Beautiful Memories Of A Lost Sibling

As far as I can tell, this is the source of this gripping photo and story:

This is a photo of my sister at age one and me at five. This is the only picture I have where I am holding her.

She died a decade later after this photo taken. It shows the strength of a child who was born physically and mentally disable and her motivation to keep living. She never gave up till the day she died. She survived longer than the doctors predicted. Even on this day, she will always be the strength and courage my family needs to keep living.

I share this beautiful, and, yes, sad story to remind us that even when the most fragile amongst us leave too soon, they are remembered.

Please, go read the rest. And if you're on Tumblr, every reblog results in a donation to the children with Microcephaly Foundation.

I Could Just Eat You Up, Nephew!

My nephew Nicholas is my cookie boy. Ever since he was an itty-bitty babe, I've been nibbling on him 'cuz he's so sweet. Thankfully, I have not made it into the newspapers as this poor aunt did!

From The Onion:

Aunt Threatens To Devour Helpless Newborn's Toes

WALDEN, TN—While family members stood silently by and did nothing, visiting aunt Debbie Koeler proclaimed her desire to consume the "tiny little toesies" of her nephew Daniel, a powerless infant less than one-fifth her size, after the child's christening Sunday. "Who's my little sugar pie? I could just eat you right up," Koeler threatened as she held the vulnerable child above her cavernous mouth and simulated the impending act of cannibalism on his tiny, dangling legs. "I've gotcha! I've gotcha! Yes I do! Yes I do!" Koeler then returned the confused and speechless newborn to the bouncy seat, prodded his abdomen, and disappeared behind her own hands.

Survey Says My Family's Not So Strange After All

According to a national survey commissioned by SleepBetter.org and conducted by Ipsos Public Affairs, one in four Americans (23%) say that Goodnight Moon is their all-time favorite bedtime story. The study also says that moms are doing the bedtime story reading 3-to-1 over dads. But what's most surprising, to me anyway, is the fact that even more popular among young children (age 7 or younger) than bedtime classic Goodnight Moon are the stories that their parents make up themselves!

Now our family has a long tradition of making up stories -- not only at bedtime, but we share them at the breakfast table, and when we spend time with extended family (holidays, etc.) we spend time sitting around making up stories together: One person starts with the first sentence, the next person adds the next line, etc., and you go around the room with each person adding a sentence until the story is finished. (Warning: This is where family issues will be aired; the little brother will mock his sister, mom will mock dad, grandma will mock mom, etc. -- which is all in good fun, unless your participating teens are surly.)

Anyway, I just thought that our kids liked our stories and storytelling time because, well, frankly, because they were weird. ...Apples not falling far from the tree, and all that. *wink*

But it turns out, this sort of "weird" is in the majority -- making us all "normal."

Now The Bedtimes Stories Project is collecting these stories in their Sleepy Tales Book.

To encourage folks to submit their original family bedtime stories (all authors retain the copyrights to their stories), The Bedtime Project's got the incredible Betty White involved! (You know I adore Betty White!)

Not only has Betty even written her very own bedtime story, Sleep Better Snowball!, but she'll be reading from the Sleepy Tales Book -- and she may also read one of the submitted bedtime stories!

If you you want your story to be evaluated as one of the stories that Betty White will read from at the May 26th event in L.A., you need to submit your story by midnight EST Sat. May 22, 2010.

Also, by the end of the program in July, one story will be selected to inspire an illustration by noted artist Bill Nelson. The deadline for a chance to have your story illustrated by Nelson is midnight EST, Wednesday June 30, 2010.

So submit you family's story asap. Who knows, it could win a really cool honor! Stranger things -- like our kids liking our made-up stories -- have happened. *wink*

One Fortune Cookie Night

What with all our blended family & travel necessities, our immediate family opens their gifts during the week of holiday vacation the kids have. This year, before opening our gifts, we went out to dinner at the Chinese restaurant and gorged on the all-you-can-eat buffet. On the way out, we passed the box where you can help yourself to an after dinner fortune cookie.

"Just one," I reminded the kids.

"Awwww," whined Hunter, the nine year old.

"Awwww," I mimicked back.

Reaching in for just one, Hunter whimpered, "But one is the loneliest number."

Well played, boo; well played.

He still only got to take one cookie. But he delighted me with his comedic timing charmed me proving that he does remember and enjoy our musical adventures.

I'm guessing the fact that we all laughed and told him how funny he is was even more satisfying than those additional cookies would have been anyway.

Why Tinsel Is As Beloved, By Me, As Easter Grass

As the holidays are here, and tree decoration is near, I would like to remind you not to use tinsel. This is not only true if you have cats (or other pets), but because tinsel, though no longer made of metal, remains an attractive magnetized material and with all that holiday visiting you or someone else is bound to bring tinsel into my home. I live in fear of such things.

For tinsel is like Easter grass.

Let me regale you with just how lovely that is with this previously published post (from a long defunct site); each time you read 'Easter Grass' substitute it with 'tinsel'. I clear my throat, and we begin...

One of my Easter pet peeves, one that actually involves pets, is the use of plastic Easter grass. More annoying than pine needles which do not seem to have been effectively removed until Easter, this pastel grass is coveted by cats & kittens everywhere. I've long banished the crap from my house, but this is the time of year when I must explain to well-intentioned grandparents and great grandparents why I have done so. And yet I must never ever tell the truth of it all. You, dear lucky blog reader, will now hear the unvarnished truth.

When a feline finds this plastic 'grass' it is compelled to not only carry it of to some corner of the house that is impossible to find, and therefore vacuum, but the creature must indulge in eating it. One strand at a time. Far worse than the weekly finding of yet another pastel fiber on the carpet (most embarrassing in June and November when the in-laws stop in unannounced), the consumption of this material does not involve actual digestion.

This means that cats poop the silly stuff in one long string of pastel plasticness.

This does not mean that it will be contained to the litter box.

Instead, what happens is that it sticks out of feline rectum, at least a good 4 inches, ensuring that you see it. It is at this point that you, as the human owned by the cat, must grab the bull by the horns, or the ass by its grass, and pull it out, thus removing it from the cat's digestive tract.

While it is clear to both you and the cat that you must pull it out, the cat is reluctant. One can only imagine what it feels like to have an additional 4-8 inches of 'string' (that does in fact progress past the rectum into bowels and perhaps intestines) pulled out of one's ass... It must feel an awful lot like the look on a cat's face: uncomfortable & surprising.

Given that the cat has hoarded 10-30 pieces of grass, this is a problem which presents itself on many occasions. Being that is it the problem of a cat, it's timing will be at the least convenient for you as a human, such as at dinner time, when company is over (whom I already eye suspiciously when they enter just in case a piece of the damn stuff is stuck to their clothing), when children are watching (and way more curious than seems natural), when you were in the mood for more erotic actions with a partner... It's such a mood killer that I am hard-pressed to think of a time when it would be convenient.

This whole Easter grass problem is reason number 3 on why my cats are not allowed outside. For if there's a single piece blowing in the wind -- and you know there is because you see them built into bird's nests, wound around brush, in your garden and blowing past you on the front porch -- my cats will find it and eat it. And I will have to 'rectify' the situation.

So let me speak to all of you and say this: Stop using the damn Easter grass. Let the free market dictate the collapse of this part of the holiday market, putting an end to its creation. Let me be finally free from this whole damn mess.

So, for gawd's sake, lay off the darn tinsel!

Teenage Girls & Phone Use

Neither of my girls uses the phone much (Austism, etc. makes them less social), but even if they did, cell phones & cordless phones have replaced these images of yesteryear...

Chain Of Confidence: My Mom's A Strong Link!

It's not always easy to talk about your mother -- until you are older & wiser yourself. And it's not always easy write about your mother -- the idea of an "essay about your mother" sounds as trite as a "what I did on my summer vacation" school report. But I had to nominate my mother for the Tupperware Chain of Confidence Challenge -- because when it comes to instilling confidence, she's done the most to inspire me.

I encourage all of you to nominate your mom or another inspirational woman in your life. Not only is it a fabulous contest, but it's a nice way to make the time to say "thanks!" to people who deserve it.

It's also a fabulous exercise in being concise, because the contest essay may only be 1500 characters (not words) -- and the form's counter is off by a bit (even though the form said I had 2 characters to spare, it would not accept it until I hacked off a dozen more -- you've been warned lol)

To enter the contest, submit your written submission anytime from May 14th through August 14th 2009 at www.chainofconfidence.com. (You'll need to register or login first; simple and painless.)

Prizes will be awarded in three categories:

1. How has a Friend or Relative inspired you
2. How has a Tupperware Consultant/Director inspired you
3. Viewer's Choice (If you choose to let your story be public on the site, visitors can vote on it.)


Prizes

• A $5,000 donation to a selected charitable organization chosen by the winning nominee so that they can pass it on in a way that will empower other women.
• Both nominator and nominee will each receive a Tupperware gift card valued at $1,000.
• Tupperware consultant/director winners will attend a Tupperware event in January 2010 where they will receive an official Chain of Confidence award.

Can't Get Enough Of Me(me)

Elizabeth tagged me. OK, so she tagged me at Kitsch Slapped; but since this meme is personal silliness & probably not something Twolia would like to pay me for, I'm doing it here. Send all hate mail to the comment box below.

Meme Rules:
1. Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention; add a question of your own.
2. Tag eight other un-tagged people.

1. What is your current obsession?

I can have only one?! Or I guess they only want me to list one... Which, from the sound of it, I should say I'm currently obsessing about Directions V. Implications. But in my heart, I'm still obsessing over my ride on a toy train to Death Valley where I met Native & Japanese Americans (the latter of which were photographed by Ansel Adams), so the short answer is T. R. Goodwin.

I could have just said his name, right? But then you probably wouldn't have recognized it let alone even considered clicking it. (You know I'm right.)

2. What do you see outside your window?

The cute 1020's apartment building across the street is having a bit of a face lift.

3. If you could have any super power what would it be?

The ability to end apathy.

4. Which animal would you be?

OK, this picking one thing... You just don't understand. I'm a Gemini, people. Well, a Gemini-Cancer cusp, baby, which makes me a moody set of twins. Gemini's have great difficulty picking "just one" of anything -- how do you think a moody one can do it?

If I must...

I choose human -- because I like the opposable thumbs and the ability to read & write.

5. Who was the last person you hugged?

My husband.

6.What is your favorite color?

Purple

7. What's your favorite food in the whole world?

Sheesh, another "favorite" question. I'm going to say Diet Coke simply because it's the one food (hey, you buy it in a grocery store) I constantly have.

8. What's the last thing you bought?

A copy of a Death Valley '49ers "Keepsake" booklet on T.R. Goodwin, published in 1978; I told you I was obsessed about him.

9. What are you listening to right now?

Pink's Stupid Girls. (Stopping now to dance & sing. BRB.)

10. If you could buy one object right now, what would it be?

How much money do I have? Is this one of those "if money weren't a problem" questions or a "what are you currently lusting for" questions? I refuse to answer on the grounds that A) I'll be giving the wrong answer &/or B) enticing other bidders into a bidding war with Ms Shallow-Pockets.

11. What's on your beside table?

What's not on the dresser by the bed?! Keys, jewelry, books, cards, lube, knick-knacks & paddy-whacks of all sorts.

12. If you could have a house totally paid for, and fully furnished, anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Right now, given the family situations, I'd say Minneapolis.

13. What piddly, rather insignificant, selfish wish do you hold in your pathetic little heart right now?

That more people would participate in my carnivals: History Is Ephemeral Carnival & New Vintage Reviews Carnival.

14. What is your favorite children's book?

I'm going to take the time to seek help for one of my favorite books from my childhood... I don't know the name or anything. But the cover was pinkish-purple and it was about two dinosaurs (or maybe a rhino & a hippo?) on a picnic. As I recall, the illustrations were black, white & grey sketches, not brightly colored. Anyone know of it?

15. What is your biggest fear/phobia?

Intolerance.

16. What's the bravest thing you've done in the past year?

Allowing myself to be photographed for a magazine article -- and, now, showing you.

17. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?

Just an hour? Then I say to bed for a nap. (An hour in any museum or coveted destination spot would only be a tease for me.)

18. What did you want to become as a child?

A horse.

No, this does not negate #4,

19. What posters/pictures do you have on your bedroom wall?

Nothing. Nadda. Zip. We moved to that bedroom when the eldest moved out to the group home two years ago and we haven't made the time to attack such a project. (Mainly because the walls of this old house are plaster -- and one of the bedroom walls has the old 'eves slant' -- which makes hanging the giant antique frames & sconces a real bitch).

20. What is your plan for tomorrow?

To wake up and prioritize the day based on what drama has unfolded & what I didn't accomplish today.

21. What was your first job?

Working at family rummage sales -- I think we began to do that (even handle money) when we were like 5 & 7.

22. Say something to the person/s who tagged you:

Elizabeth, I totally could have stolen your answer to #18, which was, "Archaeologist, writer, artist, mom." Except for the "mom" part. I never was that into kids. Even as kid myself. I was a bookish, nerdy loner & pair bonding to create a kid was so removed from my world.

23.Post a favorite childhood photograph of yourself.

My sister doing my hair -- I call it "Beauty School Drop-Outs."



I tag... While the vanity of #22 is tempting, I don't want to annoy anyone. So anyone who wants to play, go ahead (and let me know if you do!)

"I miss my mother’s body."

Because I refuse to shy-away from honest sex talk -- even if it's not "sex ed" -- I have to share with you this lovely piece on a woman remembering her mother, titled Musings on curvitude -- even if it's on an 'adult site'. You've now been warned; but don't summarily reject the link, because it's worth it.

Sex Ed - From The Kid

My eldest, the Auspie, was always a hoot at the museum. From 3 on, when I was in college and had the discounted student pass, she'd stomp around the library-quiet museum with me during weekdays in this pair of brightly colored cowboy boots that she had to wear, no matter the weather or season.

My favorite Allie In An Art Museum Story took place during her first visit to the MAM.

We were looking through the "classic masters" section of paintings, when I heard her grunt and stomp out of the room. I did my own classic mommy bit then, trying to quietly catch up with her. When I did, I asked her why she left so quickly.

Hands on her hips, she turned to me and said, "I just don't understand why they have to put the fur there."

I stood stupefied for a moment -- and then remembered the partial female nude. "Fur" meant public hair.

"It's just the human body," I said. As 'mommy' -- and a single parent then too -- she'd never minded barging in on me in the bath (as you'll see in a bit) or getting dressed and so had seen me nude enough to know that pubic hair was, is, normal.

But apparently 'normal' had no place in art.

"They just shouldn't show that. They should paint a dress on them or something," was her reply.

As if nude models were understandable, but painting them thus was the problem.

Speaking of Allie and pubic hair...

Once when she was little she pushed her way into the bathroom while I was on the potty myself. She took one look at my pubic hair, pointed her little chubby toddler finger at it, and said, "Chipmunks live in there."

I knew if I laughed, I'd hear that forever; so I bit my tongue and replied, "No, they do not. When ladies and men grow-up, part of maturing is growing hair on their private parts."

She stood and stared at me.

Then she raised her finger along with her voice and shouted, "No! Chipmunks live in there!" Then she stormed out of the bathroom.

Leaving me a very puzzled mother on the toilet -- still too afraid to laugh.

Visting The Art Museum

Like most moms, I am forever behind in placing photos in the album; so why should digital pics posted in the old blog be any different? Here are some photos from when Hunter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum last fall, when he was seven.




I like to take kids alone to art museums. You get to take time having the child lead you around, stopping where & when they wish to, and have them respond to art without interference or opinion from anyone else. All I say is, "Show me what you like." And when they do, I ask them what it is they like about it. It's a very natural way to get at artistic response without bogging them down in stuff they don't understand -- or overwhelming them with stuff they don't care to know and won't remember anyway.

Plus, it just makes for a more relaxed, fun, trip; which means they will continue to want to go to museums.




And of course now I can snap pics with my cell (and take 9 months to post them), to add to the interactive experience.




Hunter, being raised by a rather negative father, often stops to say what he doesn't like. But my reaction is the same: "What don't you like about it?"



Eventually, either breaking out of 'daddy mode' and relaxing with me -- or just feeling more comfortable about looking at art -- eventually moved into telling me what pieces he did like.




Then it's off to the gift shop to buy a few postcards of their favorite pieces. Something to take home and look at later, I believe, reinforces not only the 'good times of the trip', but provides actual art in their room.



Things you should also know: He didn't like the nudes -- especially the males.



The best thing to do was to let him joke a bit about it. Little boys like butt jokes, so...

Lessons From Games With Grandpa

Grandpa had been a boxer in the years before he became a grandpa, before he became a husband (it was during these years that he met Grandma.) And his arms were strong.

When I was a little girl, I used to swing from my grandpa’s arm. He’d make a muscle, one that I’d no doubt asked him to make, and then I’d grab on his arm, and he’d lift me high above the ground. At my age, it was a magical height, like seeing people & cars from an airplane. I felt at once so high, and so safe, as I dangled from Grandpa’s arm.

At some point, as I grew, I no longer could hang from Grandpa’s arm. He’d been a boxer in a lightweight division, and in my family, girls went from a size 6X to a size 13 (if you were lucky, you decreased in size by the end of high school or your early 20’s). So soon, I literally out-grew swinging from Grandpa’s arm.

I don’t remember my age, but I do remember thinking tenderly, of becoming aware of Grandpa as becoming one of those older people - a bit too frail for me to play with as I used to do. But Grandpa & I still had a game to play.

Grandpa used to tell me he loved me ’all heart’ and when I was still little enough to swing from his arm, I had asked him if Grandma minded that he loved me with all of his heart - if this meant he couldn’t love anyone else. He replied that love was infinite - that no matter how he used his whole heart to love me, he could love Grandma, his children, my sister, my cousins - each & every other person he wanted - with his entire heart as well. Hearts held & gave more than we could account for.

As I grew older, we would play this game on nearly every visit. I remember at my high school graduation, sitting alone with Grandpa on the back step we sat side by side, holding each other’s hand, and looking into each other’s faces as we played the game:

"Hello my Long-Stem-American-Rose, I’m so proud of you today, graduating high school. I love you all heart."

"Grandpa, how can you love me with all your heart? What about Grandma?"

"Love is limitless, Dee Dee, it is bigger and wider than we will ever know. They may teach you that hearts are only the size of your fist, but they hold & give more than we can ever measure. This is how I can love you all heart, and love Grandma all heart too."

He never once said that we’d done this before. Neither one of us laughed during this game. It was as sincerely asked and answered as the first time. And even if that was the only conversation we shared alone that visit, it made my heart so full.

I miss my Grandpa. These days when the world seems to have no purpose, when I was beat in my own kitchen, when I suffered losses in court, I hear my Grandpa’s words, and I know none of those things have any hold on me. Not really.

It would be nicer to sit with him on the porch, and have him hold my hand as he’d speak those words. But neither those words, nor my Grandpa, are really gone. Every opportunity I have, I share the conversation with my children. It doesn’t happen the same way. And heaven knows my 5 year old doesn’t play the game as I did with my Grandpa. But he listens.

I have hope that at his worst moments, when my hand is not there to hold his, my son’s heart is full knowing that the things he fears or hates do not have a hold on him. Not really.

(Republished from ye olde Backwash column.)

Magic

When I was in grade school, I used to walk to & from school through a woods -- my magical woods.

I knew every tree, fallen and standing; how to read every dappled patch of sunlight for both time and weather; what every animal and bird cry meant, as well as how to follow their tracks and stand back far and quiet enough to avoid upsetting them so I could watch. All the self-taught knowledge of a girl who spent her time there. (Yes, this woods also contains the creek I wrote about.)

Every day spent in those woods was magical, but one day, I stumbled into something I'd never seen before or since. None of the nature books I lugged home on my horse/bike had even prepared me to conceive of such a thing -- not that book reading ever could. Not even photos or video can, really.

I must have about 7 or 8, and wandering about as usual in the woods. I turned down a path, heading for a spot to just sit in when suddenly I was in a flurry of orange & black fluttering petal-wings which caressed and kissed...

Monarch butterflies.

They were not panicked, startled or thrashing; they were welcoming.

Hundreds of them, swirling about in the air. And hundreds more covering the trees and brush, like a living, breathing wall, before me.

I don't know how long I stood there. Each minute was as long as eternity -- and yet not long enough.

I don't recall wondering what it was, what it meant or what the monarchs might be doing; I just remember being filled with a sense of awe -- and blessed to be part of whatever the celebration was. And I knew it was a celebration. They told me so.

I don't think I've ever felt so foreign yet accepted as that afternoon under the dancing, snowing, flutter-falling butterflies.

Later I learned this was part of the great monarch migration. While that knowledge made sense, it neither diminished the spectacle I had been graciously allowed to witness, nor added to it. It simply was, and I had been, for whatever reason, allowed to have the communion, the experience.

I don't recall ever speaking to anyone of it. I'm not sure why not... Perhaps it was equal parts keeping a secret gift that had been given to my heart & the fact that no one really wanted to hear the loner-girl's (continual) stories about the woods.

But I've never forgotten that feeling -- though I'd gladly have it again, just to be sure it has not faded over time.

So reading that Butterflies Are On The Brink, that the intense deforestation in Mexico could ruin the mysterious & marvelous 3,000-mile migration of the monarch butterfly, my heart is saddened today.

"To lose something like this migration is to diminish all of us," said Chip Taylor, KU professor of ecology and evolutionary biology. "It's so truly spectacular, one of the awe-inspiring phenomena that nature presents to us. There is no way to describe the sight of 25 million monarchs per acre -- or the sensation of standing in a snowstorm of orange as the butterflies cascade off the fir trees."

Twenty-five million? Even having seen my hundreds (possibly thousands -- who could or would stop to count?), I cannot really imagine it...

At the link you can see more images; but I swear to you, they do not do the monarchs justice.

Today, my wish for you is to be able to witness such a thing.

My wish for the world is that the monarch survive so that our children & future generations may too.

Of Wildfire (& My Ire)

In 1973, I was but a wee girl of 9. I love horses, galloped everywhere -- and where I didn't gallop, I imagined my bike was a horse, including mounting like it was one. Naturally, I adored the song, Wildfire.

But it wasn't just the pure horse love. I loved the romantic & mystical qualities of the song, the longing... Including that a man would sing of and hope for such things.

She Comes down from yellow mountain
On a dark, flat land she rides
On a pony she named Wildfire
When the world went by her side
On a cold Nebraska night

Oh they say she died one winter
When there came a killing frost
And the pony she named Wildfire
Busted down his stall
In a blizzard he was lost
She ran calling Wildfire!
she ran calling Wildfire! she ran calling Wildfire!

By the dark of the moon I planted
But there came an early snow
Theres been a hoot owl howling by my window now
For six nights in a row
Shes coming for me I know
And on Wildfire were both gonna go
We'll be riding Wildfire!
We'll be riding Wildfire! We'll be riding Wildfire!

On Wildfire (were gonna ride)
(were gonna leave some behind) Wildfire!
(get these hard times right on outta our minds... riding Wildfire) Wildfire

(Michael Martin Murphey, America's #1 Selling Cowboy Music Singer, performing Wildfire on Letterman, May 22, 2007.)

In 1973, hubby was but a fetus. And he claims to never know what song I'm talking about when I mention it. So I finally dragged him over to listen to it.

He took my hand and we slow danced in the living room -- which sounds awfully sweet and romantic, but then you didn't know that he was busy laughing at me.

Yes, a romantic sweetheart for proffering the chance to dance; but a meanie-bo-beanie for laughing at my little girl (and romantic believer) tendencies. :sigh:

Like most men, he giveth and the taketh.

I guess when Wildfire shows up, I'll be the only believer riding, leaving the hard times behind.