I thought you might like this, Vanessa

There's 6 to 10 inches of snow forecast for Friday, so I was checking out the radar to see where the storm is now, but I found this interesting. I used to live smack in the center of Pennsylvania in none other than Centre County! I love how the ice/rain demarcations are highlighting the mountains. I do not know the meteorological elements producing this, but I'll ask the resident meteorologist tonight.

Get one on your lap, get one free!

We have a two for one sale going on lap tops.

9th Grade Success!

Rob has begun his successful career as a performer. In the spring musical, he is none other than........

Onlooker four!

Whoo Hoo! Go Rob!

Margaret Alfieri

I had lunch with Pam. Pam lives in the same city where my son attends school. It made me feel old because I met Pam during my first senior year in college. (It took me five years to graduate. I had a lot of parties to squeeze in.) How did I get old enough to visit my friend and tell her about my son in college and his friend who goes to our old college?

I took our picture, but it made me think of all the pictures we've taken over the years.


This picture was taken outside our dorm at a party in the spring of my graduation in 1985. Pam had to stay for one more semester and Margaret had decided not to come back. You can see the sense of impending change in the picture. No one wanted to stay forever, but there was also loss in leaving.

Here we are at my wedding in 1986.

The back of this picture said 1988 in Buffalo. I think it might have been Pam's wedding shower, but I can't remember. I suspect I was on a a whirlwind tour between moves or a summer visit. I think I lived in Maine at the time.

This picture was taken in Buffalo 1993 at Allison's baptism. Notice that Margaret is missing. She had moved, but we were all still in touch. I'd had one child, and Allison was Pam's first. Combined, we are up to five now.

In around 2003 I got the glasses I wear now, in this next picture. While there have been a few styles between the big red ones and today's, it was today's little glasses that prompted me to begin telling my children that when I'm old and they are thinking that it's time to put me in a home, please get me new glasses first. Today's glasses style are so small, I can't see as much as I could back when hideous big glasses were in style. I would tell the kids, "Before you put me in the home, get me big, luxurious glasses, like we wore in the nineties. I sure could see then. I never even had to turn my head. One glance of the eye and I could zoom right in on anything!"

It was a shocking realization of why old people wear old styles. They know something we don't know!

When my kids found this picture of me and Pam in our big red glasses a few years ago, they loved it! They thought everyone else was walking around in little square metal frames, while I wore big red plastic frames. They were shocked to see Pam in similar glasses. How could we all do that?

In our defense, we were just doing what everyone else did. I got the next picture to prove it:

Here we are in Pam's house as I insist, "We have to take it like the kids do, ourselves!" It looked so silly in the camera screen that we asked Allison, now a 10th grader, to take one of us just standing there. We looked more authentic in this one, though.

But now we don't know were Margaret is. So Margaret, someday you will google yourself and I want this to come up, so:

Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri, Margaret Alfieri

of Henrietta near Rochester, of Henrietta near Rochester, of Henrietta near Rochester, of Henrietta near Rochester, of Henrietta near Rochester, of Henrietta near Rochester

who went to Geneseo, who went to Geneseo, who went to Geneseo, who went to Geneseo, who went to Geneseo, who went to Geneseo

email me!

We need to take a picture.

Cute!

I can hear it now: "Cute? I'm not cute. This is my Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle. This is serious business."

Mamaaaaaa.....Just killed a man.......

My son Rob's anxiety level has kicked up a notch. Tomorrow he faces the auditions for the school musical. As a high school freshman, he might be facing the most stressful event of his life. How did he deal with it?

By singing Queen all morning. I drank my coffee wondering, Is this my real life?

He's a pretty good singer, though, so I encouraged him to have faith that life had just begun. Don't throw it all away by not auditioning, just to avoid some stress. (He's tempted.) I guess that was the wrong thing to say. He said, "If I'm not back again this time tomorrow-Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters."

Then I got some pictures in my email. This is my brother with his band, Blues Mission. They live in Phoenix. I can't wait to show Rob. My brother Steve is the one in the green Hawaiian shirt.



Funny these should come today, huh? I don't see my brother much, since we've always lived so far apart. My perception of his present self is far more colored by my memories of him as an angst teenager than by any information I have of him as an adult. I am smart enough to know that the person he is today is probably a far cry from his high school self, created by his varied life experiences, challenges, and successes. I just don't know that much about those experiences.

Tonight I'll remind Rob, "You're not just a poor boy from a poor family. You come from talent!"

Rob will tell me I don't understand, that "Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me-"

And tomorrow, he'll face off with him. I'm putting my money on Rob.

And if he doesn't get a part? By Monday he'll be happily singing, "Any way the wind blows...."

We'll be awhile before we know the real Rob. I'll wait for that knowledge in a joy-filled hope.

Raising the Environmental Bar

Mark installed a metal bar across our laundry room.

Now I can hang my hand laundry to dry in the laundry room, instead of on the shower rod in the spare bathroom. The bar is also large and sturdy enough to hang a load from the machine to dry. I plan to try that. I will not bother to wash the small stuff with the intention of hanging to dry. I'll sort the small stuff and wash that all in one load once a week, but wash and hang the big stuff one load per day. We'll see how it goes.

Now my spare bathroom, known as "the pink bathroom" is due for its renovation. I tore down the wall paper already, oh, maybe three years a go. I hate to rush. That bathroom leaked water into the downstairs entry, so I need to recaulk and fix the grout. I'm going to reseal it all, too. Then I'll check for leaks, sand and paint, then think about ordering some cabinets and a new mirror/light fixture. I've painted every room in the house except the bathrooms and down stairs entry. I hope to do all three bathrooms over the winter. That should keep me out of trouble. If the pink bathroom passes its leak test of sustained bathroom use, then I'll fix the downstairs entry and paint it. That will mean I've repainted the entire house. What a job!

Here's a little lake effect snow action

Notice that the northwest area and the lakes are clear, but south and east of the lakes there's ice and snow. When the loop played, the blue stuff south and west of the lakes just keeps appearing, but over the lakes stays clear. I grew up hearing about "Lake Effect Snow" but I really get it now with radar to demonstrate it. One area can get two or three feet of snow, but a few miles away gets nothing. Between now and tomorrow night, our forecast calls for 10 inches. I live right under the "O" in ROC.

If only you could see the snow.

For my Australian readers, yes, you're right. Northern Hemisphere + right now = winter. We are just really, really slow about some things.

My intention was always to put up a nice clothesline when I moved here. When Mark announced this fall that he was ready, I didn't say anything about the season; I just agreed that it was time. Today, he finished it, then it started to snow.

Ah, but the plans I have for this when spring returns! The two outer lines are on pulleys. They turned out to be expensive, so we put static lines inside. I can use the static lines for blankets and such. I have a septic system, so I can only do so much laundry at a time, which means that I had no need for a bigger clothesline. It's 25 feet long.

I feel much better now, environmentally. The contrast between my beliefs and my dryer use were starting to really, really bug me.

Do you think people in heaven can hear us?

I was wondering one day when Mark closed our pool, Can people hear us in heaven? I was upstairs and he was in the yard working on the pool. It was a quiet, breezy, cool fall day.

The mood changed when I heard, “!@$@$$%%.” Pause. “&**%&@%$” Slam. Stomp, stomp, stomp. &@**&$$

He came in the house, but I knew better than to ask what happened. At times like this, it’s best to just wait. The next thing I saw was him in the pool. I bet the pool was 60 degrees. A few hours later I asked what that was all about. He said he’d accidentally dropped a large rock that he’d placed on the rim into the pool. I said, “I bet the liner's got a hole in it.”

The next day he came in and said, “The pool’s got a hole in it.”

“How can you tell?”

“You can see the water pouring out from under the side.”

Oh.

We tried finding the hole, but could not. After I called the pool guy, I went to do some sewing and found myself talking to Uncle Bill, my dad’s brother. Uncle Bill’s been dead for quite a few years now, and it’s been even longer than that since I tossed the lawn dart in his pool and put a hole in his liner, but it was only just then that I’d really understood what he must have felt like when I did that.

“Hey, Uncle Bill? I’m sorry about the pool incident. I get it now.”

BTW (Before the War)

A few years ago, near the end of the semester in my Death and Dying class, the professor said something about how we are lucky because we haven’t lived through a war, as in having the war going on around us. I said that I felt I was still affected by a war. Having grown up with a mom who grew up during a war still affects me. My mother’s life has always been colored by “the war.” She was a child living near London during World War II. It ended when she was eight. I grew up listening to her stories, stories she had to tell, I suppose, because they were still vivid in her life.

One of my best memories of living in North Carolina, were this class was attended, was the night a bunch of friends were sitting around talking. Sophie, who is my age, grew up in England. We were talking about our parents and we started explaining how hard it is to get your parents to feel sorry for you when they grew up amid bombs and death.

“Mom, I don’t feel good. Can I stay home from school?”

“Stay home from school? You’re lucky you have a school. I used to have to get under my desk while the bombs fell, then get up, brush the plaster off the desk, and get back to work. You go to school and count your blessings.”

“Mom, I don’t like this. Is there something else I can eat?”

“You don’t like it? You’re lucky you have food. When I was your age, my mother would give me the coupons for the black market and I’d have to go haggle with old men and what ever I was able to get was what we shared for food that week. Now eat.”

It was fun having Sophie there because she understood. We laughed and laughed.

My Uncle Tom, who is my mother’s brother, sent me this picture. It’s my mother’s mother with, I assume, her four oldest kids.

I was surprised at my first reaction. I thought, “Oh, look. My grandmother, being a young mother, before the war.”

I noticed right away that the three oldest kids are looking right at the camera while my grandmother is trying to get the littlest one to look at the camera. I love the picture. You can see her not just as a mother, but doing the act of mothering.

But why did I instantly need to anchor the picture into a timeline of the war?

I always have a sense of impending doom. As a child, I just assumed that my war would come. Looking at history, few generations miss it. I figured everyone gets their war. As a child of the seventies, I always assume economic good times are just part of a cycle, only to be followed by economic bad times. I deal with that one by living under my means in good times so I’m ready for bad times. I find it surprising when people are surprised by bad economic fortune. What were they expecting? Always a boon? Hmm. Based on what?

This grandmother was the only grandparent alive when I was born. By then, she was living in Australia. I never met her before she died, but I do remember talking to her on the phone once. I was a young teenager I think. With no preparation, my parents woke me up in the middle of the night and said, “Your grandmother’s on the phone. Come talk to her.” I still remember her saying, “You sound so American.” I don’t remember much else of the conversation, but I don’t think I was old enough to figure out what to say.

When I was about 8 years old, she sent me a Koala bear and a silver cross. I loved that Koala bear. My dog chewed it up years later, and I remember sobbing. I was broken-hearted over the loss of that Koala bear. I still wear the cross every day.

I guess I think about the war because this woman was more than my grandmother. She was a person who had many elements to her, many I don’t even know. The fact that she was a women who survived a war and raised her children during a war that was raging around her strikes me as amazing. That I know of her.

Cool, huh?

This is such a cool picture of the effect the Great Lakes have on local weather. Those lakes are so warm, they are melting the snow before it hits the lake. Green is rain; blue is snow; pink is ice.

Stay tuned for radar pictures of lake effect snow. It won't be much longer now.......

Home Sweet Home

Mark works from home now. So far, it's been working out fine. A few years ago I turned a spare bedroom into an office. We needed somewhere for our books, so I lined the walls with bookshelves and put two desks in the center. It's a useful room, but we've never really gotten it organized, much like the rest of the house. You can see our messy desks. The printer in the background is sitting on a filing cabinet. We have no excuse for the messiness. There's a place for everything. There just isn't everything in its place yet.

If I was a better blogger.....

If I was a better blogger, I'd have remembered the date that I took this picture. Let's just leave it at "Fall 2008."
I love it, though. I took it the morning after our first frost, after I spun the planters around. The heat from the house was just enough to keep a blanket of warm air around the house, keeping it above freezing. The other side of the planter was not so lucky, so the cold killed the flowers on that side. I spun the planter around to put the flowers outward, and I had flowers for two or three more weeks.

I'm a slow blogger. They are dead now.

There was another party

This is my cousin Sandy. Sandy's what I call "a real cousin." I guess the right word is first cousin, but I grew up with most of my "cousins" actually being second cousins. They were the kids of my cousins. Many of my actual cousins were my dad's age. He was the last born, and he had a sister, Margaret, who was about twenty and had already had her first child, Joanie when he was born. So my cousin Joanie was my dad's age.

To me, Sandy seemed much older than me when I was younger, but I realize now she wasn't that much older. When I was ten and most idolizing her, she must have been about 25. My dad said that he babysat Sandy when she was a kid, Sandy babysat me, and then I babysat Sandy's kids. I bet she wasn't even thirty years old when I babysat her kids. I thought she was glamorous.

It's such a kick to see her now. Of all my cousins, I think she's the one I'm most like in that genetic way. She has the same sense of humor that I have. I enjoy talking to her because it feels natural. If she were to suddenly lean over and hit me because she just thought of something, I'd think, "Ah, finally home with normal people." I've learned the hard way that not all people hit each other when they have something interesting to say. I bet Sandy does.

Here's Aunt Margaret and Aunt Dot. Aunt Margaret, dad's sister, is about 94. Aunt Dot is, I think, in her late 80's. Aunt Dot is Sandy's mom.

This is Tracy. Tracy's dad is my real cousin and also Dad's age. They were good friends growing up and spent a lot of time together when I was a kid. Dad would always tell us that he would hold Uncle Billy down and say, "Call me Uncle." I loved going to Uncle Billy's house when I was a kid. I called him Uncle Billy until I got old enough to figure out he wasn't my uncle. Then, out of teenage pride, I'd only call him Billy. Now I'd call him Uncle Billy again, because I remember him being good to me for years when he drove me to work every summer.

Tracy's probably about five years younger than me. When the parties were big enough, Tracy didn't make the cut off and I'd play with cousins closer to my age, but at smaller parties, we'd play. She just got married and has a beautiful son, about 10 years old, who ducked every time I pointed the camera at him.

He cracked me up. When I asked him were he went to school, he said, "ER."

"Get out! I went to ER!"

You should have seen the look on his face. It was complete boredom. I realized later that this poor kid was suffering the same fate I'd suffered. The same fate most of us suffered. To him, his town was nothing special. Everyone he knew lived there. Big deal that I had once. He's hoping to get out himself one day!

I felt old. I didn't bother to tell him how much I enjoyed talking to someone who called our town "ER." It took years for me to beat that out of myself. When you're in Alaska or the South and you say you are from ER, they look at you funny. I learned to say East Rochester, but a little part of me always felt like it was false. I'm really from ER.

Aunt Dot is Tracy's grandmother. I always had grandmother envy. All my "cousins" who were my age had one, but I didn't.

This is Sandy's grandson. Isn't he handsome? He comes from a long line of dark-haired handsome men. He is the son of either Mikey or Vinnie. Had his dad been there, I would have said, "Oh look, it's Mikey or Vinnie." I couldn't tell them apart then, and I can't now.

I only have brothers, no sisters. At a family party, the only thing I'd bother saying to a boy cousin was, "Why don't you go play somewhere else." And I'd say it like that, with the periods. Not with a question mark. It wasn't that I didn't like the boys. I just didn't see the point in talking to them when there were girls around.

Alice was my favorite. She is one year older than me. It was pure joy when she'd show up. We didn't live that far from each other, so when we got old enough to walk over to each other's houses, that was the best. She's a real cousin. I think her dad, Uncle Dick, is the next oldest after my dad.

I always envied the simplicity that some families have by keeping the brothers and sisters in one generation, and the cousins in another. We just don't seem to be very good at that.


This is Caitlin holding her brother Seth. Caitlin graduated from college, and before the year was out, her dad had another baby. Caitlin and Seth are the children of my brother, Mark.


I thought this was a sweet picture. Seth got his diaper changed, and they just hung out together for a few minutes. That's Mark's wife, Nicole, with them. Briana, Nicole's daughter, wasn't there, so one person is missing from their family here, but it's still a sweet picture. When you are a kid, you have no idea that at one time, people just gathered around you and glowed in joy at your existence.

My dad is married to Kay, who has a daughter Karee.


This is Lucy, Karee's daughter. She's very cute.

Alice

I never met my paternal grandmother. I grew up down the street from her last home. It stood like a ghost on the streets of my childhood. At 46 years old, I still get together with her surviving children, yet I know almost nothing of her.

A few years ago I asked my cousin Joanie, now in her sixties, if she would tell me about our grandmother.

“My grandmother?” she replied.

Joanie looked astonished, almost startled. Joanie and I had never been in the same room with our grandmother. She had died before I was born. It has been over forty-six years since Joanie had mourned the loss of her grandmother, and now, here was this stranger saying, “No Joanie, our grandmother.” I never met any of my grandparents. I have never been anyone’s grandchild, yet I claim her for my own, depending on strangers who share my genetic connection to tell of their human relationships, just memories really, so I can drink in their nourishment.

Joanie’s answer was unsatisfying. The happy feelings, the glow of satisfaction, and the love all came through in Joanie’s response. I learned something of my grandmother. Joanie had loved her. Forty-five years later, the wonderful feelings born of that relationship were still vibrant, but she could not articulate who my grandmother was.

I cannot fault her for this. I find myself surrounded by people who love me, yet barely know me. They, too, would be unable to tell someone who I am, what I dream of, what irks me, or how I invented my jambalaya.

Maybe my blog will help.

Look Vanessa, the bags are back.

This is a rare find. Both cats are in the same room. We have two cats which we got as kittens about four years ago. I think they were about 7 weeks when we got them. We went to visit them at the neighbor's when they were two weeks, so I remember them as little fluff balls. When they came, they did everything together. It used to crack me up. They ate together, played together, and slept together. What really amazed me was that they pooped together. I could never figure out how they communicated that one. "Hey, Java, want to poop?" "Yea Latte. Good idea. Let's go."

At five months, they went their separate ways. At first we didn't notice that it was more than a separation -- it was pure hate. We really noticed after this past January. I set a piece of burlap on a dining room chair one evening, but before I could get rid of it, Latte claimed it as her own. For the next month, she sat and slept there constantly. Then, for about fours days, there was cat fighting. When it ended, Java was on the burlap and Latte was off. I realized that Java had shoved Latte into a corner of the house. She moved into Andy's room. Andy, being a teenager, never left his room either, so he welcomed Latte. About a week later, Java appeared at the door, only to be attacked by Latte. It worked. Java left never to return.

Months later, I find this. Maybe they don't hate each other completely.

I'm dying!

He looks like I snapped a picture while he was walking, but I didn't. He's standing there like that with his paw in the air and that sad look on his face.

To hear him tell it, he's had a terrible injury. He's been limping all over the house.

He came home from his walk and within two minutes the kitchen floor was covered in blood spots. We quickly discovered that his paw was cut. It turned out to be a bad cut, but not bad enough for the vet. It's like when you cut yourself with a knife while cooking, don't need a doctor, but are inconvenienced for three days holding your hand still while the cut gets a head start on its healing.

Only he's being dramatic. He went from unaware he was cut to limping around the house. It's been a few days, so now he goes bandage free in the house but bandaged up for walks. It's the bandage that makes him limp. It's hysterical.

We comfort him as best we can.

I slept through it

The winds picked up, but I was asleep and missed it all. I went outside before bed and it was windy with the temperature about 83 degrees. It's weird in New York for it to be hot in the dark. Even the hottest days get cool quickly once the sun goes down. It had been dark a few hours when it was still in the 80's.

I knew the power went out, but kept on sleeping. There were 63,000 customers without power. Ours came back on by around 11 AM yesterday, but today the paper reports that some people are still without power.

The picture is from right around the corner. The hurricane remnants brought us some beautiful cool weather, so I'm happy.

Ike

The remnants of Hurricane Ike should arrive between 9 PM and 10:30 PM with sustained winds of 25-35 mph and gusts up to 50 mph. Should be exciting.

Stewardship

I’m a hospice volunteer. I started at hospice feeling pretty prepared to assist the dying. I’d experienced my own grief, a grief so profound that merely thinking about it can still take my breath away. I’ve taken a graduate course in death and dying. I have shared friendship with a woman while she watched her preschooler die from cancer.

I was trained by hospice and went into my first assignment feeling pretty prepared. But my hospice clients have taught me that I had a lesson to learn. It wasn’t just the first person who taught me this, or the second. It took awhile to learn to take this lesson graciously.

I learned that no matter how much my desire to help another person, no matter how far my resources and circumstances surpass the person’s I am helping, they want to give me gifts. At first it felt wrong, but I’ve learned.

The first time it happened, an eighty-year-old woman, who’d had every joint but one replaced, was in need of help. She was her dying husband’s caregiver. She could not drive, so I would go to her home and drive her to appointments, the grocery store, or wherever she wanted to go. Every time, she wanted to stop and buy me lunch. I resisted. She insisted. Finally, one day, she said, “I’m not poor. Don’t worry about the money. I just value your friendship and time, and I want to show that to you.”

The next time it was a devout Christian. As her husband lay dying and she struggled to meet the needs of her young children, she told me how much she valued the practical tasks I helped her with. She said, “I pray for you every day.”

I said, “You don’t have to do that. It’s OK. I want to do this for you.”

She said, “I know. And I want to do this for you.”

It finally sunk in when I went to visit a 93 year-old-woman. I met her early that week in an assisted living facility, but in the course of a week, she been transferred to a nursing home, suddenly unable to walk or care for herself.

When I arrived, she’d been in her new home for two hours. She was agitated about a box of chocolates. Her friend had given her a gift of chocolates, but now she could not find them and asked me to look. Unable to find them, I sat down and we talked. Periodically, she asked me to get up and check another spot as she thought of it. I began to realize that she was agitated because she wanted to offer me a chocolate. My first, internal, reaction was to reassure her that I didn’t need a chocolate, but from my past lessons, I realized that the real agitation was that I was a visitor in her home, and she wanted to offer me something. She could not find her gift, nor could she even look.

Every time she asked, I got up and looked. The room was ten feet by twelve feet. I looked in every spot, some more than once. Each time, I sat back down and resisted the urge to tell her that it didn’t matter. It did matter. It mattered to her very much. Instead, I assured her that I understood her frustration. If only we could find those missing chocolates.

When her daughter-in-law arrived, she asked, “What happened to my chocolates? You had them last.”

“I brought them home. Do you need them?”

Agitated, she answered, “Yes. I need my chocolates.”

I said, “I think she wanted to offer me one.” Her daughter-in-law impressed me with her instant understanding.

“I’ll bring them tomorrow. I’ll make sure they get here.”

She was pleased, and her agitation subsided. I was glad I had learned to accept gifts graciously, since to resist her gift would have only added to her frustration. I was able to accept a gift of a chocolate a few times before she died, but she has left me with a greater gift than those chocolates. She has given me the gift of understanding stewardship.

As a Catholic, I have heard the word “stewardship” a lot in the last few years. I used to think that stewardship is about paying your share of the church's bills or doing your share of the work that needs doing, but it’s not. Stewardship is passing on God’s gifts in gratitude.

Rob versus the stump!

We have numerous areas in our yard which are weeds instead of grass. Our grass is pretty weed infested, which I don't really mind that much. I try to avoid the use of fertilizers because of their effect on the Great Lakes. But some areas of our yard are just weeds. Such as this area:

It once had many more bushes, but they have slowly died. We cut the last ones down this summer, and it left a large area that was once covered with bushes that is now covered with weeds. So we sprayed it with Round-up and waited a week or two. Now it looks like this:


Rob and I have raked it and put the waste into our compost. Now we are working on the stuff that didn't rake up. There are many weed roots still sticking up, which I've been pulling. While I do that, Rob rips out stumps with his bare hands. He started doing this a few years ago, but this year, with his new upper body strength he has developed from his tri-weekly Y visits, he was able to pull up a new personal-best-size stump.

In this picture, he'd already been hacking at it awhile.

Eventually, he just started pulling. And pulling. And pulling.

And he got it! It was a two parter. There were two bushes whose roots were connected.


We have a few more stumps to rip out and some more weed roots to pull, then the weather should be just right for spreading our grass seed.

Who are these people?

I never saw them, at least not all together like this!

Lynn, a woman at my church, organizes this 5K. I was in it, not for any athletic reasons, but more for solidarity. Irene, Kathy, and I walked the race, starting well before these guys, and I'm embarrassed to admit it, ending well after them, too! We did see them whiz past one by one as we strolled the back stretch.

We had fun doing our own thing (which included breakfast), but it was cool to watch the racers come past. The first people were young and fast, but the people in the back were very cool. They plodded along with determination, and their effort expended looked to exceed those in front of them. I found every one of them impressive.

But the cutest was the little ten year old girl with her family. She looked so proud to be keeping up.

We even decided that our church should host a booth at the festival next year. We're all over it. See, we were working.

News from down under!

Look what appeared in my email:
Thanks, Uncle Tom! It came from Australia, so I had to flip it around to find my cousins and Aunt Maureen!

I met Uncle Bob when I was about 14. It was probably 1977 or 1978. I found him very interesting, since he had arrived from Australia, seemed to know a lot about my mom, yet lived such a different life in such a different place (or so it seemed then). At fourteen, I could not believe I had been dealt such a tough blow in life. I'd had the misfortune of being born into the most boring place in the entire universe: New York. Why couldn't I live somewhere exciting?

So these are people who have lived in Australia their entire lives, but been envied by this boring New Yorker the whole time! In the back are David, Mark, and Paul. In the front are Matthew, Maureen, and Steve. Unfortunately, Uncle Bob is now deceased.

So this intrigues me. My father's name is David, and my brothers are named Mark and Steve. That's quite a few names to share. But it doesn't stop there. My mom has six grandkids. Three of them share names with Uncle Bob's nine grandkids. They both have a Justin, Katlyn/Caitlin, and a Robert.

I think Uncle Bob lives on in me a little bit. He planted that seed that I come from stock that can go anywhere and accomplish anything. I no longer feel trapped by life, but in love with it and all its possibilities. How cool to be related to you!

Is it just me?

I'm the only house on my block. I live about a quarter of the way down. I'm surrounded by open space like this:
And this:

I love it. I do not own the entire street. A farmer owns part, and the town owns part. When the town decided to sell, people were up in arms. Would they sell to developers who would change the rural character of the street? Turns out, no. They sold to a cemetery. Ohhh, how fitting! There's a little cemetery right on the street!

According to the newly erected sign, the first burial was in 1811.

There's also a soldier who fought in the Revolutionary War.

It's hard to read, but Rob and I think this is the stone for the 1811 guy.

And this picture just captures the beauty of the old cemetery. It's full of old, thin stones that have heaved up.

These are itty bitty stones whose etchings have worn away.

If I end up buried in this cemetery, here's where I want to be buried. It's toward the middle (not near the street!) and under the shade. I doubt I'll like sunshine any more when I'm dead than I do now.

So I had this vision of occasional visitors to our quiet little street, slowly burying their loved ones, people with histories, stories, and connections, slowly creating a place of memories that fade to memorials.

Instead, this happened:

(I'm rather proud of the picture, though. See how I pieced it together? Click on it for the big view.) It's a major construction site. It's full of heavy equipment completely restructuring the landscape. They cut down all the trees and bulldozed all the plants. It's a big dirt pit now.

In 1811, people got shovels out and dug a hole across the street. It was probably people who loved him. Now the cemetery is a commodity: "Hey folks, shopping around for a cemetery? Come on down to ours and check it out!" That septic system must mean flush toilets, and while they're at it, they might decide that a Starbucks would be nice for the mourners.

I live in the farm house on the street. It was built in the 1860's. I wonder how many people in that cemetery have lived in my house. I know of at least one. Living in this house, it just seems like you should be buried there. Many of the names on the stones are the same as the names on the local streets. This new cemetery just seems so corporate.

I just don't think the image of the construction workers on their heavy equipment will ever feel right when compared to my made-up image of people in wool on a hot summer day burying grandpa, not even knowing they were starting a cemetery.

Not bad!

There's nothing like the satisfaction of a job completed.

I don't think we do at school what you think we do at school

When Andy was four, he came home from pre-school and very seriously said, "Mom, I need to talk to you."

We sat down and I asked what was the matter. He said, "I don't think we do at school what you think we do at school."

"What do you do at school?" I asked. I feared the worst. Does she yell? Hit the children? Is he in some sort of sadistic pre-school where the kids are in danger?

"We just play, eat snack, paint, stuff like that," he said.

What a relief. My baby was fine. He was right where he needed to be, just as I'd thought. He just needed some reassurance. I said, "That's exactly what I think you do at school."

I'll never forget his response. "Well I don't see how any of that is going to help me be an astronaut." I ended up reassuring him that his teacher was not incompetent, and he could trust her, that she really did have the keys to becoming an astronaut.

This morning he finally made it to astronaut school. He no longer wants to be an astronaut, but at least now he can tell that they have everything he needs to be one, if he wants to.

I have a suspicion that the phrase "I don't think we do at school what you think we do at school" will be taking on a new meaning.