Dear Mom,
I can’t recall that you went to any kind of black tie event, but maybe you did before I was born. If you did I wonder if you liked it and if you were as awkward as me.
Norm and I are planning to attend another fundraising event on Saturday. One of the first black tie shin-digs I attended made me really uncomfortable—not just emotionally, but physically. I wrote an essay about it (encouraged by fellow friend writer and blogger Linda O’Connell, who ended up winning—surprise surprise). The subject of the essay pertained to getting “all dolled up”, but for me it was also about being socially awkward.
As we stood around during cocktail hour at the event in question, someone had asked me, “So Lynn, what do you do?”
Total blank. I blurted out, “Nothing.”
The conversation went downhill from there when politics came up. Somebody mentioned our Mayor. I opened my big mouth. “I wouldn’t know the Mayor if I ran into him.”
Norm laughed, “You did meet the Mayor when you got of the car earlier!”
I cocked my head like a puppy does. Really?
"See, told you.”
Did he think I was kidding? We had valet parking and I thought the car attendant was just overly friendly shaking my hand and telling me to have a good evening. What Mayor does stuff like that? I guess one that mixes with the common folk. Although what do I know about Mayors?
All of this emotional stuff wouldn’t have been so bad if my body wouldn’t have been aching. Fun being all dolled up? Every part was shouting, “I want my jammies and slippers!”
I want to be prepared for this upcoming event. No high heels. No control tops. No keep-the-girls-up bra. If someone asks, “So Lynn what do you do?” I’m going to answer, “I’m a writer.” And if politics comes up, well… I’m likely to keep my mouth shut.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Maurine, my Mother-in-Law
Dear Mom,
Yesterday was the anniversary date of Norm’s mom’s death—it’s been six years. It doesn’t seem that long and yet it seems a lot longer too.
Six years ago on New Years eve, Norm and I walked out of the emergency room after they finally admitted Maurine. A few weeks later we were told she had lymphoma. The doctor gave her two weeks to live. Hospice was mentioned. When we left the hospital that night, Norm and I talked about bringing her home (to our house). I volunteered to take care of her.
And so I did… take care of Maurine. I cooked whatever she wanted to eat; sometimes I’d feed her. I borrowed my sister’s baby intercoms and set them up so that I would hear Maurine through the night. I slept in spurts. Anytime Maurine moved or moaned, I jolted awake, just like I did as a new mother when my babies fussed. I slept better as a new mother.
As Maurine’s condition worsened, I would squeeze morphine into the sides of her cheeks. She’d crumple up her face saying, “Yuck, that’s awful.” But we both knew it’d make her comfortable.
A friend who’s also a paramedic helped with bathing her, which was a Godsend for me. I did remove her dentures and brushed her false teeth which probably grossed me out more than anything I’ve yet to experience. But I really didn’t mind. I wasn’t the one helpless in bed… dying.
One morning Maurine told me of the lovely, beautiful places she had traveled in her dreams. How happy it made her feel. By the smile on her face and the dreamy look in her eyes, I had no doubt she’d experienced the “other side” and that she’d be in God’s hands soon.
Maurine hadn’t been conscious for days and on the day of her passing her breathing was much more labored. I watched closely and when I felt it wasn’t going to be much longer, I phoned Norm at work and told him to come home.
I whispered in Maurine’s ear, “Hang on, Norm’s on his way.” He was there within minutes. Once he stepped into the bedroom he held her hand and she breathed in her last breath.
Maurine hung on until her youngest son’s birthday (Norm’s only brother—Dale). Through teary eyes Dale quipped, “You always did have to have the last say.” The two of them always butted heads—usually in a fun way, but they definitely loved one another.
I’m blessed to have had the opportunity to care for my mother-in-law in her final weeks, days, hours—up until her last breath. I was better for it and honored she allowed me to.
Mom, if I had been able to care for you, I hope you know…
Yesterday was the anniversary date of Norm’s mom’s death—it’s been six years. It doesn’t seem that long and yet it seems a lot longer too.
Six years ago on New Years eve, Norm and I walked out of the emergency room after they finally admitted Maurine. A few weeks later we were told she had lymphoma. The doctor gave her two weeks to live. Hospice was mentioned. When we left the hospital that night, Norm and I talked about bringing her home (to our house). I volunteered to take care of her.
And so I did… take care of Maurine. I cooked whatever she wanted to eat; sometimes I’d feed her. I borrowed my sister’s baby intercoms and set them up so that I would hear Maurine through the night. I slept in spurts. Anytime Maurine moved or moaned, I jolted awake, just like I did as a new mother when my babies fussed. I slept better as a new mother.
As Maurine’s condition worsened, I would squeeze morphine into the sides of her cheeks. She’d crumple up her face saying, “Yuck, that’s awful.” But we both knew it’d make her comfortable.
A friend who’s also a paramedic helped with bathing her, which was a Godsend for me. I did remove her dentures and brushed her false teeth which probably grossed me out more than anything I’ve yet to experience. But I really didn’t mind. I wasn’t the one helpless in bed… dying.
One morning Maurine told me of the lovely, beautiful places she had traveled in her dreams. How happy it made her feel. By the smile on her face and the dreamy look in her eyes, I had no doubt she’d experienced the “other side” and that she’d be in God’s hands soon.
Maurine hadn’t been conscious for days and on the day of her passing her breathing was much more labored. I watched closely and when I felt it wasn’t going to be much longer, I phoned Norm at work and told him to come home.
I whispered in Maurine’s ear, “Hang on, Norm’s on his way.” He was there within minutes. Once he stepped into the bedroom he held her hand and she breathed in her last breath.
Maurine hung on until her youngest son’s birthday (Norm’s only brother—Dale). Through teary eyes Dale quipped, “You always did have to have the last say.” The two of them always butted heads—usually in a fun way, but they definitely loved one another.
I’m blessed to have had the opportunity to care for my mother-in-law in her final weeks, days, hours—up until her last breath. I was better for it and honored she allowed me to.
Mom, if I had been able to care for you, I hope you know…
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Winter Memories
Dear Mom,
With all the snow we’ve had lately it made me think how when I was little I loved going outside and playing in the snow. It didn’t seem to bother me to be cold. Now I’m outside for a brief period and my toes feel like they are frost bit.
You obviously didn't know that when I was about 16, Ruthie and I walked to the Quick Shop to buy a pack of cigarettes when we were off school because of the snow. The mounds of plowed snow along the road were taller than us!
Or the time I was approaching 20 and had recently ended a five year relationship with a guy. A new date and I drove to Warren's house in the country and went snow sledding. We laughed so hard flying down the hill on the sled, the cold wind in our face, and crashing, rolling through the snow.
And then there was the time my daughters and I sat in the spa looking at all the snow. Inwardly I was at a crossroads; one that no one was aware of but me. It was my birthday and I felt old and a bit hopeless. I jumped out of the spa, and in my swimsuit I ran out into the yard and created a snow angel. I jolted some sense back into my spirit.
Mom, I wonder about any of your snow memories… there are none that I'm aware of.
And here are some shots of my most recent snowy walk outside when my toes screamed,"Get inside! Now!"
In this last picture, see if you can find the deer, and yes, there are more than one.
With all the snow we’ve had lately it made me think how when I was little I loved going outside and playing in the snow. It didn’t seem to bother me to be cold. Now I’m outside for a brief period and my toes feel like they are frost bit.
You obviously didn't know that when I was about 16, Ruthie and I walked to the Quick Shop to buy a pack of cigarettes when we were off school because of the snow. The mounds of plowed snow along the road were taller than us!
Or the time I was approaching 20 and had recently ended a five year relationship with a guy. A new date and I drove to Warren's house in the country and went snow sledding. We laughed so hard flying down the hill on the sled, the cold wind in our face, and crashing, rolling through the snow.
And then there was the time my daughters and I sat in the spa looking at all the snow. Inwardly I was at a crossroads; one that no one was aware of but me. It was my birthday and I felt old and a bit hopeless. I jumped out of the spa, and in my swimsuit I ran out into the yard and created a snow angel. I jolted some sense back into my spirit.
Mom, I wonder about any of your snow memories… there are none that I'm aware of.
And here are some shots of my most recent snowy walk outside when my toes screamed,"Get inside! Now!"
In this last picture, see if you can find the deer, and yes, there are more than one.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Blogging Etiquette
Dear Mom,
What about blogging etiquette? I often wonder if I need to acknowledge someone who has made a comment on my blog. Is it rude that I don’t? When I comment on someone’s blog, I never go back and look to see if that person responded to my comment (unless I’m asking a question, then, if I remember, I’ll go back and look). I barely have time to read blogs, much less go back and check if they’ve commented on my comment. Who has that kind of time?
I know we bloggers all like comments, but it seems we need to make it easier on ourselves and not comment on comments. But maybe that’s because I don’t do it and I’m being lazy.
I’m not a rude person. I’ll return a call, reply to a letter and email someone back—unless they’re forwarding me something that doesn’t require any kind of answer. I listen when people talk and try not to butt in, but I have been known to blurt out something when someone’s talking. I especially do this with my children. My reason for that annoying character flaw is due to the fact that I’m afraid I’ll forget what I have to say. Lately I’ve been taking note and stopping myself. And I can’t remember what I want to say when it’s my turn.
But back to blogging. I appreciate comments even though I don’t respond. Sometimes their response is more entertaining and thought provoking then the blog I wrote. My mind races—why am writing? Oh yeah, writing is my lifeline. What keeps me sane.
If I don’t respond to blogs, it doesn’t mean I don’t like what is written. I’m either feeling inadequate or someone’s already commented the same thing I wanted to say and I’ll feel “dupid” repeating. Or I’m busy… writing.
Do other bloggers feel this way or is it just me? What about blogging etiquette? I could do some research, but when would I have time to blog?
What about blogging etiquette? I often wonder if I need to acknowledge someone who has made a comment on my blog. Is it rude that I don’t? When I comment on someone’s blog, I never go back and look to see if that person responded to my comment (unless I’m asking a question, then, if I remember, I’ll go back and look). I barely have time to read blogs, much less go back and check if they’ve commented on my comment. Who has that kind of time?
I know we bloggers all like comments, but it seems we need to make it easier on ourselves and not comment on comments. But maybe that’s because I don’t do it and I’m being lazy.
I’m not a rude person. I’ll return a call, reply to a letter and email someone back—unless they’re forwarding me something that doesn’t require any kind of answer. I listen when people talk and try not to butt in, but I have been known to blurt out something when someone’s talking. I especially do this with my children. My reason for that annoying character flaw is due to the fact that I’m afraid I’ll forget what I have to say. Lately I’ve been taking note and stopping myself. And I can’t remember what I want to say when it’s my turn.
But back to blogging. I appreciate comments even though I don’t respond. Sometimes their response is more entertaining and thought provoking then the blog I wrote. My mind races—why am writing? Oh yeah, writing is my lifeline. What keeps me sane.
If I don’t respond to blogs, it doesn’t mean I don’t like what is written. I’m either feeling inadequate or someone’s already commented the same thing I wanted to say and I’ll feel “dupid” repeating. Or I’m busy… writing.
Do other bloggers feel this way or is it just me? What about blogging etiquette? I could do some research, but when would I have time to blog?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Trudy The Pig
Dear Mom,
When my stepdaughter Robyn was five or six years old she was hit by a van—nearly took her life. Trudy the pig was given to her—the stuffed animal became her companion in healing and has remained in her possession some 30 plus years. Robyn gave Trudy to her daughter Logan. One of their dogs got a hold of Trudy and made quite a mess of her—that and the fact Trudy’s 30 years of wear was showing.
Robyn asked me if I’d mend Trudy for Logan for Christmas. She handed me the pathetic looking pig. I now realized it was Trudy’s insides that could be found all around the house. I happily agreed to sew up her holes. After careful inspection, I saw Trudy was blind, missing an ear and her tail was gone. The hind legs were bandaged so Trudy was crippled too! Her nose had been replaced and a big hole was under her belly.
Here’s Trudy in her before condition:
I searched for material to match her original nose, the under hooves of Trudy’s legs, and the inner part of her ears. Trudy came along with me to the store to match the pink—or what was supposed to be pink fur—and I found some pink fleece and felt. Robyn indicated Trudy had blue eyes and I found some of those too.
Mending Trudy started with replacing the hooves, and stuffing her hind legs. I hand sewed everything with the exception of recreating the ears—then they were hand sewn on to her head.
Some of my hand sewing with embroidery thread didn’t look so hot, so I sewed over it with pink yarn to hide the flaws. That required pushing the needle through with a thimble (figured out why those are necessary) and then pulling the needle through with a pliers. Now that made sewing fun.
After cutting out two heart shapes and sewing on one for Trudy’s belly and one for her leg, I moved on to making her ears. My husband thought it would look better for Trudy to have two new ears rather than leaving the old one in place. I had to agree, but it was painful to cut off the original ear. I felt like I was removing a finger off one of my childrens' hands. I decided to keep the original ear and placed it in a shadow box so that Robyn could have a piece of her Trudy.
Once Trudy was all stitched and mended, I gave her a bath with some upholstery stain remover. Using a small brush, the dirty matted fur started to come back to life—as best that could be expected anyway. I sprinkled Trudy with baby powder and she looked happy—and I hoped Robyn and Logan would feel the same way.
Seeing both their faces at Christmas and listening to their screams, “Trudy’s back!” after Logan removed Trudy out of the box made it worth all the time and effort in restoring Trudy.
Although I’m hear to tell you, I wouldn’t do that for just any pig.
New Trudy
When my stepdaughter Robyn was five or six years old she was hit by a van—nearly took her life. Trudy the pig was given to her—the stuffed animal became her companion in healing and has remained in her possession some 30 plus years. Robyn gave Trudy to her daughter Logan. One of their dogs got a hold of Trudy and made quite a mess of her—that and the fact Trudy’s 30 years of wear was showing.
Robyn asked me if I’d mend Trudy for Logan for Christmas. She handed me the pathetic looking pig. I now realized it was Trudy’s insides that could be found all around the house. I happily agreed to sew up her holes. After careful inspection, I saw Trudy was blind, missing an ear and her tail was gone. The hind legs were bandaged so Trudy was crippled too! Her nose had been replaced and a big hole was under her belly.
Here’s Trudy in her before condition:
I searched for material to match her original nose, the under hooves of Trudy’s legs, and the inner part of her ears. Trudy came along with me to the store to match the pink—or what was supposed to be pink fur—and I found some pink fleece and felt. Robyn indicated Trudy had blue eyes and I found some of those too.Mending Trudy started with replacing the hooves, and stuffing her hind legs. I hand sewed everything with the exception of recreating the ears—then they were hand sewn on to her head.
Some of my hand sewing with embroidery thread didn’t look so hot, so I sewed over it with pink yarn to hide the flaws. That required pushing the needle through with a thimble (figured out why those are necessary) and then pulling the needle through with a pliers. Now that made sewing fun.
After cutting out two heart shapes and sewing on one for Trudy’s belly and one for her leg, I moved on to making her ears. My husband thought it would look better for Trudy to have two new ears rather than leaving the old one in place. I had to agree, but it was painful to cut off the original ear. I felt like I was removing a finger off one of my childrens' hands. I decided to keep the original ear and placed it in a shadow box so that Robyn could have a piece of her Trudy.
Once Trudy was all stitched and mended, I gave her a bath with some upholstery stain remover. Using a small brush, the dirty matted fur started to come back to life—as best that could be expected anyway. I sprinkled Trudy with baby powder and she looked happy—and I hoped Robyn and Logan would feel the same way.
Seeing both their faces at Christmas and listening to their screams, “Trudy’s back!” after Logan removed Trudy out of the box made it worth all the time and effort in restoring Trudy.
Although I’m hear to tell you, I wouldn’t do that for just any pig.
New Trudy
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Birds
Dear Mom,
As the weather cools, (okay, so it's down right freezing now) birds flock to our backyard because of the small ponds and waterfalls. We also have large high windows on either side of the room, and on sunny days the birds must think they can fly right through to the other side. They are in for a big surprise when they hit head on into glass. Sometimes I’m startled hearing a big thump. I look out to see if they’ve picked themselves back up or if they’ve met their fate and moved onto another life.
The other week one plopped right in front of the door where I was sitting. My heart went out to the precious little thing. I didn’t know what to do. I felt rather strongly about not interfering with one’s lessons in life, and yet the pull to help one in need was as strong. Sometimes there’s a fine line. Inwardly I declared myself a vehicle for Spirit and asked God, “What should I do?”
Thoughts were running through my head. Should I call my husband? Should I get a box and pick it up and take it to the vet? Should I let it alone and whatever happens, happens? I calmed myself and heard, “Just give it love.” Yeah, that seems to be the best thing to do in any situation really. I stepped outside and observed its heavy panting. I gently petted it and sang HU. HU is a love song to God and while I sang I asked for guidance on what was best for the little bird.
I observed its beauty—the various colors of soft silk like feathers with bright yellow and orange tips on the end of its back wing. As soon as I asked God for help, the bird sat up. I couldn’t help myself and went inside and grabbed my camera and took a few pictures.
The bird’s panting lessened. I then went inside to get some breadcrumbs. I thought how silly that must be—hear eat a few crumbs right after you've nearly knocked yourself out to death. I’m sure the little thing was so scared with this gigantic person hovering over it. Could you imagine if something that big hovered over you?
I noticed the filter to our pond was clogged with leaves and decided since I was outside, I may as well unclog it. I told the little bird to take it easy, grabbed the strainer and pulled out some leaves. After I finished, I put the strainer back and the bird was gone. I was happy for the bird. I hollered, “Be sure and tell your friends to watch out for the window."
P.S. I told my husband the story and he agreed that it was probably the singing—the bird had to get away. My husband thinks I can't sing. Cute isn’t he?
As the weather cools, (okay, so it's down right freezing now) birds flock to our backyard because of the small ponds and waterfalls. We also have large high windows on either side of the room, and on sunny days the birds must think they can fly right through to the other side. They are in for a big surprise when they hit head on into glass. Sometimes I’m startled hearing a big thump. I look out to see if they’ve picked themselves back up or if they’ve met their fate and moved onto another life.
The other week one plopped right in front of the door where I was sitting. My heart went out to the precious little thing. I didn’t know what to do. I felt rather strongly about not interfering with one’s lessons in life, and yet the pull to help one in need was as strong. Sometimes there’s a fine line. Inwardly I declared myself a vehicle for Spirit and asked God, “What should I do?”
Thoughts were running through my head. Should I call my husband? Should I get a box and pick it up and take it to the vet? Should I let it alone and whatever happens, happens? I calmed myself and heard, “Just give it love.” Yeah, that seems to be the best thing to do in any situation really. I stepped outside and observed its heavy panting. I gently petted it and sang HU. HU is a love song to God and while I sang I asked for guidance on what was best for the little bird.
I observed its beauty—the various colors of soft silk like feathers with bright yellow and orange tips on the end of its back wing. As soon as I asked God for help, the bird sat up. I couldn’t help myself and went inside and grabbed my camera and took a few pictures.
The bird’s panting lessened. I then went inside to get some breadcrumbs. I thought how silly that must be—hear eat a few crumbs right after you've nearly knocked yourself out to death. I’m sure the little thing was so scared with this gigantic person hovering over it. Could you imagine if something that big hovered over you? I noticed the filter to our pond was clogged with leaves and decided since I was outside, I may as well unclog it. I told the little bird to take it easy, grabbed the strainer and pulled out some leaves. After I finished, I put the strainer back and the bird was gone. I was happy for the bird. I hollered, “Be sure and tell your friends to watch out for the window."
P.S. I told my husband the story and he agreed that it was probably the singing—the bird had to get away. My husband thinks I can't sing. Cute isn’t he?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Journaling
Dear Mom,
I journal—handwrite—every day or nearly. Sometimes on busy days it slips by, but I try and make it a priority. It’s my life line, what keeps my sanity. I purchase composition books during school supply sales and pick them up for 50 cents. But to liven them up a bit, I’ll cut out pictures in magazines and cover them or paste in sayings or pictures throughout the notebook—and surprise myself when I approach that page.
Like the other day—“There are no traffic jams when you go the extra mile.” There’s a picture of the front of an old car along with the quote. I had been thinking about this during the holiday season with all the stuff to be done—but when I give 100 percent—with love—in whatever I’m doing, it all works out. No traffic jams. What’s hard is trying to remember that all the time. I get caught up in this or that and hit a road block. That can be good because it makes me stop and think—what’s really important here? There’s something so totally freeing to be able to drive over the road block knowing that I’ll arrive at my destination, and I can do it with my heart on my sleeve or a chip on my shoulder. The heart on my sleeve makes my ride much more enjoyable.
I journal—handwrite—every day or nearly. Sometimes on busy days it slips by, but I try and make it a priority. It’s my life line, what keeps my sanity. I purchase composition books during school supply sales and pick them up for 50 cents. But to liven them up a bit, I’ll cut out pictures in magazines and cover them or paste in sayings or pictures throughout the notebook—and surprise myself when I approach that page.
Like the other day—“There are no traffic jams when you go the extra mile.” There’s a picture of the front of an old car along with the quote. I had been thinking about this during the holiday season with all the stuff to be done—but when I give 100 percent—with love—in whatever I’m doing, it all works out. No traffic jams. What’s hard is trying to remember that all the time. I get caught up in this or that and hit a road block. That can be good because it makes me stop and think—what’s really important here? There’s something so totally freeing to be able to drive over the road block knowing that I’ll arrive at my destination, and I can do it with my heart on my sleeve or a chip on my shoulder. The heart on my sleeve makes my ride much more enjoyable.
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