Time is a Thief

 I have been watching this show. It's actually a You Tube channel and the name of it is Urban Eye. I don't know exactly how I came across it. Maybe it was suggested to me, based on my love for old houses and chateaus. One evening I clicked the link, intrigued, and I haven't since been able to tear myself away. There are no spoken words, it's just piano music, really, beautiful piano music, as a house comes into view and a short written history, with occasional gross misspellings (which I graciously overlook). Usually of what was, and sometimes what is now. There may be a surprise at the end, either something very good, or something terrible. You never know. And, just like a book that can't be judged by it's cover, you can never tell by the outside of the house how the inside will be. Sometimes the outside will be decaying and the inside will be surprisingly intact. Sometimes the outside will be nice and the inside will be a disaster. As the camera moves inside you kind of have to prepare yourself. It is my kind of spellbinder. 

Sometimes there will be pictures of what it looked like in it's heyday, juxtaposed with how it is today. Sometimes it's haunting. There have been a couple of them that have ripped my heart out. One such episode featured a house in California that had fallen into disrepair and then delightfully restored, although I didn't particularly agree with his taste in furniture. I breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn't going to be one of the bad ones. Only to see a note flash up on the screen at the last second, saying that the entire house had gone up in flames in the Eaton fire earlier this year, along with photos of the inferno. Ripped. my. heart. out. 

I love old houses. I know this is silly, but I feel like they have personalities. Nothing delights me more than a well kept old house. And nothing horrifies me more than seeing a house that was once stunning with the roof falling in, and graffiti all over the fireplace mantles, and broken windows with the rain coming in. I just watched a horrifying episode with an old Greek Revival that had been stripped of every single thing that was even architecturally interesting. It took me a minute to catch on. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with the columns on the porch. They were just sticks holding up the porch. Then I realized the doorknobs were gone, as well as the decorative doorway casings, the entire stair rail, and of course, all of the mantels. The only word that came to my mind was rape. The house looked like it had been raped of every good thing. Maybe that word is too strong. Maybe I'm making too much of it. Maybe whoever owned it last sold it all to an architectural salvage company. It was just sad. And then there are the ones where the people just left and never came back for their stuff. Pictures, clothes, furniture, just sitting in the silent house, forever, until someone comes to make things new, or tear it all down. 

It really gets me when I see a once grand Dame, with the beautiful woodwork and graceful windows  reduced to weird colors, and ugly paneling, dirty shag carpet and horrible wallpaper. The ones where people took the things they cared about and left the rest as trash. Flotsam. Junk. Garbage, left all over the house. Dirty walls and sagging everything. Broken windows. And the aforementioned graffiti. One thing that occurred to me as I watched, is that old adage, time is a thief. 

I love old houses. In particular there is one old house I love the most, and that is my own. As I sit with my mouth half hanging open in astonishment at the stunning craftsmanship and equally stunning decay, I think about where I am with my own home. I burned out a long time ago on fixing this place. We have been here 23 years and I have been just contenting myself with keeping it clean and an occasional coat of paint when it was needed. But after watching this show a few times, I began to look around. I wondered what happened to the drive I used to have to make this home a lovely home. I saw the paint splotches on the floor left by the former owners. Why have I never done something about that? I noticed my baseboards. They need cleaning. I have windows that need repairing. I began to look around with fresh eyes, and ask myself what I could do to make this place nicer. It's been a long time since I felt that stirring. 

And, I decided, the first thing I would do was a whole house purge. The images of the lovely homes descending into crack houses has haunted me. All that junk. 

I can relate. I, myself, have a lot of junk. It's all behind closed doors, but it's there. In every nook and cranny, every closet, cabinet and cubby. I'm tired of it. I don't want it. 

So I got off my duff and went through every single thing in my room. The sink cabinet, the bathroom, the cubbies, all the end tables, and I made a couple of piles. One to Goodwill, one for trash. It took me all day. And it felt wonderful. I have yet to get into the closets. That will be tomorrow. I have already started on the office. It's more difficult there, because there is more sentimental stuff there than anywhere else, and it's also the art room and of course it's where the paperwork is, the bills happen here. 

Today we have called some people to take care of some of these things we have gotten behind on. We have a new water heater waiting to be installed. The dead tree outside the house will be gone next week. We have made plans to replace the rotted soffit on the north side of the house and after that a new living room floor. I am also making plans to replace the broken windows, and I spent actual thinking time about how I could sand those paint spots off the floor in my bedroom without getting down on my knees, since I'm old, now. Think a Swiffer type pole with sand paper stuck to the bottom. I may need to refine this plan a little. I don't think a swiffer would be exactly right for the job, but something along those lines. It seems like some of my fire is coming back. I want to do better by my house.

I think about how my house will be after I'm gone. Will it be abandoned, or worse, will the next people trash it, or just let it rot? Will it be loved as much as I have loved it?

I'm kind of glad I can't know. It's actually the one thing that has held me back from selling it. The Mr. wants to let it go. He wants to travel. He wants something more modern. I have told him if we ever move I will have to go far away and never look back again. I could never bear seeing something bad happen to this place after all the blood, sweat, tears, and money we have poured into this place. It would kill me. 

So tomorrow on with the purge. Going through the underside of the craft desk, where all the past projects have gone to die. And the bedroom closets. And the upstairs bathroom. And then I will have to take a break. It's been about 108 degrees here, and the AC, even though it's brand new, cannot keep up with that kind of heat. By afternoon all you can do is sit in front of the fan and watch more TV or read a book or nap. 

The girls are back in school and they seem to be loving it. Arya is in fourth grade, and Claire in second grade. Time, certainly is a thief. 

Summer

 Summer has arrived in all her glory. In fact my thoughts have started moving ahead into fall and I don't like it. It seems like we just had Christmas. Something just seems wrong about this. I told the Mr. as I settled into bed the other night that every single day I end the day thinking about how fast the days fly by. It seems like I just wake up and start the day and I'm into the evening routine and bedtime again. The girls start school in just three weeks. THREE WEEKS. WHAT? We will have a second grader and a fourth grader on our hands. I just can't with this. They were just babies! 

But no, Claire, at seven years old has decided she wants to be a cheerleader, and so she has joined cheer. She spends her mornings practicing and her afternoons working out at the track. Arya wants to be in soccer and when Spring comes around, or whenever soccer starts, she will be joining. Meanwhile, while their dad is out of town and of course their mom is at work, they are spending some days with Grandma. Today they were here at the crack of seven AM. I had set my alarm but they got here before it went off. I was deep in REM sleep when the phone rang and they were already at the door. I stumbled around the room for a couple of minutes, trying to find something to wear, and it was a full five minutes before I made it to the door. Actually, this morning Dad just had a doctor's appointment. Tomorrow he will be out of town. 

So he left and we settled down. I asked if they wanted some breakfast and they said, to my great surprise no. Claire didn't want to eat before her practice, and Arya told me she had already had a blueberry. Well, OK, then. They watched about five minutes of TV and then their aunt B was here to pick up Claire for cheer. Aunt B's kids, hereby known as "The cousins" are in cheer, as well. They are twins and almost the exact same age as Claire, so this works well. They are more like sisters than cousins. Arya and I were left on our own. I told her she could watch TV some more if she wanted, but she really didn't want to. What can we do then, sweetheart? I asked her. To which she replied Please don't call me sweetheart. Can I call you dumpling? No. Can I call you puddin? No. Can I call you baby? No. No. No. You may only call me...and with a flourish of her hands...Mademoiselle! I almost choked on my coffee and started laughing. And for the rest of the time she was there, she was addressed as Mademoiselle. 

We sat in the art room for a few minutes, and it was clear she was feeling creative this morning. She picked up the three very large bags of pony beads given to her by my Auntie K, and had a seat at the little rolling table I have in there. She was about to open the bag...hereby known as The Kracken...because there are five thousand beads and unleashing them is quite like releasing the Kracken...when I remembered that I had picked up a little painting project for them at the Dollar Tree last week. She was very interested in this, and the beads surreptitiously disappeared. She didn't notice. I got out the acrylic paints and got her a paint palette. I watched as she carefully poured a little of several colors into the palette. She picked a nice range of colors, red, bright yellow, cornflower blue, and orange and green. She painted for about five minutes, and then her Dad called and was at the door. She was not happy that she couldn't finish, but I told her we can do it tomorrow. They will be with me the next two days, minus the time Claire is at cheer practice. After she left I carefully scooped each color back into the proper bottles. No point in wasting paint, even if it is cheap paint. 

Lunch time for me and the Mr. He wanted me to cook a steak. It has been a bad pain day and so I diverted to chicken, chicken that was already cooked. I made a chicken Caesar salad and for me, some cottage cheese. The salad looked a little wilty, but I figured, Hey, it should be fine. I did note that the bag said "Taylor Farms" on it. 

I got upstairs and we began to eat it, and then I was overcome with caution. Maybe I had better check that salad lot number, being that there is a parasite outbreak from Taylor Farms making it's way around the country. So I put my salad aside, and to be honest, that wasn't difficult. It wasn't that great. I went downstairs and got out the bag and put on my glasses. And googled. Um...the salad that was causing problems was from Mexico. So was mine. The salad that was causing problems was up to July 18. Mine said the 16th, so it WAS within the bad timeline. The TF lettuce had iceberg in it. So did mine. Uh...I started to panic. The last thing I need is weeks of diarrhea, right before we are supposed to set out on a road trip. So I google lensed the lot number and asked if it was recalled. Google said it was not, but I still didn't trust it. I threw the salad away. No. Thank. You. 

And so far so good. That was lunch and we are still OK. 

After lunch and a nap it was time to finish painting the foyer. I have not written since this project started. So let me bring you up to speed. The foyer is about 12 by 5, open to the living room on one side. Someone who lived her before dressed up the walls in the foyer by putting moulding up that mimics large frames. It's kinda neat so I have never messed with that. Many years ago, on a historical bent, I painted the panels of the mouldings a harvest gold, to go with my sage green living room. Well the sage is long gone, now painted a light aqua blue, a color called Blue Wild. I was tired of the gold. So I started paint chip shopping and I found the perfect color. It was called Velvet Curtains, and I confess, part of the reason I liked it was because of the name. But also, it was the most beautiful dark teal I have ever seen. And it looked fantastic with my Wild Blue color chip. So I bought two quarts. Which cost me almost twice as much as one gallon would have, but I told myself I didn't want a half gallon of leftovers hanging about when I was done painting. I came home and painted the insides of all of the panels. There are 21 of them, in case you wondered. My children hated it. Some of the things they said here cannot be repeated. One of them told me it looked like we lived in a mental institution. The other one, after it was painted came in and asked if I had changed my mind yet. 

And I had to admit...It was really dark. And a lot more green than I had anticipated it. And it did not, after all, look good with my Wild Blue. 

So I got a can of Kills. And killed it off. And began to color chip some more. And ironically, everything I looked at said Wild Blue goes well with Harvest Gold. Ugh. Dang it. Too late. 

So I made another decision and went back to the store. Got another gallon. Thought it was peach. It was pink. 

Killsed that. Went back to the store. Got something called Pouty Pink. I thought it looked coral. Everybody else thought it looked like bubblegum...I had to admit it was quite a bit more pink than I wanted. So back to the store. I was getting to know the paint people there pretty well by now. This time I took Ally with me. We perused and finally settled on something called Tropical Paradise. It was an orangy coral. And it looked good with the Blue Wild. She agreed. But I couldn't get away from the teal. So I bought a quart of the Tropical and a quart of something called Ocean Reef, and again, paid more for the two, than for a gallon, which would be twice as much. I came home and tried them out. And asked a lot of people. And everybody agreed that the coral was the best. The blue was just too dark. I spent the rest of the day painting all of the 21 panels and I loved it. Everybody loved it. However, I was just a bit short, so back to the store for another quart of paint to finish it off. And today I was started the trim. To be fair, the trim around the panels has always been white, but since the days I painted the foyer, initially, I have discovered Ultra White by Valspar, and the rest of the interior house trim is painted in that. It makes regular white look dull by comparison. So I have been having a very, very high pain day, and I knew this probably was not a good day to paint, however, it is the only day I have left this week. The girls will be here tomorrow and Wednesday, and then Thursday is cleaning and packing day for our trip. 

So despite my misgivings, I got out the paint stuff and the ladder. Right away I realized this wasn't going to work. I don't have a roller small enough for the spaces between the panels, and the brush was taking forever. Did I mention it was 104 today? I mean I was in the house, but it was still hot. So I found myself two hours later in tears, sitting on the stairs, covered in sweat and paint and wondering where my youth went. And in so much pain. And not satisfied with the job I was doing. After awhile I dried my tears and got back after it. I painted for awhile, and then dripped the paint on the hardwood, which I did not have covered with the infernal plastic sheeting, and said a cuss word. 

And that was it. I decided it was not the day for me to finish. 

I got down, cleaned up the floor, put up the paint, took a shower, and felt good about my choice. There is no hurry, except the internal clock that wants it all done yesterday. I can go to the store tomorrow and pick up some smaller rollers. Use better tools. Isn't that something I have been learning lately? Didn't I write about that in my last blog post? 

So instead of being upset, I cooked that steak, sans salad. Defrosted some shrimp and steamed some fresh green beans. Added some mango and stevia to some plain yogurt and called it good. 

Afterwards I came into the art room and got out the painting I have been working on and penciled in some more flowers. All the flowers are on there now. The end is in sight. I have been working on it for several weeks, taking my time. Being very careful not to mess it up. And when I have messed it up, carefully going back and correcting my mistakes. 

Then I got out the guitar for a ten minute practice, which turned out to be way more than ten minutes. That's the secret. Say you are only going to take ten minutes, but once you get going, ten minutes is never enough. 

I have three songs I practice every day. One is a piece my Auntie K wrote when she was young, called Cruel and Unrelenting. I have been working on this for twenty five years, but who's in a hurry? I have never mastered it, but I love playing it. Then there is Souvenirs by Dan Fogelberg. I love that song, but it is definitely difficult for me. I am slow. Very slow. There are some bar chords. I am not great with bar chords. I can play them but not without pauses. Since I have been playing it every day the pauses are getting shorter. 

The other, only recently, as in this week recently, is a Jesus movement song called Praise Him, by Janny Grein. It's a simple song, but the chords are not simple. Harder than either of the other two songs, for sure. Lots of slash chords. I have to frequently refresh myself while I'm playing, on where to place my fingers on the fret board. But with this too, surprisingly, at least to me, I am able to play it. 

So the evening comes to a close, and even though there has been frustration, and pain, today, there has been some laughter and some satisfaction. Again, I can't believe how fast the day has gone, and that it's bedtime again. 

Still missing Dad. I think about him every day. I talked to my step mom and she has moved on, it seems. She has new friends and a new life. I am happy for her. But I'm still talking to my blanket, the one someone gave me with his picture on it, every night before sleep. It seems my sisters are doing the same. One talks to her blanket, same as me, the other sleeps with hers. 

Still grieving. The picture I am painting is of the Father's Day bouquet I placed at his grave. It might seem kind of macabre, but it brings me comfort. 

And on that note, it's time for sleep. The girls will be here at the crack of dawn tomorrow. 

Father's Day

I was doing a ten minute tidy on my bedroom when it occurred to me that I hadn't sat in my recliner all day. And I didn't miss it. Wonder of wonders. When I got up this morning, groggy, because I am at the end of a nasty cold, I grabbed my coffee and Bible and headed straight into the great outdoors for my morning talk with Jesus. Sitting in my rocker under the umbrella, and perusing the yard, I was suddenly overcome with thankfulness. I am so glad to be here, with the blooming Sun Parasols, and the Cannas, the vegetable garden, and the birdbath, with it's chatty flowing fountain. The coffee was good, the Word was really good, the air wasn't too hot yet. The Mr. came out and joined me, with Frankie, and we just sat in peaceful silence, enjoying the morning, and the coffee, while the dog capered around us. 

I could not ask for more. 

Then back in the house I came straight into the office, bypassing my usual recliner time. I pulled the office chair up to the desk and perused yesterday's creations. 

 My son in law and I are making my daughter a coffee table. Not just any old coffee table, but a coffee table for her library that you can peek down into to see another world. A miniature library, within her library. She knows something is up but she doesn't know exactly what. The son in law is making the actual coffee table. I am making the miniature books for the library shelves. Yesterday I made magazines from the forties. Today I was planning on making some paperback books. I had a printout of some classics, miniature book size, maybe an inch high and half an inch wide. But then I hit upon an idea. What about Dick Francis. I love Dick Francis. I have most of his books on my shelf. Last time I was over at Katie's I noticed she had several of my books on her shelf. She said I gave them to her, when I asked about them. Hmmph. Maybe. 

Anyway my love of Dick Francis is well known around here, so I thought that would be fun. I googled Dick Francis book covers and was thrilled to find out that someone has posted a web page with all of his book covers one page. Sooo I downloaded the page, scaled the page down, printed the image and then cut the covers out individually. Then I had to make backs for the covers, because of course it was 2 D. Image only. So I got out my scrapbook paper and matched the books to the paper. If you know anything about DF you know his books are very colorful. Then I made the backs, matching the paper to the book colors, and glued them to the fronts. Then I folded the insides and glued them into the books, one by one. It took a few hours, but at the end I had an entire DF collection for my daughter's miniature bookshelf. When do you think I should probably be honest with myself and realize that I have descended into madness? What will she say when she sees what I have done? Will she be amazed? Will she laugh her head off? Both, I hope. 

Anyway, this is how it has been with me lately. Since this new diet I started two months ago, my brain is working all the time. My cognitive thinking has dramatically improved, and I want to do things. Sitting in my recliner is such a waste of time. Yes, my knees still hurt, unbearably, sometimes, sadly the injections didn't do diddly squat for me. Despite that, I want to be creative, I don't want to sit around doomsday scrolling anymore. I got a new guitar and am spending time learning new music, new chords, new picking methods, and generally just having a ball. 

The diet can be a drag, but the benefits seem to be far outweighing (haha, see what I did there) missed foods. No dairy, or very little, no bread, no seed oils, other than avocado or olive oil, no sugar. No cheese. I thought that one would hurt a little more than it does. I still have a bit of cheese now and then, but not much. I used to live on it. The thing that hurt the most was the coffee creamer. Since I can't have sucralose I have had to let the flavored coffee creamers go, even the zero sugar ones. It has made me re evaluate my relationship with coffee. Turns out it isn't really the coffee I love, it's the creamer. We have found some substitutions, but coffee time just isn't the same. Still, sixteen pounds for me, and nineteen for the Mr. is worth it. And the fire going on in my brain makes me never want to go back to processed foods again. 

As I said, I got a new guitar. It hadn't been in my plans to get a guitar. I already have one that belonged to my grandfather, one that I love dearly, the one I learned to play on. It's a 1949 Epiphone Flattop Texan, very vintage, pretty rare, especially in it's good condition. It has real Mother of Pearl inlay on the fretboard and headstock and it has a lovely woody tone to it, the kind that only comes from a seasoned instrument. Did I mention I love this guitar? However it is hard for me to play. The fretboard is very long, 25 inches, and the strings, even after all these years of playing, still hurt my fingers. I was in the middle of trying to play it one day, and having trouble, when the thought occurred to me that maybe this was too much guitar for me. Maybe I need a smaller guitar. With less action on the fretboard. Less action just means the strings aren't so high. Can you tell that during my doomsday scrolling I have included lots and lots and lots of guitar tutorials? Vintage guitars tend to have high action on the fretboard simply because they are old, and the fretboard tends to bow over time, even if it's imperceptible to the eye. Old Tex looks perfect, but he is difficult for me. 

So I considered what to do. Should I buy a new guitar? I posed the question to my musical aunt, the one who gave me the guitar. Buy lighter strings? You should do that first, she told me. 

So I decided to follow her advice. The next time I was downtown I would step into the pawn shop and pick up some lighter strings. However, that's not how it worked out. 

We went downtown to the Mexican restaurant one day, shortly after this, and after lunch I strolled next door for those strings. I walked up to the counter and told the gentleman what I wanted. He got them for me, while I looked around. I walked over to the instrument area and perused all the hanging guitars, as I always did when I was in here. I have seen many that I would have liked to buy, but money being what it is, I always left empty handed. This time was different. This time, as my eye roved over all the feast of offerings, I saw something that excited me very much. Another Epiphone! Could it be possible that I could have TWO Epis? I looked at the price, and it was formidable. I looked at my husband and to my surprise, he said Get it. I was in shock. Absolute shock. The gentleman took it down and let me play with it. Bonus. I hadn't noticed it was electric. I have always, always, wanted an acoustical electric. 

Today seemed to be my lucky day. 

So that's how I came to have a second guitar. 

Not made in America, like Tex. This one is made in Indonesia. It has plastic on it. Plastic nut. Plastic binding, plastic saddle. It' has mother of pearlite. Not mother of pearl. It is an "Inspired by Gibson" Hummingbird, the Gibson Hummingbird being a famous guitar from the sixties played by the Beatles and a bunch of other people. Despite not being American, despite the plastic, it plays incredibly well, and all the reviews are outstanding. So I am happy. 

And because my brain is working better, I am better able to understand the music. I am playing chords I have never heard of and would have never attempted not that long ago. I would have just shaken my head, put the guitar down and walked away, or maybe just played something easier. I have a large book of chord songs that I flip through and play, or attempt to play. Most of them I can't play. But I like to try. To my surprise, I'm finding that some of them aren't as difficult as I had supposed. 

I'm still ridiculously slow, though. Even after all the years I have been practicing, I can't change chord positions quickly. I have to stop and look at the chord charts, sometimes. Most times, if I'm honest. However I am truly enjoying guitar time like never before. 

A few weeks after the guitar purchase the Mr. and I stopped by the pawn shop again. This time we were looking for an amp. I hadn't yet heard the guitar live. I had bought a couple of different cheap ones from Amazon and they hadn't worked out. I was way out of my element. Had no idea what to look for. But they had one there that wasn't too big, nor was it small. It wasn't a horrible price, but it also wasn't cheap. I asked the guy behind the counter about a cable for it, when he told me that there was something better than a cable. Bluetooth. Sometimes I love technology. You plug the receiver into the amp, the transmitter into the guitar, and wa LA. Wireless Amp. My mind was blown. I ordered it from Amazon while the Mr. was paying. 

And now I have gone on and on and on about the guitar, and the diet, but I just have to say that those two things have turned my life upside down. And I am painting again. 

Well trying to, anyway. I wrote in a previous blog about rescuing my grandmother's paints from the late sixties, early seventies, from my garage junk, and about how I got new rubber stopped bottles for them, and rehydrated them to bring the colors back to life. 

Well lately I have been trying to use them, and to my surprise, they are quite nice! The colors are crisp and bright. And Amazon still sells the paint, so I have been adding to my color collection, a little at a time. However I have had quite a few failed paintings. I start out well and then before I know it, I have muddied the painting or overworked it, and nothing I can do can bring it back. However, much like my guitar revelation, I realized I needed a different kind of paper. The paper I was using was not working for me. So I got a new tablet from Amazon, this time a brand name paper, that I know is good. A couple of days ago I prepared to paint. I got out the paper. I taped off the edges so I would have a nice clean perimeter. Then I stared at it for several days. What if I mess it up? So I hesitated. I procrastinated. I ruminated while some ideas germinated.

Meanwhile Father's Day was suddenly upon us. 

We had planned on going to church, but the Mr. was not feeling well, so we stayed home. I sat out in the garden and had a long talk with Jesus about fathers and other things. I told Him how much I miss mine. He already knows, of course, but He lets me talk it out. Daddy has been gone for three months now, and it still seems very unreal. In my mind he is just at his house, three hours away, and I haven't seen him for awhile. In my mind he is working in his shop, cooking breakfast, walking down to get the mail, and settling down in his recliner for his evening session of Family Feud. In my mind he is healthy and strong, buying groceries, reading books, taking Jo out for her doctor's appointments, and going to church. 

In my heart there is a dad shaped hole, caused by his absence. His house is empty, the shop is gone, his hands are still. I miss him. I look at his face on the blanket that someone so kindly gave to me on the day of his funeral and I am overcome with strange feelings of loss, feelings that are new to me, and hard to rectify. He is gone. I know it. This first Father's Day without him has been more difficult that I expected. I can't call him, or hear his voice, or tell him how much I love him. 

After church in the garden, we got dressed up and ready to have lunch with the family at a hibachi restaurant in Sherman. Just before we left town though, we stopped at the grocery store to buy some flowers. Since we would be close to the grave yard, I thought it would be very fitting to go to the cemetery and leave some flowers for Dad. I went into the store and saw many dozens of roses, all so beautiful, each and every bunch. My hand reached out for some red ones, but they just weren't quite right, so I kept looking. In the end I chose a colorful bouquet. My dad loved color. In his entire neighborhood, and I mean the entire complex, he was the only one with a turquoise garage door, and matching front door. Everybody else had tan doors, but not Dad. And in the house it was the same. Turquoise kitchen, Aqua colored Kitchen Aid mixer. So when I saw the bouquet, which had yellow, lots of blues, greens, pinks, and even some oranges, I felt it was right. We made it to the hibachi, and the girls were just floored by the fire show. They loved it. Arya was a bit scared, sitting on my right, but she did OK. They will be talking about it for the rest of their lives, I think. We had a wonderful time, and then went our separate ways. The girls with their parents to go shopping, Matt, to who knows where, and the Mr. and Ally and I to the cemetery. 

It was quiet there. So quiet. It's way out in the country, and when you enter the gates, all the city sounds fall behind you. It's just you and the wind. The church was empty, all of the congregants long since gone home. The sun was high and the wind was breezy. There were little American flags peppered all over the grave yard, each veteran a recipient. 

There it was. The tiny stone had all but disappeared beneath the grass and weeds. I spent a few minutes pulling it all off until the marker was completely clear. Then I placed the colorful flowers just below the his name. The Mr. and Ally were standing by, quietly. I could tell Ally was very moved. She misses her grandpa. 

After a few moments I moved along the row of tiny stones to Jo's parents. Their stones too, were overgrown with grass. I spent a bit of time pulling back the weeds, thinking about them, as well, and remembering the dream I had had the day before Dad died, about Jo's dad, and how in my dream he had been young and strong and healthy. I fervently wished he was here, that the dream was true. And I wished my own dad was, too. 

Then I was done. I spent a moment or two longer, snapped a photo, and then walked away, leaving the bright flowers to mark the spot where I had been, and he would remain. It was kind of sad, and moving. Very poignant. 

We were quiet on the way home. I looked at the pictures I had snapped of the bouquet and decided that was what I would paint. I loved the juxtaposition of the blues, yellows and greens. 

But could I do it? 

I came home and stared at the blank paper some more. Afraid to mess it up. When did painting stop being fun and start being about my insecurities? 

I got out a pencil. I put on my glasses. And then I started drawing. Then I got out my brushes, and I got a bowl of water. I got out the paints. I put on some music. 

And all the insecurities just melted away. It isn't finished, and I can't say that I won't mess it up. However, I am liking what I see so far. 

Dear Jesus, this has been a tough couple of weeks, within a tough year for our family. There is a lot of grief and anxiety, angst, and many tears. I lift up each and every member and pray for peace and comfort. Let us never forget that you walk beside us every single step of the way, and when it's too much you carry us. We cast our many cares upon you now and thank you for your continued provision and goodness to us. Tell our Daddy hello for us, and let him know we miss him. 

Adventures and other oddities

We had plans, good ones, for the weekend. We knew we would have the girls very early Saturday morning, starting at the crack of dawn in the morning, namely six AM. Their parents were going out of town for the night and would not be back until late the following afternoon. We talked about what we would do with them. Would we take them to a movie? (More screen time? I mean I know it's a very big screen, but still?) Would we take them skating, as we had promised them the day we went to the carnival? To Urban Air (Kinda expensive). We opted for skating, but within five minutes of their arrival, I knew it was not to be. I looked at Claire's flushed cheeks and heard her cough and knew we would be in for the weekend. No skating. No movie. No church. We would just have to find something in the house to occupy us. It wouldn't be too difficult, because tomorrow was Ally's birthday, and we had some work to do to get ready, the kind of work any kid would love, such as blowing up balloons, and putting up paper streamers. I know, I know, Ally is 28 years old, but still loves all that stuff, so we do it. Also it was Memorial Day weekend, so there was food to cook. There would be stuff to do. 

But I digress. 

First thing I did was call Mommy and Daddy. They apologized profusely. I could have had them call off their overnight trip, but I knew they needed it and her fever wasn't too high, so I told them to go on. 

I dosed Claire up with some children's Motrin and gave her something for her cough, and she was soon feeling a little better. Ally bought donuts for the girls for breakfast, and about noon we decided to make a big brunch. Ally, for her birthday, had requested eggs benedict, and so it was, hollandaise and all, with bacon and sausage, and poached eggs on toast, since we don't have any English muffins. Arya was not so sure about the poached egg, but Claire asked for another. 

Brunch cleaned up we hung around for a bit. I let the girls watch a little TV, and then we decided to head to town for an early dinner and a trip to Hobby Lobby for art projects to keep the little ones occupied. So we all piled in the car and headed west about a half an hour. We stopped at a steak house and had some dinner. I had some kind of caramelized lemon on herbed chicken, which was ooh la la! I had a salad too, with my own avocado oil ranch, which I sneaked in under my sweater. I don't want to appear snobby, and really I'm not, but I just can't eat dressing with soybean oil in it, anymore. More on that in a later post. 

So I'm bringing my own. 

Again I digress. 

We were in their awhile, maybe an hour. The Mr. didn't really get to eat, because the prime rib he ordered came out raw. They took it back and came out with another raw plate. He just said no, take it off the order. His new liver, much to our dismay, is giving him trouble. He just can't eat rare meat. 

So we went over to Target to get some coffee, and walked around a bit, and then went to the art aisle, and perused all the art kits. Both girls simultaneously lit on the same type of kit, although not identical. This would be a new adventure for us. It was called diamond painting. Keychains and stickers and lots of "diamonds". I wasn't exactly sure how it worked but I read the directions on the half hour drive home, and then it dawned on me. 1000 gems! It said. Per box. Two THOUSAND gems were about to descend on my house. What have I done?? I thought to myself. WHAT. HAVE. I. DONE!? 

But it would be fine. And they would have so much fun with this. 

Back home we opened the boxes and got out the directions. I thought they would need help, but Claire let me know right away that she knew what to do. Ok, I said, then tell me what you do, and she proceeded to tell me, step by step. Apparently she is not as new to this art genre as Grandma is. She has done this before. And Arya had no difficulty. There were little plastic trays to put your thousand gems in, and tiny little squares of wax, and a stylus. You take the stylus, stick the point in the wax, pick up your gem with the waxy end, and then deposit it on the corresponding sticky dot on the plastic picture that will soon be a piece of art. 

I went downstairs to take Frankie out, and saw that the Mr. and Ally were headed to the store to get some stuff for her birthday the following day. I started to open the door, but heard a meowing cat, so I held back a minute. Cautiously I opened the door, to make sure the cat was gone before we came out, but the cat was nowhere to be seen or heard, and neither were the Mr. and Ally, well on their way down the street to the store in the car. 

Fifteen minutes went by. The phone rang. It was the Mr. You won't believe where I am. I'm at the oil changing place. His phone was cutting out a little. I was confused. Why was he there? Wasn't he supposed to be going to the grocery store? Then he told me the unbelievable. There was a CAT in our wheel well! We are at the oil place, they are trying to get it out! 

It's been in there since before we drove to Sherman! (He told me later he heard it when we left but didn't know where it was coming from). 

So that cat, actually just a tiny kitten, had been riding shotgun in the wheel well of our car most of the day! That's an hour of driving time, plus eating and shopping, and no telling how long it had been in there before that. Poor little thing! They were able to extract it, and she was fine. She was dehydrated, and her tongue was hanging out, and she was fighting mad, but they got her out. The garage asked if they could keep her, and that was fine with us. We don't need a kitten, especially with Frankie around. 

I was glad that worked out well. Turns out they had been looking for a cat for their shop. We were happy to oblige.

Sunday morning and the girls continued with their gemology projects. Arya was very pleased with her keychains. Because we had spent time making bracelets last time they were here, she knew exactly how to connect the chains and lobster clasps to the keychains. She asked for the tools and she did it all by herself. 

By evening their were gems all over the house, as I knew there would be. Claire accidently knocked her tray on the floor. We swept it up and Grandma spend a large parcel of time straining it through a colander to separate the gems from the dust bunnies that live on the hardwood floor. 

Five O'clock and Mom and Dad were back and Great Grandma was here for Ally's birthday. There were chicken wings and potato salad, baked beans, chips, and pepper poppers. There was ice cream cake and ice cream for dessert. 

Finally everybody went home, and the kitchen was cleaned up. I went upstairs and fell asleep, like the dead. Tomorrow would be a rest day. 

And it was. A wonderful rest day, with spring like weather and sunshine. I spent the day creating, in my office. Practicing my new guitar, water coloring and working on some miniature books I am making for a future project with my son in law. 

But don't you know, this morning, the Mr. caught Claire's cold. Sigh. 

Satisfaction

I knew it was going to be a long, long week. I looked at the schedule in front of me and just plain old didn't know how I was going to get through it all. Most weeks I might have a couple of days I need to do something, or go somewhere, but this week, for some reason was off the charts. I said a quick prayer that the Lord would help me through each day, and looked ahead to the moment, a whole week away from now, that I would be able to plop down in my chair and know we had made it through. 

Monday we had to drive to the Dallas VA for the Mr.'s liver fibroscan. This is a two hour trip, each way, depending on traffic. 

Tuesday I had to take Frankie to the vet, because he developed some kind of bump on his chin. 

I also had to pick up my Aunt and bring her to my house, because she was having surgery the next morning, and I was taking her. 

So Wednesday I had to get up at five AM and be at the hospital by seven fifteen. This was going to be a very long day, because of course I wasn't going to just leave her there. I would wait for the surgery to be over and she was comfortable before I came home. 

Thursday I thankfully had a day to breathe. Auntie's friend would be taking her home from the hospital. Friday we would be having a sleepover with the girls that would last through Sunday evening. 

And Sunday, overlapping with the girl's visit, we would be attending a ceremony honoring my father and all of the others interred during the year at the cemetery he was buried in. 

Also Ally was planning on using the kitchen to make a cake on Saturday and having a sleepover for her friend's birthday, at our house. 

So Monday we did make it to the doc appointment for the fibro scan, and the results were not what we hoped. We knew it wasn't good when they called us right after the test with the results. It seems his liver is in danger, and we need some lifestyle changes. We have just been eating too many fatty foods, and too many processed foods. Fortunately we realized this three weeks ago and had already taken steps to change things. We are on what's called the RAD diet, or Rare Adipose Disorder diet, and the Mr. has lost 12 pounds. I have lost ten, which is a miracle for me. 

This diet lives up to it's name. It is pretty radical. But it's what we needed to do. There are no processed foods, no dairy, no sugar, no gluten, and no seed oils, other than avocado and olive. And maybe coconut oil. It consists of vegetables, fruits, limiting red meat and chicken, and when we do have it, it must be organic and grass fed, to avoid the hormones and the corn. Corn is not on the menu. It is heavy on the fish, similar to the Mediterranean diet, which does not make the Mr. happy. I also changed my soap to ivory and stopped using fragrance on my skin. All of that causes inflammation. My goal is to reduce inflammation. 

And it's remarkable how much better both the Mr. and I feel. I haven't had cheese, other than parmesan, feta (watching the salt) and some laughing cow, in a month. Well, full disclosure, I have allowed myself a couple of mozzarella cheese sticks, and a small amount of cheddar on my bunless burger. But considering that I used to eat primarily cheese, I would say that is pretty good. The tough thing has been salad dressing. I just can't eat salad without dressing. Almost every single dressing is made with soybean or palm oil, and so is mayo, the one other thing besides cheese that I can't live without. We have searched far and wide for a salad dressing made with avocado oil, and we finally tracked some down at Target. It's pricey, at five dollars for a small bottle, but it's worth it, in my opinion. The Mayo is a different story. I love Hellman's. I adore Hellman's, although Sean of the South (click the link) might disagree with me. But it has bad inflammatory seed oil in it. I considered changing to Hellman's with olive oil, and so I looked up the ingredients and was appalled to find out it's all a lie. Hellman's with olive oil is primarily made up of soybean oil with an addition of potato starch. Potatoes are also off the menu, sadly, and so is their starch. There is olive oil in it, but it's way down on the ingredient list.

So I decided to allow myself the mayo. It's my one concession and I don't eat too much of it, maybe a tablespoon when we have a burger. 

But I have digressed way away from the subject. 

We were in a funk all the rest of Monday about the scan results. That liver is precious. We want to take as good care of it as possible, especially after all we went through to get it. 

Tuesday I was up with Frankie at the vet bright and early. Turns out he just had some teen age acne. Nothing to worry about. He has gained a pound and needs some dental prevention in the form of a powder that I can buy from Amazon. Who's a good boy? 

I picked up my Auntie and we had a nice visit. We went to bed early and were up and at the hospital on time Wednesday morning. The surgery went very well. They were able to repair all that needed repairing and I spent the time in the waiting room talking to her two best friends who were also waiting for her to come out of recovery. All in all that was the longest day, I would say. I left home at six and didn't get back home until six. I was so hungry that I actually bought and ate a Greek salad from the hospital Cafe and I didn't even care that it had the hated vinaigrette dressing on it. 

The next day I just sat in my chair. Pooped. So tired. I knew I needed to rest up because the weekend was yet to be gotten through and it was going to be a long one. 

Friday afternoon we picked up the girls from school and headed home. I had told the girls that the next time they came over (which was now) that I was going to teach them how to make bracelets. Real ones, with real charms, not the plastic stuff you get from Walmart. So I actually went to Walmart and picked up some supplies, more pliers and more charms, ironically, plastic after all, and I was ready for them. I had bought a whole container of round connectors, which Claire immediately started to pour out on the table. I quickly stemmed the flow of tiny metal rings escaping the plastic container and then measuring the girl's wrists, cut off the appropriate amount of chain, not too big, not too small, to fit their arms. 

Then I got out the charms and told them they could pick five. Of course they didn't pick five and that was ok. I showed them how to use the tools and how to attach the connectors for the toggles and the charms and they were off. Claire needed a little more help, but she totally understood what she was doing. Arya didn't need much help at all, just needed me to check that the rings were closed so the  charms wouldn't fall off. 

By the end of the hour the office/art room was a mess. There were rings and charms and chains everywhere, tools lying about, and happy hearts. Both girls finished with a bracelet that they themselves made and they were very proud of themselves. 

Until bedtime. That was when Arya realized that one of her special stuffies, the one she loves the most, had not made it over with the suitcases. She began to cry and cry and cry. She was so upset she was almost making herself sick. I tried to talk with her, tried to reason with her. She was determined that she could not, would not sleep without it. In a dramatic fashion she laid down on the floor with no blanket and no pillow and swore she would never be comfortable again. 

I guess I could have gone over to their house and gotten it. They don't live far away. But I was so tired. And I knew she would be Ok in the end. And she was. But I did promise her that we would go get it the next day. 

Saturday arrived much too soon. I was still groggy when Arya awoke at six AM, her usual wake time, but not mine. The Mr. and I had decided that we would either take them to the carnival or to the skating rink today. We dithered, asked the girls what they wanted to do, and it was, of course, a split decision. Claire wanted the carnival, Arya wanted to skate. 

So I made them a deal, which I'm sure I will be writing about at some future point. 

Today we would go to the carnival, since it was only in town right now, and next time we would go skating. They were happy with that. So we went to the carnival! And it was the right choice. They had a fabulous time! Immediately upon entry, Arya saw the giant Conquistador Six Flags type boat and wanted to ride it. This is the same Arya who will not ride the zip line at Urban Air. I was dubious. I was sure she would not be able to handle that. So I told her we would do some other rides and if she still wanted to go on the boat before we left, she could do it. So we rode the rides, had a blast on the bumper cars, did the hall of mirrors, rode the carousel, the spinning dinosaurs, and the girls had their faces painted. They had lemonade and cotton candy, and then we decided it was time to go. But there was still that boat. Arya was sure could handle it. She is nine years old, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I sat on the bench and the Mr. went in with her. They got in and took the back seat, where the centrifugal force is the highest. I was sure she would be sick, but she loved it! However, upon exiting the ride, I saw that the Mr.'s face was green and he was sick the rest of the afternoon. 

We got a bite to eat and headed home, tired and hot, but with lots of smiles from the girls. 

The house was full. Ally had arrived back home from the birthday party with her friends and they had set up shop in the living room. The weather was looking suspiciously dark, and I hoped we wouldn't all have to squeeze into the tiny shelter we have under the stairs for emergencies. There were eight of us in the house. However the weather passed us by and all was well. As dark approached I realized we needed to go get that toy if we were going to have a peaceful night. I let Arya ride in the front seat so we could talk. I told her that the toy didn't have the power to give her good sleep. Only Jesus could do that. As I spoke though, I was gently reminded in my own spirit, that I myself had had a stuffy, two of them, in fact, until I was twelve or thirteen. I never slept without my Circus pillow and my Hunny the Bunny,  and was distraught if I didn't have them. I remembered what it is to be nine years old and scared. I wished, in retrospect that I had lightened up and taken her to get her stuffy the night before. Sometimes we have to step out of our grown up world and remember what it was like to be a kid. 

Sunday morning and we were almost late to church, because I couldn't find my phone. It was time to go and it was nowhere to be found, and also because I couldn't find the top I had been planning to wear with my new pants. I knew it was in the drawer, I had seen it yesterday. I took everything out of the drawers, irritated at myself and in a hurry. I never found it. I was still ruminating about it as I came downstairs and saw Ally on the couch...I stopped in my tracks and narrowing my eyes, I said to her Did you, by any chance get into my drawer and take a tank top? With lace and spaghetti straps? She looked at me sheepishly. Yes. Well where is it? I need it to wear to church? I'm wearing it she said, and sure enough she was, under her blouse. And that was that. I had to wear something else and I still couldn't find the phone. But at least I knew I wasn't crazy, because I was beginning to wonder about myself.  That top had been in my drawer, after all. 

But we got to church on time, barely, had the service, and then had to rush out, to get home , because we were leaving again, to go to another church, this time a memorial service for Dad. 

I still didn't find the phone. Quickly I fed the girls and we were out the door and on the way to the next service. This was a tiny country church in the middle of nowhere, with the beautiful graveyard sprawling out behind, trees, and birds, and no sounds of city life, anywhere. The church was built in the early part of the nineteenth century and had lovely stained glass windows and all kinds of beautiful woodwork. It felt like time slowed down as we opened the old wooden doors and entered and  found a pew. They had already started. Matt was there waiting for us. We slid in quietly and turned our eyes to the speaker. I have to say the girls behavior was phenomenal. I didn't realize this was going to be a full on church service. I thought it would be a quick speech, a candle lighting, maybe calling out the names of the dead, and we would go home. But no, the preacher preached, the singer sang a couple of specials, the hymnals were opened, a history was spoken of the founder of the cemetery society, an offering was taken, a benediction was given and then finally the candles were lit. The names were called. My dad was almost at the end, as his death was so recent. There were roses given, and bells were rung. And then refreshments. I am not sorry to say I had a cookie and a piece of fudge, diet be darned. I needed some chocolate desperately. The girls picked four cookies and some punch and I didn't say a word. They had certainly earned it. Then we sat and chatted. I happened to know the lady I was sitting across from, had known her for many, many years, although she couldn't place me at first. She was Charlie's daughter. I haven't spoken of Charlie much on here, but he was an old family friend, someone I have known since the early seventies, photographer at my wedding, now long since passed, and actually buried in this very cemetery. 

We had a nice visit and then we headed home to find my phone. 

And to get the girls ready to go home. 

We dropped them off with Mom and Dad when we got back and then I came in and gathered all their things. I gave the house a quick clean. Ally's friends were gone, and she was back at college. The place was quiet. I reflected on the weekend as I tidied. Arya riding the big boat ride was the equivalent, in my opinion, of the zip line at Urban Air. I wouldn't be worrying so much about her fears anymore. That girl is going to be juuuust fine. And I reflected about the stuffy toy. I made a resolve to listen more and remember what it's like to be nine and seven, and act accordingly. I smiled to myself as I washed the dishes and swept the floor. There was such a deep well of satisfaction in my soul. We had really enjoyed our time with the girls, and they really seemed to enjoy being with us. Everything had really, really gone spectacularly well, other than the stuffy business. 

And finally, after dropping off the girl's suitcases, I plopped down in my chair and closed my eyes and just rested. And then got out my phone to read the news of the day. Turns out I had put it in the pocket of my robe when I took the dog out first thing that morning, and then hung the robe in the closet. The battery was dead, so calling it hadn't helped. But we had worked out on the way to the memorial that that was the only place it could be. And so it was. 

Easter Sunday

 I had a foreboding as I walked across the floor and spied the "present" my dog had left for me. To be fair, he is a very anxious dog. We have tried everything to try and keep him calm when we leave, but inevitably, as soon as the back door shuts, before we are even at the car, the barking starts. And upon our return we always find a little "gift". Never pee. Always poop. 

It drives me mad. It used to make me mad. But now, after two years of owning my little Frankie, I just sigh and clean it up. I might yell now and then, and he always knows I'm displeased, but I never punish him. It just isn't worth it. I don't like it, but I would rather clean it up than have the dog be afraid of me. 

What gave me the foreboding was that it was was, not to be crass, kind of runny. Oh dear, the dog isn't feeling well. 

Mini Schnauzers are prone to gastrointestinal issues, and every so often we have a problem. It was true with Belle, the lovely mini we had prior to Frankie, and now he too, was living up to his breed's special problem. 

I cleaned it up, which cost me an hour out of my day, because it meant I had to get the steam cleaner out. This required preparation and cleanup, as well as the actual clean up job, itself. 

I did this and went upstairs and thought nothing else about it. 

I hoped nothing would come of it. I dismissed it. Which I shouldn't have done.

Later on the girls came over to color Easter eggs. We had a grand time in the kitchen, trying out all the different colors, using the wax crayon to write on the eggs, and eating Easter candy. The girls had candy that is, not me. After an hour or so Mom came to get them and take them home and get them to bed, because Easter was going to be busy. We were all going to church in the morning and we would be up early. 

We both lay down in bed. The lights went off. I was almost asleep. On the verge. So comfortable. 

The Mr. sat up. Turned on the light. I took off my headphones, interrupting the show I was dozing off too. And then I heard it. Hurking. Like a shot I was out of bed, trying to find the dog. He was nowhere to be found. I could hear him, but I couldn't see him. That would be because he was behind the Mr.'s desk and he was throwing up. Ugh. This couldn't be good. That eerie foreboding came flooding back. I had a feeling we were not going to get much sleep tonight. I cleaned up the mess, and went back to bed. Turned off the light. But now I was tense. Poor Frankie was laying against my leg, shaking uncontrollably. But then he got up. Jumped off the bed. Headed to the corner and proceeded to have explosive diarrhea. 

I was now fully awake. This was definitely going to be a crisis. And so it was. All. Night. Long. Every. Single. Hour.  Alternately throwing up and having diarrhea. He would jump off the bed, I would follow with the bleach and paper towels. By four in the morning I was wasted. And angry. There may have been some words between me and the Mr., and perhaps some sobbing. By 6:45 I was just resigned. Frankie would get up, jump off the bed and I would follow without comment, without anger, without angst. 

As I tiredly cleaned, I thought to myself several times that this must be a hellish plan of Satan himself. Why else, on Easter Eve (when no vet would be open) would all this be happening? I knew we needed to be up early to take the girls to church tomorrow. I thought to myself something good must be in store for us there, and I determined that no matter what, I would not give in and just sleep in, in the morning. Because that's what I really wanted to do. I was so incredibly tired. I had been in a lot of pain the previous few days. When I say a lot of pain, I mean the Mr. wanted to take me to the ER. Thursday morning I almost couldn't walk. I sat in my recliner, pain reliever already on board, pain patch on my right knee, and just cried. He was very alarmed. The pain had finally subsided and I had fallen asleep and awakened feeling better. Not pain free, but better. 

I determined to be at church no matter what. Plans were made and would be fulfilled. So I pulled up my big girl granny panties, set my alarm, so I wouldn't oversleep, and finally, finally, the dog fell asleep. So did the Mr. and I and we did oversleep by an hour. 

I woke up feeling dead in the land of the living. The joy felt like it had been sucked right out of me. I got dressed, fixed my hair, put on my makeup and went downstairs to try to construct a pen for the dog in the kitchen. I am not a kennel girl. I hate kennels. I couldn't bear to put Frankie in a cage. I know there is a lot of positive stuff about kennels but I determined early on that I didn't want that. 

So I got out the baby gate, but before I could get it up, he sidled around me and had a go on the carpet in the coffee lounge. 

Oh. my. gosh. I may have overreacted. I let out a holler that probably would have awakened Jesus, if he hadn't already been raised from the dead. I lashed out angrily at a soda can that was on the edge of the sink, knocking it into the sink. Ally didn't take kindly to that, and she was right. I apologized, and with tears in my eyes, we headed off to church, leaving Frankie alone in the kitchen, with his bed and a small bowl of water. I was afraid of what I would come home to, but a little voice told me Just get to church, and let Me take care of the dog. 

So we got to church. First thing we found out, no children's church. This is always dismaying to me, because the girls tend to get bored in "big" church as I have always called it. It's much easier if they go to children's church where they aren't bored and I am not constantly trying to get them to sit up, not lay in the pew, kick the back of the pew, talk while the preacher is talking, etc. I mean, it is a good discipline, as I think all kids need to learn at some point, how to sit quietly in a room when other people are talking. But today I really wanted them to go to Children's church. 

Instead we would be having Communion and an Easter Message, as well as a lot of extra singing. I felt that this was going to be a long service. 

But as we began to sing, and I raised one hand, the other being wrapped around Arya, I peeked out of the corner of my eye and I saw Claire singing with her hand in the air also. I began to relax. All the dog poo in the world couldn't take the joy of worshiping God with my grandchildren and my daughter, who had also come along, away. I was so glad I had pushed through the weariness to be here. 

And then the call to Communion. As we stood to receive the elements I asked the girls if they wanted to partake. They are eligible. They have both received Christ. Last time we had been there for Communion they had both declined, which was fine. Today Claire wanted to receive it. I leaned over and talked to her for a minute about what was required and she understood. She and the Mr., and Alyssa went forward to get and bring back the "bread and the wine". Arya, like last time, declined, and that was fine. 

My eyes filled with tears as we broke the bread and drank the cup together. So this was it. This was what Satan had been trying to keep us from. This was the first time for both Alyssa and Claire. I wouldn't have missed this for the world. 

Pastor finished speaking and the altar call began. It was about this time that Arya became very agitated, and began to pull on my arm. I leaned over to hear her as she was trying to tell me something. She was pointing and gesticulating to the balcony behind us. I looked around. There was a man filming up there, standing next to a large spot light, which I assume was for productions. Today there was no need for it, and it was not on. 

I still didn't know what she was trying to tell me. I tried to get her to turn around and face the front, but she was adamant. And now I understood what she was saying, as her volume had increased. Gramma, Gramma, look, look at that! I looked behind me again. The man was still there. The spotlight was still there. And then it dawned on me that it was the spotlight she was talking about. Gramma, this is DANGEROUS! This is SERIOUS! Gramma, there is a LASER CANNON up there! 

All the time she was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to pay attention, to turn around, to see the danger, as she saw it. GRAMMA It's a LASER CANNON! Oh honey, it's just a spotlight. It's not a laser cannon, I promise, said I, but she would not be convinced. So it was I found myself, at service end, trying to keep up with her as she exited the sanctuary, calling behind her, I promise, I promise, it's NOT A LASER CANNON! 

I am not sure I convinced her. 

So we dropped them at home, and on the way to our house, just about three minutes from theirs, the Mr. told me he had been praying for the dog in church. He was believing for an Easter miracle. I am ashamed to say, I was not so sure. 

Upon entering we saw a couple of accidents. He was still having the same problem, it seemed. However he seemed much perkier. And there were only two spots. I had been expecting to find a poopocolypse when we returned. But it was not so. Apparently it was over. The Lord had taken care of the dog and it looked like we had an Easter miracle on our hands, after all. Let me just say I know, from experience how these things work. When the dog gets sick, especially as sick as he was, it takes antibiotics, probiotics, an expensive vet visit, sometimes doggie diapers, and a lot of sweat on my behalf, not to mention several days of extra cleaning and anxiety. 

But, against all the odds, his recovery was lightening fast. Since we came in from church he has not thrown up or had one accident. He has even managed to eat two small meals of hamburger and rice, with some probiotic powder we got from the vet with the last incident (last year), mixed in. 

I fell asleep in my chair. Upon waking I was in some pain, so I took some pain meds, slapped on a pain patch, and wandered into the office. I have been picking up the guitar again in recent weeks, and today I pulled the music stand over and began to play, turning over the pages, as I went, trying out different songs. I came across a tablature that I have never been able to play, and decided to give it one more try. I do that every once in a while, usually giving up after a few minutes and pushing that page to the back of the pile, once I remember why I didn't learn it in the first place. It's just too difficult for me. This time, however, as I looked at the music, it arranged itself before me in a way that I could understand. I tried a couple of notes, and by golly, it worked! I tried a few more, and then worked out how I could go from measure to measure without moving my fingers too awkwardly. And I realized this was not nearly as difficult as I had always imagined. I was slow, very slow, but the notes were right. I was elated. And I realized that I was actually feeling better than I had since Dad passed away. 

And part of that, I reasoned, was that I had changed my diet a few days ago. I had become tired of being tired and inflamed. My legs look like whales. I saw pictures of myself at the funeral and I couldn't believe how terrible I looked. I looked sick. 

So I decided to find an anti inflammatory diet and see if I could get some of the inflammation down. I was diagnosed with Lipedema last fall, and the doctor told me I might lose weight if I could figure out what was causing the inflammation. But, he said, I wouldn't lose the fat, and if I did it would only be in my torso, my legs and arms would not lose the weight.

But at this point I had to try. So I did something that I consider radical. I quit cheese. And milk. And grain. And artificial sweetener. And sugar. And anything processed. 

I had just been shopping the day before I made this decision, so my 'fridge was full. However, I put all of the things I could no longer eat, so I wouldn't be tempted, in a grocery bag and gave it to my daughter. I then went to the store again, and replaced it all with Almond milk, vegetables, some fruits, nuts, beans, and fish.

And within a couple of days I lost a couple of pounds. To date I have lost five pounds, in about a week. I am not getting too excited, because we have been down this path before, not on this particular diet, but I have lost five to seven pounds several times on various diets, and it always stalls and then I give up and crash and burn and go back to my comfort food. 

But I couldn't help wondering if the reason I was able to work out the music was that my brain was sharper. Maybe this is a sign of things to come? Good things I hope? 

We shall see. 

The day didn't start out well, but is ending quite peacefully. Ally is back at school, Matt is out of town, so it's just me and the Mr. and little Frankie, who is asleep in the chair next to me. 

Thank you, Lord, for my family, and for healing my dog. Thank you for those granddaughters who make me laugh and cry tears of joy. And thank you, especially this day for YOU. 
Without your sacrifice on the cross, NONE of this would be possible. Thank you, Lord, for life, and life abundantly. 

Grief

It comes in waves. Late afternoon sunshine flooding the dining room, and me standing in the foyer looking at his picture on the mantle. September When it Comes is playing on the radio. I was fine a second ago, but now the tears fill my eyes and everything becomes blurred. Yesterday while talking to someone about the funeral, I said The day Daddy died...I stopped and heard my own words with fresh appraisal. My DADDY died!. It still seems unreal. 

I find myself restless. My hands don't know what to do with themselves. My dreams are interrupted by early morning wakeups and feverish thoughts. I find myself staring into space a lot. Fiddling with my phone. 

The way he looked on his last day of life. So frail and thin. It haunts me. So precious in his weakness. 

I really thought he had more time. It occurred to me that he could go that night, but I really didn't believe it. I thought maybe another week. 

When Sarah woke me early in the morning , it was a shock. So soon? I thought. I had only arrived the afternoon before, prepared to stay for weeks if I needed to, not knowing I would not be needed after all. 

But I'm so glad I was there for him on his last day. 

I had followed quickly behind her as she entered the bedroom where he had been sleeping. I stood by the bed and assessed him. His hands were warm but he was no longer breathing. I reached out and touched his chest. No heartbeat.  To my great disbelief he was really gone. Just like that. One minute here and the next gone. 

I came back home and began the forever process of grieving. I have lost grandparents and an uncle, but this is very different. I am forever changed.