Maybe I should have a blog

Stroller Full of Babies

2012-03-14T13:47:00.003-07:00

It is strange to think of some of the things and people which influence who a person becomes. I just read an obituary about a woman who used to live in our town and I’ll bet nobody has any idea how she influenced who I am today.
She owned the first double stroller I ever saw. Not many people had double strollers in the 1960s, so it was impressive to see her going for walks with three small healthy blue-eyed blonde children born less than a year apart. She’d go walking through town with her babies in the stroller and it looked like so much fun. She’d see people she knew and stop to talk to them while her kids waited in the stroller.
She was a tiny woman, almost on the verge of being a considered a midget. She was a smiling, young tiny person and looked more like a child playing with a dolly stroller full of toys than a real mother.
Logically, I know nowafter having children that she must have gone home to a busy evening of thankless work. There is no way to have three young children in diapers and not be worn out. She hid it so well, as she walked smiling with a carefree attitude like a parade of baby colored patterns on wheels.
I must have been about seven years old, but she made an impression on me. “I want that” I thought. I wanted to have several children in a stroller and enjoy thoughtless afternoons of tarrying along, taking time to notice nature’s flowers, trees, and little road animals.
I was never as passionate about anything as much as the idea of being a mother. Something about her joy made a lasting impression on me. I’m sure as the years went by, I must have forgotten what originally inspired me, but the feeling I had as I watch her, lived on inside me around every corner of a new experience. I continued to think about the day I could push a stroller full of babies down the neighborhood street.

The Funeral Rose

2012-03-02T09:46:00.001-08:00

Each of the siblings removed a single rose from our mother’s casket to keep. I picked a white rose. As I watched them lower the casket into the ground I thought to myself, “Of all the wisdom, material possessions, and many other things my mother gave me, this will be the last thing I ever receive from her”. I was going to let the rose dry out and then place it into a small vase, out of the reach of small children, where I could look at the flower and remember my mother. When visitors would ask about the rose, I could explain how great of a person she had been.
I was wrapped up in my own sorrow too much to realize that my children were going through their own grief at having lost a grandmother.
One day when I returned home from work, I noticed the rose was missing from the little vase. “Where is my rose?!” I cried in a panic.
My son told me, “It is outside in the back yard”.
I raced outside, looking around the yard until I found my mother’s lovely white rose buried in the mud. I started crying. “Why did you take my rose outside? What were you thinking? That was mine! It is the last thing I will ever have from her! You make me so angry sometimes!”
He looked at me with innocent eyes and answered, “I was going to plant it, so there would be a whole bush of white roses growing from Grandma’s rose. I wanted to surprise you with a rose bush full of white flowers so you could remember Grandma that way.”
I thought of how my mother’s love – a single white rose, had spread to so many other people. Her love became like a full bush of beautiful white roses for others to enjoy. It suddenly occurred to me how appropriate my son’s gesture seemed. Love isn’t something you stick in a far-away spot and keep for yourself until a rare insightful guest notices and asks about it. Love is something to grow and share with others. It keeps multiplying itself onto others till it is its own endless supply.

My New Bike

2012-01-23T14:13:00.000-08:00

I guess I have to face it. Times have changed. I just looked out the back window and saw my son’s bike lying in the cluttered yard covered in freezing snow. What gives? We have a garage you know.

When I went to work as a secretary, the first paycheck I received, I took my son to the store to pick out that bike, remembering how much my bike meant to me when I was a barefoot twelve-year-old in cut-off shorts.

I had different bikes when I was small: The neighbor’s little-bitty hand-me-down bike and a bike that the school janitor rebuilt from old used broken bikes that had belonged to other children in town. My sister used to drive me into the country on her handlebars.

My sister had worked hard all her life while attending school and caring for me while my mother worked long hours away from home. Because my mother spent so much time away from home, she tried to overcompensate when she was home by controlling all of my activities and behaviors. That doesn’t work so well once a child turns twelve. I felt a real need for independence.

My sister had graduated high school and gotten her first full time job. She was enjoying her weekend and asked if I would like to ride with her into the city where she would buy herself a bike. We looked at bikes of all colors and sizes. Ten-speed bikes had just become the big rage and few children owned one. I doubted I would ever have one. I was used to seeing other children receive nice things and was contented with my antique-fangled oldies. Joan picked out a boy’s red, white and blue bike. Okay, let’s go. However, she continued to hover around the bikes, looking at the different brands.

“What do you think of this green Coast King bike?” She asked.

“I like the green one because it is a girl’s bike, but I also like the boy’s red, white and blue bike.” I told her.

She began rolling both bikes to the front of the store, and nonchalantly told me she was buying the green bike for me. I kept looking at her, not knowing what to say. I didn’t argue with her. I almost didn’t believe it.

I had no idea at the time, but that bike became the biggest part of my summer. I rode it every day and I was so excited that I could ride into the country. Sometimes, I’d pack a sack lunch and ride into the country and eat my sandwich. I put a radio in the basket in order to have tunes as I traveled. I became very good at driving without hands. The bike gave me such a feeling of independence that I needed badly at that age.

Our St, Bernard dog bit a hole in the seat when I was fifteen, but I just replaced seat and kept on riding. I still had that same bike when I was thirty-two, until it was stolen.

My sister didn’t have to buy me that bike. Ten-speed bikes were expensive in those days and I’m sure she could have spent that money on many items for herself, but that’s just not Joan.

Technology Much?

2012-01-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

When it comes to taking advantage of new technologies, I am as guilty as the next person. One of my favorite activities is cuddling with a good movie on television in the evenings. I check my Facebook comments a few times each day. I especially like the security of being able to call people on my cellphone from basically anywhere.

However, I can’t help but to wonder if we have lost something in the process of our technological gains. Nobody plays the piano anymore. It’s quite sad. Whatever happened to the days when men would play chess with friends accompanied by a talented pianist while mother washed dishes by hand in the kitchen with obedient daughters? Where are all the children who used to play outside happily until sunset?

Sometimes I get a hankering to eat my dinner at a long lace-covered oak dining-room table set surrounded by family. I miss how we used to take our time eating dinner at the table and then laughing and having long conversations afterwards. I miss the days of scabby-kneed farm-wives in aprons and their chicken-cackle laughter. Long gone are the days when you could tell the good guys from the bad guys by whether or not they attended church. Clean jokes are “cheesy” and the only jokes anybody laughs at anymore are the obscene ones.

Now days, the kids eat as quickly as possible in order to get back to their video games. They can go the entire summer without ever having the slightest hint of a tan. Most husbands I know share their attention between the television screen and the laptop computer screen, nodding occasionally without sharing eye contact with any human.

Sometimes we are all in the same room, yet nobody is talking to each other because we can’t tear ourselves away from latest gadget. I shouldn’t blame the laptop computer though, because before it was the computer, it was the television. Before it was the television, it was the radio. Before it was the radio, it was an exciting book – and the video game bone is connected to the pinball machine bone . . .

We’ve watched too many comedies where the parents are idiots. The teen star always knows more than the adult, and the television parents are at the mercy of the child’s approval. How did we get the TV families mixed up with our real life? When did fathers quit meeting with their adult friends in order to drink and tell dirty jokes with their sons?

It upsets me because I still think children need to be led by the parents. I should write a book about this, but I can’t right now because my favorite show is on.

Osmond Brother Concert

2011-12-23T07:41:00.001-08:00

My sister and I recently had an opportunity to watch the Osmond Brothers perform live in Burlington, Iowa. It was an event I will never forget.

When I found out the Osmond Brothers were performing nearby, I knew I HAD to see them. After all, my sister, Joan and I had been following their career since before we were teens. I called her as soon as I found out, and we were on the phone together, while she excitedly ordered the tickets online within minutes of them going on sale. I felt like a teenager. We exchanged many phone calls throughout the following weeks, talking about what we were going to wear to the concert, what memorabilia we hoped to buy, and wondered if we might speak with the Osmonds or have a picture taken with them. I brought extra money because I heard that it cost $40.00 to have a picture taken with the Osmonds.

We arrived early on the day of the concert, and watched multitudes of excited fifty-year-old Osmond-struck women as they filled the lobby. There was an instant comradely with the other women at the concert. Each woman I saw, I found myself thinking, “She must have been one of the good kids at school when she was little”. We were all there because we loved the Osmonds and recognized true talent. What a performance it was! They sang, danced, played instruments, told jokes and relived old stories.

I always preferred Jay, because of his squinty eyes, but now at the concert I liked Wayne because of his sense of humor, no wait, I liked Merle because of his high voice. Watching the energy of the Osmonds on the stage was amazing. They were men nearing their sixties, with the same enthusiasm, get-up-and-go and talent as their younger days. During a portion of the concert, they went into the audience in order to shake hands with people. As soon as Jay came through the curtain, I stretched out my hand. After he shook it, I wondered how long I could go without washing my hands.

After the concert, we were stampeded back out into the lobby in a large, slow-moving crowd. We searched for any sign of an Osmond along with hundreds of other fans. I had hoped to have an opportunity to take a picture of my sister with the Osmond Brothers, but it looked as if it would not happen. There were no Osmonds in sight. We thought we’d hit the bathroom before we headed home and when one of the other fans who we had visited with before the concert came in, I asked how she enjoyed the concert.

“I just had my picture taken with Jay”, she said. My sister quickly washed her hands and we burst back out into the lobby. I could tell where Jay was, because there was a pinwheel of people tightly spiraling out from his location. We nudged through the cluster, elbows and hips touching against other people in the crowd.

“I just need a picture of my sister with Jay” I explained, as we weaved through the pack. Finally, we reached him.

“Can you sign this and this?” Joan said, and to my surprise, Jay was friendlier than I ever imagined. He was smiling politely, hugging people and shaking hands. He signed Joan’s memorabilia and I began clicking off pictures before she stood beside him. They weren’t even charging money to take pictures! He put his arm around her and posed for my picture. It was like a release of several years of waiting.

“I just want to tell you, Jay. You are wholesome, pure, decent people, just like our family.” I blurted. Gee, that didn’t come out quite right. I knew what I meant though and I think he did too.

Because life was difficult when Joan and I were little, we didn’t have much, but we had music. My sister could sing many different types of music from opera to Negro spirituals. Joan started working when she was just a teenager, and whenever a new Osmond was released, she’d spend some of the money she earned working at the store to buy Osmond records. She’d play them over and over again on her little battery-operated record player. Joan would sing harmony with the Osmond records, and I often thought to myself, if the Osmonds could have heard her singing, they would certainly have added her to their group. We’d talk about which songs were our favorites. We knew the words to every album they put out. Whenever she had a Tiger Beat or 16 Magazine, she’d look for an Osmond poster to tape on her bedroom wall. We felt connected to them. We’d watch the Osmonds on The Andy Williams Show on our old black and white family television set in the living room. Luckily, it was on one of the three station signals that our roof antennae picked up.

My brother-in-law brought over their old stereo, and Joan and I couldn’t wait for Mom to leave for work the next day, so we could blast the sound of the Osmond Brothers throughout the entire house. It was good music - clean, with an innocent message.

Seeing the live concert confirmed these beliefs I held about them all through the years and only increased my respect for them. In the end, the Osmonds have stayed decent and G-rated. That is no easy task.

2010-07-19T13:51:00.001-07:00

What is it about family? Last weekend, I had the opportunity to attend the big Nicholson reunion, which only occurs about once every ten years.

Since it had been ten years since the last gathering, when my husband, children, and I first pulled into the parking lot beside the gazebo, neither of us recognized a single soul. That group of old people certainly could not be my bunch. I was looking for the young lively Nicholsons. This seemed to be a reunion for “Wheels on Meals” or some other senior-citizen-oriented gathering. I thought I’d get out and ask if this was the Nicholson crew just as a gesture, and to my surprise, the elderly bunch professed that they were indeed Nicholsons. My husband and I looked at each other like, “Oh my, what do we do now?” and we carried our potluck dishes to the gazebo. I introduced myself and sat down amongst the people.

Once we all began talking though, their Nicholsonisms became apparent. I recognized that I was in the company of family. My children noticed it too. My son commented, “I feel so comfortable around them! They are so welcoming.” I began wondering just what was it that seemed so comforting and seemed to link me with the strangers.

Even though some of us live far apart, they talk and act a little like me. They are bothered by the same things that I am bothered by. The mannerisms, the volume of their voices, their sense of humor, and the topics they chose to talk about are similar to me.

A person, who at first looked like a stranger, became familiar, and with conversations, I began to recognize many of them.

It turned out I had a wonderful time. I enjoy hearing the stories of our families, where we came from and what the family members are interested in now. Also, it always tickles me when I see somebody else’s little kid who resembles somebody else in our family.

It is strange because when I was a little girl, I never wondered how they were related, or thought it would matter much. However, the older I get the more family means to me. Friends come and go and change, but blood stays the same forever.

Anyway, Penny has added me to the Christmas letter list, and I am looking forward to keeping up with the rest of the family. As far as the family reunion goes, when it was time to leave, we Nicholsons seemed more like the “cool crowd” than a group of old people.

Farmville: There's a Real World Inside There!

2010-05-25T14:53:00.001-07:00

Okay, I guess I’m a Farmville addict. In case you’ve never heard of it, Farmville is a virtual farming community on Facebook where a person can plant crops, and buy animals or trees with imaginary money if he doesn’t have friends who can send him animals and trees. The animals and crops are then harvested for pretend money which can buy more animals, trees, and crops. It surprises me that I have such a passion for the game because most games that other people claim to be all the rage, don’t interest me at all.

One of my children commented on a snowy day when we were all stuck inside, “Hey Mom, you should join Farmville so you can send me gifts for my farm.” And being the kind soul that I am, I wanted to help.

I sent him gifts with a click and then realized that I could send him even better gifts if I could move up a few levels, and so I began to play.

There’s a real world inside of there! I might be a failure in my real life, but in Farmville, I’m “King of the Plow”! The strange fact is that adults are much better about sending virtual gifts than children are, so I quickly surpassed the children that I originally wanted to help.

Sometimes when we are outside in the car driving on a country road, I will proclaim, “I have a fence like that on my Farmville farm!” Of course when we are away visiting, I can’t stay long because I get a little edgy when it is time to harvest my Farmville crops if I am away from my computer. “Oh no, my plants will wilt and I won’t be able to collect my fake coins! People are relying on me for gifts!” It’s always funny when somebody complains on the Facebook wall, “Please do not send me anymore nails. I need horses instead.” Oh gee, sorry about that. I meant no harm.

Nothing tops the time that I tried something called “co-op farming”. As my crops became ripe, I was away from home and later came home to discover that I had received an email from one of my Farmville buddies asking me to harvest my crops so they could get their Farmville points and there was a message on my answering machine from yet another person of the same nature. Thank goodness we still received the gold medal in spite of my shortcomings, otherwise I would have been the one to blame for everybody’s failed crops.

Sometime my children and I will be in the same room clicking away, talking about Farmville like it is real life. “How did you get a pewter gnome? I’m posting the chocolate fountain, so are you ready to receive it? Okay and . . . . PUBLISH!” We don’t talk to each other as much anymore, but I know my children still love me because I continue to receive playing chips from them.

One of my friends gave me the idea, “If you open another Facebook account, you could send yourself gifts and send me double gifts.” I liked the extra gifts I received from my friend’s St. Bernard, but one day I forgot which account I was using and accidentally posted to somebody else’s comment as “Moose” my alter ego, before I realized I wasn’t myself. Oops.

My sister found out that I was playing Farmville and asked me to play Café World so that I could send her gifts. She is consistently the best player of all my friends and I don’t see myself surpassing her level---well, ever. The most awkward situation is when I am sitting on the couch playing Café World, letting my avatar chef prepare imaginary foods for my restaurant while my family complains that they are hungry in real life.

I hope they don’t create a game about cleaning the house or I’ll really be sunk.

The Young and the Restless

2010-05-20T19:55:00.001-07:00

When I was thirteen, my sister proclaimed, “There is going to be a brand new serial starting on television, and if we start watching it now, we will know everything happening from the beginning when we are old ladies. Wanna watch it together?”

I’m not much for soap operas, but Joan would explain the storyline to me and I got drawn into it. “You see, that is a house of ill-repute and Snapper accidentally went there and discovered his sister was working as a prostitute”.

I continued to watch for the next twenty years. It’s the only soap opera I watch. Sometimes when my sister and I would talk on the phone I’d ask, “Have you been watching our soap opera?” and I remember the feeling of betrayal when Joan nonchalantly answered, “Nah, nothings happening on there and the storyline has become boring.” It had become MY soap opera more than hers now. At times, I wasn’t watching it very much either. It seems that the more that is happening in my own life, the less I feel like I need the show.

I have been upset with the show lately. Isn’t it silly that I would get angry with a fictional character? There seems to be no distinction between the good girls and the bad girls. Phyllis is the bad person, right? She tricked a man into marrying her, stole a man away from his wife, and as a result of it, people stand back and observe, “See, you’ve been bad. That is why all this terrible stuff is happening now” Phyllis admits what’s she has done and calls people on their own mistakes too. She speaks her mind but uses logic to make her points, stating facts to back up her philosophies (Phyllisophies). It is slightly discomforting because nobody listens to her simply because she has a reputation. She is still being punished for mistakes from 20 years back.

Meanwhile, Sharon retains a spotless reputation for being a sweet girl even though she stole some husbands, had a history of stealing, kissed her own father-in-law, and recently was pregnant by any of three men. She has a perfectly nice son, but ignores him to mourn the death of her daughter. She calls her ex (Who happens to be Phyllis’s husband now) and calls him over to help her whenever she is in a crisis, even though their youngest child is practically grown and out of the house.

It is as if these women have been labeled as good or bad and whatever happens afterwards cannot change that label. Even if Phyllis does a kindness for somebody, it will not be appreciated or noticed. It is considered incidental on her pathway through life or an act provoked by ulterior motives. Sharon can steal while her son’s girlfriend takes the blame and sleep with three men during the same week, since she is only acting this way because she is suffering so much. She is fragile and has blonde hair so a lot of men have to help her.

Sharon has had a baby now with Phyllis’s husband and nobody thinks badly of it. People please! This upsets me so much, I may still be thinking about it when Joan and I are old, watching the soap opera from our wheelchairs the nursing home in a couple of years.

It reminds me of real life sometimes because I have known people who have made a few mistakes in their young years and never were forgiven. I have also been amused by some of the people who have our undying respect.

Watching Holidays from My Kitchen Window

2010-04-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I never appreciated just how much work goes into planning a family get-together. The perfect turkey meal just magically appeared and as far as I knew, everything was free.

First of all, if there are people in the family who work on holidays, you must find a day when everybody is available. You will clean the house, straightening out messes that shouldn’t be seen and put away dangerous items that children might get a hold of.

I enjoy planning the meal. My husband lets me buy whichever food items I want to prepare for holidays, so I just go hog-wild. First I make a list of what I want the menu to be and then I go to the store and purchase the items needed to make those dishes. Sometimes I prepare traditional meals, sometimes I make something unexpected, but usually I do a little of each. For example, on Easter I prepared a traditional ham, but also prepared meatloaf as something totally unexpected just in case a family member just ate their traditional ham at their in-laws and was tired of holiday food. I made green bean casserole, corn, homemade potato salad, sour cream potatoes, Oreo cookie desert, cheesecake, pumpkin pie and it just occurred to me that I forgot to make rolls! There are a few other things I purchase and set out on the table, like potato chips—I’m not going to make those from scratch (too much work)

After all the food is purchased, one must time the temperatures and cooking of the foods so that everything is ready on time, cooked or chilled appropriately.

I like to have as much done as possible so that when guests arrive, I can give them my full attention. Also, it is easy to forget things like napkins, ketchup, butter, and salad dressing. (And rolls) You must decide if you are going to use paper napkins, paper plates, and plastic ware, or cloth napkins, china, and real silverware.

I hope I am able to give my children and grandchildren a wonderful holiday experiences similar to the one that my own mother provided me and my siblings.

Before the Easter Cantata

2010-03-29T20:07:00.001-07:00

This picture was taken as my sons and I were preparing to perform in the Winfield Area Singers Easter Cantata.

We are tenor, alto, and bass.

I recorded it and put it on Youtube.

Don't Sing THAT Song!!!!!

2010-03-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

It’s the strangest thing, because sometimes when I’m at church, I almost want to say, “We can sing these two hymns, but we can’t sing this other hymn.” Most of the hymns are merely the musical sounds of church, but there are a few of them that take me back to a different time.

My mother would play the piano and my sisters and brothers and I would sing together in harmony, standing around the piano, laughing and singing little extras that we created ourselves---our own little musical jokes to each other. Mom’s foot would move from the sustain pedal to the damper pedal on our old creaky piano. One year when we had mice in house, the mice had chewed through a few of the piano strings, so a few of the notes wouldn’t play. It didn’t matter. That piano meant so much to my mother, that often I’d fall asleep to the sound of her playing “Precious Jesus”. Mother taught me that when I was in a rotten mood, that I could actually sing myself back into a good mood.

Those were such fun times, I don’t understand what happens to me now. It is almost as if I feel pain when the congregation sings some of those old songs. I can hear my mother’s alto voice singing in my head and I can remember how she would sing the arrangement of music and my older sister would sing the tenor part in order that we could have more full harmony. I am reminded once again that I can never sing with my mother.

Maybe the pain I feel is shame because I didn’t appreciate those times and I didn’t realize how much those moments would mean to me later. I used to hate to hear the words, “It’s time for us to practice”, and now I wish more than anything that I could hear my mother’s voice ordering me to sing.

Anyway, I didn’t sing the song at church. I couldn’t. I didn’t want anybody to hear the “cry” in my voice. Maybe I am like those young happy couples who throw the wine glass into the fireplace proclaiming, “No other moment will be worthy enough to use these glasses”. I don’t feel right singing without my mother singing alto, and my older sister singing tenor, and my other sister complaining that she does not want to sing at all and is only humoring the rest of us. No other moment is as worthy to sing those songs as the moments created with my family. (Except for the return of Jesus himself)

I’m afraid I am beginning to learn one of the reasons that old ladies cry in church.

Who Are You?

2010-02-17T21:35:00.000-08:00

Do you ever wonder who you are? I think you are a combination of:

Who you think you are

Who other people think you are

Who you think other people think you are

Who other people think you think you are

These can be different things. Let’s say, I think I have a good sense of humor. Just because I think it is true, does not mean it is automatically true.

Other people might think my sense of humor is silly and childish. Are they right though?

If I think they believe that I have a good sense of humor, I will behave differently around them than if I am afraid that they dislike my sense of humor.

Other people might treat me differently too depending on what they think my motive is for my behavior. If they think I am telling a joke because I am showing off and trying to look witty, that wouldn’t reflect on me as well as if they thought I was telling a joke in order to put others at ease and show that I am friendly and approachable.

I used the example of humor, but this could apply to different topics as well.

For example, you might think that you are a talented singer. If nobody else thinks you are a good singer, than you will not be seen as a good singer. If you think other people believe you are a good singer, you will probably sing Karaoke with confidence and volunteer for special music at church. If you think other people don’t appreciate your voice, you are less likely to sing in public and are even less likely to ever be labeled as being a good singer. If other people think that you believe you are a good singer, they might agree blindly if they originally thought you actually were a good singer, whereas if they didn’t believe you were a good singer in the first place, they will just assume that you are so tone-deaf that you are not even aware that you are a bad singer. If you avoid singing, people might think this is the right thing to do if you are indeed not talented, on the other hand, if other people think you are a good singer, they might believe that you are not singing in public because you are modest, shy, or that you don’t feel that it is proper to show off your skills.

If I play my trumpet in the forest, and there is nobody there to hear it, am I just full of hot air?

People Who Had an Impact

2010-02-11T12:55:00.000-08:00

I will never forget one of the sweet ladies that went to my church when I was a little girl. She taught Sunday school every Sunday (even during the summer) for years, volunteering her time. Each week she greeted us all with a smile. If she ever had a bad day or any problems in her life, I sure wouldn’t have known it. She must have been busy because she was a substitute elementary school teacher and also she lived on a farm, but she seemed to have time for us children. Whenever one of us had a story to tell or a comment to make, she would always listen and look with her smiling eyes. It really was more than just a Sunday school class. Although we studied the bible and had lessons, we connected with each other and knew about each others’ lives. I never realized at the time what an important part of my life she would become.

My cat was hit by a car and killed the year that she was my Sunday school teacher. It seems silly and small to think of it-just a stupid little kid with a dumb pet, but that cat was important to me. My sister and I cried together and tried to comfort each other over our only cat that we shared. Our mother had informed us that there would be no more pets.

The following Sunday, I told the Sunday school class about the death of my cat P.J. Later that afternoon, my mother received a phone call from my teacher telling her that they had kittens that were just weaned out on their farm and we could have our pick of them. To my surprise, Mom drove my sister and me out to the farm.

The kittens were wild and not used to people, so we had to chase them down. My sister and I had each caught a kitten and couldn’t decide which one we wanted. We sat on the concrete step with our brand new kittens, with smiles that barely fit our faces. We told Mom, “We just can’t decide” and my Sunday school teacher suggested that we take them both.

We had so much fun those next few days (and the years to come playing with our cats). Mom let us keep the kittens in a box in the kitchen until they were tame.

I was so thankful to have a fresh start with a new kitten. It is strange because sometimes when it seems like things are sad and low, something or somebody totally unexpected is a solution.

My new continuing blog journal.

2010-02-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

Maybe I should have a blog on here.

I actually have several journals dating back thirty years. That takes up a lot of space in a closet! (I would have even more journals except a jealous boyfriend asked me to destroy the years between age twelve and age seventeen) It is difficult to decide what to do with the books. I seem to go back and forth trying to decide between burning the old notebooks, and making them into a CD book for my children.

When the children say something smart or funny, I write it down so that someday when I am too old to do anything except sit in a rocking chair covered with my lap-robe, I can read about my happy younger days as a mother.