Our house is breaking

I only wish I was joking.

Thrashing 25 mph winds gusting to 50 mph and unholy low temperatures are doing terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad things to the house.

At first I thought some of the limbs from the neighbor's 1/2 tree were falling on the garage roof. I checked. No downed branches, let alone complete limbs.

After doing a complete inventory of the house, I've come to the conclusion that what I'm hearing is definitely coming from the deck.

And those noises are not reassuring. Startling, heart-stopping, jump-out-of-your-skin sounds.

If the deck is still attached to the house in the morning, I'll be surprised. I'm having visions of the poor decrepit thing being torn off the back of the house, whirling into the atmosphere, and landing in Oz. Setting off another brouhaha in Munchkin Country and the Emerald City.

I may keep watch through the night. I love that old thing. It's where I do some of my favorite things. Moon-watching, stargazing, birdwatching, squirrel laughing, zoning out, basking in the sun, and just plain breathing.

If the deck goes, I'll have to start a whole new blog with a completely different name.

Let us pray.

Peace.

1st Day of Christmas

Christmas 1971. It would take a ton of money to convince me to go back to those days.

Freshman in high school? Yeah, a whole freakin' ton.

I'm posting this absurd picture as penance for having outed so many others in my backwards 12 Days of Christmas series. Seems fitting to go back to my Catholic roots, dig up penance, and do mine on an early Christmas morning.

Here's a short list of what I didn't know in 1971...

my family will always be there
asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness
friends go away...but stay in your heart
common sense beats book-smart hand's down
perfection is impossible
true love lasts
actions speak louder than words
relationships take work
it's okay to say no
real friends love you in spite of your faults
unconditional love is possible
no one promised life would be fair
wrinkles add character
...so does gray hair
wisdom is gained by making mistakes
a true apology includes a change in behavior
life is short
self-esteem is built on estimable acts
giving back and paying forward are essential
I'm not in charge
there's always someone worse off than I am
miracles happen
staying in the day is my best hope for serenity
taking a risk really is its own reward
loss is inevitable
I'm never alone regardless of how I may I feel
it's what's inside that counts
laughter can be life-changing
...and so can tears

Wishing you all moments of joy and serenity today and for always.

Peace.

2nd Day of Christmas

Had I chosen to have kids...

I would never have let them near these guys.

The next one, I would have made an exception for.

Christmas 1997. This Santa still lights up my life.

Peace.

3rd Day of Christmas

Christmas 1993. The doofus under the hat ~ that's Nephew #2.

If I could revisit one Christmas, this would be the one. Three 2-year old nephews, a 5-year old niece, and the old man of the group, a 5-year old nephew. The chaos, the mayhem, the excitement lighting up their faces.

To me, there's nothing more magical than viewing Christmas through the eyes of a child. They have to run and jump and squeal and laugh otherwise their little bodies will explode. Their wisdom tells them they must keep moving, spinning, spiraling, gyrating as they listen to some voice we adults can no longer hear.

That voice blocking out our admonishments.

"Watch out for that wall {that door, that table, that chair}!"
"You're going to fall off that couch and bleed on my rug!"
"He's too heavy for you to give him a piggy-back ride!"

This would be the last year they'd be the 5 Musketeers. 1994 brought changes with kindergarten for some and different childcare arrangements for others.

Most years I have the good fortune to see them as a group at Christmas-time. Young adults now, testing their grown-upness. And I watch them in awe for who they've become.

While straining to hear that faraway voice that now no one hears.

Peace.

4th Day of Christmas

I set the bar too high. 12 posts in 12 days featuring 12 Christmas pictures. I've written draft after draft but none of them is working for me. There's something in the way. And I can't seem to do it justice either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their flight touched down at 10:35 Sunday morning, December 20, 2009. They deplaned mostly in single file, sometimes in pairs. Fatigue etched their faces. Those who had slept rubbed sleep from their eyes. They walked down the ramp to the sounds of clapping and cheering. Some of them reached back to shake an outstretched hand or return a fist bump. Some allowed themselves to be hugged before continuing on into the small terminal.

To a person, the first thing they did was take the cell phone they'd been handed and start dialing a well-known number. As they talked, some wandered while others sat on the floor or leaned on a wall. One by one as they finished their calls, they were drawn to the aroma of fresh coffee and donuts.

Most chatted with folks who had come to welcome them to NH. Others, too shy, sat quietly plugged into their iPods. They laughed and they joked with the small crowd and each other. Some headed outside to watch their first snowfall. Others lit one last smoke or simply stretched their legs.

Word went around that the flight captain had been given a small window of time for take-off. Their ground time cut short by the weather. Going back up the ramp, interspersed with the crowd, they regrouped in the room they first saw when they landed. Group pictures were taken and a blessing bestowed. Gifts quickly given followed by a prayer, songs, and an old-timer's jokes.

When called, they noisily formed a ragged line. They headed back through the recreated gauntlet they'd walked through on arrival.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I participated in the early clapping unable to cheer past the lump in my throat. I quietly watched the rest from the sidelines. Absorbing and learning how magic was made.

In the end, able to stand close as the crowd had grown smaller. Offering my hand to each tan or green fatigue clad man or woman who walked past me. Tears in my eyes matching tears in theirs.

"Thank you."
"Be safe."
"Come home."

Their next stop was Iceland. Then onto Afghanistan. A troop of Marines and another from the Army.

There'd be two final gifts for each of them once aboard the plane. A card with a website to help them stay in touch. And a star cut from a retired American flag in a small plastic bag with a brief poem.

Before the flight landed, one of the founders of The Pease Greeters showed me the star and the poem. I handed it back, but he said, "Keep it. You're one of us now."

I am part of our American flag.
I have flown over a home in the USA.
I can no longer fly. The sun and the wind
have caused me to become tattered and torn.
Please carry me with you as a
reminder that you are not forgotten.

Peace.

5th Day of Christmas

This was in one of my inboxes a couple of days ago with the caption, A Red-Neck Christmas. Need I say more?

As a matter of fact, my inboxes were fairly overflowing with gifts that had me laughing, wanting to cry, and turning my mood from happy to sad to thoughtful all in the space of a few minutes. A mirror of the roller coaster ride I find myself on during the holidays.

Early in November, I began actively seeking out gratitude. Easy? Using the old fall-backs of roof over my head, food on the table, employed, the ABCs, it would be absolutely impossible not to feel grateful. To mount an attack on the holiday blues requires a much more powerful degree of gratitude. A soul-deep effort of turning sad thoughts upside down to look for the gems buried beneath.

I think it's appropriate to tell you about those gems today, the 5th day of my backwards Christmas blog. The gold is out there. Especially when I sit in the back seat and leave the driving to Avis. That's when I can relax and pay attention.

Here's an alphabet soup of what has worked and who has helped. If you're missing from the list, chalk it up to CRS with deepest apologies.

Amanda for jump-starting my search
Bari...she knows why
Sara & Shiny Red Houses for the laughter and the writing
Farmer's Cul-de-Sac for the memories
Anonymous for your kind comments
Darth Jew, Jewnook, and all the rest for the laughs
Beach glass for the thrill of the hunt
TwoBusy for awe-inspiring writing
Pete & Julie for opening their hearts & their home
NASCAR for the rush
Carolyn for finding me again
Lorette for being the aunt who is all that
Jo for helping me keep my feet on the ground
The Jeff for the excitement & blog-fodder
Sue D for her profound faith
Cynthia N for always understanding
Jeanee for showing me how to handle adversity
Pease Greeter Alerts for keeping it real
Fred for the emails I'm too uptight to forward
Cynthia M for her courageous stories
Rowdy Nation for the warm welcome
Gary for his fabulous FB quotes
Charlene, Lori & Wendy for being so upbeat
The ocean for the symphony
Dave for his love and support
The cardinals for showing up day after day
Commenters for making it worth the effort
Everyone around me for being a power of example
The squirrels for keeping me amused
The hot-line callers for keeping it green
Rick for the 20+ years; for getting it and not trying to fix it

I heard a man define a blessing as anything that pushes or pulls us to continue to grow.

This year, I have been abundantly graced with blessings.

Peace.

6th Day of Christmas

Christmas 1962. This picture is really a mixed bag, isn't it?

Number 2 Son looks a little under the weather.

Firstborn can't stop giggling.

Mom looks ravishing and a little distracted.

Dad looks happy clear on up to his eyeballs.

Another Christmas I remember absolutely nothing about. I do know that this wasn't any home I ever lived in. I have a guess whose it was, but being off by 10 years on the picture of my grandfather {1952} has made me gun-shy.

What I do know about 1962 is that it was only the second full year since 1955 that my mother didn't fit into one of the following categories: pregnant, caring for an infant, keeping track of a 9 month old, or juggling the care of both a toddler and an infant at Christmas. By the end of 1968, all six of us had arrived and not one of us was under the age of 2.

Must have been a relief for her, right?

Picture it: Christmas 1968 and coping with and Santa Clausing for the following ages: 13G, 11G, 10B, 8B, 4G, and 2B? Relief? How about going out of your ever-loving mind?

Can you imagine having to keep up the Santa thing for another 5 years? Making sure the Santa wrapping paper was different from the Mom and Dad paper. Getting the labels right for 6 kids. Keeping the older kids from spoiling it for the younger kids. Doing that Santa gig for 18+ years had to be hellish. Remarkably, she pulled it off year after year with grace and dignity.

The giggler? She was and still is the biggest kid of us all when it comes to Christmas.

I lost my Santa cherry at the same time as she did. I believe she told me when she confirmed her suspicions. BE-ATCH! Sorry, I had to get that off my chest.

The constants throughout the years were the Christmas rituals. The one the giggler had the least tolerance for was the early morning WAITING. For my parents to wake up. For my father to get the fire going in the fireplace or wood stove and make a pot of coffee or tea. For my mother to start a pot of cocoa while my father plugged in the lights on the Christmas tree. The waiting finally ended when they'd both gotten settled and were braced for the onslaught of anywhere from four to six greedy kids.

When I look back at those days, I find myself believing in miracles.

Peace.

8th and 7th Days of Christmas

Christmas 1987. Over a year and a half living together before marriage. Living in sin, you say. Nope, in Portsmouth. (Special thanks to Pete ~ this is too good a line not to recycle.)

I'm posting two days of Christmas today to catch up to where I thought I'd be by now. These two are together for absolutely no good reason. They have nothing whatsoever to do with each other. Just the luck of the randomizer photo selector software.

We did Christmas big back then. Big tree, big decorating, big gifts. We were kids really, still doing what our parents had taught us to do, still trying to find our way in the world. Happy in our ignorance, blissfully unaware that we had choices.

I love who we were back then just as much as I love who we've become.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christmas 1993 or 1994. Christmas with Rick's family out in Milwaukee. My first Christmas away from what was familiar. Mom and Dad Day, ever the goofballs. At first glance, you'd think she was the instigator of the goofiness. But it was always him, and to this day, that never ceases to amaze me.

There were puppies to play with that year. Coco and Rusty had just arrived on the scene that year. Miniature cockapoos, I think. Micro-dogs weighing in at 3 and 4 pounds respectively. I spent more time worrying about and trying to avoid crushing one of them with a misstep than I did doing anything else during that visit.

Even though we'd been together 6 or 7 years, I still hadn't met all of Rick's sibs and nieces and nephews. It was a Christmas of new relationships forming and laughter with the little ones.

For me, it's a Christmas frozen in time. Because we rarely see any of Rick's sibs or their kids, I still carry an image of all of them from this long ago Christmas.

Peace.

9th Day of Christmas

Another picture from Christmas 1989. And a much easier blog to write. It's not laden with all the emotion of writing about Maco.

This is my oldest nephew.

He wanted to be in there. He begged and pleaded to go in until someone asked permission of the owner of the crate. It was explained to him that this was not a toy, rather the dog's safe haven. Once he agreed that he understood that, he was allowed in. Of course, for him to have the ultimate crate experience, the spring-loaded bar was slipped through the holes and he was locked in.

That look on his face? That's just his one and a half-year old look. His younger brother had one just like it at exactly the same age. They were just mimicking what they'd seen aimed their way when they misbehaved. And, they were pretty good at misbehaving. Hell, they were rapidly approaching the terrible twos. What do you expect?

He was pretty happy to be in there. At the time, we all thought it was hysterical. The kid in the crate giving everyone that look? C'mon. You've gotta admit it's not every day you get a chance to see something like that.

Well, the jocularity came to an abrupt halt when we heard a distinctive voice ask in a none-too-pleased tone, "Who put my son in that cage?"

Hummanna hummanna hummanna, um, well, it's like this...

Thankfully, harmony was restored when the situation was fully explained.

And after the poor kid finally stopped crying because he'd been removed from the crate.

Peace.

10th Day of Christmas and the 100th Post

Christmas 1989. Since this is my 100th published post, I thought I'd write about someone very special.

Maco.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day 2 of trying to write this. I want to get this one just right. I'm flooded with emotions and memories that keep tumbling over one another fighting for dominance. She was all that before there was a term for it. She could wrap the toughest of us around her dewclaw with a look.

As much as I'd like to tell you who she was to each of us, those are not my stories to tell. What I can bear witness to is that she held a special place in the heart of each member of the family. A family which she was as much a part of as any two-legged.

Snapshots in mostly random sequence.

Christmas morning, wearing the cape so lovingly made for her by my mother. Fawn-delicate without a heavy enough coat to keep her warm in winter. A regal cloak to protect her from the falling rain and snow she found so distasteful.

Receiving the Polaroid of Maco when she was first adopted, believing the red around her neck was a bandanna, thinking "oh no, not another bandanna dog," and later learning that it was a too-large collar used to bring her home for the first time.

Mom or Dad standing at the counter preparing food, a soulful Maco gazing up at one or the other, forbidden treats dropped with apologies, "I'm sorry Maco, I don't know how that happened," and a grateful girl delicately eating whatever had fallen.

The day of not eating, acting oddly, seemingly in pain. A worrisome day followed by a day of normalcy. My sister pooper-scooping the fenced-in backyard. Finding pieces of blue and shiny silver paper in Maco's feces. Realization dawning that the wonderdog had raided a purse and eaten an entire package of Peppermint Life Savers.

Attending obedience trials as Maco and her mom worked to win their All American Breed Obedience title. Leg one, check. Leg two, done. Leg three, the final leg. Attending meet after meet, watching Maco get up on the short sit-stay and saunter across the field to her mom. Nailing that one. The short down-stay, watching Maco pull herself across a different field, never once breaking from the down position, to join her mother on the other side. The folks in the crowd, knowing how painful this was for my sister, trying to restrain their laughter. Finally conquering that one, too. Then the agony of the long sit-stay and down-stay with mom out of sight. Time after time, Maco becoming bored or anxious, getting up to wander around in search of a familiar face, often finding mine, casually walking over to say hello. Taking to hiding behind trees, then not even letting Maco know I was there until after the meet. Finally the big day, the one when she succeeded in staying put, tearfully watching them win their third leg, the crowd who'd watched them fall short time and again, cheering as though this was their victory. My sister beaming as she accepted their title as a completely bored Maco sat in perfect form by her side.

My sister and Maco dropping by to visit. Hearing the squealing from inside the house because she recognized where she was and couldn't wait to come inside. Greeting me with kisses, willing me to sit down to create an empty lap for her to hop aboard, coiling herself into a ball to fit. Every so often, while my sister and I visited, lifting her head and licking my face. Having to pee, unwilling to disturb the sleeping princess until it was impossible not to, and even then with great apologies to her highness. Taking their leave, a lap slowly cooling down. Missing that warmth.

Holidays with Maco hovering in the kitchen on high-alert, watching and waiting for the accidentally or purposely dropped morsel. Being told to lie down while we ate. Being obedient until the first two-legged got up from the table. All bets off, there might be a plate to lick. My sister valiantly trying to obedience-train the two-leggeds to stop giving her table scraps. Doing as instructed, completely unable to look Maco in the eye, her disappointment a visceral thing.

Driving an hour and a half to visit my sister. Not hearing the bark reserved for strangers, rather the squeal of excitement as she recognized my car. Opening the door to the house and being greeted with the happy dance, jumping into my lap before it was fully formed. Feeling snug, serene, and perfectly complete. My feelings, and maybe hers too.

Growing older, becoming less tolerant of other dogs in her space. Grateful that one of those dogs she tolerated and actually liked was Tucker, our sweet girl. Tucker's early life much more difficult than Maco's. Maybe Maco recognized that about Tuck. Maybe lots of things. Simply being glad the two of them were forever friends.

Maco. The lap-hopper in any gathering. The incessant licker of faces. The waif, the fawn, graceful in all her movements. The singer, trying to restrain herself, finally giving in to join whenever Happy Birthday was sung. The doer of tricks ~ hearing a sneeze and dutifully going to get a Kleenex and bringing it back. The little girl rescued early on from the mean streets. The grand dame graciously allowing herself to be picked up when she could no longer jump onto a lap.

She's with me every day. A double frame sits in a place of honor. On one side, Maco smiling happily. On the other, a curious Tucker looks out. My two best girls, together forever.

Peace.

11th Day of Christmas

I'm going to toss a wild-assed guess out there and say this was Christmas 1961 or 1962.

We called him Grampy. He was my mother's dad. And so much more. For a time, he and Grammy lived in the apartment above ours in the first house my parents owned. I'm lucky enough not to have to imagine what it would have been like to have had 4 grandparents who lived nearby. That was my life for 6 years. I consider that to be one of the greatest blessings in my life.

During the years my grandparents lived above us, Grampy was my anchor. I could walk upstairs anytime I wanted and "visit" him. My visits consisted of following him everywhere he went like a little talking puppy. My favorite place to follow him was to his woodworking shop over the barn. I had a front row seat to watch him create bookcases and night stands and whatever else was on his list of things to make for others.

I had my very own tool belt. I remember how important I felt wearing it at the ripe old age of 4. He always let me believe I was his helper. Even though my help came mainly in the form of asking him questions about everything he did and every tool or piece of hardware he used. What's that, what are you doing now, and the whys of anything and everything that came to mind ~ over and over again. He never lost patience with me. He was probably cursing under his breath all day long and dreaming of that first drink of the day, but he never showed anything but tolerance for my little-kid curiosity.

He was the one who tagged me with the label of chatterbox and declared that I was vaccinated with a phonograph needle. Whenever I was around either of my grandfathers, those statements were absolutely true. Each had the patience of a saint with me and provided a kind of safety that I didn't feel anywhere else.

It's been over 46 years since he died. And I still miss him. Anchors in life are hard to find.

Peace.

12th Day of Christmas

Christmas 1966. Even then I was an enthusiastic photographer. And at the beginning of a very steep learning curve as evidenced by the partial-mother and mouthless brother. And he is the kid who least needed a mouthectomy.

I did manage to snap the shot while everyone was dutifully smiling with eyes open and facing forward. That's gotta be considered a coup at age 9!

This is the whole famdamily. The last Christmas before we moved to the farm. Except for that, there's nothing particularly memorable about that Christmas. I've just decided to cull through my old holiday pictures and post one a day for these last 12 days leading up to Christmas.

We'll see how that pans out. I make plans fully aware that the Universe is gleefully laughing at my naivete. Besides, I may not have 12 pictures in my possession worth posting. I didn't check that out before making my decision. As the wonderful Linda Ellerbee would say, "So it goes."

Peace.

I wasn't going to write about this, but things changed.

In the mid-80s, I was drawn to basketball and the Celtics by an individual player, Larry Bird. While it was his performance that drew me in, I became a rabid fan of the Celtics. I watched every televised game, took to yelling at the TV, and pretty much lived and died with their every victory and loss. I knew all the players on all of the teams they played. I had great admiration for the amazingly talented players of the time, regardless of their team affiliation.

In 1991, Magic Johnson announced his retirement from pro basketball because he had contracted HIV. I, along with damn near everyone else, was stunned. Back then so little was known about HIV, I thought I was hearing a death sentence. Mainstream media coverage was sympathetic. The tabloids had a field day with speculations. Magic came out of retirement to play on the 1992 Olympics Basketball Dream Team.

I wonder if Magic's announcement had been made in 2007, would he have survived the media feeding frenzy? Would he have been able to come out of retirement to play for the 2008 Olympics team?

In the 90s, I was drawn into a non-team sport ~ golf. Again, this happened as a result of the enormous talent of one player, Tiger Woods. I avidly followed golf for a number of years which forced me to pay attention to the talents of other players. Yet, it was Tiger's performance I tuned in to watch. As his performance became less stellar, I watched less often. He fairly burst back on the scene in 2009, after close to a year off for knee surgery and rehab. He was healthy and he was back in top form. I only watched occasionally because NASCAR got my Sunday afternoon attention. I did, however, follow his performance in the sporting news.

Do I care that he and his entire family are in a world of hurt? Yes. Have I followed the coverage of this seemingly never-ending saga? Not since I learned he wasn't seriously injured. I stopped reading about it when I saw the first allegation headlines. I never paid any attention to his public image or private life before; why would I start now?

Exceptional athletes have always been the focus of fans and the media. Babe Ruth was said to be a notorious womanizer and drinker but that didn't change the fans' admiration of what he did on the playing field. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio probably garnered more media attention than any couple before them because they were shining stars in two very public arenas. Back in those days, the media treated stars and star athletes with kid gloves.

Was it right? I don't know. I do believe that this hand's-off approach allowed people to focus on sports as a form of entertainment, a time-out from the cares and concerns that are a part of this thing we call our lives. People weren't fools. They knew these icons were tarnished without being hit over the head by the media ad nauseum. And they made their choices about whether or not to continue to applaud these athletes.

As times have changed, sports are more transparently big businesses. They always were; all of that was just carefully hidden behind closed corporate doors. As well, media coverage of sports has become downright insane. Those kid gloves? Replaced by brass knuckles.

The more things change, the more tightly I cling to the belief that what goes on in other people's lives, even those whose professions put them in the public eye, is simply none of my business.

Peace.

The Plan

I don't know how I manage to do this every year. I take care of the holiday gifts for the kids before Thanksgiving. Rick and I do some things anonymously instead of gifting each other; I always have these taken care of by early December.

Then I stop. I think I'm done. Then, it hits me. I have totally forgotten to give any thought to what I want to do for close friends. Every. single. year.

Well, not this year. It's late, but at least it's not 2 days before Christmas, or worse yet, after Christmas. I did that last year. And felt like a heel.

Tonight is the night I'm going to give this some thought. Serious thought. As much as possible, I'm going to try to shop in the locally-owned businesses. Since shopping terrifies me, I'm going to end up with a spreadsheet, I just know it.

Column headers will include:

Name

Idea

Place to Shop

Street Address

Town

I'll sort by Town, Street Address, and Place. Print.

Then I'll pull up Mapquest and plot a route to most efficiently get from place to place based on geographic location. Print.

Tomorrow, I'll head out with my spreadsheet and Mapquest route to face down my demons and shop. Hopefully, with all this planning, I will not have a meltdown anywhere I go.

I'm immensely hopeful that this goes well. Otherwise, I'll have to start another spreadsheet for Idea #2, etc.

Wish me luck.

Peace.

Inuksuit and Inunnguaq

I started this post awhile ago and got sidetracked by other things. Since it's blizzarding outside and I'm lacking motivation to do anything else, I figured I'd try to finish it up. Partly because today is the day that I was anticipating when I started the writing. Mostly because I want to show you pictures I took of some things I thought were especially cool. And, as of today, very likely don't exist anymore.

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In my love affair with the ocean, I'm enjoying my last fling of 2009. Soon the weather will turn and the boulders will become so icy I won't be able to climb down to the rocky shore. The sandy beach holds little appeal. Rarely is it wild enough to touch my soul.

One particularly nice day last week, I started from my favorite rocky beach and stopped at every cut-out along the roadside to explore some other places. What amazed me was how the terrain changed every few hundred yards or so in the short span of about a mile.

My rocky beach is just a wee bit north of Wallis Sands, which as the name implies, is a completely sandy beach. I have to climb down a hill of boulders to get to my beach, which has huge cliffs, immense boulders, and rocks that range in size from very large right on down to coarse grains of sand. There are very few shells here. The further north I went, the smaller the base rocks became until I was at the last stop and walking on a coarse sandy beach.

For some strange reason, known only to the tides and the universe, midway between the fine sandy beach and the coarse sandy beach were a couple of places where there were a gazillion shells. Unbroken. In colors other than gray, brown, or black. Out on one long spit there were tons of one type of shell.

Also, out on that spit, someone had built some stone cairns. Most can best be described as inuksuit, which is the plural form of inuksuk (or in English inukshuk). These were and continue to be built by natives of the Arctic Circle region of the world. The word inuksuk literally means something which acts for or performs the function of a person, which in most cases means to mark a spot or point toward a location. They're wildly popular from Alaska to Greenland. If you've ever tried to build one, it's not as easy as it looks. Some were impressively tall. Others looked as though the builder had been interrupted and left them unfinished. I especially liked this one.

By far the most fascinating cairn I saw resembled an inunnguaq, literally translated as imitation of a person. It was only missing the distinctive two-legged foundation that is the base of all inunnguaq. Interestingly enough, this type of cairn forms the basis of the logo for the 2010 Winter Olympics.

When I first learned about inunnguaq, I tried to build one inside using smaller rocks. Finding the right balance point between rocks is a real challenge. That delicate balance can be completely undone by walking across the room, especially one with a hardwood floor. I finally gave up the ghost on that and built a simple inuksuk from ever decreasing heart-shaped stones I gathered along the beach.

Peace.

Dry-rot

Last night I decided to listen to an old favorite of mine on vinyl, Lani Hall. She has the most divine voice. Her 1976 recording of "Tiny Dancer" beats Elton John's hand's down. Likewise, from the same album, Sweet Bird, her rendition of "At the Ballet" is the best I've ever heard.

I put the LP on our several-year old hardly ever used turntable and sat back to bask in the glow of her rich voice. What I heard coming from the speakers was Lorena Bobbitt's husband on methamphetamines. Ouch! I got up to see if the turntable was set to 45 rpms instead of 33 rpms. The button looked to be in the right position according to the picture, but I pushed the button in just in case I was misinterpreting those universal symbols again. I didn't sit down when I pressed Play this time. I wanted to be ready in case this was wrong too. Yup, the Chipmunks' version of the first cut came blaring out of the speakers.

I quickly popped the button back out and stopped the music. I thunk for a minute and decided to experiment. Leaving it set at 33 rpms, I put on my 45 single of Bing and Bowie's "Little Drummer Boy." Sure enough, it played just fine.

So, we have a pristine turntable that plays at 45 and 78 rpms instead of 33 and 45 rpms. How could this be? When Rick came home, I explained what had happened and expressed how bewildered I was since we hardly ever use the thing. He told me that's very likely the problem. Lack of usage leading to dry-rot of belts. Ah ha.

Since vinyl is making a resurgence, I'm sure we can get it fixed. There's got to be someone around who repairs turntables, right? Actually, there has to be someone out there because some of my favorite music was recorded by fairly obscure artists whose work is only on vinyl. Trust me. I hit the music websites and checked.

I'll do my research on that, but if any of you happen to know where a turntable can be repaired, please give a shout.

Click on this link to That's When Miracles Occur to listen to what I'd so hoped to hear last night. You're gonna love it!

Peace.

Snow in December? Give me a break!

It snowed. It Snowed! IT FREAKIN' SNOWED! Two days ago, it was 69 degrees and I had the energy of a two-year old. In that same spirit, I'm going to do some two-year old tantruming until all the snow melts, or noon, whichever comes first. My new archenemy, TWC, was predicting a mix of rain and snow along the coast. Actually more snow than rain, but I was hopeful. And, it's not even pretty anymore. Pretty lasted about 10 minutes, by the light of the waning moon. Now it's butt ugly. TWC is currently claiming the sun will be out soon and the temperatures will rise above freezing. It's not going to warm up because we've got a windchill factor from hell out there. Bring on the sun, baby, I'm done with the snow. I know I posted something recently about why I love living here. I take it back. All of it. Every single word was a lie. I hate it here. Shall I continue to tantrum out loud? Or have you had enough?

I'm going to assume the latter since there's only so much whining even I can take. But, goddammit, it snowed, and I'm pissed. I woke up too early. My plans for beach combing before high tide are screwed. It's cold in the house and I'm sick of being cooped up already.

Sorry, I'm having some difficulty with stopping the tantrum. Give me a minute.

Okay. Let's see. Um, besides the snow, what else is new. Well, it snowed overnight here. Shit. Wait, I know there are other things of import going on, I just know it.

Well, there's Rick's holiday cookie-baking. He's doing a bang-up job keeping to his plan. He decided to bake large quantities of only 5 or 6 types of cookies this year. So far, he's baked relatively small quantities of over 7 types of cookies and the ginger snaps haven't even appeared yet. Yup, a bang-up job. I gotta tell you, the best part of his annual cookie-baking is I get to taste test each type when the first batch is fresh out of the oven. Heavenly. As far as my plan for this year, I decided to stick to only testing two of each type. I was doing a super-de-duper job of keeping to my plan until yesterday when he baked these almond things that melt in your mouth. Then left the house. I think I ate 10 before dutifully bringing them down to the freezer. He doesn't know about my slip, hell, he doesn't even know about my plan, so let's just keep that our little secret.

Not to seem ungrateful to those of you who read this foolish blog on a regular basis, but I've moved some of my writing to Rowdy Nation. Unless you just adore my posts about NASCAR, you're not missing anything. Rowdy is where I get to wax eloquent about The Jeff then watch funny videos, read interesting blogs, listen to podcasts, and meet other fans who just want to discuss and debate the world of NASCAR. I tried the NASCAR Community but there was so much bullshit going on there, I got fed up, asked a normal person where to find the good stuff, and got directed to Rowdy where the folks are a whole lot more entertaining, friendly, and knowledgeable.

Before we had any snow to disrupt our outdoor plans, there was the Turkey Trot. And you thought I forgot to mention the actual event. I didn't forget, I've just had my head so far up my ass lately, that I haven't been able to remove it long enough to share that day with you.

It's important to remember that this was the 1st Annual TT. That said, things were a little disorganized. Actually, things were totally screwed up, but no one died, the race/walk was held, and it was a huge financial success for the Rotary Club and their charity of choice, New Heights. They'd purchased the minimum 1000 numbers, rented the minimum 1000 timing chips, expected about 500 folks, and had over 1100 registrants. They got the bucks for all 1100, and about 950 people actually participated, 100 without timing chips. Zowie for New Heights!

It was drizzling, so I dressed as The Jeff's crew chief, which Rick thought was the cat's ass and very creative since I could be warm and wear a billed cap to keep the rain off my glasses allowing me to see where I was walking. Things went awry for us when Rick parked the car. This is when I realized I didn't have my orthotics in my boots, which for those of you who don't wear orthotics, is like not having insoles in your sneakers when you decide to go for a 3+ mile run or walk. Bad news. And too late to go back home to get them. We got to the huge crowd and located ourselves somewhere midpack. When the gun went off, Rick tried to run while I started to walk to the tents on the mainland to hang out. No orthotics, no walk.

While hanging out, I learned that the costume contest had been held well before the start of the race. Unusual. But then, most things about the set up were unusual which is why I said Rick tried to run. They didn't line folks up by their average speeds, e.g., fastest in the front, less fast midpack, and walkers in the rear. Made for a whole lot of jostling during that first mile for runners on Portsmouth's narrow streets. I'm sure the Rotarians will get some great feedback from folks and the 2nd Annual TT will be an even greater success.

As you can probably tell, I've chosen to write a little more freely today. Of late, I've been trying to use language in a more creative way. While an interesting exercise, it's often been excruciatingly difficult and quite frankly, not a whole lot of fun. I learned to dumb-down fairly early on because I didn't want to sound like a snot when I talked. I have the intelligence to use polysyllabic vocabulary (see there are a couple of whoppers), but have chosen to downplay that most of my life to fit in. As well, I developed a tendency to talk like a drunken sailor with people I know well. Both of these tendencies have led to a very lazy mind when it comes to using my words. Since this is a family-friendly blog, I've tried to squish out all the mild cursing I'd normally do in conversations with most adults in the course of a general conversation. I've left it in today because it's also gotten really tiring to constantly self-censor.

All of that said, the sun is out, Rick shoveled the snow, and I've been sitting long enough to grow roots from my butt.

Peace.

War is not healthy for children and other living things

I was a child during the Vietnam War. A young teenager when we finally pulled out. My mother couldn't stand to watch the first televised images of war; at home we were shielded from its reality. I do, however, remember occasionally watching the news with my grandparents. I'm still haunted by those black and white images, taken on the run, jerking up and down on the screen. The grainy archival films from WWII, Japanese internment camps, and scenes from places like Auschwitz are also a permanent memory.

By the time I got to college, I was ready to protest. Even though the war had ended, POWs and MIAs were still over there and I was passionate about their safe return home. I couldn't find anyone who shared my desire to do something. So I wore the bracelet, my guy came home, and thoughts of war receded.

I will always be a child of the 70s. Make love, not war. Peace, love, and rock'n'roll. War is not healthy for children and other living things.

On Thanksgiving, I learned that my oldest nephew had angrily declared he was joining the military. Not out of some sense of loyalty to country or a burning desire to serve, but as a means to an end: to get away from his family of origin. He's finishing up school and hasn't acted on this decision. I know he's impulsive, especially when he's pissed. This could all quietly slip away.

And I pray that it does. I don't have children, I have nieces, nephews, a great-nephew, and two great-nieces. These are my kids. And my kids are not going to war. Not. my. kids. If there is a loving entity out there, please, not my kids. Less selfishly, I pray for the wars to end so it's not your kids either.

I have a couple of friends whose sons have chosen to serve. On Sunday, a group of us will be wrapping gifts to send to one friend's son and the soldiers in his company. Last night I was dashing around picking up gifts. Lip balm, foot powder, body lotion, on-the-go toothbrushes, gum, hard candy, nuts, dried fruit, powdered drink mixes, tube socks, tissues, disposable cameras. And fighting tears the entire time. This is the cold hard reality of what they need.

I haven't been able to face writing the holiday cards just yet. Cards being sent to nameless, faceless other people's kids. Time after time, I've walked by the cards sitting on the kitchen table and turned away. I've avoided them all week. Today I have to pull it together, rise above the pain in my heart, and at least write a brief note of thanks before signing my name.

Peace.

Sunset and Moonrise

The sun doesn't slowly slide into the ocean at day's end on the east facing shore, leaving behind an ever growing puddle of pinks and yellows and oranges. Rather, the reflection of the sun's colors is captured in the clouds.

And quickly released into dusk.

Perhaps there are more foolish pursuits than stumbling around in the dark among unfamiliar boulders in search of the one upon which to anchor the camera to capture the radiance of the moon rising from the ocean's depths. Sure, I considered bringing the tripod. But with so many boulders lining the coast, there had to be at least one I could use. I forgot I wouldn't be able to actually see them to gauge their usefulness. Oops. The sad part is I know I'll do it again. It's just so much fun to see how far I can push without getting maimed.

I stopped my stumbling around long enough to watch in awe as she emerged in all her splendor, a shade of orange only seen in heavenly bodies. Once fully up, the transformation of color began until she was decked out in her more common yellow finery.

Her journey through the clouds only served to make her ascent more glorious. Proving once again that no two risings are the same.

Back home on the deck, I continued to watch her rise. Sometimes hidden behind the clouds. Other times, the clouds acting as a backdrop for her rainbow aura.

And I wonder...

did the end of the first day...

even remotely resemble this?

Peace.