Scary Tactics

Yesterday at the AIDS hospice, several new volunteers showed up at once. As a result the "usual" had a bit of an unusual feel to it. Perhaps that's why no one acted on the first red flag.

Nurse: "And the resident in Room C is actively dying. . . "
Volunteer in Cap: (interrupting and with a degree of shock) "What is that?"
Nurse: "His body is worn out. It's giving one last try at surviving but every breath is laborious. He's in the last stages and will probably die sometime this week. He's pretty bad . . . Karsi Sarcoma is covering his lower body and his legs are swollen."
Vol in Cap: "Can we see?" (moving in direction of room)
Nurse: (somewhat taken aback): "Not until after report."
Nurse continues with report and gets a call which he takes.
Vol in Cap: (to woman standing beside him) "Interesting shoes."

Ok, so in hindsight the situation is clearly strange. The Vol in Cap is not only color coordinated wearing pressed khakis and a somewhat expensive windbreaker type jacket -- something you just don't do in the bleach-based environment that is hospice life, but his tone is off, the delivery of his comments strikes me. After we break from report, I mention it to the nurse.

"I think this guy is autistic," I said. "And, by the way, he's not a part of our group."

He acknowledged that he too felt the man was a bit off by a quick smile but in the crowded hallway, could only respond. "He came in with the new guy," and then walked to Room C to introduce the Vol in Cap to the situation.

The other newbies and I went down to Room A to strip the beds and assess the cleaning needs. Most of the residents were heading to church with a pastor who regularly picks them up on Saturdays and fills a few hours of their day with worship, food, and much-needed time away from the house.

Then it happened. The nurse came to check again that indeed the Vol in Cap wasn't with any other volunteers. Seems that he had asked to wash the resident's feet. The nurse thought he meant to help clean him for his family who was coming. Instead, the water was being used for prayer, anointing, and healing. The nurse tried to explain about hospice (that it is actually for the dying) and the concerns of trying to force spiritual beliefs on someone who had not asked. The Vol in Cap ignored the nurse and just prayed louder and started calling for a resurrection.

What he got was the other nurse in charge of training -- who asked the Vol in Cap if he had received any type of orientation. When the Vol said a few minutes ago, the situation was clear. This was no true volunteer. He was asked to leave, then told to leave, then ordered to leave.

His reaction was to drop to his knees in the hallway, rebuke those who would exorcise him from the house, and then call them out as evil . . . though he did add that he was still supposed to love them.

One nurse responded, "I love you too but you're still leaving."

When our unwelcome guest made it outside I had the strangest visual juxtaposition before me. The pastor who regularly ministers to people who don't make it easy to do so (many of the residents are from the streets, some have mental problems, and lots are demanding) was loading up his van.

So before me were two ministers -- one answered the question of what would Jesus do with judgment, unsolicited ministrations, and obligation rather than compassion. The other expresses his faith with his continuing presence.

Supposedly both represented the religious world -- but they were worlds apart. And as for me and my house? ... We're going with the guy in the van,

Sabbath

I've said before and will most likely continue to repeat myself, "I love Sundays."

As a committed extrovert, I tend to fill every day with work and play. I'm out there living life to the max and usually sharing the experience with family or friends. But Sunday is a different matter. Quiet walks, the paper, something warm and delicious concocted in the kitchen as I'm mindful of every cut of the blade and stir of the pot, some writing, maybe a bad Lifetime movie or a good book -- these fill my hours until the Sabbath ends. By that time, the Food Network has my attention and my hours of self-imposed solitude conclude.

I never understood the power of pausing until I practiced it. Took me a few attempts before I got it right but now ...

I love Sundays.

Thanksgiving Eve

We sit around a table
laden with pre-turkey day indulgences
and each say our words of gratitude

for friends
safe travel
family
school being on hold for the holiday
and life

While my prayers are silently offered to a familiar name and unknown face,
he limits his thanks to those around the table,
she to that which can be scientifically explained,
and yet another speaks to the Universe.

The holding of hands, the common smiles, the warmth coming more from our hearts than the food . . .
Assures us all, that we've each been heard.

And we remain grateful.

Four Stars

Last night I watched a young woman -- who at our first meeting was mommy-ing her little brother and sister with a seriousness of responsibility that belied her preteen years -- own a theatrical stage.

She's a dancer, so the majestic quality of each step, each movement was no surprise. I've seen her perform in ballets, modern dance, a couple of musicals and once, she even held her own above the crowd in a cirque de soliel type of acrobatic display using ribbon-like ropes. Every time I've seen her with stage lights shining in her face, she glows. The artificially induced wattage has nothing to do with it. She simply has a smile that brightens people's day and has a an energy of its own. Add that to the sparkle she can manifest in her eyes -- on cue ... and well, she is, as they say, a natural.

The beauty of the performance last evening was that her role -- though very substantial since she served as narrator -- was a balancing act. The other high school performers were playing over the top caricatures of middle school stereotypes -- the Eagle Scout, the Forgotten Child, the Sloppy Fat Kid (which in a delightful turn became the romantic lead), the Over Achieving Depressive, the Airhead Creative, etc. While they twisted, twitched and agonized as part of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, she played the mature long-ago winner, still dedicated to introducing children to the power of the bee.

Even though a few were outstanding in their solos, what made my young friend command the stage was her understanding of it. She knew the power of a smile over a guffaw, a slight touch over a hearty slap on the back, a raised eyebrow over an glaring sneer. She performed as though this were her birthright.

I pray that's true. That her desire becomes her destiny. That's the plan -- an education where her love of the arts can be nurtured as it has been here. And I want it for her. I want the dream to be a reality, and practicalities like rent, insurance, and paychecks to be delayed for just a little longer. Because the world needs artists like my friend Audrey, who believe ... and for a few moments can make you believe as well.

I've been "cationing"

My vacation/staycation is coming to an end. I must admit that this week off was needed and appreciated. I must also admit that life continues to surprise.

For instance, on the cruise (cheap one that was within my budget and didn't take the whole week to enjoy) . . .

-the couple my friend and I ate dinner with each night were actually kind of interesting. We took our chances with assigned seating and the guy is a prison guard and the woman does real estate. They were in the beginning days of a reconnected (from high school) relationship. The cruise was fun for them but according to asides I got from the woman, it also marked the ending days of their relationship!
- when you are open to chatting, you learn lots. Watching football in one of the lounge areas on Sunday netted me a companion for the wine tasting later that afternoon and a new friend who looked out for me at fun times like bad karaoke. She made it better by alerting me to when to plug my ears and by giving me the lowdown on all the folks she'd met. A retired school teacher who was widowed young, remarried a principal/athletic director, and now lives part of the time at the bay and part of the time on ships traveling here and yon, she was the kind of woman I aspire to be.
-cooking on excursion is more fun than you might think. We ate well and met more fun folks and still had time to hang out on the beach.
- the ruins of Mexico, Peru, and Cambodia have way too much in common to be coincidence. Fascinating to now have seen them all.

On my staycation, I enjoyed Houston. One night at the House of Blues, the next at the Mucky Duck and last night at Miller Outdoor Theater means I got plenty of music. Yesterday I walked for two hours hunting alligators at the local state park. By the time, my buddy and I had packed a picnic dinner and made our place on the hill on Miller's hillside, the night had descended and so had our tiredness. But the air was cool, the blanket was warm, the R&B was perfection and I ended the night with a sigh of pure contentment.

I haven't said this in a while, but it bears repeating and remembering ... I love my life.

Chicken?

My mother hates chickens. When we were kids and she was a single mom on a very limited (as in poverty level) budget, chicken would have made perfect economical sense for the five of us sitting around the table. But nope. If we needed an injection of pure Southern cooking, the deep fried in the cast iron skillet kind, we had to wait for Sunday dinner next door at Grandmother's.

While perhaps not exactly alektorophobia (only because rich people get to have diagnoses like the fear of chickens), mother's distaste for all things fowl was still quite severe. Not until the Dairy Queen came out with chicken strips -- something that looked nothing like its origin -- was mom able to finally partake of the crispy goodness of the fried bird.

The origins of her aversion are rooted in her childhood (wow ... what a shock) when she had to participate in wringing the creatures' necks before they were robbed of their feathers, introduced to that infamous black skillet, and appeared on her plate. She vowed never to have to eat that particular offering ever again.

I tell this story because my mother has been on my mind quite a bit lately. She and Doc have figured out a way to "live" around his trips to dialysis and the fact that he doesn't move as fast as he used to. She sometimes responds to my weekly inquiry about how she is with, "Fine . . . We're doing as good as can be expected. Doc passed out on the porch a couple of days ago and after Mike heard me yelling and came over . . . " Then the story continues as though it's perfectly normal to have an 84-year-old black out on your front steps. And, I guess in her case, it is now.

My mom is rather resolute. Life is what it is and you make it better or you just accept it and move on. But one of the things she finds hard to accept ... as do any of us ... is a mother outliving her child. She's done it, but even though my brother was 38 and his death came years ago, she's still not "over it" and never will be. (I say that only because of the well-meaning but ignorant people who assured her some day she would.) This week she witnessed another mother lose another son.

Dianne was once a frequent guest in our home. I worked with her at the aforementioned Dairy Queen and my brother dated her. Her post-Kelly boyfriend became her husband and Jimmy was ideal for her. (Meaning no offense to my bother but in this case they all wound up with their soulmates.) They went to college, got great jobs, had great kids, became pillars in the community (by choice since they both had bigtime options for employment that would have planted them in some urban area quite easily). And now ... they have experienced great loss. Their son lost the fight to cancer. Two decades hadn't even passed since his birth. And while, Jimmy (son's name as well) was a true champion by all accounts, the unfathomable happened and he lost the war.

Now what does this have to do with chickens?

Because survivors like my mom and maybe everyone with roots in a small town know that in the midst of tragedy beyond comprehension, you find ways to keep going.

Mother faced her fear of the chicken. The Crooms are egg farmers when they are not being successful professionals, church volunteers and incredibly supportive parents. They supply several members of First Baptist Greenfield with their weekly dozens. Since they've obviously been at the hospital and not at home, folks missed their Wednesday night delivery.

So my 79 year old mother decided to step in. She recruited my (yes-he-uses-a-cane) stepfather and enlisted the help of Dianne's sister to get around the dog and raided the chicken house.

At least, I thought that's what she was doing. She told the tale as though she were going to be right there in the coop, lifting the objects of her lifelone disdain and robbing them of their treasures. I was struck with waves of admiration as she told the story.

Later I found out that what she did was get into the house where the goodies were already cartoned and simply got enough for the congregation who were having to eat cereal rather than omelets for breakfast.

But I was still proud of her. Because I had to hear the egg story before we got to the fact that she was also caring for Dianne's ailing mother with several other folks from town and that she would be helping with feeding the family.

Caring for each other . . . that's just what you do in a small town. At least you do when your name is Margaret Campbell Porter.

Hmmmmm. . .

With no children and no spouse to tend to in the evening hours, I tend to scan the channels -- a lot. Here are a few things that make me go hmmmmm . . .

Is anyone else concerned that there are enough women to have an ongoing program called, "I Didn't Know that I was Pregnant"?

Will you be watching the golf channel when they have players compete in a Disney-built goofy golf tournament to see who will move on to some big championship spot? (I won't. I didn't even watch the entire commercial.)

What I would like to say to the crazy dude in California, "Maybe you weren't really thinking when you decided a 6-year-old is a good accomplice in a con game. Didn't you see Paper Moon? Don't you know this cannot turn out well?"

What did B list "stars" do before reality TV decided to highlight B list stars?

Why have housewives in Atlanta, New Jersey, New York, and Orange County not sued to have the names of these programs changed???

I will forego the foundational garments but I would dearly love to wear some of the clothes on Mad Men. And I love, love the fact that the director has told the actresses not to work out! Curvy women unite!

And since I mentioned some crappy stuff, I'll tell you that Mad Men, Iron Chef, Top Chef, Medium, and Amazing Grace are among my favorites. Some day I'm going to be a well-read, articulate, super sensitive free spirit who knows how to cook. Until then, I'll keep watching these programs.

Signs of a Passing

"No twitting at the table." -- Martha Stewart in latest Macy's commercial

This weekend's Houston Chronicle had an above the fold (that reference is for all the oldtimers) story on a local mega church's use of twitter in services.

Miley Cyrus cancelled her Twitter account this week.

These seemingly disparate activities lead me to one conclusion. Twitter is on the downhill slide.

At least that's what I'm telling my boss. Yes, there are folks who are using it daily and with entertaining outcomes. Social networking has definitely come into the spotlight as a result. But my geek friends were into it years ago. Commercials and the church have just acknowledged it.

Applying the diffusion of innovation theory, that means the early adopters are looking for a new "wave" to focus on (that reference is for the googley newtimers). The early majority are quite proficient at capturing life in 140 characters or less and the late majority think this is THE way to connect to a generation.

Sure we may have a few years of vibrancy left, but I'm not banking on it.

To twitter or not to twitter is no longer my question.

One Morning of Wonder

Ever wonder if the things you wonder would be quite as wonderful to anyone else?

For instance . . .

I wonder if I'm right that the voiceover on the last commercial really was John Boy aka Richard Thomas?

If my friend knows that I hate that her mom has to endure chemo and that I wish I could take that cancer and my friend's MS and shove them both down a disposal in some cosmic kitchen, hear the sound of them being chopped to nothingness and then walk away . . . back to my friend . . . for a dance (that I would make her dance even if she didn't think she had the rhythm to do it)?

If visitors to my home get the same sense of comfort from the earth tones of my rug, walls, leather furniture and art by or about women that I do?

If the fact that I only go online sitting in one place will permanently cause an indentation to my couch?

If the gift of knowledge that my writer friend shared about the phrase "put her foot in it" is now even more sweet after I heard an African American hip hop artist use it this morning?

If anyone has noticed that several popular songs right now are asking people to do something significant and would make great soundtracks for a training conference on volunteerism?

I wonder about small towns and if it is inevitable that girls like me who felt stuck there once upon a time usually come back to a deep appreciation for the connectedness that is instilled in its residents . . . as deeply as the accent that I return when I'm tired or really comfortable?

If everyone who reads the status updates on their Facebook friends experiences the spectrum of diversity that I see daily -- twitters about children's eating habits, recipes, calls for the president to both speak out and shut up, party invites and prayers, sermon outlines and innuendo . . . oh! and sometimes in multiple languages?

If the rain will dampen the spirit of those going to the art festival I worked yesterday or rodeo day at the zoo that I'm supposed to do today?

If there's anyone out there who would like to partner with a woman who wonders like me?

Color Me Pink

I paused at my usual vantage point. A participant in numerous "walks for the cause", I knew the location along the route where six lanes of pink-wearing walkers would be most visible for a longview. Taking in the thousand or so in that one spot and then knowing that somewhere around 30, 000 others had just passed this point or would soon was . . .

Inspiring
Infuriating
Energizing

All that organizers would have wanted it to be.

Inspiration was easy. The survivors wore special caps or shirts to designate they had thus far beaten a disease that had taken the lives of so many -- who were memorialized on the backs of shirts of friends and family members. Some survivors didn't need the apparel. The lack of hair, pale complexion, and gaunt face announced to all that these were the current combatants. Their presence underscored that each day of life is its own victory.

I cry easily. Give me a good Hallmark commercial (or frankly, even a cheesey bad one) and I'll tear up. But my tears came and went quickly as I became infuriated with the injustice of a disease that robs daughters from their mothers, fathers from their children (yes, even men get breast cancer), sisters from sisters, and on and on and on. One of my favorite examples of writing -- West Wing -- took on the subject of cancer in an episode. President Bartlett, bored by a dinner party with his wife's medical friends, overhears one of them mention something about the disease and perks up. After a few moments, he begins to understand that a cure for cancer is within reach . . . if only enough money and time could be devoted to it. His team is called together and Rob Lowe's character is commissioned to write the lines that will ignite an accelerated movement in that direction after they are delivered during the State of the Union. Reminiscent of Kennedy's declaration that we would have a man on the moon, the idea was to underscore the potential, not the possible. The words are written . . . and never spoken. The politics of making words reality trumps inspiration. Lowe's character is later prompted to report, "We almost cured cancer today."

Almost is never good enough. And so, while a walk does me some good physically and calls attention in a very pink way to what is being done and is left to do, I'm energized to do more. Write? Sure, that's easy. Give? Have been and will continue. But what else? I'm open to what doors open on this one. Cancer eats away internally. Cancer bites. And I'm ready for a fight. I'll let you know when I get to throw the next punch.

Words Mean Something

This week, on two occasions, I heard folks defending Roman Polanski with the rationale that what he did wasn't "rape rape." This morning, I was watching early Sunday morning TV and heard an ad for yet another "reality show" about rich women -- this time in Dallas -- and heard one woman unapologetically state, "I don't mind being called a bitch, because I'm a nice bitch."

Huh? Huh?

Rape doesn't come in degrees. A bitch is a bitch is a bitch. (And, yes, you can quote me on that.)

Perhaps the fact that I know the pain of finding an error in a published product after numerous (and yes, I mean several, lots, more than five, yea verily a multitude) of eyes have scoured it for potential oops, or because I was educated in a system prior to online publications where the ease of corrections was a fantasy rather than a "change-it-and-upload-a-new-version" reality, but I still think we should choose words carefully and be especially careful when we are addressing the public.

"Rape rape" suggests that some version of rape exists out there (in what I can only suppose is la la land) that is acceptable or at least not worthy of prosecution. And, even though it was a singular quote by a rich Dallas diva, "nice bitch" reflects that same tendency to put wrong on a spectrum. I'm not a black and white person when it comes to most things but I'm also not devoid of the need for anchors. When we start giving what we have defined as "this" the option of also now meaning "that or that" we are giving a nod to the deconstruction of language. And, while I'm a big believer in the phoenix' ability to rise, I need to believe that we can hold tightly to language . . . that new words can be created to take on thoughts that have evolved.

Still . . .

I'm reminded of a friend's story of trying to introduce his son's 20-something-year-old friend to art. They were touring a museum and both he and his son were going to great lengths to explain the history of pieces, the interplay of colors and the potential meaning behind the choices, the fact that pieces reflect the thinking or the debate of the time, etc. They continued through the museum and when the young woman came upon a modern piece that was nothing but a few blocks of color on canvas, she studied it for a few moments and then declared, "I get it. I hear what you've both been saying but ... I'm still calling 'bullshit' on this one."

Rape rape? Nice bitch?

Bullshit.

Lessons Learned from Social Networking (Ok, so I'm just on FB)

Sometimes you're on a roll and sometimes you farkle.

If you can't say something nice about a person, add a link to YouTube.

We're a nation obsessed with food. Ok, maybe I'm obsessed with food, but yes, I do want to know what you ate for lunch.

Farm life and pokes weren't appealing to me as a kid and they still aren't.

The upside to digital cameras is that you can take lots of photos until you get a good one. The downside is not everyone knows (a) what a good one is and (b) how to edit.

To hide or not to hide . . . still a good question.

Change happens . . . to our bodies, faces, incomes . . . but not necessarily to our personalities. If I loved you in high school or liked you in college, there's a good chance I still do.

When I score 5,000 and you score 40,000, it's no longer a game.

Some men really do love their wives.

Kids are funny . . .

Parents are funnier . . .

I don't need a counter to tell me I have lots of great friends.

WeekEnder Multiple Choice

This weekend I . . .

(a) served as a patron of the arts and volunteer -- soaking in opera and helping to make a small dent in what we need to fight AIDS
(b) spent some lovely friend-time picnicking in the park and interpreting Buffy, the Vampire Slayer as we watched the musical episode "Once More with Feeling" under the stars and interacted with the sing-a-long
(c) celebrated as the Texans redeemed themselves and then became a biker babe and hit a dive near the water that prided itself on having no smoking section because, "smoking is allowed anywhere you want in this place"
(d) are you kidding? of course it's all of the above!

The Dance of the Volunteer

My philosophy of volunteerism: If you're passionate and needed, step in. If someone can do what you do better than you, step away.

My belief: Opportunities abound. If I'm looking out for the cause and not for me, I'll be blessed with yet another great experience soon enough.

I've worked with non-profits my entire career and they are almost always dependent on volunteers. I've yet to make my first million so my contributions are usually "in kind."

Currently, I'm working on a training presentation for a collaborative of health care advocates, helping a theater with marketing and volunteer recruitment, dressing as a clown to promote the rodeo at special events, and continuing to cook, wash clothes and whatever at an AIDS hospice about once a month.

The hospice is having its annual fundraiser -- called Sing for Hope -- this weekend. Opera singers from across the country donate their talent and time to present two halves of a spectacular program at the Wortham Center, one of our premiere theaters. The first half is opera. The second half is show tunes ... sung by opera singers.

If you like opera, Sing for Hope is your ticket to Oz. If you're not into the high notes, you might want to check out somewhere over another rainbow. But if you like passionate people doing what they know how to do for a cause that needs them, this is the place to be.

Last night I watched rehearsal -- amazing. What Michael, a tenor, did with an accordion like instrument he held in his lap while singing mournfully "I've looked at life from both sides now" is sure to bring the house to their feet. This song touches you on every level as the truth of the words (especially when applied to the work we do at a hospice) melds with the artistry that is his voice.

Since I appreciate the talent required for opera but tend to lend more toward the show tune side of programming, I can't offer much more by way of teasing your for tonight's performance except to say that every minute will be wonderful.

Wonderful because they've stepped in. They are giving what they have. That's how the event came to be. A singer who had lost someone to the enemy we call AIDS knew she could put on a show and did. And a simple little affair has become a mega-event.

I became involved when it was moving out of smaller venues onto one of Houston's larger stages. Having served as a behind the scenes director at events for 1000 to 13,000, I mentioned that I would help backstage if needed. They pounced on the idea and for a few years, I worked with the artistic director, the talent, the hired stagehands and a group of my friends, willing to volunteer and we put on a show. Two years ago, with my paying job demanding more of my time, I called on a recruit who had an actual theater background and who loved opera to assist me. He was fantastic and I knew exactly what I had to do.

I stepped away. Sure I became a part of his team the next year, but this year, it's all his. And last night at that rehearsal, I was proud of what I saw on stage and even prouder of what I knew was happening behind the curtain.

Don't hear me saying I'm done with this. Not in the least. I loved it last night when my transportation responsibilities meant I got to take Michael back to his hotel and I loved it even more when he emerged from the stage entrance and, seeing the top down on the Beetle, asked with a huge grin, "Are you my ride?" The sweetness of giving him just a small thank you for what he was doing was not lost on me.

I'll be back year after year and I'm sure that there is another Karen-size hole I can fill in this incredible experience we refer to as Bering Omega. Until then, I'll appreciate the growth that comes when we do the dance . . . step in . . . step away . . . look around . . . step in . . .

Really Not Quite Ravioli

Thanks to my friend Margaret, I have the easiest way to get my pasta fix and avoid lots of calories! Now if my other friend Richard Paoli happens to read this, I want to ask him to please forgive what I am about to share. As a chef who appreciates a fine Italian dinner, Richard is going to be sorely disappointed. But for those of you out there who like to indulge in good tastes but need to cut the cals, here you go.

Wonton wrappers! Never knew! Four wrappers are 70 calories. So you can create 8 little ravioli triangles and you've barely made a dent in your carb count.

You can use just about anything for a filling. When Margaret showed me, she had two options. One was a chicken, spinach, parmesan and almond mixture. The other was tuna, bread crumbs, capers and I think some parmesan as well.

Tonight I went with two slices of turkey bacon cut in small pieces with chopped mushrooms and onions sauteing alongside. When things looked fairly brown, I added a little bit of feta. Dropping a small amount of the filling in each wonton, I then folded one corner over the other and sealed the triangle with water. My sauce was what was left of the filling mixture, a tablespoon of pesto and just an ounce or two of white wine cooked down.

Boil the wonton/raviolis in water with just a tad of oil (because they will stick together) for about 2 minutes and there you have it. I have to admit that I did add a couple of caloric additions -- shredded parmesan and some craisins but really, it was amazing. And I feel no guilt.

Random Randomness

I somehow got how Paula could comment on music . . . I'd seen her dance. But, admittedly having seen none of the competition previously, and only the last few minutes of this finale, I'm stunned at the thought that David Hasselhoff is supposed to be able to determine if America's Got Talent.

Tats look good on some and lousy on others. Nerdiness looks cute on some and sad on others. The array is featured on this season's Top Chef. (And yes, I know it's about cooking and there's not a runway in sight but I haven't seen enough of their chops yet to comment.)

I just re-read some pieces I wrote a while back and found myself wondering what was going to happen next. Guess I was truly into what I was writing or . . . maybe the writing was writing itself.

Today I was elected vice president of a board I'm on. We have three board members and three officers. The tension mounted after we chose the prez. The one remaining member said, "Got a preference?" I said, "I don't do numbers." She said, "Great. I'm a CPA." And that's the story of how we chose the treasurer and vp.

And that's the way it now is . . .

I blame it all on the 24 hour news cycle.

Filling air time meant stories gave way to thoughts spoken aloud. Thoughts became spontaneous rants. Rants were repeated as chants. And "journalism" took a back seat to infotainment.

Now callers add to the ignorance and, even worse, decide that shouting over the airwaves isn't enough and shouting at Town Halls becomes the norm. Even shouting at the President during his speech to Congress seems (at least in that brief moment) the thing to do.

Except . . . moments later, those words can't be erased. News programs have producers to check the calls and/or editing machines for playback later with lots of the glitches removed.

But live and in person, we get it all -- unedited, unchecked -- and we are stuck with it. Words hanging in the air, taking up space, causing pain, signaling the disintegration of civil discourse.

In one of my favorite movies, Broadcast News, the lightweight on air personality (can't really call him a journalist) is being led through a breaking news story by his producer. William Hurt listens intently as Holly Hunter tells him exactly what to say and who to throw the next story to. When her attention is diverted for just a moment, William is left on his on and sums up what was just said with, "And I think that means we're all ok."

The news director hears it and retorts, "Who the hell cares what you think?"

That movie is rather ancient now. But it's a testament to a time far removed from today's verbal diarrhea.

In the old reels of the reports of man landing on the moon, Walter Cronkite is visibly disturbed that he's showing emotion as he shares the announcement. Reflecting on the memorial service that occurred the same week as we had the "shout out" to the President, I wondered if, before he died, Mr. Cronkite hadn't shed a tear or two for what his profession had become.

How Much Wood would a Woodstock Stock if a . . .

We offered the best compliment a movie goer can. We stayed in the parking lot for at least 20 minutes after the credits had rolled discussing what we had seen, what we hadn't, and how the film had engaged each of us in a different way.

I hadn't planned on exploring "The Road to Woodstock" but a friend opted for it over finding out more about that Time Traveler's Wife. At one point, I laughed aloud, leaned over and whispered, "If someone asks what kind of movie this is, how will you answer?"

Funny . . . but not a comedy. About music . . . but not a musical. Serious . . . but see previous remark about funny. About history but plays with the truth for dramatic purposes.

All in all, a surprise and a pleasure.

I realized, while watching, how little I knew about this pivotal cultural phenomenon. I did recently learn that one of the volunteers I work with was from Woodstock and had dated the son of the man who provided the farm. I knew Hendrix played (but I didn't know that he was last and only about 45,000 heard the Star Spangled Banner as only he could do it). I knew mud, drugs, and nudity had all played a part. But that was about it.

I mean, really, I was 8 years old and living in Greenfield, TN!

What I didn't know and wanted to find out as soon as the flick concluded and we had dissected it thoroughly in a parking lot review:
- did they make money? (not on the concert but on the movie and everything else)
- did the farm owner suffer from the loss of grass for his cows, etc? (The townspeople sued him, he sued the organizers and finally got money for restoring everything, but he loved the experience. He also sold the farm within two years, moved to Florida and died.)
- did Bob Dylan show up? (no)
- did it really happen the way the movie explains it? (According to who you ask)
- did they clean it up? (yes and no but eventually)
- did the town benefit? (They actually fought the notoriety for decades but have recently embraced it.)

I could find all this info because I now have the Internet at home AND because the History Channel was actually featuring a Woodstock documentary when I arrived back at the house.

The one thing they couldn't tell me . . . did the folks who attended the "three days of peace and love" ever figure out a way to find the harmony without a soundtrack?

Table Talk -- Mmm Good

Four nights in a row I've cooked for/with other people. Each night has included a raid of the fridge to find what's there and get creative with it. All but one night included time around the table and even then we paused and, quite literally, passed the pasta bowl around.

I mention this because I've been focusing lately on the power of the table.

At lunch the other day with three incredible women familiar with various faith traditions -- Judaism, Unitarian Universalism, Pentecostalism (now agnostic) -- I was enjoying our exploration of spirituality and shared the metaphor once given to me by an untraditional Baptist pastor, "I envision a table and around that table are Jews, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and more and we share a meal and talk. When we leave the table, each of us has a greater understanding of God than when we first sat down."

I said it was reframing of the blind men each touching a different element of the elephant who have always been said to be in argument over what really defined the creature. In this version of the experience, the debate ceases and me and my take on the leg informs you and your take on the tail.

Perhaps due to the fact that I don't spend that much time in zoos, the table imagery evokes much more in me. I love good table talk . . . so much so that I often wonder why designers seemed bent on creating beautiful yet terribly uncomfortable dining room chairs. I like to push the dishes to the side and linger over a dessert of new thoughts, ideas, stories, and laughter.

I sometimes wondering if stimulating the palate also stimulates the soul. I'm sure there's been many a revelation spilled while downing Happy Meals and sodas, but that's family and our love for our children has us always on the ready to be inspired or challenged. I doubt however that in the speed of downing something from the drive through few people have delved into any great thinking other than bbq or sweet and sour sauce.

Around the table . . . with freshly made raviolis covered in a shrimp and mushroom wine sauce or with a steaming cup of vegetable puree kicked up a notch with a touch of Louisiana or tender chicken breasts sliced and covering feta-infused couscous . . . these are the ingredients that season conversations about hopes, dreams, philosophies. And at my table, your taste is your taste. You can add more salt. You can even ask for catsup. You can say what you think. And you can definitely bring a friend.

One of Her Children

My mother has been watching "All My Children" since I was a child. Today, I think I heard more pride in her voice regarding her youngest daughter (that would be me) than I have heard in a very long time.

She reported, "Erica Kane is in Africa and she had to use a bed net and watch for critters coming into the bed at night and I thought, 'Well, Karen did that with no problem!'"

A Crappy Day . . . But this time not so literally

Yesterday reminded me of a day I spent in Tanzania. On that continent, I walked to work to discover that the technology demons were active and nothing we attempted to do that morning proved successful (at least if it involved working with devices that plugged into the wall). So, somewhat frustrated, I walked back to my abode only to discover that we had no gas with which to cook lunch. Since we also had run out of water that day, I decided eating out was in order and while walking down to the main street, I felt a rock hit the top of my head. Only it wasn't a rock. It was bird crap . . . and a lot of it.

At this point, I declared that day over. I officially restarted at 1 p.m. with clean hair (thanks to the agreement of my roomies that my need for clean hair trumped any thing they needed to do with the gallon of water left to us) and a new attitude.

"I will not continue to rack all that is wrong with this day," I declared. "The cloud will be lifted and I will look for sunrays and not feces to fall from the sky. So saith the Karen."

And it got better.

So yesterday when my plans fell through with one friend, nothing could be worked out with another, my power went off in the middle of getting ready and with wet hair-now-drying-as frizz I traveled to a friend's to use their power and mirror, which meant I was now going to find the two places I needed for errands to be closed, I decided to once again reboot the day.

"I'm starting over," I once again said to no one but my own psyche. "Doom and gloom thinking isn't becoming. So let's start over."

But it didn't get better.

I'll spare you the details but suffice it to say, when your night begins with someone entering your home with the hopes of changing your entire belief system before you get to a preseason game (where the Texans got tragically embarrassed) well . . . that's more than a little positive thinking can handle.

Still, at the end of the evening, lessons were learned. And as I type the above, I relish the fact of how many times I used the word "friend." Frankly, I'm blessed by most and I just need to figure out a way to deal with the rest.

Oh . . . and avoid birds overhead.

All that and a bowl of ice cream . . .

I usually cringe when I see them coming -- waiters en masse heading toward a table of five or more, usually a family, and usually with balloons tied to a chair or two and gifts tucked somewhere at their feet. I know then that soon there will be a loud announcement and an even louder rendition of some version of Happy Birthday. And I wonder if it's too rude to stick my fingers in my ears or pretend there's a need to find a bathroom.

But on this night . . . surrounded by a family I've embraced because I can . . . I beamed. Our shared love -- a precious two year old who stole my heart the first time she looked into my freckled face, paused and then laughed aloud -- was celebrating the completion of her second year. She watched curiously as the waiters gathered and then squealed with delight when the "music" started.

"Tank you!" she yelled after them as they walked back to their customers and stations.

"Tank you" indeed. To all the powers that be that bring someone close enough to let you see the good, the bad, and the precious, 'tank you."

I'd Be Blog-i-licious or Write of Way

98 degrees. 7 o'clock in the p.m. and it's almost 100 degrees. And I'm standing in front of an indoor soccer facility looking into the sun, accessing the line, and realizing that perhaps we should have bought the tickets online.

No, we weren't there to see soccer. We were there for the roller derby.

The line was an indicator on how what, when I was a child, I had considered the female equivalent to pro wrestling was growing in popularity. My sweat was dripping sweat when we finally got in the door. By that time, we'd learned that the reason the man in front of us had a lawn chair was that the place only had bleachers and they were sure to be filled at this hour. They were. In fact, several hundred people were simply sitting on the floor (not in chairs on the floor but really on the floor) four rows deep from the edge of the skating track. And unlike what I remembered from the early 70s, there were no ramps. This was just women in pin up girl uniform/costumes skating around in circles while announcers energized the crowd. Since the match we watched first was a 138 to 12 pouncing, the nailbiting excitement the "color analyst" was trying to ignite just wasn't happening.

Oh yeah . . . and the air conditioning wasn't working.

But we were definitely entertained. One announcer had a mohawk which stood at least 2 ft above his head and was sprayed so stiff that when he walked through the door in front of us and it got aught in the door frame it simply made a scraping sound and rebounded.

The names were fun. We had Baby Face Assassin, Bobituary, Tamityville Horror, Holy Miss Moley, Crash Limb-Brawl, Emma Propriate, Basket Casey, Creeping Beauty, Jekyll and Heidi, Ivana B. Sedated and many, many more.

The crowd surprised me. Not just because of its size but, while I anticipated the bangs, boobs, and tats, I didn't expect to see so many folks in their 40s and 50s looking very maternal/paternal and eagerly supportive. In many ways, they looked as though they could have been there as grandparents at a soccer match and instead got sucked into some parallel universe.

Without the ramps the bout itself was fine but not a thrill a minute. Round . . . and round . . . and then round, and round, and round and then the whistle blew and points were tallied. I quickly caught on to the Jammer, blocker and other roles but when one is preoccupied with stirring up a breeze with the program rather than digging into its explanation of nuances one is stuck with what she can pick up visually. I saw it as up close NASCAR without the motors and with better fashions.

Still, having started the evening with home cooked risotto and salmon and great conversation, this outing proved to be exactly what I wanted -- a chance to do something I hadn't done before. Standing in the chair, fanning, and sweating cut the time we spent there to a minimum and our Blockbuster flick pick was more buster than we had hoped, but at the end of the evening I reveled in the fact that I have friends who can (a) cook, (b) try new things, (c) understand when I'm melting, and (d) make as much fun of a bad Dennis Quaid movie (skip Horsemen) as me.

One More Thing about Omega House

A young man entered the kitchen at the hospice today. He introduced himself . . . unlike the other three who had preceded him and headed to the fridge . . . and then made mention of the array of foodstuffs I had before me.

Knowing he was in an orientation class to become a volunteer, I asked what brought him to us. He said that back in the late 90s he had been working on a Masters in Social Work and had served as an intern there. He said then that when he got his life in gear -- ie out of school, making money, etc -- he planned on coming back as a vol.

He then said that the social work thing hadn't materialized and instead he had gotten a law degree, done some work as a prosecutor in Galveston and was now in private practice. So he was making good on a promise.

I commended him.

How many people do you know who make grandiose statements about what they will do when they get to that next place in life -- wherever that is -- and then conveniently forget they ever made such a commitment?

I'm really glad I went to Omega House today. As usual, being in a place of great loss underscores what all I have and what I gain by simply showing up.

Mas Queso?

Years ago, I realized that one of the cool things about working at Omega House, an AIDS hospice, is that I can cook using all the ingredients I have to leave out when I'm trying to eat healthy. Of course, the not so cool thing ... in fact the tragedy ... is that people are there because they're dying. But in the moment, you don't think about that so I'm not dwelling on it now either.

What I am focused on is that today I made enchiladas for the residents. They weren't my best effort and if the guy who only speaks Spanish had had any family there at the time, I wouldn't have made the attempt because it would have been just too embarrassing. But, the vols and the nurse were limited to pequito amounts of chats with him and I figured that a chile might put a smile on his toothless face.

I was right.

I went to Kroger for some of the ingredients and then scoured the kitchen. Meat, lots of Rotel, a cabinet raid for extra spices, a can of enchilada sauce I found, taking the time to soak the tortillas in sauce before filling them, cheese on top and a side dish of potatoes with Rotel/onion/cheese topping made for a completely non-figure-friendly plate of food.

When I checked in on our Spanish speaker afterwards, I managed an "Esta bien?" and he grinned wickedly as he nodded and declared them "rico" as well. I think that means that I might should have used a little less cheese but he was beaming when I took his plate and he ate it.

The woman who wondered if she'd be able to handle the spice deemed them more than acceptable and for some reason kept saying, "She really put her foot in it." I think she means I jumped in with both feet and succeeded but I try not to dig too deep into comments that make no sense there. Dementia is pretty common.

The guy from Ethiopia couldn't get through them. Even the banana he asked for as a side didn't help. So I cut him a piece of pastry and he was good.

The pianist was not sated on the first helping and so I gave him more. The other vol and the nurse who was going to stick to his brought-from-home sandwich enjoyed them as well.

All in all a good day. And you know why?

Because when I pulled up there were folks sweating in the front lawn making it Garden Club worthy. The front room was packed with supplies going out to pet owners who were part of the system in some way. Two other volunteers were there. A nurse I love was monitoring it all. And more vols were being trained upstairs.

We were all doing what we knew how to do to make a few lives a little better.

Enchiladas aren't going to save the world but they can prompt a smile on a gaunt and toothless face. And today that matters.

I'm Embarrassed

A Facebook friend just posted the Seven Deadly Social Sins by Gandhi -- Politics without Principle; Wealth without Work; Commerce without Morality; Pleasure without Conscience; Education without Character; Science Without Humanity; & Worship without Sacrifice.

I studied extra years in seminary so that I could communicate more effectively as a Christian. And yet, not once in those additional years of schooling or the two decades of my professional life when I was attempting to help other believers communicate about their faith did I encounter this succinct collection of truths.

I may have made As but reading this post today made me feel as though I had failed as a student. So I did what any good knowledge seeker does these days -- I Googled for more.

I was linked to a series of sermons by Dr. Barbara Hulsing, an American Baptist, who I've never met but to whom I owe a thank you. She brought me back to my own roots by graciously quoting a very familiar name from my past:

Phil Strickland, once executive director of the Baptist General Convention of Texas’ Christian Life Commission died in 2006. Not long before his death, he delivered a speech entitled, “Where Have All the Prophets Gone?”

In this speech, he said, “Prophesy requires the capacity to grieve about injustice, to quit pretending that things are all right, to imagine that things could be different and courageously to say so to the people, risking the consequences. It requires confronting the principalities and the powers. For compassion to move to action requires an alliance of love, power, and justice . . . [T]he prophet must be imaginative. One does not prophesy about what is but what ought to be.”

I know that picking up my blog again wasn't simply a matter of seeking a creative outlet. I had given up my voice in more ways than staying away from a keyboard. I had settled for "whatever" because I had tired of doing whatever it takes.

I'm embarrassed because I stopped seeking new thoughts. I'm embarrassed because I stopped thinking about what ought to be. I'm embarrassed but I'm not dead.

So today I begin. Gandhi is a pretty good guide. Google isn't going anywhere (and if it does Bing tells me it's ready to assist.) I'm not sure where my love, power, and justice will take my compassion just yet. But I, The Fallen, am getting off my ass.

Black and White and Read All Over

Some of my friends see only black and white.
Some see every color of the rainbow.
Tonight, a rainbow friend surprised me.

"I'm a black and white kind of guy," he declared.

"Not you. I know too much about you and there's no way," I countered.

"Really, I think I am."

"Well, if you only think you are, then you're not. You must be charcoal and ecru."

A true decorator at heart, he agreed.

At the tone, please leave your message

For almost two years I have changed the "personal message" on my phone each month to reflect something about either my life or the time of year. For instance, in the two Julys that have passed I've mentioned something along the lines of "Hi, It's July and I'm sending out birthday wishes to my twin, my mom and various friends."

Some times it takes a couple of calls before some my peeps get the implication. "Well, I guess you're having a birthday, too" they will say sheepishly and then wish me well.

When I was traveling I made sure to let folks know where I was at the moment. Unfortunately, a few who chose not to listen to the news and soon discovered the cost of an international call when they woke me up at 2 a.m. to invite me to come "over" (that would be quite the drive) and hang out.

This month I'm featuring interactive voice mail messages. You are invited to not only leave me a message but also to suggest a book title . . . since it's so freaking hot in Houston that no one really wants to go out and play. One poor soul never gets me live and in person so I have an entire library shelf of his tomes to check out.

I'm wondering what I should do for September? October? If you have any suggestions, feel free to send them my way.

I Start My Day with the West Wing and Here's One Reason Why

President "Jed" Bartlet of the West Wing speaking to Charlie regarding his desire to go home and watch a 007 flick . . . he dissects "shaken not stirred" with mock disdain and concludes:

"[James Bond] is ordering a weak martini and being snooty about it."

Say It with Meaning

Method actors, said the CBS film critic, pull from the inside and bring it out for all the world to see, possibly reliving the pain they are trying to depict. Meryl Streep on the other hand is all about the externals -- the walk, the gestures and the voice.

A woman of a 1,000 voices she has convinced us she had ties to Russia, Denmark, Australia and Yonkers. Now she is doing a better Julia Child than Julia Child. Not an easy task given that caricature is the next door neighbor to character and she could have easily fallen into an impersonation of Dan Akroyd doing Julia Child. But Julia doesn't just have the laugh, the trilling "r" and the high pitched little-old-lady thing happening. No she pulls herself up to her full 5 feet and probably 8 inches and within moments you know she's 6 ft. 2. It's an amazing transformation.

At the moment, I'm watching a not so amazing feat however. The Closer, while fun and sometimes funny and filled with some great character actors has Kyra Sedgewick doing Southern. That's not unlike putting onions, lox and capers on a biscuit. There's nothing really wrong with it but ... it just ain't right.

I'm sure Kyra is an incredible woman and I know she's a great actress and frankly that orange juice commercial that's playing these days with her dancing around the kitchen with a wooden spoon has me in awe of her yoga abilities. The woman has no bones beneath her waist . . . at least not in this commercial.

But Southern isn't just "thaaaaank you" uttered with some store bought drawl. Southern is a few more externals (if we follow the Streep method of acting). We touch each other when we want to make a point or put the conversation on pause. We fidgit and hide our inadequacies (even if they are only figments of our imagination). We are the bees in the honeysuckle moving in and out and enjoying our work with abandon. Yes, we have guilt and fret and are anxious but we ae all that with a smile that looks way more genuine than what this "Chief Brenda" is doling out.

Still I'm thrilled she's on and I'll keep watching. And I'll keep hoping that Holly Hunter will be more than just on the same network and might drop in one night and give Kyra some lessons in y'all. But, all in all, I'm thrilled. We have women -- beautiful, strong women holding their own in relationships, screwing up, and amazing us with grace the closer we get.

Meryl is in the kitchen. Kyra and Holly are on TNT and women over 40 have sounded the alarm. Woohoo!

A Day with J and J

"What do you enjoy doing?"

"Eating."

"And you're so good at it!"

Laughter follows. That would be Julia Child, her husband Paul and me as I watched Meryl Streep capture a moment in time with perfect joy.

I love a good guffaw and I had several watching the new flick that features one of my all-time favorite subjects -- food. The pursuit of passion warms my heart and I was aflame tracking the ups and downs of two cook/authors rise to public attention.

I walked away most inspired by the fact that (a) Julia didn't find success in the field in which we know her best until she was well into her 40s if not 50s. And (b) Julie started her first steps toward fame with a lowly blog.

While I believe the time of the obscure writer being plucked for book deals straight off the Internet are waning if not already passed, I do hold onto the hope that I have a decade to realize my potential and could still enjoy several other decades of professional fulfillment.

I just need to figure out what I enjoy doing ... other than eating, because I think Julia mastered the art of that one!

Watch Me

Of late, I’ve done a lot of watching. Tonight, I observed the need to take action.

Robert Redford directed, produced and starred in Lions to Lambs. Definitely a talkie, still we were metaphorically taken to the dance floor with a choreographed interplay of politics, journalism, education, and patriotism. Weaving between the orchestrated themes we were enticed from the safe stance of a wallflower and encouraged to move. The only heroes wore uniforms and died defiantly facing the enemy. Everyone else talked a less than adequate game.

I wanted to catch the next flight to Afghanistan. Not because I believed that there was such a thing as a winner in the war on terror but because I wanted every soldier to know that while I did not believe in war, I did believe in them.

Oddly enough, I then turned to Anthony Bourdain. He made a simple “bowl of something good” seem like the answer to warring factions worldwide. Forget the ideas behind cinematic versions of a peace march, one only needs some broth, noodles, a protein and spices to transform enemies into lovers . . . at least of good food.

I want to go. I want to board the train and ignore the drag queens selling some kind of ware and taste the newspaper wrapped thing my mother would tell me to avoid and tell the child selling dust covered plastic something or others at least three times that no, I don’t want it and smile when my companion buys three.

I’m jonesing for a journey.

Been a While . . .

I've missed this.

My fingertips on the keys. The blue header of the page on which I type. The idea forming and then becoming keystrokes and finally materializing as a story, observation, or just the beginning of a thought but still very real because it was now on a page.

I've written any number of pieces since giving up the blog almost a year ago. But few have been captured. The stark nakedness of a computer screen locked in New File mode is intimidating. I need the sense that what I write could be read and shared with friends. Then and only then is it real.

But I can't blog about work. I didn't have access to the Internet at home. And the fact that I wasn't convinced I had anything left to say meant I've put something I enjoy to the side.

Well, I'm giving it another go. I'll skip the work stuff. I just got off the phone with Comcast (Argh!) and now I'm saying little more than I'm going to give it another try. Still that's a start.

So hello again. I"m back.

The Non-Dramatic Drama of Post-Hurricane Life

. . . walking through a supermarket when there's no dairy or meat and few fresh vegetables but being ever so grateful that they have bread and power so that you can use your debit card and get cash . . .

. . . realizing your neighbors have all heeded the request to bag and secure debris by the curb (the request you've been typing and sending out all day) but YOU haven't and so you pile all the fallen shingles and limbs you carefully collected on Sunday into a garbage can at 9 p.m. . . .

. . . seeing the man you feared was going to renege on his promise to roof your house on the roof as you come home for lunch and smiling at his broken English explanation that until he has shingles he can't do the work, so yes there is a tarp in case it rains . . .

. . . coming home to the smell of slow cooked chicken and vegetables simmering in the kitchen before the smell of wet carpet pads hits your nostrils as you enter the bedroom and master bath . . .

. . . being grateful for rabbit ears with which to get a local channel, watching more post-hurricane reports than you care to, and then discovering your cable was restored in the wee morning hours . . .

. . . wishing that you got at least one day off to realize what you'd been through . . . like a dummy, I worked on a mailing the days after the storm and then had to be back at work on Monday so reflection moments have been rather limited . . . I want to go to Austin with my buddy or sit by the pool with my teacher friend . . .

. . . feeling guilty about in any way pouting about the above . . .

Ike!

Hurricane Ike came on like a (insert metaphor of your choice here):
a) A much anticipated date with a football star who turns out to be cruel and sadistic and leaves the girl in tears and chaos
b) A bloody corporate takeover where no one gets out fairly and the payout has no rhyme or reason
c) A sloppy, drunken blowhard who demands service and attention and then proceeds to trash the place

Frankly, “figurative” has never been my strong suit so I’m going to stop trying to describe what happened and simply report the facts.

Friday night was eerie in its normalcy. We ate. We drank. We told stories. We wondered if what the news was telling us would happen or would be another Rita.
In the early morning hours of Saturday, we knew normal was gone and that the media had it right. Winds, rain, objects rolling over the roof . . . and it went on for hours.

When the sun came up, I had five holes in my roof and water was seeping through the cracks in the foundation in my bedroom.

And I was one of the lucky ones. My friend had power and access to a truck and came to get me. He and his other two house guests/evacuees and I watched the relentless reporting of what little the media knew for hours. We cooked what we collectively had and ate well. We fed those my friend kept inviting into his home.

Sunday we discovered the rains weren’t over and for the first time, tears welled in my eyes. I envisioned the holes in the roof allowing in a deluge of water and the buckets I had placed in the attic filled and overflowing. I saw the ceiling crashing down on my clothes and I conjured up a scenario of my new place (that already felt so much like home) being condemned and me abode-less once again.

My old friend and my new (the ones with the truck) saw the anxiety on my face. They went with me to check the townhome. All was well. We moved clothes out of closets potentially at risk. We cleaned out the rest of the groceries and went home to recuperate before doing the same kinds of things at the couple’s house.

Prior to the hurricane, I did everything officials told me to do except get a full tank of gas. Soon I added to all of my Ike experiences with time spent in a gas line. Houston being the multi cultural city that it is, I found myself the only one with freckles as I compared the musical blasts coming out of the cars inching their way toward the Holy Grail –the pump. Indian, rap, and something-to-salsa-by filled the air. And though I overheard a few off color comments from one skin tone about another, the crowd followed the makeshift rules of the lot and seemed to take well the instructions from the various “traffic cops” clad in jeans and shorts and eating pizza and Cheetos as they waved us on.

I’m one of the few of my friends who have been back at work. I’ve combed through the news alerts and governmental press releases and compiled resources for our district for an email blitz and ready access on the web. We’ve opened the doors to our air conditioned office and invited our constituents in for a bottle of water and few moments of comfort. Few have taken us up on the offer but they have expressed appreciation.

After I read a note from one of our volunteers about how some of her hospice patients probably left this life earlier than they would have and how her patients with dementia are even more disoriented as they are housed on cots in the hallways of unfamiliar hospitals, I decided that a few holes in the roof and a disruption of schedule was nothing to complain about.

It’s simply reality. And there’s no metaphor that sufficiently describes post-Ike reality. Perhaps time and distance will allow me to capture it, until then . . .

Ike came. Ike bruised. But we were not shattered.

Nine Months In . . .

Nine months into this adventure and I have to smile that in many ways I'm back where I started.

I have a home I love. (That's the reason there's been no blogging for a while. I've been moving.) Slightly bigger than where I was and definitely more expensive and yet I feel the "rightness" of this space in every corner, on every art-filled wall.

I have friends that love and support me without question and sometime without reason but they do. (They were terrific in the second-of-two-moves-in-less-than-two-months whirlwind of last week. I did learn that to be truly good to your friends who have been truly good to you, it's best to pay for movers to haul big ass furniture!)

I have work that may not be exactly right for me but pleases me when I do well. AND I'm surrounded by incredibly talented individuals from whom I can learn much and am doing so!

I wonder what will be around the next corner . . .

I'm now back to exercising. I have the Food Network once again and plan on experimenting in my new kitchen (not as fancy as the old apartment but spacious and with seats for whoever wants to assist or chat).

I'm working on being in the kind of relationship that's healthy, if not perfect. And the work has its rewards.

So . . . with the "year of adventure" now more behind than in front of me, am I better for it? ABSOLUTELY! Do I know exactly what it was for and what I've learned? Nope. Still processsing . . .

Stay tuned.

Flux

Me to a friend: "My love life is in flux. My home life is in flux. My job life is in flux. I'm all fluxed up."

My friend: "Guess you're a fluxing mess!"

And then we laughed because really, what's to complain about?

With my typical glass-half-full eyes, I can also see in the midst of flux that:

I have a relationship . . . with a good man who may not wind up being the right man for me but is good nonetheless AND with friends who love and support me in flux and out.

I will have another home . . . and this next structure will no doubt be my home for the next few years. Until then I have offers of many couches, spare beds and futons!

I have a job . . . and though it will end when my candidate gets elected (note once more the positive thinking) I am making a reputation as someone who knows how to handle myself in a variety of settings. And Who knows where that will lead?

So, yeah, all fluxed up and still smiling!

Car Talk

I've never been what you would call a car buff. I know that my first car was a 1972 Malibu and I know that only because it rhymes. My second car was gold. I can't tell you much about after that except that for the most part they were non-descript and a majority of them were made by Toyota.

When I turned 40, I decided I would never be able to afford a mid-life crisis car so I got a mid-life crisis bike -- red, with a basket, and only 7 gears.

A couple of years ago (well... 2 in September) I thought, "Why can't I get a car that has no apparent purpose other than fun? Why can't I have my mid-life crisis car?" So lacking a good argument from myself (because single women don't really have to check with that many people ... although my church did tell me to do it but that's another story), I bought a red, 2006 VW convertible.

Why bring this up now?

Because on the fourth of July, my car starred in a parade. We checkerboarded it with magnets proclaiming my candidate's name, tied a couple of yard signs to each door, and placed my candidate on the back to wave and throw candy to the crowd.

I was as proud as a soccer mom watching her 7 year old kick a goalie.

Even bent and slightly bruised that car made me proud. 'Course she already took me cross country last year, so I have memories stored in every nook and side pocket. But cleaned up and processing in all her redness among the red, white, and blue waving and wearing crowd, she was a thing of beauty.

She's bruised because recently I backed into a woman's SUV -- a parked SUV, I might add! One slight flaw in the car is that there's a blind spot. One slight flaw in me is that on occasion, I'm blind.

When I got out to check the damage, I had scraped the SUV bumper badly and was wondering how I was going to find the owner. She then came walking out of a nearby restaurant and acknowledged who she was and noted she'd heard the bang.

I apologized profusely. She said, "Let's just take a look." And then told me the long scrape wasn't from me (which I should have known because, let's see, I'm in a VW!). Then she said, "I don't know that I'll even report it. I have to get that fixed anyway." But she took my information and I apologized a couple more times and then she helped me check out my car.

We discovered it had a cracked tailight and some scrapes. All in all, no big damage.

I was amazed at how nice she was being. She wanted to make sure my lights worked. So I said I was sorry yet again. That's when she said, "Hey, they're just cars."

At that moment, I knew if I had to hit someone that day I picked the right woman. I also knew then that she was correct, they are simply cars.

But after this weekend, I'm ready to have that theory challenged. That car is more than a thing. Some days it's a symbol. Some days it's my statement of independence. Some days it's the talked about entry in the Independence Day Parade. Every day it saves me money on gas.

Sure it squeeks and has two dings in the enormous front windshield. Sure it now has a scarred bumper and is in need of a repair or two.

But like the athlete that shines continually week after week only because someone is taking care of pulled muscles and strained backs and paying attention to his/her every need, that car is also a winner.

And while my next car is probably going to be non-descript and probably practical and probably made by Toyota, I will never forget my red VW convertible circa 2006.

Post-Parade

The festival lacked somewhat. Hard to make a series of "cause booths" festive. Nevertheless they were important, just few.

The crowd was so much younger. And though they wore clothes suggestive of world weariness and contempt for the norm, they still looked as though they'd spent a few hours on their hair.

The parties weren't materializing at the early hours we attended. Perhaps we were just early but we began to surmise that the in-fighting among the organizers and the limited budget was having a trickle down affect on the attenders. Those who had "been there, done that" for years were just not as evident. The young definitely prevailed.

The crew did a great job on our over-the-top-for-a-politician-but-why-not-for-Pride convertible. Those gathered to escort our candidate down the parade route numbered over 20 and the average age wasn't much over that as well. They screamed and portioned out the beads with relish.

I had a good time. I didn't have the best time I've ever had. At the end, I determined why.

I wasn't with the reason for my pride. Sure, I'm thrilled my candidate would rather the government stay out of the bedrooms. But, in many ways, I was working this parade, not experiencing it as I had in years gone by.

And my guys were in the crowd, not by my side. Oh, Roger was there and the best moment of the evening came as we made our way back to the cars. I was taking him to his and trying to maneuver traffic and simply reached for his hand.

"I'm proud to call you friend, my dear," I said. "No, I'm proud to call you family."

And with that we parted.

Others made their way to more parties and the kind of craziness that is usually associated with this parade. I went home and took a hot bath.

Pre-Parade

Today in the area of town known as the Montrose, thousands will gather to visit, drink, eat and play. Some will learn facts about health and voting. Others will simply party until the nighttime festivities begin -- the Pride Parade.

Our little group of merry campaigners have been preparing for this event for quite a while. Beads were bought. Koozies designed and ordered. Stickers created. Before we roll this evening a convertible will be converted into a parade worth entry with lights, magnets, banners and more.

Last night, I experienced one of those pre-parade moments that I don't seek. Having not felt quite right in the stomach department, I canceled my plans for a night with the Latino GLBT crowd at a fundraiser and stayed at home until mid-evening when I was invited to an impromptu gathering at the Empire Cafe. Three couples laughed about movies and their changing lifestyles (kids, no kids, grown kids, etc.). And then the topic of the parade came up.

"Why would your candidate WANT to be in such a thing?" was the question.

I started to explain that the GLBT crowd were big supporters of her and she of their right for personal choice. I didn't get very far.

"I know we're supposed to love everyone, even the . . . " and then she began to lump my friends in with murderers and criminals and all manner of beings who she considered sinners.

I didn't want to debate. I knew that I was an outsider on this topic with this crowd. I didn't want the topic to come up. And then I chastised myself, "How can you say you'll walk in a Pride Parade and then stay silent?"

So I let it be known. I wasn't just walking because I'm a field director for a campaign. I was walking because I love my friends, because my friends make me proud.

Great ending here would be how with just a few sentences the conversation turned and grace abounded. The conversation didn't. Grace did. But that was simply because we had the grace to stop talking. Neither of us was going to change the other's mind.

Tonight I walk. I throw beads and hand out goodies and smile and wave and take it all in. And while I thought I was ready yesterday afternoon, I guess I needed just a little more prep before Pride could take on its annual meaning for me.

What A Road He's Traveled . . .

My brother-in-law's story is filled with twists and turns and his is not my story to tell but if you ever had the chance to hear it, you would be amazed.

What I can tell you is that I love who he is now and the couple my sister and he have become. When my sister was post-50, they married. She is a pharmacist who is counting the days until early retirement. He was working at a job that did little to stimulate him. He wondered about going back to school. She encouraged him. Now a couple of years down the road, he's teaching at the very school he attended. He's also making the news. Seems that someone from Tennessee putting clear liquid in Mason jars isn't always illegal. In fact, your gas mileage just might increase!

Check it out at www.ttcmckenzie.edu. (You'll need to scroll down until you see the You Tube screen. Click there.)

He's traveled a few miles and sometimes made wrong turns, but now he's making the trip with energy that's clean ... I'm very proud to call him family.

Sweet Scallops Are Just the Right Order

I'd been craving them for days. After work yesterday, I found them on sale. Plump, luscious, perfectly imperfect (because the truest circles are just plain wrong), the scallops were gently wrapped and handed over to me by the salesman who must have seen the appreciation and almost-lust-like look in my eyes. "Great price today!"

Awakened from my awe, I took the package, smiled widely and agreed.

I toured the store gathering other ingredients for the meal that I had been contemplating. At home, I tore into the bags of goodies like a child on her birthday, eager to lay hands on all the askded-for-and-of-course-got goodies.

Soon the cauliflower, broccoli, carrots and zucchini were roasting in the oven with a splash of balsamic, olive oil, and some rosemary for flavor. The couscous wouldn't take long but I wanted extra pine nuts so I toasted them. (Actually I toasted two batches because those suckers burn before you know it.) And in a saute pan, I placed onions and mushrooms. When they were tender, I removed them and crisped up some bacon. And finally in that same pan, I placed the scallops. Minutes later they were pretty much as I intended so I added in some wine, cherry tomatoes and the mushroom mixture.

The meal wasn't perfect -- should have seared the scallops better before focusing on the sauce -- but it was a pleasure.

Growing up in Greenfield and before shipping allowed you to get fresh California grapes and Florida oranges without having someone bring them back from vacation, we didn't see much seafood at Big John's (the grocery chain with the plastic giant holding two bags of products as the iconic statue that towers over the parking lot). If we wanted fish, Daddy and my brothers caught them in the river or a nearby pond. My mother loved shrimp and consequently Red Lobster in the city 45 minutes away. But she didn't like to peel them so we weren't always thrilled when Daddy got his hands on some frozen pink lovelies from Louisiana because it meant we had to remove the carcasses from both ours and hers.

Maybe the scarcity of the sea-bound delectibles (land-locked in Tennessee, remember?) became the allure for me. I don't know. But yesterday afternoon in the citified version of Big John's sans the parking lot guard, I practically giggled at the mere thought of the accessiblity of what I craved. Then as I lovingly cooked what I wanted and for me, I beamed.

Sometimes (and especially after a break up) taking yourself on a date is the best recipe.

Degrees of Normalcy on a Hot Houston Night

"If someone had told me 15 years ago that one warm summer night I'd be walking the dark roads of Houston for exercise while being vastly entertained by a gay man, I would have laughed long and hard," I told my longtime friend from Alabama as I drove home around 10 p.m. last night.

She agreed as we both laughed long and hard. But we weren't laughing at the oddity of the situation as we would have back in the days I lived in that also-warm-state. We laughed because these days, it seems perfectly normal.

Funny how "normal" changes with the years and the accumulation of experiences. Once that particular state of being meant being a married, church-going, 9 to 5 plus editing on the weekends kind of woman. Yesterday my current boss chuckled at the mere thought of me conforming to that role. "You just seem so irreverant for all that," she added shaking her head in disbelief.

But I was irreverant even then. I distinctly remember discussing several movies around the break table at the religious publishing house where I worked and one of my co-workers practically chastised me for watching "all that garbage" and asked why I would. I told her with no hesitation. "Because people like you always ask people like me about stuff like this. And I'm not going to take anyone else's opinion for what I should and should not like."

Guess I'm still living by that philosophy. I'm here to experience life. Sometimes that puts me in the shadows of the Texas Medical Center powerwalking in the dark. Sometimes that means I spend a Sunday afternoon dressed as a clown, face painting on a 100-ft party boat rented out for families who have survived cancer (as I did this past weekend). Sometimes I get to enjoy sitting across the table from a friend who enjoys my passion for sushi and substantive conversation. And sometimes it means carrying out a work-related task with one phone on one ear, my cell on the other and my boss in front of me as we as a staff laughingly wrestle with what should go in an email newsletter.

But always, I marvel. I marvel at the fact that I get to do this. I marvel that I am blessed with the kind of friends who will meet me at the last minute for supper, walk with me because it's time I got some exercise even if I don't seem to have time to do it, and laugh with me at where the road has already and will take me.

Thoughts Collide

I stopped at a red light on the feeder road to 610N this morning. To my right were three kids around 10 or 11 years of age. Each wore a helmet and a towel and were on bicycles, dutifully obeying the traffic laws and waiting for their turn to cross the congested street. They had goggles hanging from their handle bars. And looked cared for and protected.

I had just left morning TV where I saw two disturbing pieces of news. There was a man driving recklessly across the city trying to elude the police. Not 20 minutes earlier, he had been on the very interstate, these kids were about to ride under. The other saddening note was that George Carlin died.

My sister introduced me to Carlin when she told me about but wouldn't divulge the 7 words you cannot say on TV. I was about the age of the lead girl in this makeshift bicycle parade at the time. Later, when I could understand the depth of Carlin's humor I appreciated most that he was an intelligent comic. His word play was an amusement park of fun. I didn't always agree with what he said but I almost always laughed at how he said it.

The three children made me flash back to days in Greenfield when my brothers and I (my sister was older and wouldn't have wanted to be seen with us) would make our way to the city pool. We'd go by foot since it was only a block away. I hoped for a moment that these three would maintain the innocence we possessed in those days -- even if they were already navigating Houston streets. I hoped that they would know to cherish summer days and life.

Who Are You? And another thing . . .

This blog service offers an opportunity to see where folks are reading my blog. Kinda cool. But it doesn't tell me who you are. And that makes me kinda curious. For instance, who do I know in New York that would read this stuff? (If you're not comfortable leaving a comment, email me at kccomm@hotmail.com.)

And another thing . . . if you've been reading over the last year . . . should I capture this adventure in a book format or not?

I've got an inquiring mind and I want to know.

Solo Once More

After four questions, I knew he wanted to start something.

Nine months have passed.

After having the same conversation four times, we both knew it was time to end it.

Endangered/Extinction

The pandas in China are in jeopardy. A woman from the U.S. traveled there to do what she could for these precious creatures who are now homeless as a result of the devastating earthquake there. When asked why, she responded, "Endangered means we have time. Extinction is forever."

The quote struck me and made me wonder what else is endangered and what is already extinct?

Courtesy on the roadways?
Compassion for those who obviously will never be able to appreciate or express appreciation for what you might do for them?
Belief in the church or faith system you grew up with?
The idea that a middle-aged woman who is beginning to sag but unwilling to nag might actually find a man to appreciate all that she does offer?
Customer service?
Low prices on gas . . . and with the floods in Iowa, anything made with what will be a scarce commodity -- corn?
Me ever finding my way back to a size 6 again?
You fill in the blank ____________________________

Saint and Sanctuary

Someone told me last week they were about to curl up with their favorite author in the room they most enjoyed in their home. I said, "your saint and your sanctuary -- makes sense to me."

Made me consider who my saint is and where sanctuary is these days for me. At least twice of late, I've said aloud how at peace I felt on my couch, in my space, surrounded by my things with nothing truly going on except me reading the paper or watching the news. As for my saint, I don't have a go-to author that soothes and/or scintilates, but this weekend I was reminded that I do hold certain writers/thinkers with heavy loads of respect.

I will miss Tim Russert. I liked his everyman persona. I liked that I could imagine myself seeing him in an airport and actually smiling and thanking him for his succinct, simple approach to explaining politics. I liked that he loved his family, his background, his future. I mourn that his future was not as long as anyone would have thought. November will not be the same without his insight into the election process. I didn't know the man, but I will miss him.

Perhaps he wasn't a saint, but I know I found sanctuary in his explanations of how things work.

Courtesy Foul

I've recently discovered that in some softball leagues, rules exist to hurry the progress along. For instance, when batters approach home plate they already have one ball and one strike. Thus, when they foul and then foul again, they get one more chance for a hit or a ball or otherwise they are out. The last foul allowed is the "courtesy foul."

Last Friday night, I gave the team a courtesy foul. The first experience with them was horrid. I've described that at length already. The second experience I spent simply keeping score and enjoying the non-pressurized role of athletic supporter. I enjoyed the people enough that I even offered my home for a party post-game last Friday.

Then the coach called. Seemed they were once again in need of females and I qualify. I immediately said, "Not if it means I play second. It's right field for me."

He suggested catcher. And that positioning gave us both a home run. I lost the ability to throw the ball exactly where I wanted sometime before the end of the first game and certainly in the second, but I did little to humiliate myself. In fact, I simply walked, ran the bases and stayed out of trouble. As a result of my playing what I called the WB position (warm body) and some excellent play on the part of my teammates we won both games.

The party food was a hit as well!

Makes me wonder what else I need to give a courtesy foul to. How many people have I called out of my life who need one more chance at bat? How many experiences have I written off without digging a little deeper for the fortitude I need to perhaps not succeed but at least redeem a situation?

Speakers are constantly using sports metaphors to explain the ways of the world and humanity. Guess now I see why.

For Adults Only

One of my latest visitors declared my new space "all grown up." Today I had a conversation that wasn't easy but needed to be had and I walked away feeling very much the adult.

Strange isn't? No matter how many lines inch their way around my eyes or how many colors are needed to hold back the gray, I continue to question how I got the mature role.

Aren't I still 16 and secretly scoffing and rolling my eyes? Or at least in my 20s, full of passion and promise? Certainly, I just made it to my 30s when being clueless seemed somehow correct.

No, here I am -- 46 and happy to still be learning what playing house is all about.

I Took the Long Cut

So when you get directions online and you don't put in the correct address and you don't notice this fact until after you've made the (what-you-know-later-is-the-wrong) turn then you could add 30 more minutes to a trip that was already supposed to be a late arrival but winds up getting you to your hotel room after midnight.

Not that I would know anything about that . . .

Stuff and Stories

I'm slightly embarrassed by how much I'm loving having my things around me once again.

I don't consider myself that much of materialistic person. Yet here I am . . . making my bed each day and saying a prayer of gratitude that I'm back on a mattress and box springs . . . putzing in the kitchen and smiling because I have just the right dish to present the food on with a certain flair . . . staging rooms (the house is for sale) with items I've collected from trips and remembering the people and places that are connected to the thing.

Guess as long as I have the stories, I won't feel too bad. Can't wait to add more.

Makes Me Wonder What I'm Feeding My Gut

I love me some good writing. Today I was reading Maureen Dowd's editorial on Scott McClellan's new book. She said:

". . . our president is a one-man refutation of Malcom Gladwell's best-seller Blink, about the value of trusting your gut.

"Every gut instinct he had was wildly off the mark and hideously damaging to all concerned.

"It seems that if you trust your gut without ever feeding your gut any facts or news or contrary opinions, if you keep your gut on a steady diet of grandiosity, ignorance, sycophants, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, those snap decisions can be ruinous."

Sect in the City

The children are being returned to their parents.

I'm so confused.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggidy Jig

I'm off the futon and back in my bed!

But thank you Roger for providing that futon for the past three months!

I've got a fridge full of food and friends to share it with.

And thank you Roger for those coupons that cut almost $50 off the bill for stocking my new digs with everything from cleaners to cold drinks.

Two nights ago we moved the first items through the door.

Thank you Stan, Robert, Ken, Becky, Gary, Traci and once again Roger for hauling and Jerry for doing that thing you do so well -- taking my stuff and making it look like it belongs.

For every action there is a reaction.

I moved. I'm sad to leave Roger behind.
I moved. I'm happy to see familiar things displayed in new ways and in a new place.

Home again with the people I love surrounding me.

Ahhhhhh . . .

Home for the Holiday

I was told as a child that my hometown got its name because some railroad men who were traveling through said, "That's some mighty green fields out there."

This weekend Greenfield lived up to its moniker.

The greens were in abundance -- winter wheat, beginnings of new (and for me) unidentifiable crops, trees stocked full of leaves, vines about to break forth with berries, and lawns that serve as more than an outline for the house which sits on the lot (McMansions are prevalent in Houston, but not Greenfield)offered up a smorgasbord of variations on the hue.

AND speaking of smorgasbords . . . my mother was at it again. Though my stepfather has been ill and she's his primary caretaker (you can take the nurse out of the clinic but not the caregiving out of the nurse), she laid down the spreads.

Since she's fallen pretty big time for my current roommate and "adopted" brother Roger, I think she was showing off. Friday night we arrived to ham, kraut with polish sausage, butter beans, turnip greens, Mexican cornbread and a peach cobbler. Saturday we attended the alumni banquet at my school because mom's class was celebrating their 60th and Sunday mom broke out the homemade tamales. Good eats!

I kept accusing Roger of trying to find his way into a non-existent will. He was the consumate Southern boy. He sat on the porch and chatted with them about life in the small town. He greeted every stranger as though they were long lost relatives. And he sweat his way through moving trailers, cleaning outdoor furniture and the first few hours indoors before he discovered they hadn't yet switched the central heat and air to air!

I value each visit home these days. Illness reminds you of the fragility of bodies and time. I relished the moments with my sister as she exercised and we both commented on the country music artists and programming on CMT. (They have a makeover show for mobile homes!) I jumped at the chance to walk with my brother and we exercised both our minds and our bodies as we covered everything from politics to relationships . . . without worrying about how far apart or close together we might be.

I visited the electronics lab that has given my brother-in-law the chance to finally put all the pieces of what's crashed around in his mind for so long together in some amazing ways. The fact that he gets to teach and inspire others is no surprise. I saw my sister-in-law who has been the ever present Karen to Kelly's "womb to tomb" Kelly and Karen package (those are his words, not mine) laugh and be the grandmother she was meant to be. I marveled at my beautiful and intelligent nieces and said the silent prayer of the non-mother that they always realize what they have and live up to the investment their parents have made in their lives. And I saw the difference time maps out on the bodies of old friends and adults I've admired since childhood.

Oh, yes, and we said hello to Daddy and Grandmother. It being Memorial Day and all, a stop by the cemetary on a morning walk seemed appropriate. Plus Roger had never "met" them.

All in all, the fields were ripe unto a harvest of good times. Greenfield indeed.

English Majors Don't Always See How Things Add Up

I've spent the majority of my life trying to "do unto others as I would have them do unto me."

Recently, I realized something about that Golden Rule.

Expectations of a return on that particular investment aren't part of the equation.

For example, I can listen because I would like to be listened to. But the moment I expect the "listen-ee" to become the "listen-er" I've set myself up for disappointment.

To some degree, this realization was the equivalent of learning that 1 + 1 does not always equal 2.

I was never good at math.

It's May!

I may move into a nice, big townhome for the next five months.

I may get my beloved old apartment back in October.

I may not be the wandering vagabond.

I may miss the borrowed space, beds, futons, couches, closets, storage sheds and attics where I and my things are stored.

But I will definitely remember it all and be grateful.

Not Too Big On Collections

I know people who collect corks from wine bottles emptied at significant events/experiences. I met a woman yesterday who collects bottle caps. My sister used to have an amazing collection of items from the 70s, including several feet of a gum wrapper rope she'd once created. Now she's into all things purple and camels. My brother is into anything Richard Petty has lent his name to. I love the stories behind these eclectic galleries of sorts. But I rarely have the room.

And then there are those folks who collect disease, disasters, and doom. You know them. They can list every bad thing that's happened of late and are on alert for what surely is the black cloud looming around the corner of what is currently Sunshine Street. While some have perfected this perverse Easter egg hunt of rotten fouls, all of us have the tendency. I caught myself last week. I was easily able to tick off a list of why I was so ticked off.

But I've never been much of a collector (though I was accused once of collecting colorful friends). And I realize that I have control over the voice inside my head who stands ready at the white board to list yet another injustice I might have suffered.

I can send the voice packing. Take the eraser and make this week a new week, this day a new day.

Am I saying we ignore patterns? Absolutely not. I believe strongly in identifying and addressing when we "keep doing what we've been doing in order to keep getting what we've been getting." Self-awareness is the first step they say and I'm a believer.

Still correction is a big step away from collection.

Bite By Bite

A professional volunteer (such as yours truly) goes to a lot of "events." Fundraisers mostly, these gatherings are in lovely homes, around pools, in galleries. They sometimes support a charity. Sometimes they are related to a cause. Other times it's about a person.

For me, it's about the food.

I've always been about bite-sized bits. Love 'em. Since learning that not all restaurants serve the entres wrapped in paper and their drinks in paper cups with plastic lids, I discovered the meals that could be made out of the appetizer section of the menu. Later in life, I learned I was into what those in Spain call "tapas." Who knew I was so cross cultural while chowing down at Fridays?

So party food hits me square on the palate. Take the napkin and fill it with the array of tiny morsels wrapped in wontons, tidied up with tarts, rolled to perfection, or dipped for your dining pleasure.

I feel therefore it's my duty to report a recent trend.

Two events less than 24 hours apart netted me a bounty of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto.

While keeping you posted on culinary trends might add a few pounds to my ever widening hips, I know an obligation when I see one and I'm ready to take one for the team (as long as it's not softball, see below).

And though I've come a few miles from Greenfield and now wear a cocktail dress and make small talk with the best of them, I must confess a fact. Every time I see that asparagus and realize its cost as well as that of the upscale ham that hugs it so tightly, I can't help but think of Grandmother. She used to pull to the side of the country roads so we could stop and pick the wild asparagus that grew freely there. She'd then come home and add some Campbells Cream of Something and top it with some cheddar and Saltines and voila! we had ourselves some asparagus casserole. The ham was reserved for biscuits the next morning.

Gotta tell you ... might have traveled a few miles but if she were here right now and set one of her kitchen treasures before me, I'd eat every last bite.

Bite-sized bliss comes in many forms.