Category: Everyday Life

For the most part, I love my home.  It is well constructed, set on a beautiful lot in a well-kept neighborhood with friendly folks all around.   But I admit there are times when I’d like to chuck a lot of my “stuff” and move into a much smaller place with fewer rooms to maintain; especially bathrooms.

Let’s face it, housecleaning is not the most exciting of activities but it does have its rewards.  There are few things I enjoy more than sitting in a well-ordered room, especially if that room is in my house.  Sadly, these days I’m finding less and less time to keep up with the vacuuming, dusting, window washing, laundry and bathroom cleaning.

Now, I’ll freely admit part of the reason I can’t find the time to tackle these chores is because I choose not to.  I much prefer the time I spent working on my various volunteer enterprises, doing things for others is just so much more rewarding.  Why would I want to spend hours scrubbing and cleaning when I can juggle managing a non-profit and other fun stuff?

Yet, the fact remains, if I don’t do it, well, you know the rest.  So, I’m off to the bathroom, to make it shine for a little while anyway.  Maybe I’ll get lucky and think of something better to write about and get back to these keys very soon!

Saturday morning while getting ready to go to an  Artisans for Alzheimer’s Fundraising event, I noticed the Tupperware midget filled with cornstarch in my vanity drawer that I keep on hand in case Dave cuts himself shaving.  Since having his cardio surgery last year, he has been on blood thinners to keep his vessels clear and a little nick on the chin can bleed for a while.  Judging by the spots that appear on my towels each week, I doubted that he’s been using the stuff.  I wondered if I could find a container that would be easier to use, perhaps the same container with a different top, maybe with a little shaker that had a flip top cover on it like the old Tupperware salt shakers; that might do the trick.  Seconds later something else caught my eye and my thoughts rolled on.

It was a miserable day; more “camping” weather.  The event was held outside on the lawn of the local retirement community and given the rain, was poorly attended.  A handful of hearty vendors were there representing a variety of wares and among them was a Tupperware lady.  At her booth, this enterprising woman had bins of odds and ends pieces of Tupperware that could be purchased at a reduced price.  It was in the first bin I looked into that I found my midget with a little shaker  and flip top cover on it just like the old Tupperware salt shakers!  I was so tickled that something I had envisioned just a couple of hours earlier was now sitting in my hand that I happily gave her my money.  I didn’t buy anything else that morning, but came home like I’d won the lottery.

This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened to me.  The first time I say my husband, Dave walking down the street I knew he was “the one”.  I didn’t even know him at the time.  (Crazy hijinks ensued, but that’s another story.)  Many times I’ll think of someone and they’ll phone me, or I’ll call someone and they’ll say they were just thinking of me.   I don’t know if this makes me special or gifted, I guess I always figured other people had these things happen to them too.

I used to think these episodes of pre-cognition were simply coincidence, but in too many cases, what I see in my mind is so exactly what I will see later that I’m not so convinced anymore.  Some may look at this event and consider my little piece of Tupperware as an answer to a prayer but I am beginning to think it’s the idea that gets planted that makes me open to considering what I really need.  In short, I didn’t ask for the Tupperware, the idea of the specific answer to what I needed was somehow imbedded in my brain to make me aware of what I needed when I saw it.

Where do these ideas come from?  I couldn’t tell you for sure.  Sometimes I wonder if it’s my guardian angel, or one of my relatives or friends who has passed but still looking out for me.  It could be anyone; it could even be God, although I doubt God, even with omnipotent power, has time to worry about the best type of container my corn starch should be kept in.  But somehow, in some mysterious way, I believe we, or at least I am connected to an unseen part of existence that provides assistance from time to time.

It’s very comforting to believe that even though loved ones have passed, they are still with us.  At times I wish I knew who was helping me, so I could direct my thanks in the appropriately.  Since I don’t, all thanks go to God; the creator of everything, who has connected us all in such a marvelous mysterious manner.

I’ve always like the Star Wars’ image of The Force as an analogy for the spiritual connection in our world.  Our spirit, or force is connected to each and everyone other living thing, past, present and future.  Science teaches us that the Universe is built of atoms and micro particles that join in intricate ways to build stuff.  Carl Sagan said we were all built of this star stuff.

I believe that when our bodies die and our spirit is released, this stuff is returned to the earth and therefore the universe.  The spirit remains alive, just in another form.  What that form is, no one can say for sure.  Even the most learned and devout can only provide conjecture.  We only know through our faith.

Who knows when the next seed will be planted for where it will take me.  One thing I know for sure, each time I experience one, they lead me to a treasure.

Today is exactly the kind of day we thought of when we had our screen porch built this summer.  Beyond the protection of the roof and screen it is what we Farner kids affectionately refer to as “camping weather”; gray, drizzly and somewhere between warm and muggy and cool and damp, depending on how much you move around. The advantage of experiencing this kind of weather on my porch verses under a tarp is that we’re never in danger of springing a leak and having water run down our backs and if we get too uncomfortable, we can simply go inside.

With our hunger sated by French toast, the four of us; Dave, Izzie, Purrl and I have migrated from the kitchen onto the porch.  From our protected vantage point, we can enjoy the peaceful dreariness of our back yard along with the songs of scores of songbirds.  Our feeders are bustling with the usual morning crew; chickadees, titmice, house finches, cardinals and every so often a couple of hummingbirds go zipping by chirping at each other. I’ve heard people say they are only playing, but to me their play more closely resembles territorial disputes as they manuever around each other, one in hot pursuit of the other. I’ve often wondered why they make hummingbird feeders with so many portals, I’ve never seen them share a feeder. Instead, it seems as though whenever a second bird appears, “play” begins.

Considering their size, our hummers are fearless.  When I first put my feeders out and began to feed them, I assumed they were timid and would be fearful of the larger birds. Not so. It’s almost as if they consider us so clumsy and slow in our mass, that we larger creatures are incapable of threatening them at all. Bees on the other hand, are another story.

There is fierce competition this time of year between the birds and the bees at my hummingbird feeders. I find it ironic that the bees are collecting cane sugar-water to produce their natural sweetener but bee keepers have explained that even they will put out the sugar-water for their bees this time of year as the flowers begin to diminish. And so the battle rages for nectar dominance with the hummingbirds often falling victim to bee stings.

I usually prepare my nectar in a four to one ratio; one cup of sugar to four cups of water but lately I’ve heard I should increase the amount of sugar this time of year to provide extra calories to my little friends as they prepare to migrate south. Now that I no longer have children to prepare to head off to college, it seems only natural that I help something else prepare for migration.  In another four weeks or so we’ll have new visitors from the north and then soon they’ll all be gone for the winter, joining the millions of birds and retired folk heading to warmer weather.

As for me, I’ll still be enjoying my Saturday mornings on my porch, wrapped in the stillness of the yard as the day begins and focusing on just how good it all is.

Dorothy Gail said it best when she closed her eyes and tapped the heels of her ruby slippers and repeated; “There’s no place like home.”   To Dorothy, home was Auntie Em and Uncle Henry’s farm. Even though Oz was warm and familiar, it just couldn’t compare with her life in Kansas.

Throughout my life, I have had a much different perspective. As a child, my family moved several times. Each time we landed in a new place, we were able to build a new home and our extended family grew to include new friends in each dot on the map. My adult life has continued along that same path, first as a Navy family and most recently with our move to Central Virginia.  Always open to new members, our family is constantly expanding to include more and more friends.  This ability to nest almost anywhere leaves me with the mantra “There are no places like homes.”

This past weekend we made a quick trip to Virginia Beach, one of our longest homes, to join many of our St. Mark’s family in bidding farewell to a very special guy. Known as “The Guitar Dude”, Mike was a quiet gentle force in the St. Mark’s choir family. He was a gifted musician and composer but will best be remembered for his warm heart and his dedication to his family and friends. There was no way we could choose other than to forget about our own to-do list and make the trip to say goodbye.

Over the course of the weekend, we visited several of our other homes; the McMican household where we’ve spent countless holiday meals with Bill, Patricia and our extended St. Mark’s family, The Peking Duck Inn, where Simon and Julie always welcome us and gift us with a special dish and the Conner home, where Dave and I have had such great times with Dave and Vanya and occasionally I have laughed so hard that tears ran down my leg. But of all our homes in Virginia Beach, the most special is The Catholic Church of St. Mark.

I joined St. Mark’s way back at the end of the last century. We had just bought our first house and the kids were reaching an age where I wanted them to start attended Mass regularly. Dave wasn’t Catholic yet but it wasn’t long after I dragged him to St. Mark’s that our pastor, Fr. Joe Clark, discovered that Dave was interested in singing and introduced him to the choir director. He was hooked and joined the church a year later.

Over the course of our first years at St. Mark’s, we became so entwined in the community that after the Navy took us away for six years, when we received orders to go back, our main prerequisite on where we would live centered around our proximity to St. Mark’s. Returning to our church family made moving back so much easier, especially since both kids were in high school at the time, not the best time to uproot and move.  Having our community welcome us back into the fold made the adjustment much easier.

As I stepped into the Great Hall yesterday morning, I felt like Rip Van Winkle, the place hadn’t changed significantly, it looked pretty much like it did when we left.  But the children I knew three years ago were remarkably taller and in some cases had transitioned to young adults, there were new babies; babies of people I’ve known since they were babies.  Sadly, there was also the noticable absence of the faces that were missing. For the most part, the feeling was much the same as entering my mother’s kitchen; warm and welcoming me with the feeling that I really belonged.

It was also exhausting. There were so many people to catch up with; it was almost like speed dating as we attempted to exchange as much information as possible before the next new face caught my eye. I worry that I may have cut some folks off mid sentence as I drifted on to the next, a by-product of my ADD. For a few hours my mind felt like my office floor looks, with fragments of conversations lying about in total disarray. I spent most of the four hours back home in the car quietly sorting and filing them in my head. And like my office floor, I’m certain there will be a bit of information I’ve tucked somewhere that will pop up sometime later.

I wonder why it takes something as significant as friend’s passing to break us out of our routine to spend time with those we feel such kinship with. It certainly isn’t for lack of caring. If we weren’t separated by 100 miles or so on I64 and the dreaded HRBT, I know we’d be there more often.  But more importantly, because of the distance, I think probably the reality is that as lifelong home builders, we are busy building our new home, tending to our newer family members as well as remaining open to adding new members.  It’s just what we do.

Best of all, the way I see it; the super-rich maybe able to boast that they own many houses, but I consider myself much richer to be able to boast that I have many homes.  Take that Dorothy!

Aretha Franklin sang about it, Rodney Dangerfield lamented it and even Jesus experienced it; I just don’t get any respect!

This past Saturday morning, while rushing up the stairs, Dave caught his “long toe” under the lip of the top step and tripped onto the upstairs landing. Howling in pain, he cursed the said elongated digit. Having made the same ungraceful landing on the landing, I didn’t think too much more about it.

Later he mentioned that he thought his toe might be broken. “Could be,” I replied, “You should go put some ice on it and keep it elevated for a while. There’s nothing can be done for it but tape it to its neighbor toe if it is broken.”

He had too much to do; needing to run to Lowe’s to get a splash-block for the downspout on the new porch roof. This mission trumped any need of first aid on an ailing toe which told me that his toe couldn’t possible hurt that much if he was willing to walk around a huge big box hardware store.

After returning from Lowe’s and placing the new splash-block, Dave and I both began to ready ourselves for an afternoon barbecue with friends. Still concerned about his toe, which was now beginning to display a tidy bruise at the point of impact, Dave carefully wrapped it in gauze and then taped it together with its neighbor and slipped his foot into his Keenes to keep it protected. “I think I’ll go to the emergency room tomorrow for an x-ray.” he said, “I can feel the bone moving around.” “Does it hurt a lot? Is it throbbing?” Nope. So off we went to our barbecue.

The next morning we went to Mass at 8:30 as usual and then following a brief meeting, we sat and had coffee with friends. We chatted about our plans for our day when Dave announced he was going to the emergency room. Conversation stopped and all eyes turned to him, remembering his cardiac event last year and waiting to hear why he need to go to the emergency room. He said, “I think I broke my toe.” The room gave a collective sigh of relief.

So, after lunch, Dave headed off to the local ER, an acute care center attached to our family clinic. He told me I didn’t need to go with him so I stayed behind taking care of my stuff.

About two and a half hours later he came home. His toe was not broken, just bruised. The doctor instructed him to put some ice on it and keep it elevated and let him know that if it had been broken, they would have only taped it to the neighboring toe.

The feeling of validation that I had recommended the correct course of treatment from the beginning, was short lived. A big part of me felt a bit disrespected. For more than thirty years my children have trusted me for triage advice for all things medical while my husband’ not so much.

It is a curious thing, the mutual trust and respect between spouses. Even after almost forty years there are still some areas of growth required in that area. I’m as certain that Dave was totally unaware that he was “dissing” me as much as I am when I do unto him. The important difference between these types of situations now and then it that now I try to focus on the humor and humanity rather than the emotion. Life stays much more peaceful that way!

I suppose I could always become Dr. Mom, DVM. Izzie and Purrl will still listen to my medical advice. Sometimes.