Category Archives: George

The future of an Easter chick isn’t pretty

A question, George, Pets,

imagesMany years ago, my husband, George, had a secretary who had a young son.  One Easter, the secretary–I’ll call her Mary to protect her identity from any animal rights group–and her husband bought little Bobby a chick several weeks before Easter.  The family also had a German shepherd, a large but gentle dog, Mary said, who adored that little bird.  She told stories of how the dog allowed the chick to sit on his face, to run across his back.  The dog even carried the chick around on the top of his head.  It was so very cute.images

On Easter Sunday, they headed for church and left the chick and the dog alone, together, as usual.  When they returned home, they couldn’t find the chick anywhere.  They looked all over and even called it because chicks are so good at coming when their names are called.  Finally, they decided, the chick had escaped from the house somehow.

Does anyone want to guess what George thought happened to it?

Advent blogs

Celebrating, Coming up, George, Guest blogger, Holidays, Uncategorized, , ,

imagesI asked two special friends from George’s and my long-ago days in seminary to write a blog for Advent for another point of view than mine.  Both of these men were George’s roommates while he was in seminary.

Wayne Barnett and George were friends from CYF Conference (summer church camp) and all through college.  Wayne and his wife LaDonna were parts of our lives for many years.  George performed their wedding and Wayne was George’s best man.   He retired from a long pastorate in Kentucky but still keeps busy.   His blog will be up this afternoon.

Roy Martin lived down the hall from me in seminary until he moved in with George and Wayne.  We lost touch but with the magic of Facebook discovered each other–and Roy’s wife–two or three years ago.  Roy retired from years of ministry but keeps busy by going back to school, picking up degrees and learning things he shares.   His blog will be up December 16.

I cannot tell you the joy I feel that these two ministers and dear friends agreed to write a blog for Advent.

Courtesy at the H-E-B

A question, George, Happening Now, Musings, ,

kindness-is-contagiousI went to the H-E-B grocery store yesterday.  As sometimes happens, I was really tired and drove the little electric cart around to pick up the items I needed.   This happens a few times a year–when I hurt or exhausted–and every time I think I need to write about how rude people are to the handicapped.   So, here I go.

Many able-bodied people (a pejorative in some circles) see a person in a wheelchair or the electric mobility aid and think, “Slow.  Must get ahead of.  Must get around.”   I have seen shoppers actually hurdle the feet of people in wheelchairs or dash in front of me so I have to hit reverse suddenly so I don’t run over them.   It’s as if there were a race with money riding on who got the loaf of bread and carried it to check-out first.  Why?

Even worse than the shoppers who do this are the workers there who have nearly pushed me out of the way in their haste.   I’m a woman of little patience but I’ve learned it in the grocery store because otherwise I’d probably start yelling profanities.   Yes, I write the sweet books in which the characters don’t use those words, but I have heard them and I could use them.

So I beg of you, concede the right-of-way or wait and please don’t run in front of handicapped people.  It shows more about you than you might think and teaches your children a negative lesson.

What can shoppers do to help?  At first, when people in front of me in the check out lane asked if they could unload my cart for me, I was insulted.  I can take care of myself, thank you.   Now I appreciate the offer and accept it.

Also, if there’s something on a high shelf or in a freezer case, offer assistance.  I can stand on my own but getting up and down often is painful and many in wheelchairs cannot.    We can always turn you down but I’m always grateful for the possibility.

Treat handicapped people as you treat anyone else.  I have a brain.  Talk to me.  Don’t ask my friend if I want something.   Ask me.

Wander around the store to see if it seems accessible and tell the manager if it’s not.  Today I’m calling my local H-E-B because in the bakery department, many small tables had been set up to display items, so many that I had great trouble getting around.  I had to back down aisles, move back and forth to make a turn.  If I’d been going straight, the aisles were wide enough but having to turn, no.

What else can you thing of?   I’d like to add to the list.

 

Baseball and my lack of a moral compass

Confession, Family, George, Sports, Uncategorized, , ,

10610469_10152750714193373_7906439356951706763_nI loved baseball all my life–until the strike.

My father loved nearly all sports and started taking me to games when I was three or four.  My family spent cool autumn Saturdays in Lawrence, Kansas, attending University of Kansas games and drove from Kansas City to Lawrence once a week during basketball season to watch the Hawks.

In the summer, we went to Kansas City Blues games–minor league baseball–until the Athletics came.  I even interviewed the manager of the A’s for my high school newspaper.  When the A’s left for California, I became a Royals fan and, because we lived in Hays, Kansas, for five years, we went to several games every summer.  I was in the stands when George Brett was hitting .385.   During tornado warnings–which came weeklin in Western Kansas–we sat in the basement and listened to games.

George’s favorite story was when I was sitting next to two men who were keeping score and arguing about a play and if a player should get an RBI.  I leaned over and said, “The run scored on an error so it was an unearned run and no RBI.”

Then the strike hit in 1994 and  World Series was cancelled.  I was irate.  Furious.  I mean, really, really angry.   I vowed, “If you’re going to take away my World Series, I’m not going to another game.”   I kept that vow for  years.

For years, once a week George would look at the standings in the newspaper and say, “You don’t want me to tell you about the Royals.”   I didn’t ask.

Then, last year, the Royals started doing well and hooked me only to break my heart.  This year, I got interested after the All-Star break although I could only watch games with Texas teams.  Others were blacked out.

And I discovered something terrible about myself.   I had not stopped being a baseball fan due to a moral stand.   I no longer watched baseball because the Royals were a terrible team.  Yes, I have to confess this:  I am a fair-weather fan.  I also want to confess I’m having a lot of fun this post season!

Why in the world did I ever keep that?

Coming up, George, Happening Now, Stuff, , , ,

imagesAs I sort and toss and pack, I wonder, “Has that always looked so bad?”   Yesterday, this thought came because of the breadbox which I’ve had for probably twenty years.    It’s dirty and just plain ugly.  Yes, I could wash it but ugly can’t be fixed.    Also, I no longer eat much bread, certainly not enough to take up a few feet of counter space.   George did.  He liked different flavors of bread.  But not me.  It’s in the back of the car to take to Goodwill in case they believe it’s salvageable.

Perhaps finding old stuff that has gradually become unsightly is a way of telling us, “Hey, you’re getting old” or nagging us, “Time to move on.”

Many years ago, we were attempting to sell our house.  We’d had the sofa for a long time and knew the fabric underneath and concealing the springs had torn and brushed against the carpet.  Probably a cat had enjoyed pulling herself along with that.   For whatever reason, the dangling cloth didn’t bother us.   It DID bother the real estate agent.  As soon as he walked in, he said, “Get rid of that sofa.”   I asked, “Won’t the room look odd without it?”  He said, “Not as bad as it does now.”

And perhaps that’s a positive outcome of a move: we can get rid of the stuff that shows wear, that reminds us time is passing but also reminds us for a few minutes of good memories.

Editing just because I can

A question, Confession, George, Musings

editA few weeks back, I asked on Facebook if anyone else edited the books they were reading as they read.   Many people commented that they did.  Some said they didn’t edit if the sentence didn’t interrupt the story.    For me, if I have to stop to figure out the meaning, I quickly edit and move on, feeling better.

There’s a sentence in a television commercial for a medication that always made George laugh, a warning for “those who take aspirin or the boots in closet2elderly.”   As he explained, the sentence contained a warning for “those who take the elderly” although it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.  What an easy fix to write, “the elderly and those who take aspirin.”

A sentence I read the other day.  “He found a pair of boots that would fit him hanging in the closet.”  Truly, my first thought was that he could wear these boots as he hung in the closet.”  Logic took over.  Of course, the BOOTS were hanging in the closet.  The sentence wouldn’t have stopped me–the incredibly picky and easily confused reader–if written like this:  “Hanging in the closet was a pair of boots that would fit him.”

intruder in the dustAnd over and over, run on sentence beg me–simply implore me–to edit them, to cut them up into comprehensible units.   In fact, that’s one of the reasons I cannot read Faulkner.   He had one sentence that was a page and a half long.  I could not handle it.  I rush to add that Faulkner is one of the best novelists in the country and I’m not, but I still believe he’d profit from a little editing.

Do you ever edit as you read?   Please share.  It always makes me feel better to know I’m not alone.

Basketball kept my marriage together

Celebrating, Coming up, George, University of Louisville, , , , , , ,

basketballGeorge always took a week of vacation to watch the opening rounds  of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament.  He loved every second.  What could be better than watching basketball for hours and hours?  Even teams he did care about, if they were dancing, he watched.   All week.  Iona, Butler, Little Sisters of the Poor–he didn’t care if they were playing Florida or Louisville.  He just wanted to watch every moment.charlie tyra

For that reason and in honor of George, I’ve filled out my brackets.  I’m recording all games this week on four different channels PLUS the women’s games.   At the end of this week, he’d hope that University of Louisville would go on to the sweet sixteen because, Houston v Louisvilleas much as he loved basketball in general, he loved Louisville most.  He’d bring up Charley Tyra  (in picture on right) or Butch Beard or Wes Unseld or Junior Bridgeman and tell incredible stories of positioning and rebounding.

I heard the same stories every year.  I know them well.  Thoughts of the rebounding prowess of Tyra always reminds me that spring has arrived.

These weeks go so fast.  In no time, we’ll be down to the final four–then basketball will be over with nothing to look ahead to but college football.basketball in heaven 2

During these days, I think of George.  Ihope he’s dropped his feet over the edge of heaven so he can get a good view in Dallas or wherever any team is playing.   Eternal basketball would be part of George’s idea of heaven.     And–this makes me smile and cry at the same time–I think of George settling down with his Kindle and his chewing gun and a short rope of red licorice to cheer for his Cardinals.  He’s wearing his favorite UofL shirts, easy to find inside the pearly gates.  Then the game starts and I can almost hear him shout,   “C-A-R-D-S”.

 

Skipping Fridays for a month or two or six

Family, George, Musings, Writing, , ,

Snoopy writingIn my efforts to get the taxes together–which I do not do well or happily but feel I’m not alone in that–and working on new writing projects, I’ve decided to write only one blog a week, my Tuesday blog.

I didn’t think I’d like blogging when I first started.  The publicist at my publishing company requested I do that and I enjoy it  During the time after George’s death when I didn’t feel a bit creative, writing, I found a short blog kept me writing.  Also, I’ve been amazed at some of the topics I came upon and I really love it when someone comments.

Please keep up with me on Tuesdays!

The Sound of Approval

Quilt005-450x600I love petting Scooter, my gorgeous long-haired tuxedo cat.   His fur feels like cashmere.  But  the greatest joy is that he purrs, loudly.    He makes me believe–true or not–that I’m the most important being in his life.  Then he leaps off my lap and scratches the furniture and bites his sister’s eaars.  Nonetheless, when I’m petting him, I’m sure we’re communicating.

I wish all beings made a sound which allowed me to understand their thoughts.  Oh, yes, I know many do and often loudly and crudely, but that’s not what I mean.  For example:

I wish those I cook for made a sound like “yummy, yummy” every time they enjoyed that meal or treat.  Of course, the echoing silence coming from them when chewing a dish they didn’t like might be a downside.

Wouldn’t it be great if a teenager made a positive sound when he/she happy studentsrecognized I’d done something right or good or helpful instead of that withering shrug.   Perhaps it would sound something like a dove,  a high pitched “Cool, cool, cool.”   Or, if that’s too much to expect, “Okay, okay.”  Just not, “Whatever.”

Or, perhaps, my boss–as he piled more work on my desk–might make a sound like, “Good job” or “Well done.”   Could be I’d work even harder.

As I think of this, I realize I too should make more positive sounds when something good happens.  Yes, I should actually give my approval in real words.   “Great” or “Thank you” or “I admire you”.

What do you think?

 

 

How are you?

A question, Confession, George, , , ,

cat how are youWhen the nurse is taking me back to the cubicle where I will be imprisoned until the doctor drops by, he or she always asks. “How are you today?”  That question always stumps me.  My first thought is to scream, “I’m at the doctor’s office.  How do you think I feel?”  However, I do possess a thin veneer of courtesy and say, “Fine, thank you.  How are you?”

Then I sit in the little room and ponder that question.    Finally I decide the nurse is not really  asking for a health report. “How are you?” is a  polite social convention which really doesn’t demand an honest answer, only recognition that the rules have been applied and accepted.   Yes, I may be throwing up on the nurse’s feet, but I answer, “Fine.”  I may be doubled over in pain or spouting blood from every orifice, but that’s not what the nurse is asking.   The nurse is simply recognizing that I’m there and my answer merely says, “Thank you.”

But the question came up again six months ago  and again I had to work out what others were saying,  Only minutes after George died, one of our ministers asked, “How are you doing?”  My mouth dropped open.  I wanted to shout, “How do you think I feel?  They joy of my life is gone.”  I didn’t of course but had no good answer.  People asked that over and over in the months after George’s death and, every time, I thought, “You have to know how I feel.”  But I didn’t say that.  “As well as can be expected,” I’d say and that was the truth.  But why did they ask?  comforting friendsDidn’t they know?

Again I realized that, yes they all knew I hurt.  That question meant, “I care about you but I don’t know what to say.”  It meant, “He was my friend and I hurt.  How are you doing?”  It meant so many things my friends and George’s didn’t know how to ask, what words to use.  And thanks to all those friends and ministers and family members, I’m doing fine, sort of.  Thank you for asking.

 

 

 

 

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