It is done.

The words echoed in my head as I stood beside my father's bed after his last breath. It was 3:46am, September 21, 2011. It was the end of a long struggle for my father and the turmoil he has lived with the past 5 months of this horrible affliction that finally overcame him. The last week was the most trying for him, and witnessing his journey out of this world and into the next has changed me forever.

There were many moments of time shared with just the two of us. Most of "our time" time was in the wee hours of the night as I took "night duty" with Dad and stayed with him at the hospital. I watched his labored breathing progress, his food intake lessen, his body weaken, he was shutting down. He would have such terrible, restless nights of uncomfortableness, confusion and frustration. Sometimes he would wake and look at me and say "Well Lydi, I didn't know you worked at the hospital!". I would just smile and ask what I could do for him.

The night they moved him to the 4th floor was the realization that he would be leaving us. With all of the confusion and miscommunication with many of the Med One doctors we had experienced, we were finally blessed with Dr. Patel. A young, energetic and forthright physician, and the only doctor who sat us down and told us he was dying. Had it not been for Dr. Patel, my father would not have been able to die the way he wished. At home with his family.

That night I sat by his bedside and watched the heart monitor screens outside the door for any changes in his activity. My eyes were drawn to a lovely artist's print of an angel on the wall in the nurses' station. A perfect print for the nurses of that department. Angels, every one of them. During the night my Dad awoke and was very upset that the lighting was too bright in the room. There was only one light on, which was indirect lighting on the wall behind the bed and could not be dimmed just a switch On or Off. Try as I might, I could not get the lighting to be dimmed. I turned all the lights off and turned the bathroom light on and cracked the door. Dimmer, but darker. Dad said it would not do. Back on with the indirect lights again. 5 minutes later.... the bulbs on the left side of the fixture flickered and burnt out. Poof. "Ahhhh. Much better..." my Dad says.

Yes, there are angels everywhere.

The next morning we made arrangements to get Dad home. The next 36 hours were a mixture of emotion. Laughter when he looked at my brother at the end of a serious family prayer he had just spoken and said "Nice hat", uncontrollable crying as I wondered how much more suffering he could take, heartache as he clutched my mother with all the strength he could muster and tell her he didn't want to leave her, love as I watched my wonderful nephew Zach play his ukulele for his grandad at his bedside, happiness at rememberances of times together, fear when he was shouting out in the night reliving his time in the war and demanding the dirt be dug in front of the tank he was driving and giving military commands, compassion as my mother and I took turns playing hymns on the piano and singing trying to comfort him, worry as his body went through the stages of preparing for death, so many ups and downs. I am thankful for the time that we had all together as a family to be with Dad right to the end. I am thankful I got to tell him how much he meant to me and how much I love him.

Throughout the last hours he kept seeing a door and asking for the door to be opened. We all were wondering... is this the door to heaven he is asking about? If it was, at 3:46am he stepped through that door to walk with the Lord and have all of the questions he spent his life learning and researching about.... answered.

"And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely"

I miss you Dad.

Night Watchman

I've experienced all kinds of snores in my lifetime, but tonight was one of the most soul touching snore nights of all time. I am in the medical surgical unit at the hospital keeping watch over Dad through the night. Needing to stretch my legs, I walk out into the hallway and decide to walk the hall. It is 3am. As I pass each room I hear snores, along with a tv playing, or radio, or beeping drips and monitors. Passing each room I think about the patient lying in the bed, and their families with them, some on cots, some curled up in chairs, some awake sitting on the end of their loved one's bed. I pass the room of my dear friend Jolee's mother and I can see the faint shadow of Jolee's blond braid draped over the hospital chair next to her Mother's bed in the dim light. They are sleeping. Mother and daughter. My heart breaks for her. She told me tonight that Hospice care begins tomorrow.

My Dad is finally snoring soundly. After a night of fitful sleep, forceful coughing, UTI discomfort, labored breathing and multiple nurse stops, he sleeps. The catheter will help him stay comfortable and asleep for longer periods of rest. I've never been so happy to hear a snore in my life.

It made me realize that on the Second Floor, snoring is a good thing. It means deep restful slumber at last. No pain, no suffering, no uncomfortableness, no interruptions, no frustrations... Just wonderful deep snoring sleep.

Heartache

I woke up wide awake at 4am this morning. I can't get my father off my mind. Walking around the house I see the pictures of him in the frames on my living room shelves. A big strapping man with an even bigger smile, full of life and action. Remembering our talkative drives together after school for so many years for piano lessons in Williamstown, I think about his sharp mind and incredible intelligence. Looking at the finely detailed wooden spoons and dollhouse furniture he made for me on those same shelves, I think about his wonderful hands. Hands that worked with wood, hands that wrote sermons, hands that played the piano, hands that held others. He can barely use his hands now.

This horrible affliction has completely taken him over. His mind, his body and now his spirit. He is bedfast, unable to move much if at all. I am very worried that he has given up. I can see it in my tired mother's eyes, she is worried too. My heart aches for them.

These past couple of weeks his condition has worsened drastically. I was so hoping that the infusion treatments would help, but he isn't responding to them. He doesn't want to exercise his muscles, he doesn't want to eat, he doesn't want to do anything. His longtime pastor friends have visited and called and counseled. There is no change. I fear that he has been overcome.

Psalm 121:

I lift up my eyes to the hills- Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip -
He who watches over you will not slumber;
Indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
The LORD watches over you
The LORD is your shade at your right hand;
The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.
The LORD will keep you from all harm -
He will watch over your life;
The LORD will watch over your coming and going
Both now and forevermore.

I read this over and over. And keep hope.

The Other Side of the Glass Door

It's Wednesday afternoon and I am attending to Dad at their home while my Mom gets a much needed break with her lady friends at knitting club. They have planned a nice birthday "party" surprise for her today. Having friends like that makes me so happy for her that she has a bright spot in her days. While she desperately wanted to go, the anxiety of leaving Dad's side scared her to death. I likened her to a new mother leaving her baby with a babysitter alone for the first time as she nervously showed me all the supplies, medications (with full instructions) and food directions for Dad. Within minutes of her departure Dad was settled in his recliner and telling me he wanted a nap before eating his lunch.

Looking at him relaxed in his chair in his fresh, clean pjs with notes from Mom about this or that surrounding him, side table with his books carefully stacked and water jug iced down, he is in restful slumber.

We have a family tradition in the Harris family. When we are leaving from one another's house, we will stand and wave until the leaving party is out of sight. A new tradition my mother and I started a few years back was blowing a kiss to each other and waving as I would back out and leave her driveway. Today, as I stood at her back patio door and blew her a kiss as she rode away with Lena down the driveway, it occured to me that this had never happened before. I, standing at her door blowing a kiss to her as she was leaving. I stare at the empty driveway. Feeling and living her world on the other side of the glass door.

Patience is a virtue...

Patience has never been my strong suit. I look back on my younger days and how impatient I was with drivers who were too slow, people who took too long in the check out line, waiting for food to be ready, long car rides to a destination, computers that took too long to boot up. Little did I know at the age of 23 that by 42 all of those "important time stealers" would mean very little to me anymore. Hurry does not work well with patience. Why does it seem everyone is in such a hurry? What are we in a rush to finish? Do we rush and rush, only to be at the same place at the same time if we just would have been patient and let it happen naturally?

I pondered this theory when driving with my kids this past week to the mountains. Going up the last of the straight stretches at Alpena we were following a huge flatbed with a gigantic propeller wing for one of the windmills they were installing in Davis. We had followed the truck from Elkins. We were traveling at about 8 miles an hour. It was obvious by the flailing arms and "mouthed" expletives from the driver in the car behind me that he "was in a hurry". Risking life and limb, the driver swerved around us and gunned it to barely make it past the truck just before the road drastically curved to the left. He about lost it in the ditch, but made it past. The truck and I continued on our slow journey over the mountain and as we approached the gas station at the top of Laurel Mountain, we were met by a road construction crew... controlling traffic down to one lane. Guess who was there waiting in line? Mr. Speedypants. Same place, same time. Was his risk worth it? I'd like to think not.

Patience is something I'm constantly working on. My patience level took a drastic change when I got married, again when I took on each of my pets, it changed dramatically when I had my children and now, I am learning a whole new level of patience with my parents. I'm getting there, I'm just a slow learner.

I've spent my whole life being in a hurry. I'm tired.

.

The Power of Music

Anyone who knows me, knows I love music. All kinds of music. From the head-banging notes of The Violent Femmes to Chopin's soothing and melancholy Nocturnes and everything in between. One of the best things about music is that no matter what your mood, there is a song for it. And even when there might not be just the right song for it, you can make one up.

Music is the international language and bridges so many cultural divides. It heals, soothes and educates. Even when our oldest daughter Elena had her horse, it always amazed me that Leona (the horse) would respond to the type of music we played for her. Slow, calming songs when we groomed her, and then snappy songs for riding. Her natural rhythm would follow the beat of the songs. Different steps and patterns for different songs and rhythms.

Music expresses emotion. It builds us up. It calms us down. It evokes memories. It makes memories.

Music is educational! Math was never my forte, but had it not been for beats per measure, time signature, scoring and my faithful friend the metronome, I may have been lost about the fundamentals of music and mathematics. Music is a valuable teacher.

Recently music has been my motivator. Beginning the second mile of my morning walk uphill and breathing hard, if it weren't for Taio Cruz and "Higher" I don't think I could make it. My drive to work right now usually involves the old dance tune "Knock Knock Knock on Wood" to get me revved up for the day. I apologize to anyone reading this blog if you pull up next to me at the light in town. That's right. I'm the crazy woman who always plays her music too loud. If the doors are thumpin', the music is pumpin'! Even with the windows rolled up I know I have to be breaking a sound ordinance somewhere. If something happened to my iPod I think I might have a nervous breakdown.

Finally, and most importantly, music is from God. No other music touches me more than the old hymns I grew up with in church. When I sing them now on Sunday mornings I can't help but get choked up with emotion. It touches something deep inside me. I think the newer contemporary songs are great too, but they don't have what the hymns of yesteryear have. Even at Vacation Bible School I miss the old standards like "Deep and Wide" and "I've Got the Joy Joy Joy Joy Down in My Heart", they have been replaced with "hip", rockin' tunes with video. While some of these newer songs can certainly bring tears to your eyes, it's the old standards that work for me.

There is one song above all others that encompasses everything that music is to me. I cry uncontrollably upon singing it, playing it and even thinking about it. Blessed Assurance. Written by a blind hymn writer visiting her friend who was getting a new organ back in 1873. It was a jam session for the two of them. The song is now 138 years old and means just as much now as it did then, if not more. That's the power of music.

Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens

Ahhhhh.... the snoring hour. It's quite a rhythmic household tonight between the thunder, subsonic snoring and raindrops on the roof. I'm watching my favorite channel, the Weather Channel, and seeing that we're in for more of the same this week.... rain. Rain, Rain, and more Rain. The only good thing? I'm not having to haul the watering can around. The roses are absolutely beautiful soaking up all this liquid sunshine.

Listening to the wind whip around the house and through our woods I can't get my mind off our new little friend. Sweetie. A stray mama kitty who has completely captured my heart. Sweetie showed up on Friday looking a bit "round" and by Sunday evening looked quite the opposite. We have scoured the woods. We have searched high and low. We have looked in the hollows of trees. We have sifted through brush piles. We have done the perimeter. We cannot find her kittens. She arrives as quietly as she leaves and is quite cunning at keeping anyone from finding her nest. She is worrying me to pieces.

Wet food, dry food, fresh water, dry cedar box with fresh towels out of the wind and rain. I have rolled out the red carpet for her. But no occupants yet. She comes and hungrily scarfs all of the food down, gets a good long cuddling and head/neck scratching, stretches out on the cool concrete of the garage floor, then .... quick as a whip, you turn your head for one second ... and she's gone. Without a trace. The cat is a master. Yoda himself would be amazed.

I was able to get her to Dr. Lutz today for a quick check and blood test (good report all around!) and back home within 35 minutes so she wouldn't be away from her babies too long. Dr. Lutz said not to worry, she must have a good hiding spot.

Still, I can't stop worrying. The driving rain, booming thunder and flashing lightning make me scared for her. She won't move her kittens if she feels they are safe, so I need to stop being an impatient control freak and let her do the protecting.

Whiskers on kittens... one of my favorite things... hope I get to see them soon.

The Virus that Started a Virus

I will be the first to admit that I have a Facebook problem. When it first came out on college campuses it was a hit. Migrating into the public sector it grew like a virus by leaps and bounds. Hmmmm. A virus. Funny to mention that as I type on my good old Dell laptop back from the repair shop with an invoice blaring the following:

22 Virus Infections Removed
924 Trojans and Spyware Items Removed
45 Hijacked Items Removed
257 Registry Errors Removed
250.2 MB Temp Files Removed
Removed Corrupted Mcafee

The expert at the computer shop explained to my husband that the majority of the mess on my computer had come through Facebook. Then to top it off as he's packing up the computer he says to my beloved... "Your wife sure does like Facebook!" Geesh. I felt like a scolded child.

My husband HATES Facebook. I get a chuckle teasing him about his Facebook page he actually registered long ago. It shows a shadowed silhouette of a man's head with the simple statement... "Bob has no friends". He refuses to participate. Its not for lack of Friend Requests, he gets them all the time, he has made the staunch decision to have unwaivering opposition to Facebook. No social networking for Mr. Donnelly. His social life is in person, never on a computer. His social networking is around a firepit with his best buddies swapping stories and doing some swilling.

Today he got his day in court.
Lydia's laptop viruses = riddled beyond recognition
Bob's laptop viruses = 0

It's irresistible for me however to sign on and see what's happening in everyone's world, to feel connected and stay in touch. Human contact. That's what it's all about. And whether you do it in person or by computer the risk is the same... you just might get a virus.

Kids, What's the Matter With Kids Today

When my brother was in high school his class did a school musical. It was my first real "show" and I am still amazed at how much I remember about it. The musical was Bye Bye Birdie and it completely rocked my world. One of my favorite songs from the production was originally sung by Paul Lynde in the movie who played the role of Harry MacAfee entitled "What's the Matter With Kids Today". It had a catchy tune, hilarious words and what I thought as a child, a very silly meaning.

I found myself singing that song tonight, and the meaning didn't seem so silly to me anymore.

Have I become Harry MacAfee? I've spent the evening collecting my real estate signs kids have stolen from houses and placed in other yards all over town, only to be topped off with a call from the Marietta Police Department about a vacant house. What IS the matter with some of these kids today? It makes me cringe at what our world is turning into. Such disrespect for others and others' property.

I realize that each generation evolves, but I find it interesting to see how manners have UN-evolved. Excuse me for a minute for some history. Take the G.I. Generation (born 1912-1927) for instance. Hard work, self reliance, respect for authority and civic obligation are characteristics of this generation. The next changeover, the Silent Generation (born 1925-1945), this group includes my parents, is said to have been concerned more with being cautious and conventional, women started to desire a family AND a career. Then there are our Baby Boomers (born 1946-1964). Known for being goal oriented, work-centric, affected by strong political events either drawing them closer to social causes or perhaps driving them away and creating distrust, however this generation is responsible for so many individual freedoms like civil rights, feminist cause, gay rights, privacy rights and handicapped rights. They were a busy group making changes.

When we get to Generations X and Y it is frustrating to experience the vast differences of ourselves and the GI Generation and how far we've fallen when it comes to manners. What kind of children are our generations raising as a whole? What values and morals are being emphasized? WHO is raising our children? Why is it that so many of the grandparents of today are raising their children's children? What is going wrong?

As I mentioned, I received a call from the Police Department about a group of children vandalizing one of our company's listings. The children had been caught thankfully before too much damage was done, and I was asked to come to the property to determine what fate was to become of the children. It was quite a diverse group. Some sincerely sorry for what they'd done, some indifferent and emotionless, others actually brazen enough to laugh about what was happening. With charges of vandalism, trespassing and littering facing them, they were willing to accept responsibility when I gave them the option of restitution for what they had done versus charging them and sending them up to juvenile hall. This was a chance for them to make good for their actions and hopefully learn a lesson.

Who would actually show up?

What I experienced next confirmed my theory of our social deterioration from generation to generation. I witnessed a 75 year old grandfather bring his grandchildren as well as tools and material to make sure they did their job and to "make right what they did wrong". It is important to note that this gentleman was ON TIME. These children are very fortunate to have a grandfather who is doing all he can to guide their paths while it is apparant their actual parents are not. Another child was there with his father and grandfather and ready to do what needed to be done, and had actually shown up early. On the other end of the spectrum I got to witness just why the troubles exist with some of these children. Little to no adult supervision from their parents, starved for attention and forced to be taking care of themselves at too young of an age. Not all of the children showed up. That was a disappointment. Even when given the opportunity to "take the right path", some children still choose to refuse it, and the parent isn't there to make them.

Too much. Too soon. Too fast.

Blossoms in the Breeze

As we rest in our room for an afternoon break, I am listening to the snores emanating from my dear mother (she will not be happy that I shared that with you) and was inspired to write a quick post while I am in our great nation’s capitol. There have been many reasons to bring my mother on this pilgrimage to Washington, DC, many that some folks might find surprising.

Firstly, my mother has always wanted to see the cherry blossoms on the Tidal Basin. As a girl growing up I can remember around Easter time every year she would get the new Ideals magazine. Quickly leafing through the pages together to the issue’s colorful scene of the Jefferson Memorial and the flowering trees we would be in awe. Every spring issue was guaranteed a cherry blossom spread. She would look at me with a big smile and say “wouldn’t that be something to see?!” And indeed it was. And we finally saw the real thing… together.

Secondly, my mother is an amazing letter-writer. She has written letters to our politicians and community leaders, to missionaries overseas, to strangers in need, to our military soldiers, to scores of people for a multitude of reasons. Maybe concern, or support, others for questions about decisions being made, whatever the reason, the power in her pen has been mighty. It pleased me greatly to watch her face light up as we explored the halls of the Library of Congress and the National Archives. There, at her fingertips were letters that created a country, letters that expressed the deepest of concerns, and letters that made a difference.

Thirdly, my mother is very patriotic. Most likely the most patriotic person I know next to my father. The drums and brass of John Philip Sousa can be found in her boom box any day of the week. The Pledge of Allegiance at the raising of her porch flag, Veteran’s Day parades and services in the cemetery, wearing poppies, memorizing patriotic verses, believing in everything the United States stands for, and supporting our troops and their families.

Finally, a trip to DC because every now and again, we two girls need to escape together. A mother-daughter out of town trip where we can talk non-stop, eat yummy food, go exciting places, indulge ourselves and just act plain silly. As the colder weather pushed through today with winds of 30 miles per hour, the beautiful white blossoms we came to see were floating through the air, like a soft, delicate snow of petals. Just as the blossoms were departing, so would we in the morning.

I am thinking back on our past three days and all of the wonderful sights, smells and sounds we have experienced.

There have been so many memories made and smiles shared. My favorite memory of this trip though will be of my beautiful mother, looking out over the Basin to the Jefferson Memorial, taking off her scarf and letting her white hair blow in the wind. Giving herself the freedom to be a blossom in the breeze.

A Week That Will Live In Infamy

It's taken me a few days to calm down and collect myself from the events of last week. Living a life on the edge has conditioned me to be what I thought fairly "seasoned" when it comes to handling conflict and trauma. I was wrong. Last week was a wave of upset with the departure of our dearest dog and family member Sunny. Sunny was our first child. Bob had always wanted a yellow lab, and I couldn't think of a more perfect wedding present than a lovable pup. She was everything a family dog could ever be and more. She was our baby, a Nana to our children, an honorary "cat" with our cat pack, the neighborhood pet (she had special stops at the neighbors who kept treats for her), a free spirit who loved to run and play. She was always happy. There are posts and posts that could be written for Sunny the Super Sundog. Once I can write them without falling apart, I will. We've never been a family without her, and it's a hard adjustment.

Friday came and I was starting to feel some relief that the week was almost over when the phone call came. The phone call that gave me the news that I have been in fear of for at least 12 years. "Your biopsy results are in, it's malignant melanoma. We need you to come in for surgery first thing Monday morning." Well, there it was.

The millions of thoughts running through my mind between the snores of Friday night to the snores of Sunday morning could fill the remainder of the Internet.

I can't blame anyone but myself.

Chocolate was a color I used to strive for. It made me feel beautiful, it made me feel skinny, it made me feel more comfortable in my own skin. Here I am at 42, scarred, freckled, wearing a big floppy hat and SPF 100. If anyone who is reading this particular post gets anything from it, I hope it's that if you go to a tanning bed, you STOP it right away. Use sunscreen and be smart out in the sun. It CAN kill you.

Monday morning came, a new day for a new week. Surgery was successful (thank you God and Dr. Sammons) and I go back in a few weeks for another scan.

Was God trying to tell me something last week? Of course. Life is short. Make the most of every day and don't have regrets that you carry with you. Pet your dog every chance you get, wear sunscreen when you go outside, pay attention to your body, don't think you're invincible, love the ones you're with and most of all, accept the consequences and yourself.

It was a dark and stormy night...

In my night time world between snores I've witnessed many a weather beater. Snow storms, wind storms, thunderstorms, hail storms, all kinds of storms. It's the kind of night that you know you'll end up having all sorts of company in bed. I've often wondered why bedding companies don't make a "family mattress". I can see the ad now... "Tired of being smashed into 5 inch wide strip on stormy nights? Unable to move your legs when sleeping with 7? Buy the Family Mattress! Twice the Mattress with Four Times the Space!"

Lying awake I count between the snores, then between the lightning and the thunder booms.... 1...2...3... then the pattering of sleepy feet coming down the hall with a quiet scared whisper "Mama? Can I get in bed with you?" I pull the covers back and Elena hops over into the middle. The thunder gets closer. The dog starts to pace. She comes over and is now face to face with me panting with fear. I pat the bottom of the bed and her 13 year old hips get her up and over and to the side. The lightning cracks wickedly close to the house. There is a gallop heard coming down the hall ... Carmen. She runs to my side of the bed and like a mother hen lifting up her feathers, I lift the comforter and pull her up into safety.

There we are, all squeezed together, when the cats decide to muscle in. Radar stretched out along my side and Tom snuggled up with Sunny. Its the kind of night that doesn't happen often, but when it does I try to remember every moment because one day it won't exist anymore, and I'll be back to weathering the storm in a bed of two.

It's quite a sight really. And a sound. Everyone sleeping ... and snoring.

Daffodils and Mayonnaise Jars

Ever since I was a little girl I have loved daffodils. They hold a very sentimental meaning to me for so many reasons. First, being a spring flower, the daffodils seasonally start to bloom right around my birthday. I can remember walking through the field across from 426 Dunkin Avenue in Bridgeport, West Virginia picking what daffodils I could to take home to my mother, excited that she would put them in a big glass mayonnaise jar in the middle of the kitchen table. I wasn't that fond of how daffodils smelled, but I loved the way they looked. Happy, bright, a small trumpet in the middle declaring "Joy to Ye People! Spring has Come!" When I moved from Bridegport to St. Marys, West Virginia, I was in the second grade and as you can imagine, not thrilled that we were moving. We were moving to a big old three story house next to the Baptist Church ... the parsonage. It was massive to an 8 year old girl. I knew no one. I had a huge bedroom all alone. I missed my best friend that I had to leave in Bridgeport, Annie Faris, and I wanted to go back.

Two days into our new life in St. Marys I was sulking in my second floor room and feeling sorry for myself when I kept hearing singing outside my window. I opened the window and propped a stick up to hold it and looked out. I hadn't realized that the house next door was about 3 feet away! I had never had a house so close to mine. The singing continued, and turned into humming. I caught a quick glimpse of white hair shuffling just under the open criss-cross window in the neighboring house. Spontaneously I shouted "Hellooo!". The humming stopped. I said "Hello over there!" Then a window opened on the other side of the criss-cross window room and a friendly elderly woman peered out and shouted back at me "Hello over THERE!" I had just met Mrs. West. We had a nice conversation from our second story windows.


The next morning on the front porch I was surprised with a lovely bunch of daffodils in a jelly jar with a simple note saying "Welcome, from Mrs. West".

Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all.

Spring after spring I watched the daffodils bloom around the churchyard, in the cemetery, in the park up the road and in the playground.

When it was time for me to go to college, I was thrilled to see the hillsides of daffodils in Philippi. On College Hill Road on the way up the hill to the college, there is a hill that blooms daffodils from top to bottom. I imagine they're out right now.


We would pick bundles of daffodils and sneak them off to our rooms to put in whatever empty jars we could find. I had never seen so many in one place.

Now in my 42nd year, I still get excited when its daffodil days. Watching my girls pick them out of the yard makes me smile, and I keep an old mayonnaise jar at the ready.

Nature, Nurture and Noses

In the wee hours of the night I have many perpetual thoughts. One of these thoughts are of my mother and father and how they really had their hands full with me growing up. Now that I have two children (both of which predominantly have my traits and my nose) I never miss an opportunity to thank my parents for their patience and ability to be so amazing even though I was a complete pain to have as a child. Let's face it, when you adopt a child it's a total risk. What will she be like? Is it nature or nurture? Will she grow to look like us? What traits will she have? What are we getting into?

My parents wanted a baby. They wanted a girl. 3 days old and fresh out of the Wheeling Ohio Valley General Hospital my folks lovingly opened their arms and took me to my forever home. Much like a stray getting sprung from the humane society, I had been chosen. Little did I know that I had hit the jackpot.

Being adopted was never a secret, I remember vividly in my eighth year of life the day my mother held me on her lap in the rocking chair and explained to me that I was adopted and just what exactly that meant. I had all the normal reactions. Anger, Sorrow, Wonder, Loneliness, Confusion. As I grew older I realized that I was very blessed to have been matched with such a loving mother and marvelous father. I am who I am today because of them.

I've never given my adoption status a fleeting thought until pondering one morning when I was pregnant with our first born. I had received an ad in the mail for Viacord. Reading through the colorful pamphlets about stem cells, blood banking, cord blood and genetic screening it hit me. Elena would become my only biological link. I would no longer be alone!
There would be two of us in the world together. My blood was her blood and hers, mine. Imagine my delight 5 years later that the doctors' conclusions were wrong, and Carmen June was on the way.

Just in the past year my parents have told me that they have a file about my biological mother and father. She, a very young high school girl who loved music and played the piano. He, a football player. They asked me if I wanted to see it.

I have decided it's best not for now. Body scans, mammograms, health screening and blood tests keep me on the lookout for any genetic surprises. Do I need to see it for health reasons? Not yet. Do I need to see it to curb my curiosity? That still scares me. Do I need to see it to have a biological link? Not any more.

The midnight hours are no longer saturated with thoughts of 'where did I come from?', 'where are they now?', 'what do they look like?'.

I walk tippy-toed into my girls' rooms and look at their angelic sleeping faces and then I know where I come from and where the three of us belong. Right where God put us.

Commando"ing"

Being raised under very strict rule and not permitted to do anything remotely perceived as "bad" growing up, I did what every red-blooded American preacher's kid would do upon fleeing the nest to go to college... rebelled and went wild. My Freshman year at school would prove to be one of many milestones and experiences. The highlight of my first year was to become a sister of Chi Sigma Nu sorority. Never before in my life had I had a sister, and then I had 12!
As I look back on my dorm life with 12 sisters it still makes me smile. There was always someone there to share a laugh, cry on a shoulder, partake in a bitch session, sit with at dinner, walk with to class... and pull the best pranks. "Commandoing" as we called it was our night time joy ride. It was a time for justice, mischief or just plain old orneriness. There would be no snoring that night! The word would spread across the sisters that day during classes that "tonight was the night". An hour would be set to meet, most usually this was 1:00am. Black clothing was mandatory. Faces were to be covered or blackened with makeup. Sometimes pantyhose over the head was necessary. What would be the mission for the night? Turning license plates upside down on the cars at faculty row? Mr. Bubble in the campus fountain? Body surfing on the top of a car? Toilet papering our favorite prof's office? Saran-wrapping all the public toilets? Maxi pads on the license plates of boys who had done one of us wrong? The fun never stopped. Until one night.

The night my father, who had taken a temporary staff position at the college for a professor on sabbatical, made the mistake of letting me borrow his car. The key to my father's car was on a key ring which also held the master key to all of the doors on campus. Now any other group of wild girls could have certainly used this master key to do all kinds of naughtiness. What did we do? We opened the doors of the library and drove Dad's car inside and locked the building back up. Imagine the look on my father's face when he walked out of a staff meeting the next morning to find his car the center of attention at Pickett Library. Imagine the look on MY face when the president of the college was walking right beside him.

COST: 20 hours of community service at Heiner Hall serving banquets
PRICELESS: Dad's big smile behind the wheel :)

Snoring. According to 2010 statistics, there is a 2 to 1 ratio of men to women snorers. I can attest that my entire life I have had someone snoring in it. The late night rattling, the pig whistles, the throat freight train, the nose foghorn, I've heard them all. Don't worry, this blog is not about snoring, but rather what happens "between the snores."

I've come to appreciate the night, it has taken 3 decades to get to that point. Being an insomniac wasn't terribly difficult in college, the late night weekends, all-nighters for studying, working the late shift managing the bar... there were always ways to combat not sleeping. I just had to schedule around it. When I did happen to land in my room, my suitemate's snoring could make Paul Bunyan's wood-cutting skills look like Chinese folk paper art. There was to be no sleep. Between the snores I had a life unlike anyone else that I knew in college. Some of my most precious memories of college were times that no one even knew existed, except me and my maker. Dorsey, the campus security guard, would be my only material witness if there were to be any.

The campus at night was a completely different world. No people, no hustle and bustle, no sounds but the water churning in the fountain, mountain peepers and an occasional rustling in the trees. Each building took on a different feel late at night. What during the day was a place of tortuous classes, became a sanctuary for me at night. Belting out a Prokofiev or Beethoven piece on the Yamaha concert grand piano in the campus chapel at 3:00 in the morning was exhilarating. I imagined the auditorium filled with people and I performing in the spotlight, fingers flying with reckless abandon. There were many nights spent in the chapel. I can still remember the deafening quiet once the sustain pedal was lifted up from the last chord of the piece. The quiet after the storm, rather than before.


Collecting my music books I would sling my backpack on my shoulder and slip out of the chapel just in time to see the sun making it's way up behind the dusky mountain range. My key would just be turning in the suite door in time to catch the awakening snurkling snore of a suitemate as the alarm started our day.