Was My Face Red

This time of year, I often think back to the days when I bundled up my children in their warm winters coats to head to the mall to see Santa.

Back then, I thought I would remember every conversation they had with the old man in red but all I can recall is the sight of their hair standing on end from the static of their puffy hoods.

Except, that's not true.

I remember one.

That year, I knew exactly what my two-and-half year old son would request from Santa.

To him, as long as a toy talked, walked or did something mechanical, he wanted it.

Most all of the toys he already had either talked, walked or did something mechanical.

Except, they didn't.

They all required batteries and I never had them.

He would come to me time and time again holding up a toy hoping I could make it work and I'd repeatedly say, "Oh, it needs batteries."

As he sat on Santa's lap this memorable year, he asked for a bird (his word for the red, talking parrot he ran to see every time we passed KB Toys at the mall).

He marveled at the "bird" who repeated everything he said as it frantically flapped its wings up and down.

And, as I predicted, he asked for a Mister Bucket.

Whenever the commercial came on, he delighted in the children running and laughing as they desperately tried to toss balls into the whirling bucket.

But, what he asked for next I didn't see coming.

At first, I didn't understand.

Neither did Santa.

"Ba-rees," he said.

Santa looked to me for help.

My son repeated much like the talking bird, "Ba-rees.  Ba-rees."

Was my face red when I finally got it and had to explain to Santa...

Batteries.

The year Santa got off easy.

Respect the title

I've had enough.

Every time I turn on the television, someone new is imitating him.

The impressions make him look like an idiot.

So far, I've seen actors, comedians and even a country music singer take a crack at him.

You know who I mean.

Colonel Sanders.

Just when I thought I had seen it all, the daytime soap opera, General Hospital, proved me wrong.

Let me explain.

I don't actually watch General Hospital.  I simply use it to take a little cat nap in the afternoon.

Here's my method.

Since I've always wondered what the English language sounds like to non-English speakers, I turn the TV volume down real low and focus on the sounds, not the words.

Before I know it, my unique technique puts me right to sleep.

But not on this day.

As I was ready to close my eyes, I saw the over-tanned, "extra crispy," actor George Hamilton posing as Colonel Sanders in some ridiculous story line.

My afternoon respite was ruined.

Don't get me wrong.

I had a crush on the handsome, tan, "Ryder Smith," I mean George Hamilton, when I was a kid and saw him in the teen movie, "Where the Boys Are."

(Obviously he started working on his tan back on the beach in Fort Lauderdale that faithful spring break.)

Back the late 60s, around the same time I was dreaming that Ryder Smith was my boyfriend, I imagined the Colonel was my grandfather.

(My television relationships ran deep.)

In his thick southern accent, Grandpa Sanders, I mean the Colonel, told me how he cooked his famous chicken, in commercials of course.

He felt like family with his kind, gentle demeanor.

He even wore glasses like my dad's.

I craved his finger lickin' chicken cooked with eleven secret herbs and spices.

And on a lucky day, after some serious begging, I'd ride along with my mother to our local KFC and bring home the red and white striped bucket of chicken and hunt for the legs.

Unlike Ryder, however, Colonel Sanders was a real man.

Ok, not a real Colonel.

He was given the honorary title by the Governor of Kentucky for his service to the community, state and nation!

For this, the man deserves respect.

Colonel Sanders had a hard life filled with failures.

"One has to remember that every failure can be a stepping stone to something better," the Colonel once said.

Interestingly, he didn't succeed in business until well into his sixties proving that hard work and perseverance pays off.

And once he made his fortune, he gave it away.

"There's no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery.  You can't do any business from there," he said.

Take that Ryder Smith.

I mean George Hamilton.

Oh yea, and Reba McIntyre.

Leave my grandpa alone!  I mean the Colonel!

Happy National Etch A Sketch Day!

When I saw the book, A Separate Peace, on one of the front tables at Barnes and Nobles today, my heart sank.

I remember the misery of being a not-so-good student and trying to write a book report on it in middle school.

Snapping a quick picture of the cover, I sent it to my sister with the comment, "Oh dear."

Thank goodness she helped me put my thoughts into words for that assignment. It's a shared memory that we can laugh at now.

Sorta.

Writing was never my strong suit.

I still don't consider myself a writer.

But give me the floor and I'll tell you a story.

A dear friend texted me today to say, "Happy National Etch A Sketch Day!"

Hearing about this special day, I felt compelled to write to thank you all, my friends and family, who support me as I tell my stories through, "Musings, Morals & Bees."

Your comments have made me feel like a writer and a professional Etch A Sketcher.

But mostly, I've felt the love from friends old and new and near and far.

It's an incredible feeling.

I feel a bit like George Bailey in, "It's a Wonderful Life," really.

I'm the richest gal in town!

Happy National Etch A Sketch Day!

Treasures can be found in unlikely places

Years ago, I saw a sign that read, "One man's trash is another man's treasure."

That saying doesn't apply to me.

I have my own saying.

"My trash is my treasure."

As I cleaned out the bathroom closet today, I found a tupperware container filled with the most random items.

A charger for something that is most likely obsolete, the toy paint brush from my son's Little Tikes workshop that has a rough handle tip from where our beloved old dog chewed it, a scoop of pretend chocolate ice cream with a cherry on top that came with my daughter's play food collection, a big dice or a die if you're stickler for grammar, a hair clip and some dental floss.

Oh yea, and a piece of velcro. Both sides.

Honestly, I have no idea how these things landed in a bowl in my bathroom closet or how long they've been there.

Most people would have chunked the entire bowl into the trash clearing up valuable real estate on the closet shelf.

Not me.  I felt each item needed close attention.

Since I had cleverly labeled a section of the closet, "dental," I added the floss to the collection of floss boxes, extra tooth brushes and toothpaste.

The hair clip joined all of my other hair clips that I don't actually wear in one of my drawers.

But, as for the other items, I simply left them in the tupperware.

Maybe later I will take the paint brush and put it with the workshop that still sits in my basement.

My son loved his workshop.  And the evidence that our little dog chewed the handle makes the paint brush even more special.

And I will happily put the little scoop of ice cream in the big tupperware of play food I keep as well.

Not so sure about the die.

The fact is, these little items remind me of my children.

For some people, these random toys would be trash.

To me, they are treasured memories of a time gone by.

As for the charger, I suppose I can toss it into the trash but that will take some doing.

But I'm definitely keeping the velcro.

I might need it.

Treasures behind the closet door. 

What's behind yours?

A total eclipse and a blog

While millions of people waited with their special glasses to watch the total eclipse of the sun today, I sat on my back porch thinking about one of my favorite childhood TV shows, "Family Affair."

To be specific, the Tidal Wave episode.

Uncle Bill sits on the couch with his twin niece and nephew, Buffy and Jody, waiting for a rumored tidal wave to hit New York City.

The young twins are scared that the tidal wave will hit their New York apartment building and wash them away to sea. 

(Via the Hudson River?  I never understood that part.  Also, note to self.  Remind my kids who live in NYC of potential tidal waves.)

Back to the story.

Suddenly, the wind rattles the windows and glass breaks.

It's no big deal.  Just Mr French, the butler, who accidentally breaks a glass in the kitchen.

As my husband and I anxiously awaited the total eclipse, I felt a lot like Buffy and Jody. (Except I don't have a butler and an eclipse isn't devastating like a tidal wave)

But supposedly, odd things would happen causing some angst.

The temperature would drop, my dog would act oddly and birds and other wildlife would think night time was approaching and respond accordingly.  

Since we failed to buy special viewing glasses, we could only participate from the covered porch.

Excitedly, we headed out around 1:15 pm to sit and wait.

We put the dog inside to ensure he didn't get spooked and run away or accidentally look up at the sun.

Scratch that, the dog went inside on his own accord because it was hot and he doesn't like the heat. 

The dog had the right idea.  I found myself waiting for the moon to cool me off.  

The birds were chirping but it sounded like their typical daytime song. 

I couldn't wait to hear the change to their evening song but wondered if I would actually notice the difference.  

At 1:40 pm, still no changes not even with the heat.

(My mind drifted back to the tidal wave episode.  Why wasn't big sister Sissy home during such a bad storm.  These are the details that plagued me as a child and oddly still do.)

Before I knew it, an hour had passed and so had the moon.

We didn't see Bailey's Beads.  We didn't see the snakes dancing on the ground.  We didn't even hear the birds change their tune.

In my backyard, the eclipse simply made a sunny day turn cloudy while the temperature remained as hot as ever.

Again, I felt a bit like Buffy and Jody since nothing ever happened.

I've already marveled at the pictures shared by my friends who experienced it and I watched daylight turn to darkness via the news coverage down south.

I would have loved to have seen it.

On a brighter note, I found myself writing on "Musings, Morals and Bees."

Interestingly, today was not only the total eclipse of the sun, the day marks one full year since I've written a blog.

A full year.  A total eclipse. Seems cosmic.

If only I could tie it all together with an episode of "Family Affair."

But all I can think of is when Buffy lost Mrs Beasley, her doll that looked like an old lady. (Which they sold in the stores but I never wanted.  I only wanted young, pretty dolls.)

I guess I "lost" motivation to write for a year.

At least Buffy found Mrs Beasley in a matter of days.

Hopefully I won't wait until April 8, 2024 to write again.

But, if I do and I'm motivated by an eclipse, I hope I will have found the special viewing glasses by then.

August 21, 2017: A total eclipse of the sun and a blog.
Thanks to my happy friend Heidi for the amazing personalized Etch-A-Sketch! I love it!

Choose amazing

I have a problem.

When it's extremely hot outside, I become a repeater.

The phrasing may vary from "It's hot," "It's so hot out here," to "I'm hot," but one thing's for sure, it's always repeated.

Last weekend the temperatures soared.  With the heat index, at times it felt like 105 degrees.

Even our friends who were visiting from South Carolina thought it was hot and that's saying something when you're from South Carolina.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stop myself from complaining and repeating since we spent most of the weekend outdoors.

I had to be annoying our guests.  I know I was annoying myself. And then, I remembered a story.

Recently, I noticed a friend wearing a "hair tie" on his wrist.

Since he has more of a buzz cut than enough hair for a man bun, I figured he was holding on to it for his wife.

Later he explained that the coated rubber band served a purpose.

Every time he has a negative thought, he pops the band against his wrist to "snap out of it."

As the blistering sun beat on my face, I considered putting a hair tie around my wrist to snap myself every time I moaned, "It's hot."

But, I quickly realized my wrists would become raw and bloody. And when it comes to pain, I'm also a repeater and no one would have wanted to hear about that.

So I devised a new plan focusing on positivity.

Every time I said something about the heat, I replaced the word "hot" with "amazing."

Suddenly, I was repeating, "It's an amazing day!" "It's amazing out here." "What an amazing day."

Before I knew it, my outlook changed.

Just using the word "amazing" made me smile.

Even though I continued to repeat myself, at least I sounded positive.

From now on, I will try to remind myself that anything can be amazing... sitting in traffic, a long line at the grocery store, bad service at a restaurant and any extreme weather.

I've read that the east coast will be colder than usual this winter.

Surely, my new found coping method will come in handy when it arrives.

I guess I can say, I'm looking forward to one amazing winter and I repeat... amazing.

What an amazing day at the baseball game! Only 105 degrees!

Same time, same feeling

I wonder when the sight of them won't make me sad.

This time of year, I run into them often and every time I do, my heart drops.

Today, I watched the two of them smiling and laughing together as they walked through the shopping center parking lot.

After they put their purchases in her trunk, she gave him a hug goodbye since they had arrived in separate cars.

The hug was something I hadn't seen before.

As I passed them, I couldn't resist letting them know how I felt.

I rolled down my window and said, "You two have to stop breaking my heart."

"I'm sneaking in hugs while I can," she said.

I certainly understood that.

Although I didn't actually know them, I knew exactly who they were.

A mother and her son preparing for him to leave for college.

Their purchases gave them away, a collegiate comforter, a bed topper and a trash can shaped like a basketball hoop.

My son and I had bought similar things when we were doing the same thing.

As I drove away, I felt a lump in my throat.

Six years after college shopping with my son, I'm crying at the stoplight.

When my son graduated two years ago, he moved to New York City.

After 23 years, our house was permanently child free.

Even though I've adjusted to the so-called "empty nest" and love my life with my husband, I still miss my children.

Of course, they come home to visit for long weekends and holidays.

But that's just it.

It's a visit.

When they're home, life as we knew it returns.

Coffee on the back porch, dinner around the kitchen table, chocolate chip cookies made from a refrigerated roll, lounging around the family room.

Just "breathing each other's oxygen," I like to joke.

For a few days, I get my old job back. I am a mom taking care of my children.

I sleep soundly through the night knowing my family is under one roof.

It never lasts long enough.

Maybe one day I will look at a mother and son shopping for college and think, I'm glad that's not me.

But not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Quite honestly, I love the memory despite the tears.

I love all of the memories.

To my children I say, thank you for coming home when you can and for warmly welcoming us when we visit.

To my husband I say, isn't it great we have the dog!

Those were the days

One fun parking attendant

Between my eyes and my brain, I stay entertained.

Yesterday, I saw a parking lot with a sign that said, "Parking by Permit Only."

However, my eyes saw something far more fun!

I laughed as my brain interpreted the sign, "Parking by Kermit Only."

Of course, the sign said, "permit."

But just imagine...

Parking for Green cars only!

A recipe for laughter

When it comes to cooking, I'm far from a fancy chef.

I've always had trouble following recipes due to my reading comprehension problems.

Or, maybe it's just because I'm a lazy reader.

Either way, I steer clear from complicated recipes and stick to making easy dishes that seem as though I've cooked up something special.

The other day, a friend of mine came over for lunch.

At the last minute, I decided to make a quick chicken salad using a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken.

I mixed the chicken, mayo, celery and salt and pepper.

And, voila!

A chicken salad lunch worthy of a follow up text from my friend saying she wanted my recipe.

I felt like a snappy, gourmet chef with my "chic" salad.

A day later, my husband was getting ready to make a chicken sandwich with the leftover rotisserie chicken.

"I'm happy to make you a chicken salad sandwich," I said.  "My friend wanted the recipe," I bragged.

Proudly, I added, "She even referred to it as 'chic' and it was just chicken, mayo and celery."

That's when it hit me and I burst out laughing.

I grabbed my phone to re-read the text from her.

This is what she said:

"Thanks for lunch. I need your chic salad recipe."

And, I responded:

"Haha, not so chic. Got a cooked chicken from the grocery store and added celery and mayo. Super chic!"

No wonder her followup text message was one of those emoticons with a crazy eye and the tongue sticking out as if my response was a little nutty.

As I read her comment carefully, it wasn't "chic" as in elegant and sophisticated.

It was "chic" as in the plain, old abbreviation for chicken.

Moral of my story:

Laugh at yourself.  Even at your flaws. You will always have something to make you smile.

A chic chic!

"Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused." - unknown

Feeling like a kid on my birthday

For as long as I can remember, I've loved telling people my birthday.

Short of putting it on a billboard (or on a banner behind a small airplane), I make sure I announce its arrival to everyone I know.

Honestly, I'm not looking for gifts. I'm not even expecting cards. (Baked goods maybe.)

But when August 15th rolls around, I simply want friends to stop and think, "Oh, yea! Today is Nancy's birthday." 

My constant reminding has paid off. 

Most of my friends can tell you my birthday without hesitation. Even friends I haven't seen in years can recall the date.

And, even if they don't call or write, I know when I wake up on my birthday, they are thinking of me.

That's all I've ever wanted.

Until this year.

This year, I'll admit I was hoping for something.

Expecting rather.

When I turned on my phone first thing in the morning, I anxiously went to Facebook.

Surely some night owl, well-wisher had posted "Happy Birthday!" at 12:01 a.m. and I couldn't wait to read it as well as all the other messages that I envisioned flooding in.

But, not one message.

Suddenly, I felt like a disappointed kid. Childhood memories of being unpopular came to mind.

Everybody gets Facebook Birthday messages. Why not me?

The feelings of my 10-year-old self didn't feel good.  I much prefer the feelings of my grown-up self who just imagines people remembering my birthday!

An hour went by and I checked again.

Still, nothing.

Since I was visiting a friend, I felt rude constantly checking my phone but I couldn't resist.

Finally, my friend asked, "Nancy, why don't you have your birthday posted on your Facebook page?"

Like a kid, I rushed to check my settings.

Wrong!

Like a mother who has no idea how to do anything on my phone, I texted my son for help.

When he didn't respond fast enough, that's when, like a kid, I quickly went to my settings.

My hands were almost shaking in my haste. My friend pointed out the lock icon on my birthday.

That's it! My birthday wasn't "public."

Then I remembered.

Like an adult, I decided not to post my birthday when I set up my Facebook page for fear someone would steal my identity.

But, to heck with my identity, I wanted my Facebook birthday messages so I quickly corrected it.

Within minutes, my first two Birthday wishes appeared (thanks Travis and Shelley).

As the day went on, more and more wishes popped up (thanks Mark Zuckerberg and all of my wonderful Facebook friends).

Next year, I hope I can act my age. Maybe I'll wait until the end of the day to read my wishes all at one time.

Or maybe, I'll delete my birthday all together and enjoy my birthday wishes in my imagination.

Then again, maybe I'll stare at my phone all day and go one step further and compare the number of "Birthday wishes" I get with someone else on Facebook who has more than me and sulk like a kid.

Sure hope not.

Where oh where are my birthday messages?
Oh where oh where can they be?

The Art of Doing Nothing

Years ago, my husband gave me a small gift book entitled, "The Art of Doing Nothing."

When I read the cover, I smiled but felt a bit confused given the fact that I epitomized the title.

In fact, I could have written it.

When I opened the book, I saw words.  Lots and lots of words. The mere sight of chapter after chapter explaining how to "do nothing" caused me to close the book and never open it again.

Don't get me wrong. I love the book and the fact that it reminded him of me.

To this day, I like seeing it sitting there looking cute on the end table in our sunroom.

But, a book about doing nothing should simply have short phrases. Blank pages, maybe. Perhaps, just pictures of people doing nothing. Clearly, not long explanations about how to do it.

It's just not that complicated.

But then again, maybe it is for people who aren't experts like me.

So many people have a problem with doing nothing. They feel bored or guilty sitting around not accomplishing anything.

They are the types that simply, "have to be doing something."

I, on the other hand, am excellent at sitting quietly doing nothing.

Sure, my brain is still working.

Well, sometimes.

As I sit silently, I think about what I need at the grocery store. Or, ponder what I should be doing.

Other times, I look out the window and find it amusing how much green I see or stare at my dog and admire how cute he is.

Occasionally, I start planning my daughter's wedding (even though she isn't currently dating anyone) or I reminisce about how much fun we had at the beach at the beginning of the summer.

But, sometimes, I simply sit.

I suppose you could call it an art.

But, really it's nothing.

You are the cutest dog in the whole wide world!
and
To my dear husband, thank you for not giving me the book,
"Get up and do something, why don't ya?

To market, to market to find a big smile

The other day when I stepped out of my air-conditioned car, I actually made note of my face. It was ugly and contorted. I felt it.

I groaned out loud in response to the heat as I walked toward the grocery store.

I'm sure I looked miserable. After all, the heat index was triple digits.

As I approached the store with my grumpy face, I noticed a lady coming toward me.

She was a kind looking lady, about 85 years old, pushing her cart toward her car in the scorching heat.

The look on her face was nothing like mine. She wore the most beautiful smile.

I stopped and said, "You sure have a lovely smile today."

She lifted her hand to the sky and said, "Well, the sun is shining."

All the while, she smiled.

In a moment, my scrunched up face turned into a happy one.

With a smile in return, I replied, "It certainly is. That's a good way of looking at it."

Little did I know that I would go to the grocery on the hottest day of the year and return home with much more than food for dinner.

A stranger reminded me to take note of the gifts before me even when they are hard to recognize.  All from one simple smile.

Pass it on.

Let me see.. bananas, Cheerios, bread and smiles!

Love Locked Forever

When I heard the news that the "love locks" on the Pont de Arts bridge in Paris were being taken down, I suddenly got the old Salem cigarette jingle stuck in my head.

"You can take Salem out of the country but... you can't take the country out of Salem."

I haven't seen the ad in more than 40 years but the catchy tune still pops in my mind and  reminds of scenes of my youth.

I knew smoking was bad so I understood why they needed to stop airing the ads but I loved that commercial.

When it played, I used to dance around our small family room singing along, "You can take Salem out of the country... but," and on cue, a play on words, I would pop my hip out, freeze and wait for my family to laugh.

They never disappointed me.

My father was a Salem smoker and the memory of that commercial reminds me of him sitting in his chair having conversations with my grandfather on Sunday afternoons.

I can picture the way he sat with one leg crossed over the other with his elbow on the arm rest holding his Salem up in the air.

Just as the Salem ads disappeared, so now have the locks on the Paris bridge.

City officials realized the weight of the locks, a reported 45 tons, was endangering the integrity of the bridge.

And, just as I had understood the removal of the cigarette ads, I understand the Paris officials need to take down the locks for safety's sake.

However, like my special memories of that Salem jingle, they can never take away the memorable experiences I had on that bridge.

Two years ago, I visited Paris for the first time with my daughter. It was the mother-daughter trip of a lifetime.

After the grueling overnight flight and some difficulty getting out of the airport, we finally arrived in our hotel room.

She unpacked a yellow, padded envelope and handed it to me.

"Dad asked me to give this to you, " she said.

I reached inside and pulled out a beautiful hand-painted lock. Carefully written in red, were the words, "BT LOVES NT" and "SOULMATE" meticulously printed next to the key. It was a complete surprise.

He had decorated it with pink and purple heart stickers on one side and a red, dazzling heart on the other.

Along with the lock was a hand-written, heart-felt card. The kind of love note any girl would want to get from her fella.

My daughter and I both teared up.

We waited for the perfect sunny day to place the lock on the bridge.

We painstakingly searched for just the right spot for the lock. We admired it for a long time and took pictures from every angle.

On our last day in the city, we walked back to the Pont de Arts to visit the sweet lock one more time but just looking at it wasn't enough.

She insisted that I kiss the lock for a photo opportunity.

I felt ridiculous as I stooped to kiss the lock. I felt even more ridiculous when I lost my footing and toppled over.

We laughed until we cried at the embarrassing spectacle.

I feel incredibly fortunate that I returned to Paris with my husband later that year. I couldn't wait to visit the bridge.

As we slowly walked across the bridge searching for our lock, he surprisingly spotted it first.

The pretty, hand painted lock that he had made especially for me wasn't shiny and new anymore.

However, it looked solid and well-loved with at least five other smaller "love locks" attached to it.

Now, like the old Salem ads, my lock has disappeared forever but the memories of love, laughter and tears on the Pont de Arts bridge are forever mine.

You can take down my love lock on the Pont de Arts bridge but...
you can't take away all my memories!

Special Delivery on Mother's Day

To my dear mother in heaven,

Today is Mother's Day and as I go through the day, I am reminded of all the valuable lessons you taught me.

No matter how many years have passed, your presence is with me every day and your lessons have made me the mother that I am.  For all that you taught me, I am grateful.

Here's just a short list of what I am thankful for...

Thank you for putting up with my bizarre behavior when I tried on clothes in the dressing room at White's department store. I appreciate you searching for straight pins on the floor to pin the curtain closed so no one could see me trying on clothes.

Because of you, I learned to tolerate the little idiosyncrasies of my own children.

Thank you for not making me feel bad about the "D" I made in science on my report card in the fifth grade. I already felt bad enough. The teacher was right, I didn't like engines. And honestly, I was far more concerned with the bee that was buzzing around the classroom.

Because of you, I tried hard to take the pressure off of my children as they strived to make good grades.

Thank you for immediately calling the school when I told you the gym teacher had smacked me with a paddle because I didn't change into my gym suit fast enough.

Because of you, I had the courage to approach several teachers and a couple of principals in my day in support of my own children.

Thank you for teaching me that a look is worth a thousand words.

Because of you, I spared my voice while raising my children with that same simple stare.

Thank you for using the phrase, "This too shall pass."

Because of you, whenever I'm experiencing a difficult time, I repeat the phrase to myself and before I know it whatever I was worrying about has become a distant memory.  I've used the phrase countless times when my own children have gone through trying times.

Thank you for reminding my sister as you taught her to drive that when stopped at the stop sign to simply wait and be patient because "there's always a place."

Because of you, I've repeated that line over and over again to myself and to my children. The reminder comes in handy especially when some jerk is waiting impatiently behind us.

Thank you for not making me go to the final swim class that summer. I appreciate you noticing something was wrong and asking me about it. I was embarrassed that I was afraid of the deep water and would have to sit on the side of the shallow end of the pool while all the other kids showed off their diving skills to their parents.

Because of you, I recognized when my children were bothered by something and allowed them to skip things that were unimportant.

Thank you for not making me do household things before I had to.

You were right. I've had "plenty of time" to do laundry, cook and clean the house.

Thank you for your lessons, your sayings and your amazing heart and spirit.

Happy Mother's Day to the mother who in just eleven years made a mark that has lasted my entire life time.

Like mother, like daughter. I sure hope so.

Air mail to my mom!

Flying high

I never thought I'd smile at the sight of a fly.

A dragonfly, maybe. Definitely a butterfly. But, not at a common housefly.

That changed yesterday.

As I looked out my bathroom window, I saw the sun shining. I saw a yard full of grass with a only few remaining mounds of dirt-riddled snow.

And then I saw something even more exciting.

There upon the window pane sat a good, old-fashioned, dirty housefly.

The first fly of the season sitting on my window basking in the sun and warmer temperature.

I smiled. I actually smiled at a fly.

Oddly, I feel rather like the fly. I'm ready to emerge from the winter dull-drums and delight in the warmth of the sun.

Spring really is coming.

Surely, I will curse that same fly in a few weeks when he's buzzing around with his pesky, little friends welcoming the season.

But for now, I will smile at a fly and sing, hip hip hooray! Spring is actually headed our way.

Window is larger than it appears. The fly is actual size.

Upside-down Sundays

There's something about Sunday afternoons. For as long as I can remember, they have been a source of anxiousness for me.

As a kid, I remember hanging upside-down on the couch and yelling at my mother.

"I'm bor-r-r-red," I whined. "What's for din-n-n-ner," I belted out repeatedly. "What can I do-o-o-o?" I cried upside-down.

I'm not sure what caused this unusual, restless behavior. 

Maybe it was the fact that Sunday wasn't a big play day in the neighborhood.

Perhaps, it was the fact that the television blared one football game after another.

Or, it could have been the realization that the weekend was coming to an end and the anxiety of returning to school was setting in.

I'm simply not sure.

Interesting thing is, I still get that restless, unsettled feeling on Sunday afternoons. 

Much like my childhood days, Sundays still tend to be relaxed, unplanned days and football plays throughout the day.

At least school is a distant memory.

I should welcome the carefree, easy going feeling of Sunday afternoon. I should kick back and read a book or watch a movie. 

Of course, there are plenty of things I could do.  I should do. That I need to do. Clean out a closet, a cabinet, even a drawer. 

I just don't want to.

Honestly, I'd rather just hang upside-down on the couch... and whine.

Feeling Sunday upside-down

. 

Positivity challenge but not a chain

My heart pounded when I found a chain letter addressed to me in the mailbox when I was about 10 years old. A chain letter for me!

I excitedly ran to the house ready to do my part.

After reading it carefully, I was to copy it, in handwriting, and send it on, by US Postal Service, to seven of my closest friends instructing them to do the same.

I'll also never forget my mother's reaction to my exciting chain letter.

"Absolutely not," she said. Seemed chain letters were the work of the devil in her eyes.

I never knew why she felt so strongly about a chain letter but the horrific feeling she instilled in me was everlasting.

A few days ago, I received a chain letter of sorts from a dear friend on Facebook.

I was invited to take part in a Positivity Challenge. I was to post three positive things for five days on Facebook and ask three friends to participate each day of the process by tagging them on their page.

That fateful chain letter day resonated in my head along with my mother's voice.

"Absolutely not," I could hear my mother say.

To this day, her influence runs deep in my veins. The memory of my mother's reaction paired with my fear of commitment, made me decline the invitation.

However, I loved the idea of being positive and appreciate my friend for stirring up positive thoughts and images in my mind ever since.

After days of pondering what is positive in my life, I realized many of my good thoughts come from the people I love and care for and what they are experiencing in their own lives.

*  My friend and her husband taking their beautiful newborn, baby boy home from the hospital

*  My friend enjoying a weekend visit from her son who now lives across the country
   
*  My father-in-law spending a month near his beloved Chesapeake Bay

*  My young friend who is like a daughter to me setting up her new kindergarten classroom

*  My nephew pastoring at his own church

Positive thoughts also flood into my mind when I think of the major moments in the lives of my family and the important times I have with family and friends.

*  My son on his first business trip

*  My daughter moving into her very own apartment

*  My upcoming weekend with my family of four

*  My weekends filled with good friends and good times

*  My monthly Bunco group with 11 treasured women

And, thanks to the little things in life, I see positivity around me from morning to night.

*  My cup of coffee every morning that greets me like a warm friend

*  A delicious cucumber from my neighbor's abundant garden

*  Looking up at the starry sky when I take the dog out at night

*  My dog's fast-wagging tail every time I look his way

*  My bag of bite-sized Dove dark chocolate squares with little messages in the wrappers

Fortunately, my list goes on and on. My cup runneth over.

I know my mother would approve of me recognizing all the positive thoughts in my life...
as long as it's not in a chain letter.

I love real mail delivered by the mailman too!
But, please, no chain letters.

No more tears

On my birthday, I often find myself singing the 1963 pop song, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."

Interestingly or should I say oddly, as a child, I actually did cry every year on my birthday. It seemed the tears came after the candles were blown out and we were eating cake.

Don't misunderstand, I didn't have big overwhelming parties like the ones I threw for my children with lots of kids, Disney themes and guest performers.

My parties consisted of my parents, three siblings, two cousins and my best friend Alice. We simply gathered to eat cake.

But, even that seemed too much for me to handle.

When I was about four or five, I had an unexplainable fear of having my picture taken. Every time someone snapped a photo of me, I cried. A lot.

I have proof in a old, family photo album. In a small, square photograph, I'm sitting in front of my birthday cake holding my hand out in front of my angry, red, tear-stained face shielding it from the focus of the camera.

This unusual "fear of the camera" stage still amuses my brother to this day.

When I was seven, my aunt carefully brushed my hair and clipped it up into a fun party hair style. Wearing my favorite, blue jumper with white polka dots and sporting my cute up-do, I was feeling rather fancy as I blew out my candles.

Unfortunately, someone made a comment about my hair while I was eating cake. This sent me reeling and running to my room where I cried hysterically and viciously ripped the barrette from my hair. The memory remains oddly fresh in my mind.

I guess I just didn't like the attention.

All that has changed.

These days, I have to admit, I love my birthday. I happily accept all the well-wishes and attention that come my way.

I look forward to my dear friend making a lemon pound cake for me like my mother used to make.

I  can't wait to see how my husband will surprise me each year.

I anxiously await the arrival of the annual box filled with fun gifts from my sister.

I treasure the cards and emails I get from my family, friends and yes, even the stores I frequent.

I simply embrace everything about the day even though it means I'm getting older by the minute.

This year, as I blow out my candles on my homemade lemon pound cake, I will smile as I think of all the support and encouragement I have received this past year from my dear friends and family.

Although I won't be wearing my hair pulled up in a clip, I will allow my picture to be taken. And, I think I will switch up my tune, "It's my birthday and I'll smile cause I want to!"

Happy Birthday to me! And my blog!

Today, I share my birthday with my blog, Musings, Morals & Bees. It is one-year-old.

Thank you all who have supported and encouraged me as I've shared my musings on everything from Barbies to fireflies. Your support is an ongoing birthday gift!

Hard-headed in the right direction

When my daughter was born, she had a head full of dark hair and olive skin. She didn't look a thing like me. She looked exactly like my husband.

A few years later, on July 23, the baby I had always envisioned came into my life when my son was born. He was blond and fair ... and looked like me.

I'll admit. I liked it.

As he grew up, I saw more similarities between us. I found myself repeating the phrases I had heard when I was a child.

"You're so hard-headed," I would say just as my grandmother had said to me.

"You won't take no for an answer," which were words straight from my mother's mouth.

He frustrated me.

But, if truth be told, I liked it. He made me laugh with his undying determination. He impressed me when he figured out how to get just about everything he wanted.

Over the years, however, what has impressed me more is how he is determined to help others.

If you are in search of something, he won't rest until he finds it for you.

If you don't understand how to work something, he will figure out how to fix it for you or will help you understand how to do it yourself.

If you have a problem, like a wise owl he is ready to disperse a few short lines of wisdom.

I am proud to be like him but even more proud of the ways he is different from me.

As he celebrates his birthday today, I hope he feels as special as he makes others feel. I hope he laughs the way he, and only he, can make me laugh. And, I hope his determination keeps getting him where he wants to go and blessing the rest of us.

Happy Birthday to my wise son!

Your cake!

It's as simple as looking up

When I traveled to Paris last year with my daughter, she repeated over and over again, "Look up." 

But looking up wasn't easily done as I tried to navigate down unfamiliar streets while constantly guarding my pocket book.

When I finally focused on raising my eyes as we walked through the city, I discovered all the amazing things the city had to offer. I saw the most beautiful doorways and rooftops, gargoyles and carvings, bridge views and breathtaking vistas. I now understand why they call Paris "The City of Light." 

I recently discovered that the practice of "looking up" is equally important at home as it is in a beautiful, foreign city. 

One of my favorite things about summer is seeing the first lightning bug.  I feel like a kid when I spy the little light flitting about the yard. 

Since I have been taking a dog out for the last 14 years, I have seen my share of lightning bugs. They never cease to delight me.  

Last week when I did my nightly dog duty, I saw the first lightning bug of the season. I smiled as I welcomed the first sign of summer. A few nights later, I saw at least 50 little lights blinking across the yard. I went to bed happy.

But then, a night later, I saw the most incredible sight. After years of nightly visits to the yard with a dog, I looked up.

In the trees lining our backyard, I saw the most spectacular light show. Thousands of lightning bugs twinkled like stars in the trees. 

I felt like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard."

Well, I won't go quite that far. 

I appreciate seeing new parts of the world and I will always treasure the sight of the sparkling Eiffel Tower lighting up the night sky.

But for a magical, simple pleasure this summer, I'll just take the dog out... and look up.

I have my own city of light.

My city of light! What a gift.