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):

        

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?

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.

Making Everything Better

On the way to work the other morning, I passed a semi-truck that was pulling out of the parking lot of the local Braums. For those that don't know, Braums is a chain of small ice cream and dairy stores that began in Oklahoma and now have locations in Missouri, Arkansas, Kansas, and Texas. According to my mom, it's one of the best ice creams ever. I tend to agree. Anyhow, as I passed this truck that had obviously been making a product delivery, I was caught by the slogan on the side panel.

"Braums Ice Cream Makes Everything Better"

Now, for those who aren't familiar with Braums, you aren't hearing the jingle in your head, but trust me ... it's one of those catchy, once it's there it's never leaving your head type of jingles. To simply read the slogan sets the jingle singing in my mind ... over and over and over and over.

So it was, after passing the truck and having the jingle solidly planted in my head, that I began to try and distract myself with other thoughts in order to push it out. No such luck ... not even the radio helped - it was time for the news. Unwillingly, at first, I gave into the thoughts and let my mind wander. Does Braums make everything better? Is it really Braums, or is it the ice cream that is creating the feelings of everything being better? Cause, over the years, I've eaten alot of different ice creams, in alot of different places.

There was the ice cream at our birthday parties growing up. Usually the Krogers store brand that was always kept handy in the gallon buckets in our deep freezer when we were young. Sweet and creamy, it would melt into the cake and make it soggy but it was always so good - especially with chocolate syrup and candy sprinkles and frosting from a birthday cake. The sugar high was a blast and probably the reason why cake and ice cream was the last thing on the agenda, so that friends were sent home with their parents before the frenzy truly began.

There was the ice cream at Swensons in Minnesota where my church youth group would congregate after church on Sunday nights. Amidst laughter and fun, shakes and mountains of flavored ice creams were shared as the weekend fun was rehashed and the coming week was anticpated. The garish red wall paper and the gleaming wood and brass of the tables and fixtures remain firmly in my mind, along with the gigantic bowl of flavors that was sat in front of me the last time I was there ... the night of my 17th birthday ... the night before I left Minnesota to move to Texas. Although the night of laughter and fun was bittersweet, the sharing of ice cream and memories was sweet and lasting.

When I was living in Austin, the nanny of a precocious infant/toddler/preschooler, of all the places one could go for ice cream, it was the Dairy Queen that was the best. During those years, nothing fancy was necessary. Simply a sunny afternoon, a child next to me in her car seat, (this was over twenty years ago folks), a trip to the park and a swirled cone of soft serve creamy goodness. Or a gloomy rainy day brightened by a child's laughter when the soft serve swirl was dipped in chocolate to give it a crunchy sweet crust. Who needed fancy dishes and gourmet toppings when they had moments like that to cherish?

Through the years ice cream seems to be a common thread for me, which is kinda funny considering when asked what I want especially for a dessert, it is usually the last thing I think of eating. Yet it fills those moments ... those memories ...

... the pink divinity ice cream that was from Byerlys in Minnesota only at Christmas time ...

... the mini ice cream sandwiches that are passed out at Broken Arrow's Rooster Days parade byt the employees of our local Blue Bell creamery ...

... the Ben & Jerry's that keeps me company during new episodes of Supernatural on Thursday nights (Season Four premieres September 18th on the CW - Woot!) ...

... the rich and creamy dish of Schwann's ice cream as I enjoy a quiet evening at my parents house, watching television and talkng ...

... and tells me that it doesn't really matter what brand of ice cream is being eaten. It's the company, the memory, the moment that is really the most important, the most wonderful part.

The ice cream just makes everything better.

A Night at the Opera

This blog entry is dedicated to my eldest girlie.

Band geek that she is, it's no surprise how much my girlie loves music. Our earliest Saturday mornings (and any other time) were spent in repetitious viewings of various Disney "Sing-a-Long" videos. Then came the Disney animated movie Lion King. She and I saw it in the theater atleast 3 times ... I'm thinking it might have been more. From the first moment the sun began to rise on the screen with the opening strains of music, until the very last note was sounded at the end of the credits (seriously - we would watch them to the final end), she would sit in her seat, face rapt, eyes glued to the giant screen, her whole body attuned to everything she saw. Her only movement was when the music would begin for the various songs, as though she were keeping time with the music with her little body.

Did I mention she was 3 years old when Lion King hit the theaters?

The purchase of the video when it later came out became a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it was a guaranteed 90 minutes that she would sit ... motionless ... in one spot ... allowing me the opportunity to accomplish something (cleaning, cooking, dressing, etc.) without a small child in my face "what 'cha doin'?" or "can I do that?" or "I wanna try!". The curse was that in a small apartment there was no place to evade the sound coming from the television and so, no only was every lyric of every song burned into my brain, but for years I could actually recite whole passages of dialogue when given a one word cue.

However, she loved it then ... and 14 years later, she loves it still.

As the years have passed, she has broadened past the Disney genre of musicals. Broadway musicals have since captured her attention. Being a catlover, the musical Cats was one of the first to catch her attention. Others have also struck a chord with her, such as Oklahoma! (naturally).

Recently, I was watching a repeat of Hello Dolly! (the Barbra Streisand movie) on PBS when my girl walked in. Catching the music, you could see it was almost like I had hooked a fish ... she was simply drawn ... eyes and focus totally on the television, she sat and watched ... visually taking in the sight of the costumes and the dancing ... her whole body reacting to the music.

One musical that has totally captured her is Phantom of the Opera. My dvd of the movie version was captured and lost to the realm of her bedroom and dvd player. My CD of the musical highlights was stolen and it's music was ripped and copied to computer and MP3 player. To say that she loved this musical would have been an understatement. So, when the Broadway Company brought the Phantom to our own Tulsa Performing Arts Center this summer, you can imagine the conversations that took place.

"I want to go."

"I know that sweetie."

"No, seriously ... I NEED to see it."

"I understand that darlin'."

"I'm going to die if I can't see it."

No ... there's no drama queen blood running through her veins. Nope. None at all.

For a month, she and I bounced the possibility back and forth, talking about it, trying to determine if it would be possible, scouting seats online and checking prices. Yet money is tight.

The decision came down to this ... do we spend the money to see Phantom of the Opera or do we save the money and spend it to take a day trip up to Kansas City in October and see the Broadway production of Lion King?

Yeah ... that was a tough one. I did mention, didn't I, that the child has adored Lion King since it's inception when she was THREE YEARS OLD?!

After grumbling and mumbling, and may I say a VERY nice moment of pouting (the child could win awards with the way she tucks that lip when she pouts) ... my girlie was the one to make the decision. We would save our money and try to see Lion King.

Then a local television show ... one of those "what's going on in Tulsa" type programs ... announced they were going to give away two tickets to Phantom of the Opera.

Got any ideas what might have happened next? To say that she was DETERMINED to win these tickets would ... again ... be an understatement. She WAS going to win. She and I were going to see Phantom of the Opera. That was the only thing she would accept. There would be no alternative. Failure was not an option, was not something she was going to even begin to think about.

Do you know that she did it? Yep. With the help of speed dial and some assistance from her mom, my girlie won two tickets to see her first Broadway musical live and in person. Her glee was simply infectious.

We went.

It was a warm Tuesday night, but there was a nice breeze. As Baby made her way on the highway towards downtown Tulsa, my girlie kept up a constant chatter. Excitement seemed to shimmer off of her face and thread it's way through her voice. Even when the conversation actually veered away from the upcoming musical, you could still see and hear her anticipation. It was like a cloak surrounding her and she was holding it close.

We parked. She picked the lot. There were actually a couple closer that cost the same amount but I think that one was picked because it was closest to where we were and she suddenly needed to be out of Baby and heading into the theater. It was her night, so I just laughed and parked and locked up my Baby as my girlie grabbed my hand and began tugging me towards the theater.

She skipped. It was only once but she did. It was as though all of her delight simply could not be contained in a simple walk as we approached the doors amidst the crowd of other theater goers. I swear her face was actually glowing and my only curse on the evening was for the fact that I failed to take a picture of her under the marquee proclaiming it was now showing "PHANTOM OF THE OPERA".

We stopped and I purchased programs for both of us. She clutched hers tight to her chest. It was so evident that she wanted to look at it right then, but knew we needed to get inside.

We made our way to our seats. They were actually really good ones, up on the mezzanine but the stage was clear and easy to view. The nosebleed section was still further above us.

As soon as we sat, the programs were devoured. Having seen the movie, my girlie knew the basic story. Her biggest concern was how they were going to do water on the stage for the scenes under the opera house. (I should point out here that I had actually already seen the Broadway production in Dallas. It was in March of 1993 but I remembered it still like it was yesterday.) I simply smiled at her and told her to watch and see.

As the musicians began to warm up, my young band geek emerged and she began to explain to me the number of musicians in an orchestra for something like this, letting me know it was a flute warming up, giving me tidbits on piccalo players needing earplugs when they practice because of the shrill notes, and so on. I recognized the nervous chatter for what it was - a passing of the time before THE EVENT. I enjoyed it.

After a brief introduction and some announcements by a theater official, the lights dimmed and the play began. From the first note of the Overture, I couldn't help but feel her exuberance. She practically trembled. Sitting forward in her seat, leaning slightly towards the stage, face rapt, eyes glued ... the soon-to-be 17 year old reflected all the intensity of that 3 year old watching Lion King, the movie, so many years ago.

Watching her became as much fun as watching the activity on the stage. When the fog began to flow and the shimmer of candles began their watery effect across the shining stage, it was easy to believe that they had flooded the stage with water for the scenes of the labyrinth under the opera house. The comic moments were enjoyed, the cacophony of the singers during the "Notes/Prima Donna" scene in the managers office was mind-boggling, the crashing of the beautiful chandelier was amazing, the breathtaking beauty of the masquerade ball was entrancing, the heart pounding of the Phantom's own heartbreak during "The Point of No Return" and the subsequent chase back underground was simply incredible. The word "timeless" is so apt for this musical.

It was ... simply put ... beautiful - both visually and musically. Words fail to convey what the eyes and ears witnessed.

My girlie's face said it all though. With shining eyes and glowing smile, she was able to convey what words would fail.

She loved it. It was an experience that will last for a very long time. The fact that I was witness to it was a blessing and a memory I will forever hold close in my heart.

Right next to the one of a 3 year old in a dark theater watching animated animals sing and dance about the Circle of Life.

Memories of Good Days

I miss the good old days.

This saying takes on so many meanings for me. Working with seniors on a daily basis, it takes on a historical meaning of when times were “simpler”. There’s also the fact that with today’s rising prices in gas, groceries and daily life, missing the good old days simply means missing the fact that my paycheck wasn’t spent before I actually received it.

However that’s not the meaning that has seemed to hit home for me this weekend. I don’t know why the nostalgia bug hit me, but it did and so I indulged myself with a few pictures and thoughts.

I miss the good old days …

Those days when Saturday mornings were spent with me and a three year old watching The Lion King for the 50 bajillianth (it’s a word … I just used it) time after eating pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse heads swimming in maple syrup.

Those days when my alarm clock was two little girls calling from their cribs or playpens with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”, which were followed by days when my alarm clock was two little girls (one in particular) who had discovered that she could get out of her “big girl” bed by herself and come into my room and stand there quietly, staring at me in the face, startling me awake by either pressing my nose or … my favorite (she says sarcastically) … sticking a finger in my ear … and waking me with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”.

Those days when reading with the girlies meant cuddling up in my big chair with a girlie on each arm rest and a pile of books between us.

Those days when an umbrella was a fashion accessory.

Those days when I could a few quiet moments with one of the girlies, simply sitting with her in front of me on the floor as I brushed out her long hair.

Those days when manuevering around my kitchen meant stepping around the step stools used by my budding assistants, as they helped me with cookie dough and other goodies to be baked.

Those days when it was so easy to read and understand the expression on my girlies faces.

Those days when picnics in the park, decorating the driveway with chalk drawings, and the simple words “let’s play outside”, brought smiles and giggles to the faces of three girls and lightened my mood from whatever had transpired during the week.

Those days when a simple smile and a tight hug around the neck said more than any glittery gift or expressive sonnet ever could.

My girlies are growing up. Fast becoming independent, young women with their own thoughts and decisions, instead of the babies and children they once were in those good old days. What is left of those childhood moments now are a handful of pictures and a heart full of memories,

However … these modern days still hold something wondrous and true. Perhaps the cost of gas has increased dramatically, yet the value of the smile and hug has grown to be even more precious than gold and it still costs nothing to give or receive.

And that works for me on any day.

Moving Memories

I have been wandering my memory lane today. In a continuing effort to preserve my many boxes (seriously) of photographs, I have been downloading them onto my computer and saving them to disc. Whenever I have done this, I have found myself enjoying memories of past laughter and good times.

Today's box of goodies included the various places that I have lived over the years. Being the child of an IBM executive, I can attest to the fact that while many people believe that IBM stands for the company "International Business Machines", during the years of my childhood, they stood for I've Been Moved ... many times. We were like the military, we just didn't live on army bases. When friends would tell me about having lived in the same town all their lives or *gasp* the SAME house, this was something I simply could not conceive.

My childhood, youth, and adult memories have come from various houses, cities and states. Earliest memories of slick hardwood floors come from a little yellow house in Kansas City, Missouri. There are other early memories of getting a baby brother, going to school for the first time and visiting the Statue of Liberty that come from living in a little green and white house in Madison, New Jersy. Moving to Irving, Texas, for the first time, to a little cream and brown brick house, brings more memories of elementary school, a backyard pool, playing Barbies and transitioning to junior high while pushing the limits of my parents patience. Then came the move to a split level brown house with the coolest bedroom ever (see for yourself ... even the carpet was black/gray/white stripes), in Edina, Minnesota. It was here that I entered high school, learned to like hockey (and a certain teenage hockey player), learned to drive and learned that my closest friends could live further away than "down the street".

The move back to Irving, Texas was to a different cream brick house on a different street, as well as to memories of a little red and white Chevy Ventura, high school graduation, going to youth camp and on mission tour with the greatest bunch of church youth a teenager could be involved with, and beginning college.

My next move was not dictated by IBM, however. It was a move to Shawnee, Oklahoma, three more years of college, and memories of dorm rooms, apartments, classes, studying, working, meeting new people from all over the country and experiencing life "on my own". Leaving college, a brief time was spent back with my parents - still in Irving, Texas, however in a different brick house on a different street - and making different memories of taking care of the house for my working parents and getting a job that would change my life.

Then came the move that was totally my own decision. A move dictated by the job I had as a full-time (and then some) nanny to a child I loved. Her parents had decided to move from their home in Dallas to Austin and so it was that I moved from Irving to Austin, Texas. With this move came the memories of spending long days with a beautiful child and watching her grow, of wandering the streets of the Texas capital, playing in the parks, watching the zamboni clean the local ice arena, and living in various places - including a lovely lakeside house and my own apartment.

As my charge grew and became ready for school, the decision was made to move yet again - this time closer to my parents who, during my time in Austin, had moved yet again themselves. This move took me to Springfield, Missouri and a time making wonderful memories of lake filled days with friends and family, of helping my parents complete and move into their latest home and working in the last place I would have ever imagined myself ... a sporting goods store called Bass Pro Shops.

One more major move has taken place in my life and that was the one from Springfield to my current home in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Still, the memories, though newer, are not any less wonderful or enjoyable and while I may have lived here for longer than I have lived in any other city in my life, I must confess - I still kept moving. Outgrowing my first apartment and the memories of poolside days and making new friends in a city where I knew no one, I moved on to another apartment that was my home when my first girlie came to make memories of playing in the dirt, watching Lion King more times than should humanly be possible, Saturday mornings of pancakes and Saturday nights playing games with friends.

I do have one last move to report and that is to my current little house where I have been making memories for the last 10 years. This is the little house where I have lived the longest and the memories here are fresh, daily continuing to be made. It is here that my twink girlies have created their space - taking my designated craft room and making it their Barbie room, where, together with their older sister, we have enjoyed Valentine parties and putting up the Christmas tree, cuddling on the couch watching movies and making chalk pictures on the driveway.

Each of my many moves, whether dictated by IBM or by myself, have enriched my life with a multitude of memories. While I have photographs of many of these memories, there are so many more that are imprinted on my heart and in my mind. I just wish there were some way I could download these and share them with you as well.