding me towards the bottom of
Debbie’s backyard. While her driveway was an uphill climb and flat at the top,
her backyard was a decline, laced with large pine trees that segued to a cliff
that dropped forty feet into the deep woods. Basically her house sat on a hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There, at the base of the backyard, smoke a blazing, alarm
blaring and echoing into the woods, was my silver Honda Pilot. There was my
empowerment crashed into a large pine that stopped the large SUV from
plummeting off the cliff. With its three wheels hanging in the air, the fourth
cratered into the earth, smoke pouring from the hood, air bag poking out from
the driver’s side, mangled door and side, alarm screaming, it was quite the
crime scene.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was in shock at the sight. “How on earth? What the? Why?
How?” Then I began to laugh. The sight was too unbelievable for words and so
random and unpredictable I couldn’t help but laugh! What else could I do? I
could cry but I was just thankful that no human body was harmed. Still I could
not understand how the car would just roll down a "flat" driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I put the pieces together. The rustling I heard was my car
driving over Debbie’s shrubs and Adirondack chair. The dogs were at the back
window watching the car and started to bark when the car crashed. After I came
to my senses, got my wits about me, I viewed the event as a minor life crisis and set in motion what I needed to do to put things right. I needed to first call insurance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since my phone was in the Pilot, and I was
afraid to approach it lest it explode, I headed next door to Marsha’s house to
use her phone to report the accident to my insurance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank goodness for insurance. I explained to them what had
happened. Oddly enough, they told me they file claims like this all the time.
That made me feel less stupid. Marsha and I laughed together, shaking our
heads. And yes, no one was hurt but Debbie and Dave’s backyard was a big, hot
mess. Like the elephant in the room, one could not ignore the fact that they
had a mangle of metal in the center of their yard, with the survival of their
large pine questionable at best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As Marsha and I gazed out at the crash site we spotted
Debbie. In the midst of calling insurance, and laughing off some shock and awe,
Debbie came home. She pulled into her driveway and saw the destruction in her
backyard. The smoke, the alarm, the car, her tree and she went barreling down
her backyard screaming, “Mary Beth, Mary Beth!!” She thought I was in the car
and, being the good friend that she is, she was risking her life to save me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Marsha and I raced to her screaming, “I’m here, I’m here!”
Then Debbie was confused then relieved then annoyed. Apparently I had another
debt to pay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While annoyed and adrenaline still flowing, Debbie laughed
with me as we waited for the tow truck to arrive. Now while a storm was headed
our way, and it was cold outside, really cold, North Carolina weather is wacky. Just the other day it was seventy degrees and rainy so the ground was
soft and muddy. The car was at the bottom of a hill with a maze of trees as
obstacles. We wondered how the tow truck was going to maneuver this one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tow truck arrived and the driver assured us this would
not be a problem. So for the next two hours Debbie and I watched as the truck created
what would be later lovingly referred to as “Lake MB.” Every time the truck got
stuck in the mud, it dug its towing thing to jack the front wheels out of the
mud which created a rather deep and wide hole in their backyard; not to mention
the pretty gum tree (that's an oxymoron, everyone hates gum trees) it used to brace the truck from rolling into the Pilot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a good two hours or so, the tow truck was indeed
successful in retrieving my totaled car, not without leaving its mark of not
just “Lake MB” but many, many tread marks throughout their backyard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once the tow truck driver exited the backyard, he stopped
his vehicle to grab one of those flags that mark invisible dog fences. You
know, those white, little flags that mark the border of where the dog will get
zapped if passed? Debbie had them spread out over the border of her property. Well, the truck driver noticed he was about to run one over so he
stopped his truck, got out, pulled it out of the ground, walked over to Debbie
and said, “Here, I didn’t want to run this over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Debbie just looked at him in disbelief as he handed the flag
to her. She looked at the flag, then turned to look at her backyard and said, “Really?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ground hardened as flakes began to fall. Debbie and Dave’s
backyard hole filled up with snow which later melted into a water feature,
aka “Lake MB.” Insurance took care of my car and of their backyard. Turns out I
did Debbie and Dave a favor. They were planning on having sod put down in their backyard
because they couldn’t get seed to grow. The trees provided too much shade for sun to filter through. They didn’t like
that pine and gum tree anyway so were glad to see them go. When spring arrived, "Lake MB" was filled in with dirt, the sod took, sun shone
down replacing shade and growth of moss giving way to a nice, green yard. Life was happy at the site of the legend.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve since moved from the neighborhood but my legend lives
on. Never do I visit without at least one neighbor putting up a cautionary rope
in front of their driveway and someone hollering out at me to put it in park
and “don’t forget the brake!"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the replacement of my car, my debt to Debbie paid, my
man was not deterred by this event. We were married a couple of weeks later in
a cute little chapel in the mountains of North Carolina. That too is another
story worth telling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We moved to a flat lot, with “The Legend of Lake MB” a distant
memory, our new neighbors none the wiser. I guess you could say we drove
into the sunset, living life happily ever after. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The End</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">*disclaimer* For the record, and to my knowledge, the car was in park and must have disengaged.</span></strong></em></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-84223145646975734472014-10-14T06:33:00.000-07:002014-10-14T06:33:09.266-07:00"The Art of Sport Clay"
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>“A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or
too much ammunition.” </strong></em></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>Rudyard Kipling</strong></em></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A wee week ago or two my husband had a hankering to go
shooting; sport clays that is. He invited me to go along and give the sport a
try. I had been shooting with him once before and had the unique opportunity to
shoot such fine hardware as a WWI Springfield, WWII M1, and special ops guns as
a Stehyr Aug, M1, AR15, and a mini M14. My favorite was the Springfield, in
case you were wondering, though I am old fashioned by nature so that would be
my obvious gravitation. All in all, I was a pretty good shot for a beginner. I
found the experience surreal as I had only seen this sort of sport dramatized
on film. Not every day you get to go shooting, never mind shooting such a
variety of rifles, and shooting with a former Ranger, special ops guy (that’s
my husband who would like to jokingly be referred to as Magnum in my blogs or
he’ll have to, well you know the saying…)! Shooting was fun once you got the
hang of it and I learned that the power behind a gun is not to be taken for
granted.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So when Magnum asked if I would like to try sport clays he
did not have to twist my arm. However, in an attempt to appeal to my elitist, princess
wanna be snobbery that I pretend to own, he went to great lengths to glamourize
the outing. “Oh, you know sport clay is a royal sport, that’s what they do on
Downton Abbey. This is the sport for the upper class; this is a very refined
activity, like fox hunting or croquet. Nothing like a day amongst nature,
taking in the fresh air, the birds, a crisp fall day, and then retiring to the
lodge with a cigar and brandy. This is a very sophisticated sport. I think you
will really like it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t need the sales pitch; I was on board the second he
asked me to go. First of all, any opportunity I get to spend with Magnum is a
good time; secondly I love the outdoors; and third sport clays is the sport of
royalty and I am a princess (see my blog “Princess Dumpster Diver”).</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We packed up our car with vests, bullets, a Remington and a
Stoeger, and headed to the fields. I was dressed somewhat rugged, wearing my Troxler
riding wellies from my mock fox hunting days, some army green comfy pants, a
fanny pack of bullets wrapped around my waist, and my hair in a pig tail reading
to shoot, my royal garb of blazers and tweed saved for another day.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived at the shooting course out in the North Carolina
country. There was indeed a lodge but no one was smoking cigars and sipping
brandy; Picture more Duck Dynasty versus Downton Abbey. The bathroom was clean
though. We filled out release slips, were briefed on safety (with the number
one rule of importance: never point your gun at anyone. Duh!) met our guides
and headed out with our guns.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before we started the course we warmed up on the wobble
trap. A wobble trap is a deck that sits about fifteen feet off the ground and
is about 5 feet deep by 20 feet wide. The trap, overlooking a field and some
woods, is meant to simulate the actual course enabling the shooter to practice
targeting the clays. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To paint the picture, the process of the wobble practice
goes something like this: Peering out into the woods, you load your gun with
two shells, remove the safety, and give the signal for the guides to release
the clay “Pull!” A clay disc comes floating from the side, gliding gracefully
towards the trees, a steady yet firm hold, eye on the target, pull the trigger
and shoot the clay.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hey honey, want to go first?” asks Magnum.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure.” I said. After all I was now an experienced shooter
after having gone shooting once before. Why not dive in and give it a go. Of
course I had never shot a shot gun but how different could it be?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I loaded two shells from my fanny pocket, removed the
safety, gave the signal to release the clay, “Pull!” keeping my eye on the
target and pulled the trigger. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The kick force from the gun sent me two feet back, spun me
around, causing my shoulder to take such a hit I felt as though I had been shot.
With a numbing pain running down my arm, slightly in shock from the force, I
dropped the gun to grab my arm and in the process, pointed the weapon at my
husband. Everyone yelled, “Whoa, drop the gun.” which I proceeded to do but I
dropped it right where I was standing and to a degree that the gun was still aiming
at Magnum. The force from my dropping the gun on the ground could have
triggered the gun to shoot the remaining bullet but fortunately it did not. I
quickly came to my senses as I gently placed the gun in the holding bar. Phew,
everyone was safe!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I began to tremble, my arm aching and numb. I drew back from
the wobble and cussed and said, “I’m done!” I worked to hold back tears as I
felt so silly to think I would be cut out for this sport, even worse, that I
had almost shot my husband. The man survived a few wars and his wife almost
took him down. I took the power of the gun for granted and fired with too much
confidence.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still in pain and shock, I stood back and voluntarily became
a spectator as Magnum took the podium. Using the gun I had just shot, the
second bullet still remaining, safety off, clay gliding, he aimed and shot.
Magnum jumped back a little from the kick. He scratched his head and thought
something wasn’t right. The guides also noticed something wasn’t right. The gun
shouldn’t have this big a kick. So Magnum and the two guides took a closer look
at what was loaded and realized we were shooting turkey shells left over from
Magnum’s recent outing of turkey hunting.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now turkey hunting is another story all together, one I will
share when I get the opportunity to go a hunting for turkeys. I have learned
though that turkeys are big and mean and require bigger shells. Bigger shells,
especially shot from a gun that is not meant to hold bigger shells, packs a big
kick. Interpretation, no wonder the gun kicked so much! I was given the wrong
shot gun shells and anyone would have encountered the same scenario, pro or
novice alike.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once we all recovered from the shock of the shells, we all
had a good laugh and proceeded to the clay course. I felt relieved that I
wasn’t as much of a novice as the turkey shells proclaimed and was looking
forward to giving the course a try. Shot guns still pack a kick but I was given
a vest with more padding and I learned to position the gun a little better to
absorb some of the force.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We headed out to the course which is kind of like playing
golf. There are stations. After a few stations I began to relax a little more,
which apparently is the key to hitting targets. Our guides got a kick, pun of
course intended, at my aiming and how close I came on a few occasions. Towards
the end I was looking like a pro and I felt like one too.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t fumble when loading and I didn’t hesitate when
shooting. However, I also didn’t hit any clays either. Didn’t matter, I was
having fun, enjoying the fresh air, the stroll along the paths, the trees, the
cool crisp autumn day, and the time I spent with my husband. I marveled at his
accuracy of aim, envisioned him in battle with pride and admiration for the
hero he is.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We rounded the corner towards the very last station. If I
could have crafted the ending to this story with complete poetic license I
could not have crafted it any better. I took my stance, loaded, locked, removed
the safety and hollered “Pull!” I was relaxed, took my time as the clay came
soaring thirty feet in front of me, gliding gracefully like a bird into the
crisp, blue sky. I took my last aim, shot and I hit that clay dead on,
shattering it to pieces. What a rush! I screamed and hollered <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>while everyone around laughed and cheered and
agreed this was the way to end the day.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And to think I almost quit earlier that day. Sometimes
things get off to a bad, really bad start but if no one gets hurt, or shot, let
the show go on, don’t ever quit or you never know what targets you can hit. You
may miss that one opportunity for a big break, reaching a bulls eye, or simply just
spending a day stopping to smell the roses, allowing life to slow a little amidst
the simple pleasures that are always abound.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Boy I had a cherry on my shoulder at the end of the day; my
badge of honor. I enjoyed watching it change colors throughout the week and
recounting my story to others. Magnum’s birthday is right around the corner and
I am planning to get him a membership to the sport clay club, which is actually
quite affordable for a royal sport. There we can spend our days like Dukes and
Earls and Ladies, shooting clays and then retiring to the lodge by the fire
with a cigar and brandy.</span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-30111229087924188962014-08-22T07:18:00.000-07:002014-08-22T07:18:11.289-07:00THE BATTLE OF PURNELL RIDGE
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m mean, nasty and
tired. I eat concertina wire and piss napalm and I can put a round in a flea’s
ass at 200 meters. So why don’t you go hump somebody else’s leg, mutt face,
before I push yours in.” Clint Eastwood, from the movie “Heartbreak Ridge”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I am not one to retreat from terror. I will not give up
my ridge. So with a little time passing from this near death encounter, I
continued with my running and strolls but approached the ridge with caution. I would
always creep up and peer around the corner to see if Remington was out. I
always made sure to arm myself with a pointy limb from a fallen branch nearby
in case he should attack. If the coast was clear, I would pass his house
walking backwards, limb in hand, watching my back on the defense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Occasionally his master would be outside and I would kindly
ask her to put him inside while I passed her home. I thought I had the
situation under control. And then one day there was an act of war.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a steamy, humid afternoon in August. I made my way to
the ridge and peeked to see if my foe was out. Indeed he was. I hollered for his
master to bring him in but received no response. With my habitual limb in hand,
I stood for a few moments contemplating my next move. My husband, an Army
Ranger, gave me a few pointers on how to protect myself should I encounter such
a precarious situation: arm out, ready to knee the aggressor. I thought about
this for a few seconds and decided I liked my arm and I’m not a Ranger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Using my best judgment, I decided to pick another road to
run on that fine day. Just as I turned away from the tip of the ridge,
Remington spotted me from behind the bushes. Our eyes met and I knew we were in
a stand-off. I stood for a moment and started to wave my arms wildly at him. I
considered the arm, knee defense, but in that split second I knew my only
chance at survival was to run.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I darted towards Purnell Road, the arm leading to Route 1,
where cars dictate the speed limit at 60 mph. I had no time to “stop, look, and
listen.” I only hoped no cars were passing. My visor flew off my head, my iPod
fell from my pocket, my water bottle rolled to the ground. My heart pounding
and out of breath, I ran screaming. Across the road lay a ditch four feet wide
and five feet deep. I leapt over it, landed, stumbled, almost falling to the
ground. I managed to hold on and keep running. All along Remington was on my
tail. He knew no boundaries. He chased me onto another property and I could
feel his breath at my heels. “This was it,” I thought, “I’m going down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then, by some good grace, he turned and went home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shaken and in utter disbelief that this beast hunted me as
he did, the woman who’s home I landed on, came out to see if I was OK. She
brought me inside and I recounted the story. She told me she fears for her life
and that of her dogs, that the dog is vicious and it’s just a matter of time
before there’s bloodshed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I called the dog catcher. This dog had to be stopped. After
an investigation, the dog catcher informed me that “it appearz zat youw paperz
are noot in orda.” Since I had not reported prior attacks, the dog catcher
could only issue a warning to the owners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After I alerted the neighborhood to this terrorist, I began
to hear stories similar to mine. One even included a confession by the master
that she feared her son’s dog was not safe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My fight is not over. I will not give up the ridge. Question
is, what should be my next approach? Do I go on the offense, lure him into an
attack, report his serial offenses and let justice prevail? Too dangerous and
risky. How will time play out this tale? Will Remington turn on his own? Will
someone else fall victim to his prey? These are questions of which I have no
answer. But I do know this, Remington is a terrorist. He is not a militant dog
or a radical pet. I can’t ignore his presence, I tried being his friend. He is
terrorizing the street of Purnell Ridge and he knows no boundaries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Someday peace will be at hand, and I will run on Purnell
Ridge again. Dogs only live to be so old. For now though I retreat. That paved
road across the street will do just fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-12921171100054625192014-08-22T07:06:00.001-07:002014-08-22T07:43:56.670-07:00REMINGTON THE TERRORIST<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></b> </div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“People who keep dogs are cowards who haven’t got
the guts to bite people themselves” August Strindberg<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a time warp of a road around the corner from where
I live. With asphalt and black top paving most of the planet, I have found a
respite from modern society. This little gem, practically in my backyard, is
called Purnell Ridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Purnell Ridge is a vein of a country road where few remain.
Traveling deep down Purnell Road, an arm that leads to Capital Boulevard, or
more commonly known up and down the east coast as Route 1, one may stumble upon
a few of these back country roads. With such names as “Shoe Fly,” “Black Horse,”
or my favorite, “Lightning Bug Lane,” they are spots paused in time, untouched
and amputated from the reaches of Big Brother. I would caution traveling down
some of these roads as “no trespassing” signs and shot guns are partners in
preserving such tranquility. However, Purnell Ridge is a little more welcoming,
with county zoning of five acres per lot. Civilization is more prevalent on
the Ridge, thus certain considerations and expectations apply. With such
precedence as no kill zones and shot guns need not apply, trespassing along the
road is permitted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love visiting Purnell Ridge. A leisurely stroll on a
crisp, fall day down the unpaved, sandy colored road, where rain fall carves divots
and ruts makes traveling a character trace. Foliage of hundreds of year old
trees shade the pathway, and creeks runneth alongside while the sounds of birds,
frogs and insects harken melodies to the base of running water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The seclusion of the road is peaceful, full of solace, and
cleansing in nature. Surrounded by lake and woods, there are a few cautions requiring
mindfulness. Random copperhead or cotton mouth snake indigenous to the area make
rare appearances. Legends told of an existence of bears or coyotes scavenging the
woods, though I have yet to site any. Some even claim bob cat lurk in the
shadows. But the biggest treat is tiny Toto, the dog, who barrels from his
home, barking at your feet, only to roll over for a belly rub. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love running the Ridge. A mile round trip, hilly and
winding, always adds interest to a challenging run. I used Purnell Ridge to add
mileage when training for my sole marathon. While not a resident of Purnell
Ridge, my home overlooks the woods of this beloved trail and I feel a special
kinship developed and nurtured over ten years of my visiting this unique spot.
That is until recently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seems a rather vicious beast has moved into the
neighborhood. Situated at the entrance of Purnell Ridge, he has become the gate
keeper. His name is Remington and I don’t like him very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One fine day I ran down Purnell Ridge, then I ran up. On my
way back up the ridge I was abruptly stopped by a large and juvenile German
Shepard that, unlike Toto’s friendly greetings, came charging with loud barks,
growls and fangs. I sized him up at about a buck twenty. His hair raised along the spine, ears stretching to the trees, I was more
than startled; I froze in a panic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully this beast was just out for a stroll with his
lady master who quickly called him back before he attacked – me. I am
acquaintances with this woman and we chatted as I inquired about her new family
pet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She explained that her good for nothing, slacker, late
blooming, leech of a son brought him home. But really the dog is quite
friendly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked of this fine
pet’s name. She replied, “Remington, after the gun.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, how cute,” I responded and then reached my out my hand
as a peacemaking gesture of diplomacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You could feel the tension in the air as she quickly
shouted, “Don’t. I wouldn’t pet him.” In coincidence with her plea, Remington,
the friendly dog, started growling at me, about to pounce. She called him back.
I laughed a little nervously and politely said I’d be on my way and that it was
nice talking with her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Time had passed and I had forgotten about Remington. I ran
the Ridge with no disturbances other than a welcoming hello from Toto. That is
until one day after a run down the Ridge, making my way back up, I encountered
Remington. I was just about to pass his territory when I heard him bark. I made
sure I steered clear of his boundaries and headed to the far side of the road.
But that was not far enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Remington is a cruel and evil beast. He was bred to attack
and terrorize those not in his pack. He knows no other purpose. I doubt
rehabilitation would work with Remington. Could I picture Cesar Milan, “The Dog
Whisperer,” finding out what makes him tick? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cesar’s assessment of Remington would go something like
this: “This dog was raised by an overindulged, entitled master. Watch what
happens when I rub behind his ears.” As Cesar reaches to stroke Remington,
Cesar interprets the dog’s speech. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What did he say Cesar?” asks the audience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cesar responds with a look of fear in his eyes, “He says ‘I
vill keel you! RUN!!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Run I did as Remington came charging at me. I did not know
what to do! I know you are not supposed to run from dogs or they will run after
you but I tried to stand my ground. I waved my arms and started growling back
at him with no retreat from Remington. He was getting closer. So I started
screaming at the top of my lungs, and ran as fast as I could but he gained so
much speed, he was on my tail. And then, just as his snout grazed my ankle, ready
to bring me down, my pleas for help were heard, and his owner called him back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trembling with fear, shock and awe, tears streaming from my
cheeks, I headed home lucky to be alive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not one to retreat from terror. I will not give up my
ridge. This is war!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Story to be continued...</span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-73696581405542421022014-08-14T06:42:00.000-07:002017-01-24T14:07:41.856-08:00Feeling Crabby<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>“We got so much food
in America we’re allergic to food. Allergic to food! Hungry people ain’t
allergic to shit. You think anyone in Rwanda’s got a f-ing lactose
intolerance?!” Chris Rock<o:p></o:p></strong></span></i></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ask me of my favorite food and my immediate answer is
seafood. Oh how I love sweets, but I’ll take a succulent meal of shrimp, clams,
mussels, lobster, scallops, and my absolute favorite, crab any day. Growing up
along the Eastern Shore of Maryland, as I did, fosters seafood in one’s blood.
Problem is I recently developed an allergy to my favorite food, more
specifically shellfish. So far the reaction has not reached anaphylactic proportions,
so until it does I will keep testing the limit of this allergy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Last week I ate a little too much shellfish; the effects of
my debauchery followed me days later as a reminder of this allergy I always
conveniently forget. I made shrimp jambalaya from scratch from a recipe my New
Orleans neighbors perfected. Filled with locally raised Andouille sausage, shredded
rotisserie free range chicken, delicately sautéed peppers, onions, and sweet
garlic left to braise in a broth of tomatoes and Cajun spices, with cilantro as
a special twist, and the grande cerise sur le gateau, le grande finale: shrimp! The dish is tres irresistible! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My shrimp jambalaya was so good, so, so, so good I ate leftovers
several days in a row for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Toward the end of the
week I began to feel crappy and itchy. I attributed my foul discomfort to a
tick that latched itself to an unmentionable part of my being earlier that day.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ticks, coincidentally, fall into the same crustacean
category as spiders and shellfish, however ticks are not on my menu. They are
nasty, parasitic, disease carrying scourges of the planet. Seems the tick had me
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As a self-proclaimed hypochondriac I became
symptomatic of every tick borne illness I could google. But none of the sites
gave all over body itch as a symptom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My itchiness began to turn welt like and hives appeared from
head to toe. I was not pleasant to be around. I hollered at the kids,
complained to my husband, growled at the dogs. I was in a real crabby mood. And
then it hit me like a tsunami sized salt water wave: It’s the Jambalaya! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes, that’s right,” I suddenly remembered, “I am allergic
to shrimp. Silly me for forgetting!” Since my shellfish allergy has yet to
reach the stage of throat closure, I do not feel terribly threatened, figuring
a little shellfish every now and again is manageable. Treating myself with a couple
of Benadryl, a dazed and confused sleep, the next day I was good as new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A couple of days later I attended a crab fest. I do love me
some crabs! Thus I took advantage of the all you can eat format and ate all I
could eat crabs. The next day my allergy returned, this time with a little more
of a vengeance. My throat began to tickle, my lips began to puff, and hives
formed in all sorts of shapes all over my body. I realized I had pushed the
limit with this allergy and needed a momentary change in diet and a more
powerful antihistamine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Today I am still feeling a little crabby and crappy; A
little itch here, a little itch there. This too shall pass. Allergy or no
allergy I will not be deterred from eating my favorite food: shellfish! I will continue
on an antihistamine and take a couple weeks off. Hopefully by Labor Day weekend
I’ll be back in the game for our annual blue crab fest, once again testing the
limits of this most detestable, cruel allergy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Why, oh why, would I put myself through such torture, such
life threatening risk? I could think about that now but I’ll think about it
tomorrow. Giving up something you love is never easy. When something is in your
blood the task is near impossible. Crabs are the only thing that matter. Never
will I give up shellfish! As blogging is my witness, I will persevere in even
the worst of reactions until my dying day. I will endure the pain, the hives,
the discomfort, the inconvenience. It’s the only thing in the world worth
workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’, as long as I shall live, as long
as it doesn’t kill me, and I will never go hungry again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-11309312497002661482014-08-13T11:02:00.000-07:002014-08-13T12:34:54.788-07:00It's a Moby!<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt 1in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><strong>“A crab
provides little food, so he is not easy to eat. But the little he does offer is
the best food under the sky. To eat crab you must work, which makes you
appreciate him more. He is the blessing, the remembrance. And no man or woman
ever ate enough.” James A. Michener’s <u>Chesapeake</u></strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt 1in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">James Michener’s excerpt captures the essence of what
I think of as one of the finest foods placed upon this planet: blue crabs. With
a most gorgeous hue of blue that turns to fiery red, these creatures provide
the most succulent, sweetest, unique and delicate flavor to the palate. They
also provide a haven, a coming together of souls, causing time to pause and
allowing for reflection of the blessings, as Michener writes, that are bestowed
upon us. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Growing up in New Jersey I am a Jersey girl by birth where
blue crabs do scavenge the floors of the Atlantic. A good portion of my life,
however, was spent visiting my grandparents along the Eastern Shore of
Maryland. Here is where salt water and all the fine creatures that inhabit
these waters cultivated my eternal love for crabs and the art of eating them. I
grew up on Trippe Creek; heaven on earth if ever there was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I were a wet rag you could squeeze me and out would fall
droplets of Old Bay. Crabs and the murky waters of the Chesapeake are forever in
my blood. August is the best time to harvest this crustacean. Of course you
could crab all summer long, but any local would inform you that August is the
best month along the Eastern Shore and Labor Day is the grand finale of the
season.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We often visited my grandparents throughout the year, each
season a unique and treasured experience. Traveling down Harleigh Lane, we
turned towards their red brick Cape Cod style house facing west, with near
panoramic views of Trippe Creek. During summertime, all of us cousins, aunts
and uncles would spend a good portion of our time and energy crabbing. We used
crab traps strung along the dock from the pilings. The trap was about a 2 foot x
2 foot metal netted cube with cylinder shaped nets in the center where the bait
would rest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back in the day we used cut up eel as bait. It was smelly
and stinky. Left to soak in the salty waters, the decomposing gray flesh of the eel faded to an almost white, with bone and
mangled flesh eking out from the sides. The crabs really gravitated towards the
eel, but as eel became more of a delicacy, and scarcer to find, eel was quickly
replaced by chicken necks. Not as traditional but seemingly effective and just
as stinky and nasty to the senses. I could argue the efficacy of eel vs.
chicken necks countered with the decline in the blue crab population, but that is
for another diction. Eel was better though…anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Throughout the day my brothers, cousins and I would make many
trips down to the dock. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Look out for
the loose board at the top of the dock. Make sure you wear shoes or you’ll get
splinters. No going on the dock unless you wear your life jacket!” were some of
the orders barked by our parents. We would shimmy the trap to the deck of the
dock and count the crabs. We would pick out the keepers and release the babies to
grow for next year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Around mid-afternoon with an adult or two to supervise, we
would hop aboard the little outboard, lovingly named the Crab Alley after my
cousin Alison, who incidentally is not crabby at all. Using a trot line we would
motor up and down Trippe Creek, each taking turns catching the assembly line of
crabs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Using a rope about 100 or so yards long, anchored by floaters
(usually empty plastic milk bottles), weighted down to the creek floor by
anchors, the trot line is basically an assembly line of bait spread about every
couple of feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slowing approaching the first buoy, a net (with metal netting
so as not to tangle the crabs), is carefully dipped into the water, under the
rope, then lifted and strategically placed on a roller. As the outboard creeps
along, the roller moves the rope and bait. We were extremely silent during this
phase so as not to scare off the crabs. With net discreetly in position, just barely under the water, a
slight and steady hand would scoop the feeding crab into a rubber bucket filled
with an inch or two of water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When one of us missed our opportunity to net the crab silence
would be broken as the rest of us would holler at the netter, “How could you
miss that! Oh you blew it! Oh well it was too small anyway. That was the
biggest crab of the day!” But with another crab waiting, we quickly enacted
the "no speak zone" and silence resumed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes one of us would net the crab but miss the bucket
allowing a crab to escape and scurry free on the little Crab Ally. Such an
event sent all toes on board mid-air. With benches on board that were hollowed
underneath, the deceptive crab ran for cover. The net served not only to catch
the crab but also to nudge and lure it into captivity. Toes safe with the rogue
crab captured and resting in the bucket we went back to the business of
crabbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh the excitement and adventure of catching crabs! The pinnacle
of the catch, when we knew our day was done and nothing could top our work, was
when someone hollered a phrase coined by my cousin David. In reference to the
giant fish named Moby Dick by Herman Melville, we knew this crab could not be
topped. To be such a large crab, so old and wise, experienced to the prowess of
the trot line, yet so engrossed in its feeding, you could hear a pin drop,
steady was everyone on deck, and then SNATCH! Echoing all over the creek could
be heard, “It’s a Moby!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the harvest of the day coming to an end we would hand
over our catch to our grandmother Gammie who would steam the crabs in a big,
black pot speckled with white, reserved especially for crabs. Gammie,
a Baltimore native, raised Quaker during the Depression era, saw her share of death
and misery. As a result she was cold to the business of steaming crabs. She
would pile in Old Bay and a can of beer. Outboards weren’t the only place a crab
went rogue. Kitchen counters and floors gave one or two a glimpse of hope at
escape but good ole’ Gammie quickly threw the crabby into her pot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every now and then there was a crab that fell through the
cracks, not quite meeting keeper requirements. As she tonged the crab into the
pot, she’d pick up the baby crab, pause for a moment then say, “Well babies die
all the time” and in plopped the crab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the screen porch overlooking the creek as the venue,
long tables covered in newspaper were set with instruments for cracking: wooden
hammers, metal crackers, and knives made especially for digging out vestiges of
crab meat. The chefs at the grill brought in barbeque chicken breasts, local
Maryland corn and sliced tomatoes as the rest of us anxiously awaiting the tray
full of crabs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inevitably there were a few squabbles placing claim over who
caught what crab, but nobody argued with the catcher of the Moby! Moby was
theirs to covet. A big chunk of meat would warrant the
champion crabber to dangle their prize in front of whomever was sitting next to
them, and while unappreciated, perfectly fair game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With our family huddled on the porch, the sun setting over
Trippe Creek, the scent of salt water wafting through the screen, the sounds of
the end of the day settling in, we sat diligently picking crabs. Knowing another
summer had come to an end, and that the next time we would all gather would be Thanksgiving,
we cherished our time, our moment, and the remembrance of such a blessing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-75413956585636007912013-12-27T09:32:00.002-08:002013-12-27T09:53:47.354-08:00If You Just Believe<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Are you willing to
believe that love is the strongest thing in the world – stronger than hate,
stronger than evil, stronger than death – and that the blessed life which began
in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the
Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.” </i></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Henry Van Dyke</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Christmas season came and went this year without too
much of a peep. The kids and I picked out the biggest tree we could find: Ten
feet tall and five feet wide. I prepared the usual pomp and circumstance of the
season by decking my house from the inside out with lights and garland, wreaths
and sparkling presents. Decorations were dazzling halls, cookies were baked and
eaten, stockings hung on the chimney with great cheer, holiday parties
happened, and carols were sung all over town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My children were nestled all snug in their beds with the
hopes that St. Nick would soon be near. Here in North Carolina not a single
snowflake fell, and many a December day felt more like a warm summer’s eve than
a scene from a Norman Rockwell holiday card. Still I’m sure the spirit was
alive, I just didn’t feel it as much as usual. I am not really sure why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps because Thanksgiving was a week later this year and everything
Christmas had to be crammed into a shorter period of time? In an effort to put on the
holiday show was there less time to savor and immerse oneself in the season? I
noticed more people wishing “Merry Christmas” with pride and exuberance versus
the hesitant “Happy uh, um Holidays?” so surely the spirit was alive more than
ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remembered the reason of the season and reminded the kids we
were celebrating Jesus’s birthday. We went to church and prayed for peace and
happiness throughout the land, filled shoe boxes to send to children in need,
adopted an angel from a tree, listened to bells toll, and told stories from the
past. All signs of good tidings were evident and we came all ye faithful,
joyful and triumphant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My kids counted down the days to see if Santa thought they
were naughty or nice. Would he bring them everything their hearts desired? Did
they remember to tell him about the Furby, or that giant Nerf gun, or that last
minute wish for that special Harry Potter wand? We were all very merry with
yuletide trimmings shouting “Noel!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every morning my sweet five year old would come barreling into
my room and tell me how many more days until Santa arrives. He would hold out
his hand and count his fingers with such authority and assertiveness, and then
smile with giant excitement in his eyes, giggling like a bowl full of jelly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My eleven year old, bless his heart, still believes. He tried
to talk himself out of the magic a year ago, but I talked him right back into
it telling him that he’ll have everything he needs if he just believes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My darling nine year old daughter was humble with her
requests. She really did lose her two front teeth, plucked from her mouth by
the dentist. Yet she could still whistle Merry Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All signs of everything Christmas were in full force, and I
know the spirit was too, I just didn’t feel it like I usually do. Then it
happened, just when I thought all hope of having my heart brimming with the
enchanting aura of the holy time would escape me, I felt it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christmas Eve we made our annual hop, skip and jump to my
aunt’s home for the traditional carving of the Roast
Beast dinner. The table set with fine china and family heirlooms, with place
cards thoughtfully arranged, we enjoyed the company of our family and friends.
We ended the evening with a reading of “Twas the Night Before Christmas”
recited by my younger cousin. The reading was a tribute to my most respected
and missed uncle who passed too soon and not that long ago. The moment was
bitter sweet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christmas morning arrived. I knew long before the kids that
Santa had not forgotten our home. She was up until 3:30 am wrapping presents
and filling stockings with “The Christmas Story” marathon playing in the
background. Nonetheless three innocent pairs of gingery footsteps trounced into
my room to wake me, anxious to see if Santa came. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just as they were about to race down the stairs I halted
them, “Stop, let me check to see if he came!” but it was too late, their
excitement could no longer be contained. In a peaceful truce with a cordial
friendship in the works, their dad appeared shortly thereafter to share in the festive
frenzy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a sea of paper and presents, the room was covered from
tree to chimney. Not a single regret or complaint of disappointment was uttered,
and smiles and happiness exploded amidst the mass of mess. All five of us, mom,
dad, and three children, sat down to a lovely breakfast served in the dining
room with Christmas carols enhancing the scene. We shared some laughs and
stories, recounted our packages and showed thanks. But that was not when I was
struck with the spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My three children gathered their belongings and were off for
the next week to spend some quality time with their dad. I spent the day in a
quiet, reminiscent silence. Though I was not alone and my euphoric state had me
flying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Later that evening I was invited to the home of my dear neighbors
and friends Dave and Debbie for Christmas dinner. Joined by their daughter Kristen,
and Dave’s mom visiting from Ohio, we enjoyed a most delicious feast of a
special secret family recipe called Shrimp Mangino, served with roasted brussel
sprouts and Caesar’s salad. Dave, the ultimate wine connoisseur, selected the
most delectable wine to pair with the meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two years prior I had the honor of joining them on this
very sacred night. We sat at the same table and enjoyed the same meal with the
same company. Dave’s mom remembered our meeting and both of us were happy to be
reunited. She is a pip of a hoot and a lady with a pep in her step and a sass
in her humor. She said to me, “The last time I saw you, you looked older. You
look younger now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two years ago I spent my first Christmas dinner without my
family. Although that seemed like eons ago, I recall the time not being one of my
happier days. I may have had a smile on my face, but my sadness hung heavy and
she remembered. She could tell that evening how sincerely time had healed me
and I confided a little secret to her. She was beaming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Amazing how much time truly heals. I spent a wonderful
evening with my best friends and though my children were not with me, I was
living in the moment, not dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. We
gathered around the piano and their daughter Kristen played a most gorgeous
Christmas ensemble that brought tears to my eyes. I asked her to play it again
and she did. Then Debbie and Kristen sang a Silent Night duet. That was the
moment. Music, the gift from heaven, the voice of God, brought the magic and
spirit of the season to my heart. What a beautiful life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christmas came and went this year without a peep. I
neglected to get out my Christmas cards, there were people I wished I had
showed my thoughts with actions, I didn’t bake nearly the cookies I wanted to
bake, didn’t spend nearly the time I wanted to spend with my children. Our
gingerbread houses collapsed and we never made it to our traditional showing of
the Nutcracker. I confess, we never filled those shoeboxes. Somehow our annual
viewing of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” escaped
us, while our traditional readings of such sentimental works as <u>The Polar
Express</u> or <u>Santa Mouse</u> sat on the shelf too often. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As for that Elf on the Shelf, screw him, he’s creepy and was
never invited to our house anyway. I ran out of steam when decorating, so much that
the last few strings of lights I just threw on a bush and called it a day. My
gorgeous tree hatched a rather large family of spiders that brought new babies
on the twelve days of Christmas. I didn’t walk around stores with that
effervescent spirit of good will towards men. I spent more money than my budget
allowed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But on the final hour of this season, the spirit rained down upon me.
And the day after all is calm, all is quiet. And I’m in love. Everything I
asked for and more is under my tree. I can’t wait for next Christmas season.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Merry Christmas!!</span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-71899013150706621252013-12-09T11:44:00.000-08:002013-12-09T12:26:44.503-08:00Red Haired Red NeckI dedicate this posting to a new friend whom inspired me to let my inner red neck out...that and too much Duck Dynasty as of late.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“Ain’t no point in beatin’ a dead horse….’course, can’t hurt
none either.”</em> Author Unknown<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am Master of my domain, Queen of my castle, Lady of my
manor, Countess of the county! Prior to my single status, I was exempt from
certain responsibilities. Now certain challenges have fallen upon me and I have
tackled them with hesitancy and reservation. Once accomplished though I have
become empowered. I am woman, hear me roar! I speak of yard work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I have alluded, alright admitted, to my princess
status in a previous blog or two, I am not afraid to work hard and get my hands
dirty. When it comes to yard work, I don’t really have a choice. Since my
current budget does not allow the luxuries of a gardener, though that would be
fun, I must dive in and do it myself. My yard, while fit for a castle, is a beast
of a yard. It rests on an acre and a half on a rather steep hill, surrounded by
a moat of trees. To maintain such an estate requires use of several pieces of
mechanical equipment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To entertain use of such equipment, I fashion my work shoes,
some raggedy pants, and a beat up t-shirt. With my hair up, visor on, and $5 shades
from Wal-Mart, I am quite the picture of ruggedness ready to tackle a manly job.
Each item has had its own nuances, requiring the right amount of that special
touch to get ‘em going: the leaf blower, the weed whacker, the hedge trimmer,
the lawn mower, and alas my coveted John Deere tractor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The leaf blower is really fun to use. Of course, taking care
of leaves with some good old fashioned raking is better exercise but, considering the
size of my lot, I have a lot of ground to cover and blowing is more efficient.
Besides perusing the yard with a motor on my back is enough work for one gal. I
am an expert blower now but back when I was a virgin I had the darnedest time
trying to get that thing started. I would pump the gas into the fuel line, pull
the string thing, fluctuate the gear settings, get a little motor action and
then nothing. I spent hours doing this, cursing, sweating, shouting, and
eventually kicking the thing where the sun don't shine. Then one day my neighbor and I
were talking. I told him I couldn’t get my leaf blower to work. He pointed out
to me that the off switch was on. You know what? I flicked the switch to “on”
and that baby started right up. I am now really good at blowing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ugh, the dreaded weed whacker; my most despised piece of
yard equipment. If I were smarter and of the more technical mind, I would
invent a better weed whacker. One that doesn’t quit so quickly, doesn’t break
its string every five seconds, one that automatically reloads and doesn’t require
pounding on pavement, one that is more user friendly, careful not to have such
a quick trigger, shooting debris into shins and eyes. There is just so much I
would do to improve on this mechanical tool. I have yet to master the weed
whacker and I have about given up trying. In fact, it currently sits in my
garage, dissected into three pieces. To rectify the edging and weed creeping
into garden beds, I have caved and resorted to using Round Up to edge my beds.
I hate doing because I try to be environmentally friendly, but it gets the job
done without all the mess and hassle. (I know I will be hearing from my EPA
cousin on this one.).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The hedge trimmer is a beautiful creation of electronic yard
equipment I just recently discovered. A well groomed yard goes a long way in
keeping in good with the neighbors. Those shrubs grow fast. I found that a good
bush whacking cleans things up nicely and the hedge trimmer is the piece to get
the job done. There are some precautions to consider. First, while it works
really well on shrubs and hedges, it also works really well on jeans and
extension cords. I have learned that whatever is in its way, it will trim. I am
lucky to have my leg and my life. Cutting live wires is a risky proposition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah the lawn mower, my little hummer. This has had very
little to learn surprisingly. I can start it up just fine but every now and
then it needs gas. “Hmmm, which hole for the gas? Not the one for the oil.
Oops!! Oh and what this random cap I found on the garage floor? I don’t know,
don’t think I need it so I’ll just throw it out. Oops! Gas tank lid for mower.
That’s alright, nothing a little Saran Wrap, aluminum foil and a hair band
can’t cure.” Thanks to some creative ingenuity, my little hummer is leak free
and happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tractor; I am queen of the hill on my coveted John
Deere; master of my domain. I rule the tractor. There is just something about
the power of the motor under your body. With all the quirks in the topography of
the yard I sometimes feel like I an expert downhill skier maneuvering moguls
on an icy slope. Focus and strategy are key. You do not want the mower to tip.
That would be bad. Too steep in one area and the grass clippings and I will
become one. Patience is key. Sometimes Johnny can be sensitive. He is limited
in his capabilities as he strictly cuts grass, but he does it so well. Sometimes
I tempt him by running over pine cones, rocks, tennis and whiffle balls, but he
lets me know such adventures are too much and he responds by growling as he viciously
spits out the debris torn in shreds. Some days Johnny just doesn’t feel like
starting. When this is the case, I give my ole Deere a rest and try to rev him
up later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently, with fall in full force, and the moat of trees
around my house, I had to contend with a real leaf project. Several weeks had
passed since Johnny and I had ridden. I went to start him up and he just
wouldn’t turn over. I gave some lubrication to the motor, caressed the engine a
little and still I couldn’t get Johnny up and running. I was really in the mood
to ride him. I had leaves to run over and he was just the piece for the job. I
was forced to resort to my trusty leaf blower. I spent hours blowing until the
sun set and darkness prevailed. I still hadn’t forgotten about Johnny. I was
curious if perhaps the mood suited him now that he had some time to think about
working for me? So I moseyed on over to my Deere, jumped right on, turned him
on, and low and behold he was ready to ride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The yard was pitch dark but my Johnny has some pretty strong
headlights. He’s manufactured for such situations. I rode my hot rod all over
the yard, seeing nothing but the couple of feet he lit for me. Up and down,
back and forth, together we worked to make a beautiful landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Apparently we were really loud. My neighbors Debbie and Dave
happened to be outside checking out their Christmas lights. They heard a mower
in the distance. They turned to each other and said, “Is someone mowing their
lawn at night?” Dave turned to Debbie and said, “I bet it’s MB.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning Debbie called to inquire what the racket
was on my property. She inquisitively inquired, “Were you cutting your lawn in
the dark last night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To which I excitedly replied, “Yes, yes, yes!! It was
exhilarating, empowering, so much fun using those headlights. I always wanted
to ride in the dark. Debbie, there is nothing like cutting the grass at night.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To which she replied…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You may be a red neck when you mow your lawn in the dark.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t that just crack yer yaller. I was grinning like a
opossum shitting peach seeds. Can’t argue with that one. I done did that. Not
worth a hoot and a holler. If ifs and buts were candied nuts oh what a
Christmas it would be. That’s all I gots to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-56551476712744377642013-12-04T06:41:00.001-08:002013-12-04T06:49:50.588-08:00DWTS Close Encounter of the Third Kind<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><em>"To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak."</em> Hopi Indian Saying</o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After having arrived in Pennsylvania two days prior, Thanksgiving
morning my brother, sister-in-law, two nephews, three kids, and myself piled
into the car and made an hour and half drive due east to Central Jersey, venue
of Turkey Day, home to Dad (aka Cranky) and Nona (aka Mrs. Cranky). They have a
lovely home and Thanksgivings with them are always filled with warmth and good
food. Mrs. Cranky’s family always joins the grateful gathering and I thoroughly
enjoy their company. I expected to spend the day with the usual crowd.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So imagine my surprise when I enter the foyer, and lo and
behold, beaming at the other side of the room, is a tall and handsome, OK
gorgeously, beautiful man. Was it Christmas already? Had my gift come early? He
spoke. My sister-in-law and I had to hold each other up as we were weak in the
knees and fixed in a trance. With a deep and soft Russian accent this beautiful
specimen spoke, “Hello, very nice to meet you. I am Andre.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Andre so nice to meet
you. Do you want to marry me?”</i> Well I didn’t actually say this. I did just
meet the man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is my wife Lena and my little boy Sergei.” Lucky for
Andre he was married.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh, so nice to meet
all of you.”</i> I say a little caught off guard, but not because he was
married. Over the years I have met many unfamiliar faces at Mrs. Cranky’s,
though they are usually named Uncle Paulie, Uncle Louie, Uncle Mikey, or Uncle
Sal just to name a few. Mrs. Cranky has a large family of Italian heritage. I
have never met an Uncle Andre with a beautiful Russian accent. Curious of their
connection to Nona I ask, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“So Andre and
Lena, how do you know Mrs. Cranky?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“From dance studio, “replies Lena. Nona works as the office
manager at a ball room studio. I start to put the connection together. Lena
continues, “Vee are dancers. Zough I don’t dance anymore after bebe born.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh, dancers!”</i> I
am instantly in awe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nona yells from the kitchen, “It’s his studio. He’s my boss
so be nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh!”</i> I am still
in awe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh, nice. Wow, ball room dancers.
Are you familiar with Dancing with the Stars?” </i>Stupid question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ov course vee are.” replies Lena.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Have you ever
competed against any of the dancers?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh yes, dancing community very small. We know zem all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Have you ever met
Maks Smirsmirninoff?”</i> I love Maks. He is one fine bad boy and who doesn’t
love a bad boy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You mean Maks Chmerkovskiy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh yes, sorry my
Russian pronunciation is not very good.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, ve know Maks. He wants to be an actor now.” She rolls
her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you know any of
the other dancers?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes vee know all ov zem. Mark Balas and Tony Dovolani, zey
plays in band together. Yes, vee know zem all. We pearformed vis dem. Dancing
community very small.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You danced viz them, I mean with them?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh yes. Andre danced on first show season. Vee too busy to
be on show. Andre vaz asked but vee no time. Too busy viz studio, students and now
bebe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Andre was on the show?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From the background my stepmom, aka Mrs. Cranky, hollers at
me, “What are you, a celebrity whore?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I respond with quite shameful pride, “Yes, I am. I am
surrounded by greatness right now.” I mean, what are the chances? Here I am
traveling to dumpy Central Jersey, and it is a little dumpy. I grew up there, I
can say that. And here I am having a celebrity encounter of the third kind.
Yes, I am a celebrity whore. I know it’s wrong but it feels so good. I can’t
help but ogle and obsess with fascination. After my great interrogation of
these poor, innocent guests I retreated a little and mingled with my family,
but my eyes were on the dancers. Andre’s posture alone looked as if he were
dancing standing in place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brunch was ready and it was time to sit down for round one
of the feast filled day. Mrs. Cranky had a beautiful dining room table set and
decorated. My dad and brothers sat at one end of the table and Mrs. Cranky’s
family at the other. Since I was so caught up ogling and obsessing, all the
seats at the big table became taken. There wasn’t a spot left. I was stuck
sitting at the fold out table attached via “T” style, parked in the foyer, next
to the front door. Being the princess that I am, I was slightly miffed. After
all, I just drove north with three kids and a dog, eleven hours in horrendous
traffic, and then hopped in the car again. I spent a lot of time traveling to
spend time visiting my family and I get stuck at the kiddie table?! Really?
This is how her majesty is treated?! “Oh well, no biggie,” I thought and
quickly got off my thrown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I took my place at the head of the fold out table and
started to eat my bacon while five kids ages three through eleven reached and
grabbed, were active and loud. Ready to pull out my hair, Andre and Lena joined
me in the chaos. Suddenly the fold out table by the front door felt like the
head table at the royal ball. I felt like I got the big end of the wishbone and
my wish came true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My daughter, mom and I watch the show “Dancing with the
Stars” religiously. In fact, we just finished immersing ourselves in Season 17.
We love the show and the dancers. We have gained such a keen eye we are able to
accurately predict the judges’ scores and comments. The glitz and glamour is magnificently
eye catching, and the dancers, those dancers, they are so talented. They are
artists and athletes wrapped in a pretty, perfect packaged. They perform
flawlessly to any dance style, have multiple routines seamlessly memorized like
a pianist memorizes a ten page classical piece. But my fascination with ball
room dancing goes even beyond the show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andre, Lena, and I conversed very nicely. They are super
down to earth and very Americanized for two people who seem so foreign to me.
As new parents, they were so cute and doting, and I loved observing their
family interaction. We traded parenting stories, laughing all the while. But I
felt compelled to tell them a story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Andre and Lena, let
me tell you a story. A couple of years ago I was at your studio when Mr. and
Mrs. Cranky had their après wedding celebration. Remember?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, I do.” Andre responds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well Andre, I was at
a very low point in my life when I attended the party. I was going through
something extremely traumatic and stressful.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lena said, “Traumatic and stressful? Try having to stand in
line for a roll of toilet paper.” Well she didn’t really say this but I imagine
she was probably thinking it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I was going through a
difficult period. I felt very sad and my heart was very heavy. A dark cloud
hung over my head.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I see,” said Andre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well you see Andre, that
night was magical. One of your dancers from the studio went around asking
guests to dance. I was one of the chosen ones. This dancer asked me to dance
the waltz with him. Why I had never danced the waltz before? Playing in the
background was this beautiful piece. This dancer gently reached for my hand and
told me he would teach me. He instructed me to dance one, two, three, four, in
a square pattern. We glided around the entire ballroom as if we were floating
on a white, fluffy cloud. I felt transported to a place of beauty. I felt
stunning. We glided around and around. I felt elated. This dancer ignited a
spark inside of me that was dead. I felt alive, I felt so alive. I felt happy,
I felt so happy. I was glowing. That gift of dance reminded me what happiness
was and gave me hope. Andre, after the song ended, I gave the dancer a hug and
thanked him so much for giving such a gift. To this day I remember the feeling of
gliding along the dance floor and how high I felt. Something as simple as music
and a dance awakened my soul. I will never forget that experience.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andre listened so intently to my diatribe and replied, “Zat
is za feeling I get every time I dance. Dancing is like a drug.” When he told
me this he was glowing and beaming, truly loving and grateful for his talent
and fortune to be able to have dancing in his life. Lena too, shook her head in
agreement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt as if as if I
understood their world, speaking the same language, albeit a brief and passing moment.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Andre gently reached for my hand, held it lightly, and
said, “My dear, I vaz za vone zat taught you the valtz. I am glad you enjoyed za
dance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lena, Andre and Sergei said their goodbyes as it was time
for their son’s nap. They would not join us for dinner. My encounter with them
was short but out of this world. I had been transported to another planet. I
was grateful for so many things that Thanksgiving day. To be able to gather
with family in a warm home with good food and good company is a blessing. Being
able to revisit a special moment and catch a glimpse into a world of such
talented individuals was the whipped cream on my pumpkin pie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">See for yourselves the beauty these too bring to the world.
Thanks Andre and Lena!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1xlzbkyQXA" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0072c6;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1xlzbkyQXA</span></a> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-88133951446479823912013-12-02T16:30:00.000-08:002013-12-04T07:12:33.459-08:00Decisions, Decisions....<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Travel penetrates your consciousness, but not in a rational
way.” Milton Glasser<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The countdown to Turkey Day is tomorrow. Well at least it
was when I wrote this blog. This past Tuesday the three kids and I, and the dog, drove
north to be with our family for Thanksgiving. I had hoped to beat the major
holiday rush. The kids missed two days of school, but I figured it would be
worth it to get a jump start on the traffic. Maybe bypass most of it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The trip started out promising. The roads weren’t too bad
until, as expected, we hit traffic right before Washington, DC. I was hopeful
we would bypass this likely scenario but no such luck. I accepted this setback as
I always prepare for traffic at this stage of the trip. I was still hopeful
that after we passed through our nation’s capital, the trip would be smooth
sailing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The rest of the trip was horrendous is the best word I can
use. We hit pocket after pocket of traffic. For four hours traffic was stop and
go, at speeds of 5 and 15 mph. What should have been a seven hour trip turned
into eleven hours in a Nor’easter, with rain and wind attacking the road ways. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Keeping a sharp eye on the road for eleven straight
hours, and grappling with the potential for hydroplaning, takes a toll on the
body and mind; lights in front and to the rear, rain reflecting in every
direction; stop and go, red and white, stop and go, red and white. My three
kids were angels but even they reached their limit, and then mutiny erupted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dehydration set in as I did not allow myself consumption of too many liquids in an effort to deter too many potty visits. I tried passing the time
with The Sundays, Dave Matthews, John Mayer, Billy Joel, Rage Against the
Machine (too much to censor), and finally peace with Chopin at my son’s
request. We could sail along at turtle speed with Chopin: Nocturnes, Fantasies,
Polonaise, and Waltz. But then I couldn’t take them anymore! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I made a couple of phone calls of vents and complaints to my
family. Some cuss words thrown in beneath my breath. Regretting my decision to
make the trip, I swear to the kids that, “We will never, ever, ever make the
drive north again over the Thanksgiving holiday.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inch by inch we finally arrive. Four hours after our initial
ETA, I needed a big glass of wine. That night I didn’t sleep at all. I was so
wired from the trip I had the worst case of insomnia. While awake through the
night I did a lot of thinking. I did a lot of thinking about what I thought about
on the eleven hour trip and what I thought about on the eleven hour trip was
the same subject. The more I tried to change the subject in my head, the more
it kept coming back at me. I was having a post travel break down and dwelling,
alright obsessing, over past decisions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wednesday was a new day. Thanksgiving was a great day.
Thursday night I was stricken with the same stomach bug my nephew contracted. So
Friday and Saturday, not so good. The drive home, although late at night, was
pleasant and fortunately I was not plagued with another episode of insomnia from
a long drive. But while reflecting on the trip I wondered, was my decision to
make this journey the right decision? We could have stayed in the comfort of
our home, spent Thanksgiving with my aunt and cousins in North Carolina, and
had plenty of chillax time; maybe gotten our Christmas tree a little early and savored
decorating our house in preparation for Santa, saved some gas money too. But no, I
had to revel in the thought of spending solid quality time with family members I
rarely get to see. Nothing wrong with that but was it worth it? Was the pain of
the journey worth the payoff? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe
it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, in questioning my decision, I flirt with a little
philosophy on decision making in general. What I have concluded is that decisions
are made based on the knowledge provided at the time. Choices are made for a
reason. Make them and move forward. Make them with courage of conviction. Don’t
turn back, because sometimes the roads are too deep for a U-turn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the case of traveling during Thanksgiving week, the
negatives were minor: a rather unpleasant day spent driving, a sleepless night,
and the day after road lag. OK, and the stomach virus was not so good. However,
the payoff of being with family was worth the minor discomforts. Other
decisions have much greater consequences with pain so great that only time can
heal and only time can tell where that choice will lead. Don’t look back. Was the
choice a mistake? Maybe, but mistakes are part of life. We learn from them as
parents always say. They leave room for growth and direction for the next trip;
hopefully with no traffic to slow down the journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-43805674290024796452013-11-25T09:26:00.000-08:002013-11-25T10:07:12.354-08:00"I SEE GEESE"<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.”
Moslih Eddin Saadi<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sky is a gray, gray, November gray. Even when it’s blue
and sunny, the sky still casts a soft, gray shadow in November. Most of the
leaves have fallen from the trees and the spectacular show of color has faded
into crunchy, brown debris. Signs that all the growth from spring, and all the
heat of summer, will soon quiet for a long winter’s rest. Even in North
Carolina, where the weather is like a box of chocolates, “you never know what
you’re going to get,” the warm, sunny days still feel gray in November.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just as autumn is about to turn in, a gaggle of geese fly in
their V fashion disrupting the lull of the season. Their squawking heard miles
away, the gray and gaggle are a wondrous combination, comforting and sweet like
a warm cup of cider. Cursed with a great reminiscence of the past, I recall the
days on the Eastern Shore this time of year. As the kids, dog and I prepare for
our nine hour trip north to be with family, I am reminded of the trips south
taken so many years with my parents and siblings. Thanksgiving on the Eastern
Shore of Maryland spent with all of our cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents
set on Trippe Creek. Along the way, the geese would follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every year for Thanksgiving we would pile into the car for
the three hour journey. Early days Dad drove us in his beat up, green Volkswagen
Beetle; seventeen years later that was the car that taught me how to drive. Some
years we rode in a dull, tan AMC Hornet station wagon, perhaps ugliest car ever
to hit the manufacturing line. Other years, during the energy crisis, we rode
in a compact, four door, silver Honda Accord with cranberry clothe interior.
Later years, shortly before the boom of the SUV, a pearlescent blue, mega three
row Mercury Sable provided enough space for three growing teenagers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Regardless the style and mode of transportation, three hours
with three kids is a long trip. The time spent on the New Jersey Turnpike
seemed eternal until we’d hit the toll booth that allowed us to pass over the
Delaware Memorial Bridge. That was a milestone on the journey as the Delaware
River is a connection to the Chesapeake, our final destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The landscape would turn from a highway of busy cars, to a
bridge high above a river, and onward to seemingly endless fields of gold, the
absence of corn, harvested just in time for the big feast. With three kids
crammed in the back seat of the car, we didn’t have I Touches or laptops to
occupy our minds. Instead we studied the landmarks and landscapes, played
“Punch Buggy” and counted cars. Of course that grew old quickly so I would assume
the role of the great entertainer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would start with a little pinch and poke to one of my
brother’s sides, maybe a little kick. I would consistently perform this dance
until I reached my goal of annoyance. Then the fun would begin. My brothers
would whine at me to stop. Of course, I kept annoying them, and then they would
start whining to my parents. I would say, “What, I’m not doing anything?” And
the sound of our bickering escalated to the point Dad could no longer focus on
driving. He would reach back and start swinging his arm in the air while trying
to keep a straight line on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would then throw in a Wet Willy to really get the back
seat party started. This put everyone over the edge. Dad would scream and
threaten to pull over if we weren’t quiet. This, in turn, caused suppression of
giggles until we exploded with laughter giving Dad no choice but to pull over. That
was enough to show he meant business and settle us down. The sisterly
tormenting drama subsided, for a moment, and then I’d start again until even I grew
feeble of my antics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Three hours with three kids is a long time. Poor Mom and
Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Along the way when Mom and Dad grew too weary from the drive
and needed a rest we would stop at the midway point: The Dairy Queen surrounded
by farmland in the middle of nowhere. Peanut Buster Parfait was my favorite
treat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After our pit stop, maybe a car nap or two, we knew we were
getting closer as certain familiar landmarks gave away the closeness of the
destination. Route 50 and 301 were barren back then but scattered with familiar
landmarks such as the Black and Decker headquarters, the Talbot County airport,
and Queen Anne Community College, the ice house where I first learned to skate,
and the little shopping center with the only grocery store in Easton. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We would spot hunters coming out of the woods and fields
with their camouflage and neon orange jackets, mesmerized by the freedom from
which they carried around their shot guns. Pine trees lined the last leg of the
journey, and we knew our destination was near. A quick cross over Peach Blossom
Creek, a little turn in the highway, a quick cross over Trippe Creek where a
tiny piece of my grandparent’s house could be spotted, and we were in the home
stretch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, we were so close. Black Horse Farm and their two black
and white ponies gave their contributory greeting as the stately red brick pillars
of Harleigh permitted our entrance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah, Harleigh Lane. Ask any of my family members, young and
old, and I bet such a name will conjure up stories of walks along the lane, enjoying
the quiet beauty of a simple stroll amid the company of a loved one. On bright,
sunny mornings a bike ride with a destination of morning newspaper retrieval
was in order. Maybe a flower picked along the way to show you cared. An outing
for cousins to climb ancient trees, hiding for one to seek. Sightings of
infamous ground hogs, a lost turtle or rare deer sighting; perchance a fox or
snake? Wonders were abound on Harleigh Lane with memories weaved into shared
experiences, etched as a keepsake of the past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Harleigh was the portal to my grandparent’s home. Upon
turning down the lane we’d sing with such sentimental, traditional enthusiasm,
“We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never understood why we sang it, or what the song meant,
other than “we were here.” To this day I still don’t understand the
significance of the tune, but when my grandfather passed, we stopped singing
it. I often asked why we stopped the music but in typical WASP fashion received
silence as an answer or “We don’t talk about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of the lane stood a grand, white mansion, originally
home to a Confederate plantation owner. Classic Eastern Shore railroad
architecture, the house just kept getting bigger and bigger over the years, with
wing after wing added to the north and south. A gorgeous Georgian window sat
above the front entrance which provided, even in the distance, a vantage point
straight through to the other side of the house, allowing Trippe Creek to
filter through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right before we met the
mansion, we made a sharp right turn onto a gravel, narrow, winding road that
led to “Point of View,” the name my grandparent’s gave their home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the years the road leading to my grandparent’s house
went through many transformations. Back in the day before their house was even built,
the property was supposedly the plantation’s slave quarters. Signs of such
history often washed up on the shore in the form of broken pottery or rusted,
oven doors with a date of 1846 seared to the front. We cousins would explore
the shoreline in search of such treasures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Many years later, when we traveled down the road, sheep
graced the property, which was a real treat for us grandkids. A few years later
the sheep were replaced by pine trees, in a Christmas tree growing venture, and
every year we marveled at how much the trees had grown. Eventually the
perfectly shaped evergreens were replaced by natural growth on one side and
tennis courts put in place by the new owners of the big white house. Today the
lane is monitored by cameras, a grounds keeper lives on sight, and the gravel
road that took us to “Point of View” now paved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still the sound of gravel harkens recollection to the warm
greetings waiting for us, the crunch beneath the wheels a chorus of our
arrival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All my cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents would come
running out with big hellos and hugs. Such excitement and a reunion of affection
embraced us after the seemingly long journey. The smell of salt water lingering
under the gray November sky, the creek in the backdrop with a small wake
washing along the shoreline, to the tune of geese flying in the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My cousin Jimmy, now grown with a family of his own, would
draw attention to this sight, “Look I thee geeths!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We would all pause and watch them fly above us on their annual
Thanksgiving trek south. Too loud to even attempt to speak, we enjoyed their
passage somehow feeling connected. Their annual traditions of traveling in a
pack, and our annual family gatherings spoke of commitment and family ties that
bind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every year thereafter the same ritualistic pattern was performed,
ushering in the start of the bountiful weekend. Throughout the years, any time
a flock flew over the creek and heralded their family song, we cousins, aunts,
uncles and grandparents would all shout, pointing to the sky, “I thee geeths!”
a jovial reenactment of innocent youth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today we are all over the place; from east to west coast,
with new families and new traditions. Some have passed. But I can tell you that
never a gaggle of geese goes unnoticed without me remembering the journey and
Thanksgivings spent on Trippe Creek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230830349914562627.post-70701411435262142172013-11-20T07:16:00.002-08:002013-11-21T08:46:21.498-08:00"On Rainbow Bridge"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.comportamientoanimal.com/imagenes/razas_perro/razas_ppal_springer%20spaniel_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.comportamientoanimal.com/imagenes/razas_perro/razas_ppal_springer%20spaniel_1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Aubrey’s Chesterfield Murphy 2001-2012<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My little dog, a heartbeat at my feet....” Edith Wharton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a fall chill in the air, the kind that awakens the
body to remind one that winter is on its way. The evening sky cast a glow from
the full moon reflecting sparkles from the stars. I sat in front of the fire
with my little dog Buddy at my feet. The house was quiet; silence prevailed. Silence
can sometimes be a comfort, but on a cold evening, when one is alone, silence
can be deafening as loneliness settles a bit on the heart. The mind is left to
wander and drift to buried caverns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I sat enjoying the glow and warmth from the fire, Buddy
and I heard a thump from above. We remained still for a moment. Buddy became alert and
on guard, his head tilted towards the ceiling as I too turned my head upwards,
aware that the noise came from my bedroom. My heart began to race. No one was
in the house except for Buddy and me. Did I have an intruder?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We sat still and listened for another sound but none came.
The sound though was all too familiar: It wasn’t a crash, it wasn’t the floor
settling, it wasn’t a door closing. It was a thump, as if something hopped off
my bed and landed on the floor. I knew that sound all too well. I knew because
I have heard that sound many times throughout the past eleven years. It was the
sound of a dog jumping off my bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I realized, in that particular moment, I was lost in my
thoughts remembering my dog Chester that passed a year ago. That chilly autumn
eve I travelled to a place in my heart that welcomed a visit from my sweet
Chester. Or perhaps it was the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will never forget the day we brought Chester home. We had
the pick of the litter. There were so many cute fur balls, how could one
possibly choose? My husband was impressed by the alpha of the pack, clearly the
biggest in size and personality. With great big paws and staunch shoulders,
this puppy trotted on over and began to tug and pull at shoelaces, nibble and
chew, jump and wrestle with us. Then, as if to further impress, he performed in
front of us, with inferior puppy pride, a great big poop over the air vent. From
one alpha to the next, the deal was sealed. That fine spring day, we took him
home with us. We named him Chester after our beloved Chester County, PA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I gathered him in my arms, we said a quick goodbye to his
ten brothers and sisters, and a final lick and cuddle from his momma pooch
Aubrey. I held Chester on my lap for the car ride home. He began to shiver, whimper
and whine, calling for his family. My heart bled for the little pooch knowing
he had just been ripped away from the only home he knew and placed in the arms
of strangers. Sensing his despair, I promised him I would take care of him all
his life long as I held him tight and gave him love. As I nuzzled my nose up
against his soft, fuzzy head, his forehead smelled so sweet, like spring and
all its’ blossoms. His scent was intoxicating. I closed my eyes and inhaled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Springer Spaniels are medium sized dogs and can be either
the field or bench variety. Bench bred are meant for showing whereas field bred
are used for flushing out birds. Chester was a liver and white, bench, English
Springer Spaniel. Being that Chester was a bench Springer, he did not incur the
desired hunting instincts my husband hoped would flush out pheasants. In fact,
after about two hunting excursions, with Chester cowering under a truck at the
sound of gunshots, we deemed him suitable as a lap dog with show dog qualities;
the perfect attributes for someone with narcissistic tendencies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And Chester did make us look good. He was a gorgeous dog;
prettiest you ever saw! People stopped us on the street, “What kind of dog is
he? He is so good looking!” Chester was handsome. He had long, silky, pure
white feathers that graced his arms, legs and underbelly. His markings were to
perfection. He had a touch of lighter fur above his brows which indicated if he
ever bred he would produce tri-colored puppies – a very rare and desirable
trait. His snout was long and square with floppy ears that dropped to the
perfect length. Coming from champion stock, Chester was a show stopper. If it
weren’t for those droopy, bloodshot eyes, he too could have taken home some
blue ribbons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We weren’t interested in a show dog, just a dog to love. I
believe that a house is not a home without a dog. Since we were newlyweds,
setting up a new home, both of us having grown up with dogs, this seemed a
natural progression to growing our family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester was our first baby. We took him for swims in the
Brandywine River, walks along Stroud’s Preserve where horses galloped past us
in search of fox. Talley Ho! He had play dates out in the field near our home
where all the dogs from the neighborhood would gather to run, chase, fetch, and
be free. He often joined us on the Eastern Shore of Maryland filled with
endless opportunity for swims in Trippe Creek, playing with crabs in a salt
water bath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester was with us when we made our big move to Kentucky.
He adapted well chasing horses in the field behind our home. Chester kept me
company late at night when tornado warnings sent us running for more secure
shelter. We would huddle in the basement waiting for the storms to pass as the
sky howled lighting up in blue and purple hues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester always accompanied me on my walks. He was a
companion on most road trips. He was always at my side, sticking to me like Velcro.
If he wasn’t at my side, he was on my lap, all 50 pounds of him. He was a big
mush ball. I swear he was part human. You could just look into his hazel eyes
and see his soul. Chester would talk: Hungry, he had a sound; thirsty, he told
you; needed to go out, he spoke; wanted your attention, he had sentences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester could open doors and drawers with his paws, trash
cans too. He must have had opposable thumbs. He was a good dog but mischievous at
times. He often times tried flexing his alpha muscles which resulted in teenage
battles between Master Mom and pooch. He always showed remorse and was quick to
apologize, bowing his head and licking my hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was around for the birth of our three children, our move
to North Carolina, and often made appearances on our Christmas cards. He loved
to swim, his giant, webbed paws could tread water for hours chasing sticks. He
loved a good paw massage, and loved to have you hold him like a baby and rub
his belly. He was ever so faithful, full of love, and very gentle and friendly
with children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester spent the rest of his days on the hill of our North
Carolina home. He chased butterflies and squirrels, and before losing his
hearing, he chased that yippy Schnauzer named Pepper which caused a bit of a
conflict with the neighbors. He took less road trips with us, and a walk became
a treat versus the norm of his past. I grew tired of his big, heavy body trying
to sit on my lap so he was relegated to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I became frustrated with his ornery, mischievous ways. He
took to jumping on counters and tables, stealing food sometimes straight out of
your hand, and he seized any opportunity to get into the trash. Such naughtiness
caused sporadic vomiting and diarrhea that left me to contend with a nasty
mess. He constantly licked and slurped and made obnoxious noises such as snoring
that shook the house. Sometimes I swore I had four children and not three. I
was too busy for him. He became a bit of a nuisance for me and I grew tired of
his shenanigans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When our family became broken, Chester started to slow even
more. He lost his master and was left to comfort our broken hearts. The last
couple of years of his life he slept with my oldest son, providing him with much
needed reassurance and security. The two became very attached and best friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew Chester was getting up there in years but I figured
he had a couple good ones left. I took notice of his slowing and brought him to
the vet just to be sure there was nothing serious going on in that aging body
of his. The vet ran some blood work, but other than that “he checked out as
healthy as a three year old dog.” The vet also added, “That’s not to say there
isn’t something more serious going on that we just can’t see. We could run
X-rays and invasive surgery but bottom line, dogs don’t live forever. They
usually die of one of three things: liver or kidney failure, or cancer. That
being said, he checks out fine, just has some arthritis which is probably what
is slowing him down. Just enjoy him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A big vet bill later, I was happy he was healthy but adamantly protested to
the vet, “That’s it, I am not spending another dime on this dog. He is just
getting old, slowing down, and what will be will be. You won’t hear from me for
a while I can assure you of that!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A week later, I wanted to do more for Chester, he just
didn’t seem right to me. I called the vet and another big vet bill later, he
was on pain medication for his arthritis and an antibiotic just in case he had
some internal undetectable infection. I swore, "This is it, I am not spending another dime on this dog."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent the last couple weeks of his life pampering him. I
kept waiting for the new medications to kick in and perk him up a bit. I remember taking Chester on our last walk, not knowing at the time this was our last walk. We
often walked along an old winding dirt road that weaved through woods and
undulating hills. There, on that secluded path, I was able to take off his
leash and let him roam free to smell every scent wafting through the air. He
wouldn’t roam far as one call of his name sent him running towards me, ears
flapping in the wind like “Mighty Dog.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On our last walk we only made it half way when Chester just sat in the middle of the road. Clearly uncomfortable, I attributed it to his arthritis and carried that 50 pound dog home the rest
of the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One crisp fall Saturday, we returned from my son’s lacrosse
game. We found Chester lying by the garbage cans as if to say, "I’m done, put me
out with the trash."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought it odd for him to be lying in that spot. "Silly
Chester, what is he up to now?" I thought as he never once lay there before. "Perhaps he’s not
feeling well from the mysterious bacteria in his system or maybe his arthritis
is getting the best of him." I carried him inside and put him on the couch where
he would be more comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was concerned he wasn’t eating. In denial, once again I
attributed it to the phantom infection. I wanted to rectify the situation. I
grabbed the turkey baster, crushed his antibiotic and arthritic pain
medication, let it dissolve in water, sucked it up with the baster and squirted
it in his mouth. I thought, “Once the medication kicks in, he’ll be back to his
spunky self.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We waited all afternoon for him to perk up. We made his
favorite, peanut butter cookies, but he didn’t want any. We sat with Chester on
the couch all day long. We spoiled him and gave him lots of love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept praying, “If only the medicine would start working,
he’d feel a lot better.” But as the day progressed, Chester was getting worse. His
legs gave out and he became paralyzed from the waist down. His constantly in
motion tail ceased to smile. He began to moan a sound I had never
heard. My children were witnessing his suffering and I realized the medicine
was never going to work. I had to face reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I called the vet hospital to explore my options. I needed to
make the decision that every pet owner dreads. Through my sadness, I was concerned about the cost.
The hospital staff informed be about public versus private cremation. “But what is a public cremation?”
I asked. Not happy about the answer, “A public cremation involves burning
remains of all the deceased and is the most cost efficient.” My Chester wouldn’t
have that. He deserved better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I left the kids with my mom who fortunately was in town for
a visit. I told them I was taking Chester to the hospital to see if they could
make him better. “Will Chester be coming home?” they wanted to know. “We’d
see,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I loaded Chester onto a big foam cushion and placed him as
comfortably as I could in the back seat. The kids gave him a kiss goodbye. My little
four year old was crying, and I didn’t realize that in his young years he was
so attached. My eight year old daughter, the strong one, fought to hold back
tears. My oldest son Tommy, the one whom shared his bed and most of his heart,
stood a few feet away from the car and cried out for Chester. Tears streamed
down his cheek, the weight of his sorrow was evident as he pleaded, “Don’t go
Chester, please don’t go. I love you Chester, please come home. I don’t want
you to go!” He knew he’d never see his furry friend again and there was nothing
I could do to make it better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stopped at my neighbor Phyllis’s house. She had a
particular fondness for Chester. An eternal animal lover, I wanted him to say
goodbye to her. She gave him a kiss and assured me that someday we would all see
him on Rainbow Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fortunately my friend offered to drive me to
the hospital which allowed me to comfort Chester. As I sat in the back of the car with
him, his moans becoming more frequent and piercing, his suffering intensified. I held his head on my lap, caressing it, promising him it would be
alright and that I’d take care of him. His gums started turning white and I could not stop the tears from flowing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Arriving at the hospital, the sun had already set. I carried
him in thinking "This is the end of the road." His time had come. I figured they would just whisk
him away and that would be the end. When I signed in, they asked my permission
to evaluate his condition. I hesitated, knowing they would want to run all sorts
of tests that had already been performed, with exorbitant amounts of vet fees I
couldn’t afford. I expressed this concern but they gave me hope that there may
be something they could do to save him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a glimmer of hope, I gave my consent. I was starting to
feel hope and my sadness and despair started to diminish ever so slightly. I
knew this pooch had a couple more good years left in him after all! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The vet returned with news that they found an obstruction.
“An obstruction! That’s all it is! I knew that dog got into something. Get it
out, do what you have to do, I’ll take it from my savings no matter the
cost.” I felt so relieved that his condition was just an obstruction. “Is
it a tennis ball, golf ball, bone, plastic toy?" I asked. "That Chester! Always getting
into something. The kids will be so happy when I bring him back to them....”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The vet interrupted, “No, it’s cancer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cancer. With that one word I knew the decision needed
to be made. And just as I was about to make it, the nurse came in and said, “I
think Chester is making the decision for us. It’s time, he is waiting for you.
He is holding on to see you one last time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went back to the room where he lay under a bright light. His gaze
fixed on mine. His eyes never wavered. I held his paw and gave the doctor my consent
to administer the drug that would cease his suffering. And then it all happened
so quickly. I wasn’t prepared. I kept babbling about what a good dog he was,
recounting all of his antics and silly Chester stories. Before I could finish, he was gone. My dear pooch was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was such silence. Such a peaceful silence fell over
the room. My Chester looked so peaceful and at rest. I was struck by the beauty
of death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They placed a blanket over him, and he lay a vision of a sweet,
sleeping puppy. With insurmountable dignity, they allowed me time with him in a private room. In silence, under the bright fluorescent lights, I sat there, just me and my
pooch. I held his paw. I told him how much I loved him, what a good dog he was,
how much I was going to miss him. I apologized for our fights, for the times I
didn’t give him the attention he deserved, for the times I took him for
granted. I wished for those times to return. I cried and then cried some more.
My tears would not cease.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew I couldn’t stay in that room forever. Yet he still
felt warm, I didn’t want to leave him. I leaned over for one last kiss, nuzzling my nose into his soft, fuzzy fur. After all this time it still smell so
sweet, like spring and all its' blossoms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I came home, I told the kids the vet wanted to keep him
overnight. I wanted them to have a good night sleep after such an emotional day.
I kissed them all goodnight, and when deep in their slumber, I returned leaving each of them a plastered paw print of Chester near their bedside. When
they awoke the next morning, they would know and could face the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day was somber but life goes on. As we all piled into the car to run errands, Tommy entered the back seat where Chester lay just the
night before. Out rolled a giant poop. “Look Mommy, Chester left us a present!”
So he did, so he did. We took comfort in his gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chester was just a dog. He was a pretty dog, a good dog, and
our dog. And he’s waiting for us on Rainbow Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To
all the pets that have passed, and all the owners that have lost their best
friend, I dedicate this post. In memory of Chester, Minnie, Amos, Teo, Nittany,
Remi, Princess, Honey, Paddington, and Marley to name a few. They are our
heartbeats at our feet. Without them, our home just isn’t complete. Until we
meet again…</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="3" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 6.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;">
<td style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 6pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Rainbow Bridge” Author Unknown<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here,
that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our
special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food,
water and sunshine and our friends are warm and comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and
vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as
we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are
happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very
special to them, who had to be left behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly
stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body
quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green
grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally
meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The
happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head,
and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from
your life but never absent from your heart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together…</span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td colspan="2" style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 6pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
BrandywineChroniclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15426702884295405681noreply@blogger.com5