Returning with a Challenge

Once upon a time ... a long, long time ago ...

Hmm.  Scratch that. 

It was a bright and sunshiny day when I last ...

Oy!  Can someone say pretentious?

Okay ... how about this ... Dear Readers ...

Yeah.  Cause after all this time there are sooooo many people stopping by to read the scribbles that I write. 

*sigh*

How about this ... a simple introduction, or rather, a re-introduction after a lengthy absence.

Yeah.  That I can do.   

Hi!  My name is CindyRose.  I'm a single woman with a Chester who lives in The Dollhouse.  I like to read, drink tea, and play with my pupper.  My hobbies include stamping and scrapbooking and going through my collection of pictures, reveling in the memories they bring to my mind.  I have a precious girl who may be married with a child but will live forever in my mind as a toddler who answers the question "why?" with the simple response of "for drins and driggles, Cinny".  I have 3 nieces and 3 girlies who remind me each time I am with them that beauty, strength, grace, integrity, inspiration, and hope are not just words. 

My name is CindyRose and I am a writer. 

Well.  I used to be.  Not famous or published, but I was a writer of a blog and people would actually read my words and, on occasion they found them interesting.  However, it's been a while ... a looooong while.  Somewhere along the last year, and counting, I lost my writing mojo.  The thoughts were there but when I would sit down and face this daunting blank white screen, they would flee faster than a four hobbits, two humans, an elf and a dwarf could exit the Mines of Moria as Gandalf was lost in the battle with the Balrog.

Did I mention I was also a bit of a geek?  hmmm.  Could have possibly tried to keep that undercover for a bit longer, but ... *sighs* ... oh well.  Deal or "smile & nod" and back away slowly.  It's up to you. 

Anyhow ... six months ago real life took a blessedly drastic turn.  It's remarkable how something so simple, everyday and, in today's society, honestly unremarkable, can change a person ... can return them to those things that they didn't know they missed, showing them the small blessings that can keep darkness at bay, and remind them that happiness can be found in the most unlikely of places.   A simple change in life, while scary at times, introducing us to new and different ideas and activities, can also re-introduce us to beloved interests that had seemed to have died, leaving what seemed to be an empty hole inside, were not really gone but just resting and waiting.

Evidently my writing mojo had been waiting ... quietly gathering energy, waiting for the spark to set it free. 

Waiting for the right time.

Waiting for the right inspiration.

This weekend, that final bit of inspiration was located in a very unlikely spot and the writing mojo seemed to flood my mind with thoughts, ideas, and desire to face the blank white screen. 

To share something hopefully funny, something hopefully thought provoking, something hopefully worthy of taking the time to read. 

What was that final bit?  A tag from a website issuing an April challenge of taking a photo a day.  The list was intriguing.  Thiry ideas for thirty days of April.  I couldn't get it out of my head, yet in my mind it was posting a photo a day in this little blog spot of mine and writing about it.  I could do that.  I could take the mojo that I missed and combine it with the photography that I enjoy, not in a professional way but in a "that caught my eye and I had to take a picture" kind of way. 

So ... here I am ... returning to the blogosphere ... writing ... with pictures!  Woo hoo! 

The challenge was issued and I responded.  The pictures, and their subsequent words, will be all mine. 

My thoughts.

My rambles.

My way of creating in a medium I have missed.  I hope that along the way there will be someone who will find them interesting enough to take a moment of their time and read. 

If you do ... thank you.  :-) 

Oh ... and for those who like to look ahead ... here's the list that gets me started (courtesy of "FatMumSlim", an Australian blogger who loves photography):

        

Questioning Fixing My Facebook Status

Ahhhhh!

There it is - that sweet sound of frustrated people pounding their keyboards expressing their displeasure with Facebook … it surrounds us.

Once again, Facebook has changed its formatting, thus making their subscribers cranky. Status lines are filled with displeasure, petitions are being formed, other social networks are being explored by people who are not happy, people accustomed to going right to the things that interest them most and bypassing the items that don’t, people who are resistant to change.

Hmmmm.

One Facebook status line caught my eye … “If it ain’t broke, why fix it?"

*snorts*

Sorry. Couldn’t help it. I had to laugh.

Seriously?

If it ain’t broke, why fix it could be the slogan for most of the items in our daily lives!

I like to use Tide laundry detergent to wash my clothes. My mom used it and I learned from her about the good job it did. That’s not to say I didn’t try others. I went to college … I’ve been broke … I’ve tried others over the years. But I always seem to come back to Tide. I like the way it cleans my clothes and the way it smells. FYI … I’m referring to the ORIGINAL Tide. Not the one that’s “mountain fresh”, not the one with softener added, not the one with Febreeze scent added. I don’t need the “improved” versions. The original wasn’t broke, so why did it have to be fixed?

To make it more marketable?

Because if all you offered was an item that did a really good job, people wouldn’t buy it?

Does anyone else see the weirdness of that statement?

Remember when you could get a pack of 10 sticks of Wrigley’s gum for a quarter? Remember Bazooka Joe and the bubble gum you could get for a penny and snap irritatingly large bubbles, the powdery sweet taste staying longer on your tongue than the ability to blow the bubble?

I don’t chew a lot of gum lately but if I did decide to buy a pack, I’m not going for one the fancy, schmancy brands that come in plastic tubs, or boxes, or bundles. Why do I need to buy a piece of gum that has flavor that lasts forever and costs as much, or more than a candy bar, when all I want is a bit of sugar and flavor and chewing action? My name is not Violet Beauregarde and I’m not looking for a stick of gum to chew so long that I have to stick it behind my ear while I eat my dinner.

Gum wasn’t broken, but it had to be fixed … improved … because “new and improved”, even if it is more expensive, gets purchased more than good taste and low cost?

Don’t even get me started on the cola products. Or their “new and improved” water. *snorts*

What about those coffee makers that require an engineering degree in order to operate, not to mention the powders and liquids and flavors and whips that are added to “improve” that caffeine jolt of java? Do we REALLY need get up earlier in the morning so that we have time to stop and get a drink of something that costs more than an entire breakfast platter at IHOP? Couldn’t those extra moments be spent having a nice breakfast at home, with family or … in my case … pupper? *insert smiley face*

The act of brewing a cup of coffee (or steeping a cup of tea) hasn’t changed. It wasn’t broke. You just need hot water and a pot. No. The act of brewing just got fixed.

Our athletic shoes have gone from a basic pair of white keds or converse high tops to pumped up, balanced, cushioned, air soled wonders that trim our thighs, work our calves and round our tushies.

Our phones have gone from switchboard party calls, to trimline phone with a cord, to a cordless phone, to cell phones, to iPhones and Androids.

Our home entertainment has moved from a single radio to a giant, wall gripping flat screen high def television complete with blue-ray player and surround sound stereo.

We’ve moved from the anticipation of a letter from a relative arriving in a couple of months, to the instant texting, emailing, and Skyping.

And a bottle of cola can now, instead of being regular or diet, be original, sugar-free, caffeine-free, cherry flavored, vanilla flavored, raspberry flavored, zero-calorie wonders. (I told you not to get me started!)

The thing is … those original items weren’t really broken.

I’m really not saying that change is a bad thing, or that variety isn’t fun to try. Let’s face it … I always enjoyed the variety flavored box of instant oatmeal. But do we have to have the lower sodium oatmeal, the heart healthy oatmeal, the higher fiber oatmeal, etc. etc.? Isn’t oatmeal already supposed to be all of those? Maybe we just like to have the shelves of the grocery store decorated with pretty boxes?

I realize this sounds rather simplistic and I suppose, in a way, it is. Technology continues to pave the way. Our children know more about computers at the age of three than most fifty year olds did at the age of twenty-five. However, “new and improved” seems to be more and more a way of saying “we’ve taken something that worked for you and changed it, thereby making it more expensive to make and/or use”.

Again, I’m not saying that change is a bad thing … I’m just asking why did we have to go to such extremes?

Do consumers REALLY need to have a multitude of laundry detergents to choose from?

Does a single piece of gum truly need to last FOREVER?

Is what you have to say to me so important that I have to take my laptop to the restaurant so we can Skype while I eat?

Do Facebook users REALLY need to be told how to know which status updates are recent and which are new and which are considered “top stories”?

It wasn’t broken. Why did it have to be fixed?

Understanding Peace

Peace.

It has been on my mind this morning. No matter what I find myself doing, I seem to keep coming back to it.


I’m not talking about peace, love, & caddyshack. *grins*  I’m talking the peace that passes understanding. It’s not really describable and yet, here I am making the attempt as it appears to have taken root and is willing me to do something I haven’t done in quite awhile … write … and something I haven’t done in an even longer while … post.


This morning I was not just awake, but also up (as in the "out of bed and dressed" kind) before I wanted to be through no one’s fault, not even the small, white ball of fluff that seems to rule my house and my schedule. As a matter of fact, the small one was still nestled on the bed, sleeping quite peacefully when I decided that we would go outside and check the early morning. It was a bit before 7am and the sun had just crested its way into the sky. I stopped to brew a mug of tea from a blend gifted me by the eldest girlie Friday night before grabbing leash and pupper and making my way out of doors.


According to the weather I checked before leaving my phone inside, the temperature was a light 69 degrees. After weeks of 110 plus – either from heat index or, worse, actual temperature – the morning seemed almost chilly. Almost. Yet while the breeze was cool, the rising sun was bright in the clear blue palette of sky and was warming. Not hot. Just warm. The morning was perfect.


We walked for a few minutes, my pupper and I. Not far. Not to the field. Just down the sidewalk enough to give him some places to sniff and me a feeling that I’d stretched, however little. Then we went back and I relaxed, in my chair, sipping my tea, while he searched for something elusively scented under his bushes.


It was quiet. Not silent, just ... quiet.


Our morning's musical underscore was a combination of the birds, busy with beginning their day, and the gentle breeze, which was enough to give a rustle to Fluff’s bushes and toss a couple of dried leaves across the driveway for him to give chase before another scent caught his twitching little nose and he began exploring again. The birds made me think of Harold and Francine, my cardinals. I wondered where they were and if they had already begun another nest, hopefully in a safer location than my tree and window could evidently provide, but they are nature’s creatures and I just gave another quick thanks to their Creator for allowing me the chance to view their life for a short time.


I lay my head back, closed my eyes and felt, simply put, the perfectly peaceful morning flow around me, welcoming and embracing.


There was nothing to understand, nothing to sort out. There was just peace - of mind, of body, of soul.


Yesterday afternoon, after an early morning trip to the Farmer’s Market, combined with real estate wandering (aka. driving around looking at houses for rent & for sale and checking out garage sales), not to mention a brief errand, my youngest girlie settled herself curled in my big chair whilst I worked in the kitchen for a bit. It didn’t take long for the quiet and lull in activity to settle her into a soft sleep. While I worked, I found my eyes drawn to her slumber, my hands gentling the sounds so I didn’t disturb, and my mind casting back in memories so thick and rich, they seemed to wrap themselves around me like a warm cloak or a soft comforter.


Memories of girlies of varying ages and sizes … curled separately or together … on the couch, in the chair, on my shoulder, in my lap, on the floor, in the car … sleeping the quiet, yet not so quiet, sleep of innocence … of childhood. Tucked up on pillows or hands, nestled in blankets or not, they dreamed the dreams cast by their hearts, minds, and imaginations. Sometimes they might wake startled by nightmare or illness, but the moments passed quickly and sleep would always return to give them peace.


Ask me of one of my fondest memories and would reply something like this:


Take any weekend filled with laughter and playtime, movies and books and end it with girlies asleep in their beds as I finish out my day. Then, after closing down the house and securing our safety, I would turn out the lights and make my way down the hall. Aided by small nightlights, I would stand in the juncture of the hall, looking into both rooms, reveling in the gift of time spent before tucking each one with a small kiss and phrase, then gratefully giving thanks to the Creator who made them and the parents that shared them.


That moment. That memory. That was my feeling of peace.


According to the dictionary, peace can be defined in multiple ways. There is the one of the “normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world” which is in parallel to the one about “an agreement or treaty between warring or antagonistic nations, groups, etc., to end hostilities and abstain from further fighting or antagonism” to be followed in the same genre as “a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations”. There are also the definitions of “being deceased”, of “maintaining order”, of “refraining from speaking”. One definition that kinda made me giggle, but that could be because of the way it is phrased, is the one where peace is definined as “a state or relationship of non-belligerence”. Not sure why it made me giggle, except perhaps because I hear this English voice in my head from a movie I know I’ve seen and yet cannot place at the moment (when it comes to me at 3am, I’ll be sure to post it for you) of the good guy fighting the bad guy and calling him a “belligerent bugger”. But that’s a side trip in the realm of definitions and not where I was heading.


Where I am heading is the simple and concise definition of peace as “untroubled, tranquil, content … a state of stillness, silence, or serenity.”


These are the words that define my memory of those quiet moments. This is the feeling ... is the peace ... I had this morning as I relaxed with my tea outside while my pupper explored before starting my day. This is the sense of self that is welcomed each weekend to rejuvenate my mind and, more specifically, my soul in order to approach the coming week.


That is my description of peace.


It is the gift that surpasses all understanding, flows like a river and is only truly received when heart and mind are surrendered to the One from who it is given.


My prayer this Sunday morning, before my pupper and I came inside and truly began our day, was … is … for each member of my family, each of my friends to be blessed with their own moment of peace. And ... when you find yourself in that moment, do two things.  First … give thanks to Him who has bestowed it, and then, secondly, pass it on. You know the adage … if you tell two people, then they tell two people, then they tell two people, and so on, and so forth?


Is your imagination good enough to imagine what would happen?

Have You Hugged A Stranger Today?

I made an elderly lady cry today. 

Yep.

I really did.

Right in the thrift shop parking lot. 

In my defense, I wasn't trying to make her cry and I wasn't mean.  I simply told her how lovely I thought she looked. 

Perhaps I should back up a bit and start from the beginning ...

Fridays are my new special day.  Not just because it is the end of the week and the weekend is so close on the horizon, but also because of my favorite show. I won't go fangirl crazy here ... it's not the point.  The point is ... it is Friday and it is special and I was ... am ... feeling incredibly good today for many reasons.

The weather is fantastic!  One of those fall days where the morning is crisp, the day is warm & breezy, the evening cool under a clear, stary sky. 

Then there was the fact that I woke with a happy, happy pupper ... and we enjoyed a morning filled with playing inside and out before I had to say the dreaded four letter word ... *whispers W.O.R.K.* ... and head out to the office.

Work, though, was actually pleasant.  There was chaos but that is normal when you have almost 100 elderly people all in one place.  However the day moved right along and, after an extremely arduous long week ... the early close of the office, if only an hour, was a blessing.

So it was, that I hit the road with a light heart and a bright sky.  My sweet red Baby had her sunroof open and a new CD mix in the stereo streaming the music.  Laughing and singing, I knew that my two necessary stops would not take long and I would soon be home to my little Ball of Fluff to begin preparations for our Awesome Friday Night. 

Stop 1 was quickly finished and Baby & I took off for Stop 2, feeling pretty chipper. 

In front of the little thrift shop, I pulled Baby into a parking spot next to a luxury SUV.  I think it was a Lexus but, honestly? ... I don't really care and it doesn't truly matter.  As I turned off the engine, preparing to get out and go in the store, an elderly lady came out of the door and made her way to the SUV.  She was very striking ... quietly elegant in a fitted, solid black pantsuit with white satiny lapels and black heels. 

She looked lovely.  So, I got out of my car, leaned against the roof, and told her so. 

I may have expected alot of things, but I didn not expect for her eyes to well up with tears, even as she gave me a tremulous smile and thanked me.  She then told me that she had purchased the suit at the first of the year for her husband's funeral.  She was wearing it again today because her best friend's husband had passed away and his funeral had been this afternoon. 

Oh.

There was nothing I could say and I couldn't help myself.  I went around the car and gave her a brief hug. 

She sniffed and thanked me.

We wished each other a nice weekend and then she drove away and I made my way into the store. 

That private moment between two strangers struck me as I made my purchases and headed Baby towards home and our little Fluffernut. 

In today's world, we work so very hard teaching our children "Stranger Danger", that we forget to teach them about simple human kindness.  It hurts my heart that they must be more in tune to caution than they are in reaching out to someone who seems sad, or lonely, or in need.  Wouldn't it be lovely if our children could be taught understanding as well as caution ... respect for others as well as defensive tactics ... care for the people they pass in the street, not just the people around the dinner table? 

That, every once in awhile, blessings are shared on both sides when you hug a stranger?

We Should All Be Patriots

Fourth of July

The American holiday has its traditions, just the same as Thanksgiving or Christmas. The summertime holiday is celebrated in a multitude of various ways, each as individual as the family or person celebrating. For some it means traveling, for some it is swimming and picnics and parties, boats on a lake or tubes on a river. It means grilled hamburgers or hotdogs, barbequed ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, fresh summer grown tomatoes, and homemade apple pie. It is a vine ripened watermelon. It is a time of sparklers waved by children’s hands, firecrackers lit and thrown to snap and pop, and fireworks to light up the night’s sky with colors and designs set to orchestrations that stir our hearts and embolden our spirits.

According to an MSN internet article, it is possible that Americans will spend in the range of $3 billion on parties, food, entertainment and travel this year. However, those are celebrations of food and fun and fireworks are just one part of this holiday. For the Fourth of July is, in fact, actually Independence Day and the meaning of that holiday goes a lot deeper.

Independence Day is about patriotism. It is a declaration of believing in something wholeheartedly, supporting it no matter what, loving it completely. America's Independence Day is believing in this country and the freedoms possible within it were and are so worthwhile that men and women have fought and died to make it possible both then and now.

Independence isn’t simply a right American’s have due to the actions of our forefathers. It is something that is earned and we have a responsibility to it. We have a responsibility to each be patriots. This doesn’t mean that we must all be members of America’s Armed Forces, fighting at home and abroad to keep our country safe from those who would destroy it, in order to be patriots. However, it does mean that we as individuals can and should take up the flag of patriotism, the ideals of those soldiers who fight for us, and we should keep them alive within ourselves.

Patriotism begins at home … as parents raise up their children – teaching them right from wrong, disciplining when needed, and loving them always. Imagine our nation if parents cared more that their children become strong, not strong-willed, independent and beautiful of spirit, not rebellious and self-absorbed … that they raised the child as someONE, not someTHING … as an individual rather than a friend or a way to relive a youth that didn’t go as they wanted … supporting and trusting them, even as they falter and mistakes are made, instead of ignoring them, tearing them down, or striking out in anger.

Patriotism should continue in our schools … with those teachers that we entrust with our children, to teach them more than just the basic ABCs & 123s but also history and English and science and geography, instilling a thirst for more knowledge and guiding them always. Imagine our nation if teachers didn’t have to worry about guns in the classrooms and how to make 20 textbooks work for 30 children but could get into the meat of a topic instead of skimming it over the outline of facts. Teachers should inspire and guide as they teach and students should be able to become creative and achieve more than they dream.

Strength of morals, not to mention honesty and respect … we’re not born with these values, we are taught them (or, unfortunately, not) from our earliest moments. With them comes gratitude … having an appreciation for the history of our nation, not to mention the men and women, past and present, who have worn a uniform in service and honor to our country. These men and women were raised as patriots and we should be not only be aware of their deeds – again, past or present – but give them our thanks, as we each work to be patriots in our own right, in our own homes and communities.

I know I do, and I will.

While I wave my flag, eat my pie and sit out on the grass, listening to the music and wondering at the beauty of those flashes of color sparkling in the sky.

And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.
And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up, next to you and defend her still today.
Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,

GOD BLESS THE USA!**

(**lyrics from Proud To Be An American by Lee Greenwood)

A Good Man

There’s a story my mom loves to bring out every once. It’s one of those stories that, when you’re in high school or college, you simply cringe in embarrassment but as life goes on you enjoy the laugh and then draw out one of your own. I don’t actually remember ALL the details, I just recall that I was outside playing with the hose and, since we were in Kansas City, I was younger than four years. I’m not sure if I wasn’t supposed to be playing with it, or was simply being cautioned, but I spun around with it in my hand when my father’s voice came to me regarding the water and I ended up spraying him thoroughly. It was an innocent, childhood mistake – I was turning towards his voice and the water in the hose in my hand came with me. Unfortunately he had just arrived home from work and was dressed in one of his business suits and I had a full spraying stream going as I whirled to greet him. Dark suit ... white pressed shirt ... dark tie ... wing tip shoes ... soaked.

Yep. Laughter is had on that one. Now.

My poor Daddy.

The good Lord blessed him with an extraordinary amount of patience, for which I am abundantly grateful.

Although I know he will be embarrassed and will most likely tell my mother that I “shouldn’t have”, I’m gonna tell a little bit about the type of man I call Father.

My dad is hamburgers & steaks grilled just right … driving the boat around “just one more” cove before heading back … calm voice when teaching to drive a car … Saturday late night movies with Clint Eastwood, Lee Marvin, Lee Van Cleef, or maybe just The Duke … pancakes and maple syrup vying with a simple box of donuts for being the best breakfast ever … standing outside on the front step of Grandma’s trailer watching a tornado pass by … saving a small girl from a bunch of loose pigs (not the small cute kind) … holding a little girl up on his shoulders to see the Macy’s parade … cheering or groaning for his Dallas Cowboys … playing Santa for a company children’s party … mowing the yard … playing in the pool … sitting at the counter and letting me tease & pick on him … finishing a task begun – no matter how detailed or time consuming.

Most of all, my daddy is wrapping me in a huge hug when I hurt, am sad, just arrived for a visit, fixing to leave after a visit, or just any other reason he can think of ... being married to, and loving, one woman for 53 years … reading Luke Chapter 2 before bedtime on Christmas Eve … praying so fully before each meal at the table … spending each week studying/preparing his Sunday School lesson … standing tall and proud as he joins the other deacons in serving the Lord’s Supper … a Godly man, the head of our household, following Joshua 24:15.

Today, on this special day when we honor our Fathers, I don’t get to physically be with my Daddy – to hug him and tell him how much I love and adore him, how he is the tape measure I use when looking at men and relationships, how much he is admired, how much I miss being with him on his special day.

That is why I wanted to just take a minute and tell you a bit about the man I call Father.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy! I love you!

A Quiet Tribute

It is a quiet day at the office today.

Actually, it’s a quiet day in the whole building. Not that it’s always a rip roaring party all the time, but there is usually a sense of relief and a certain giddiness in the office the day after our annual OHFA inspection goes well and the residents are usually roaming around on Fridays, chatting, coming and going in preparation for the weekend, getting their hair done at the beauty shop next to the office. The smell of perms is normally pervasive. Not so much today.

Today, or at least this morning, it is quiet.

You see … there’s a funeral being held at the church next door this morning.

A funeral for a resident who passed away in the wee hours of Wednesday morning or, as her son so eloquently put it ... “One moment she was sleeping peacefully, the next moment she went Home.”

It’s easy to think of her there … in heaven … her jubilation in being reunited with her husband who had gone to wait for her 20 years ago, in the presence of her dear Lord.

For the purposes of this little blog … we’ll call her Mrs. W.

Mrs. W. would have been the first to tell you she was just a country gal. She was 98 years old and, although in recent years her sight had failed and, even more recently, her health had slipped, through the assistance of a large and loving family, she had remained independent in the little apartment in our building she had called home the last 16 years. She loved the life of a resident and embraced the activities with enthusiasm. She never failed, unless sick, to be right in the front row when the 1st & 2nd graders from the school across the street came to give our residents a Christmas concert. She enjoyed the community feeling of the potluck dinners, baking cornbread for her friends, and going up to do exercises with the group that gathered three times a week. She thrilled each spring when the “4 O’Clocks” would bloom outside the exit door by her apartment. (I don’t know the actual name of this bush of flowers. Mrs. W. called them 4 O’Clocks and that is good enough for me.)

One of the ten remaining residents that were here when I began working at the Village, Mrs. W. would walk the halls of our building with a cheerful smile and a greeting for any that she met. When asked how she was doing, her standard response was that she was doing okay … “until someone tells me different”. Respectful of the office and the work being done, she would always have a smile and greeting, yet never stayed to chat unless one of us initiated the conversation. Even when her sight had failed, she would always smile and wave as she passed by … never certain anyone was in the office to see, but not wanting to pass by and seem rude.

As memory and hearing also began to fail, she began to stop a bit more frequently by the window … inquiring as to the day of the week and if there were any activities on the calendar. After getting a response, she would give thanks for the information with a big smile and exclaim that waking up always seemed to bring a new and different day. A happy smile, a boisterous laugh, and a wicked sense of humor … three things I admire and she had them in spades.

Mrs. W. was a simple, gracious lady who’s favorite activities included feeding people and sharing stories of her three children or multiple grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Nothing delighted her more than when one or more of them would stop by for a visit with “mom” or “granny”. She took great pride in them and their accomplishments but was never boastful.

It’s difficult to think that she is gone. Her little corner apartment where, before her sight left and cooking became difficult, the staff had been invited several times to share a tasty lunch and lively conversation, will soon be rented to someone new … someone different … someone who won’t call me “Shug” and check on the 4 O’Clocks in the spring. That’s the hard part.

The easy part is imagining her in heaven … setting a table for family and friends and inviting them to come and eat before it gets cold, as she keeps an eye from above on those kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, not to mention the rest of us.

Yep. It’s a quiet morning today. The halls are silent and the conversations are muted but I’m doing okay … at least until someone tells me different.