When You Got It, You Got It

I apologize in advance for the ridiculously repetitive theme I write about in some kind of everlasting rotation. Yes, here I go again, in a state of utter desperation, attempting to do anything and everything in my power and budget to get well again.  

It appears that if a germ comes within 5000 feet of me, they find me a welcome hostess and pack their bags and stay a while.  Whatever ad agency designed the Mucinex Phelm Houseguests must have met the family invading my airways this past week.

In any event, I have been receiving some integrative therapy at the Whitaker Wellness Institute in Newport Beach, CA.  I armed myself ahead of time with the checklist of components necessary for me to stay on track with this newest venture -- I have to understand what each treatment recommendation is for, how to do it, have support readily available when I am overwhelmed, be convenient and for 500 bonus points, find some level of humor in the event.  Check, check, check ... and we're off again.

Yesterday, while being treated for a bronchial infection that came in like a wrecking ball (this will be my only Miley Cyrus reference, promise), hooked up to a urine-yellow IV cocktail of potent vitamins and nutrients, a Midwestern senior citizen gentleman from Oklahoma, clad in his very best Costco Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, strolled over to me and actually hit on me.  He kept rubbing my arm, told me I had "purdy" eyes and asked me to dinner.  Was I wrong to refuse on the grounds that I was on a catheter?  He wasn't giving up too easily, either.  Hey, "when you got it, you got it."

There you have it.  I am a babe somewhere in this world right now.  I have dusted off the disappointment that it happened here in the IV room and not, say, at the bar at Javier's on the PCH where all the Real Housewives of OC and other non-organically modified people hang out.  Apparently there are some concentrated pheromones in that drip pouch and I am the wounded zebra on the plains of the Serengeti, dating world wise anyhow.

I'm not going to lie, I have been pretty ill for a while now and I am so very "over it".  The very prospect of feeling better must have put a little spark back into my "purdy eyes" -- so no offense taken, Mr. Oklahoma.  Looking around the room, I see a lot of folks who must have been cast as extras in the vintage flick "Cocoon" -- all those people seeking the elixir to bring back the jive in their dancing, willing to travel to an alien planet if it came to that.  I get what they are after and have a little lump in my throat for the handful of non-chronologically-challenged patients who are also in isolation awaiting their own personal storms to pass, too.   

Something's Funky in the Fridge

Last week was quite a week.  For several days, there was a faint streaming sour odor in the air. Oh yeah, time to check the fridge.  I'll get to it.  One thing about the rotten stuff in life -- eventually, it gets to the point where you just can't ignore it anymore.  

And so, somewhere mid-week, even the strongest magnetic seal of my upgraded refrigerator door could not contain the truth.  It always seems these realizations are running in a parallel service lane of my other, bigger life.  One way or another, I am going to have the point hammered into my head, it appears.

One day, I really want to sit down and write down a consolidated list of "Things I Learned in This Life".  This one is a whole chapter unto itself.  The Lesson:  "When You Keep Gathering, You Must Discard to Make Room for It."

As I excavate the produce bins and extricate those purchased (well-intentioned) farm-fresh, now slimy organic vegetables (gratefully) mostly contained in their original plastic wrappings, I am thinking of all the new "good for me" things I have added into my life, still hopefully wrapped up awaiting consumption.  (Exactly how many packages of provolone cheese are in here, anyways?) But there have been interruptions and so we ignore what we gathered, grabbed more and duplicated/triplicated what was already in the inventory (who can remember if we are out of mustard or not, really?), and soon, like the shelves of devilish expiration dated foodstuffs, I also find the parallel stacks of unattended projects, books unread, exercise videos unused, downloaded music unplayed, clothes to mend/iron, cards to send, and so it goes on and on... until... ewww.  It all looks so moldy and bad, and the smell, not so pretty.  

It's not altogether the worse thing in life.  Sometimes we need the nudge to get to the good part: the result of the sort.  What is good enough to keep, and oh yes, that baking soda freshness of the outcome yet another fresh start.  But first, you have to find the thing that's rotting.  It could be an idea that became a downward spiraling, looping obsession, an underachieved goal ripening into the slimiest pages being written in your autobiography, an opinion, an embraced offense, a missed opportunity, a gathering of just too much life and not enough space to consume it.   Oh the disgust.  When it comes to the place that you just can't take it anymore, then comes the edit down.  The closet discards, the trash bag parade to the curb, the room to move ... the quiet to think.  And in this space comes a rethinking of internalized stuff, too.  Time to bag that stuff up and toss it out, too, with the old veggies and moldy cheese.  Tossing it feels good (after).  And then comes... The. Fresh. Air.

  

Day #3 - A Mustard Grain

Wait, don't get excited.  This post will not be about a sudden rainbow on my horizon -- the addition of a new food to my very limited eating plan.  Nope, that is not what this is about at all.

I was thinking about how a little mustard grain sprouts into something very large.  We all have heard this illustration in a Biblical sense, but I am thinking right now of how great things can be born from very small beginnings....

Again, I return to the topic of my confining list of rotating food options.  For the first few days, I looked at this list and saw all the things I could no longer have.  The list of what I "get to" have is slim and requires an active imagination to produce palatable results.  I went into a period of mourning and today, in the shower, no less, I had this little enlightenment.

From these things I "get to" have, will come things I will get to do and feel... and that list will grow.  I will get to wake up with less joint pain.  I will get to reduce my weight (much to the delight of the Persian man in Mother's Market who called this to my attention).  I will get to sign up for paintball runs and 5K's and tours of ruins without worrying about the effort it would take to put on my tennis shoes and tie the laces.  I will get to take swing dancing (and yes, hip hop, pilates, cardio barre, etc.) and tear it up on the dance floor, doing jazz hands all the way through.  I will zip line (maybe).

What I learned today from focusing on this small list is the shift needed in many things from "have to" to "get to".  The "have to" list is limiting and oppressive; the "get to" list is the one that expands and grows to great heights.  I pick that one. 

Even if my list only lets me "get to" have coffee once every 4 days, I am grateful for that opportunity.  And this morning... I got to!  (I think that a lot of people were happy for that beside me!)

I'm Just Here for the Millet

Well, here we go.... I am off on yet another venture to get healthy, perky and (please, God, please?!?) dare-I-say, if it is not too much trouble for all the trouble, THIN, too....

As it turns out, I had a run of blood work taken a few weeks ago and it appears I have developed some serious food sensitivities which have wreaked havoc in my system.  The plan:  A rotation of the handful of edible items which are left, one list per day for four days and then back over again. 

I opened up the folder of paperwork with the same kind of eagerness with which you approach a spider in your sink.  "I'm bigger than this is", I scream in my head -- simultaneously cringing, squirming and avoiding ... but, in my classic style, I suddenly become Warrior Princess and go on the attack once I shake off the initial disdain. 

"It's just food", I think, chastising myself for making such a big deal of this ... and then I realize that, apparently, the love of food and ingredients with actual flavor are kind of ... my life.  Oh oh.

This is when I decided that a trip to Mother's Market was in order.  I heard that I could get in and out of this quaint grocery store with everything on my list and that there would be a lot of "helpful people" to point me in the direction of the items on my treasure hunt.

So, still dressed in my professional attire (mistake #1), I pulled into the parking lot.  Suddenly, it dawned on me that I might have been far less conspicuous had I changed into a pair of Crocs and let my gray roots grow in.  Too late:  target spotted, I became the alien that landed on their planet and these folks are a curious breed....

Merrily, I strolled among the organic fruits and vegetables with an ease that made me quite proud of myself.  Yes, I know what strawberries and green beans look like... papaya, not so much, but thanks to the packaging, I succeed in procuring one already sliced open and revealing black seeds (which I am still not sure are edible or not -- I picked "not").

And then ... we came to "millet" on my list.  I demurely approached a hard-working young man who was stocking some form of alternate bread and who was unbelievably eager to stop what he was doing immediately to help me in my search for millet.  Fun fact:  Did you know that millet can be procured in many forms:  puffed, hulled, whole, roasted...?  (Me, neither.) 

Suddenly, I looked around and realized that a convention of helpful folks had encircled me, welcoming me to their community.  My, weren't they awfully inquisitive as they questioned me as to why I was eating this food, and who is my doctor, and what kind of tests did they run, and.... and...  and didn't I know that "xyz" (insert 2,472 ingredients here) will be wonderful for me to try??? 

One Persian gentleman, lurking by the organic almond butter grinding machine, took a particular liking to me -- sharing his wealth of knowledge on millet and thousands of other things I failed to absorb.  At one point, he inserted his suggestion that I might feel better if I lost some weight. 

"Really?  Why that thought never crossed my mind," I spoke inside my head with all the self-control needed to avoid slapping a total stranger.  Instead, I grinned, thanked the gentleman for his suggestions and wished him the best, rapidly turning the corner and running into a 250-lb Chinese woman who overheard the words "weight loss" and perked right up.  She wanted to share her triumph in losing 30 lbs. drinking vinegar three times a day and then sharing the diagnosis of every family member, along with a decade of her life history.

"I'm just here for the millet.  I'm just here for the millet.  I'm just here for the millet."  Eyes on the finish line, I maneuver the wobbly cart to the check-out lane and in the refuge of my home.

Unpacking the recyclable bags (I know how not to offend, after all), my family supports me with lots of cheerful comments about how good this is and how good I am going to feel (love these people).  My daughter informed me that the bird eats millet, just in case I want to share.  Birdy is way more enthusiastic about this product that I was today, day #2. 

My goal is vibrance, to reclaim my inner dancing self.  I am not sure what awaits me on the road, but Birdy and I will eat that millet and at least one of us is going to fly.

Write, Right?

I met my friend, Lisa, for lunch today and, as is the tradition between the two of us, we suspended the need to breathe for about 2 hours as we did friendship's new-age form of "speed dating" - the hurried sightseeing tour of what's been happening on every terrain - family, health, work, friends, aging, traveling, and all the rotations in between.  I am still trying to come up for air.

With Lisa, though, inevitably, we discuss writing.  Lisa is tenacious, committed, fervent and, per her own designation, "Enthusiastic".  (Please see her blog, "Enthusiastically, Lisa" on WordPress!)  She is dead serious about making sure she doesn't bury her gift in the weeds of being a very attentive wife/mother/friend/teacher... She has a schedule and goals and all the trimmings of someone who means business when she sets out to put her thoughts into words to send out into the world.

And she says to me, "Write."  I don't understand why I don't more.  If you asked me to write something for YOU, I would overflow with words.  Write a speech:  Minutes later, done.  So why don't I carve out the time to do this, I wonder....?

I am inspired today.  I saw the fire behind her eyes when she spoke of her ideas and things she wants to say, and who she hopes will hear her.  She asks me about my family, my kids, my job, my health and I pour out the syllables and she leans in close and says to me, "write that all down, ok?  You will want to remember this one day."   I thinks she is right.

And my heart starts up a little dance just to think about it. 

Faded Scars, Healing and Closure

I just published a post I had written a year ago and it's funny that the very topic that moved me to stretch out my typing fingers today also had to do with scars.  I am not sure why I never actually uploaded the prior post till now, but just the same, it was good to see the perspective from the side of the road, now looking back... a year, and even further.

The place on my leg that was so angry and painful is now a thin, shiny line.  It is hidden by clothes and I only see it when I choose to look.  The site is numb.  I am told it always will be. The nerves were severed and all that is left to remind me of that episode is the occasional sight of the little mark.

It appears I have a good number of those landmarks now.  I have the places which mark my scrapes and fractures, one on my right foot, another on an elbow, a good one on my upper back, one for a removed appendix and C-section scars from the birth of two of my life's greatest blessings.  I remember the "before" and I now know that the "after" was just a bookmark to signify a chapter changed, a page turned.  From time to time, strange as it may sound, I actually enjoy looking at these scars -- because I can't remember the pain and all I can do is rejoice that all of that it is behind me now.  Well, mostly ...

The other day, I pulled a box down off the shelf which contained a random collection of old photos.  I fanned the stack of snapshots with a kind of giddy delight that I confess doesn't come along very often in my world.   I saw moments frozen in time of my parents being silly -- my father, playing Monopoly with us (always winning) and doing handstands at the beach, my mother captured in one of her uncontained, unselfconscious belly laugh, my brothers in lives with little concerns, my friends, with full hearts, unscarred... And from this stack, two photographs of a long-ago me standing aside the one who broke my heart....

The dial suddenly turned back decades and I was at the place where it happened.  I felt the cold, dead telephone receiver in my hand and I heard the voice turn to a dial tone.  There was a shiver to my core, a vacancy ... the good-bye came with no explanation.  Love was there and then it was not, plain and simple.  For a moment I lingered, picking at an old scab, wondering "What did I do?"  (It had to have been something I did, after all ...?) Then the doubt, "did this actually happen at all?"  Then the recall:   "Abandoned", "rejected", "diminished", and "unlovable" -- these, the new labels I carried around for the years to follow.  All this came flooding back in a gush with the glimpse of a harmless photo.

Perspective is the gift life gives you when you get to make it this far.  Blow the dust off the photograph and you will see what inexperience looks like, what life is like before mistakes and blunders.  You shake your head and know that what you thought then is not the full story.  And you unloose the corset that stopped your breathing long enough to forgive and let it go... and breathe again.

Funny thing happens when life moves on and the story line grows.  There comes a point when you realize that what you thought would kill you doesn't.  You replace the coarse threads of hurt and bitterness with gratitude for where you are today, for the strength you didn't know you had, and for the courage to face what you know will eventually mark you up even more.  

You find that you touch those scars on purpose, along with all the others collected along the way.  The scars are the seams to your quilt that stitch together the scraps of all the stories, the joys and the pains, the loves and losses.  In time, the focus shifts from fixation upon the jagged seams to the view of brilliant colors that tell the whole story, a very, very good one in the end.

New Scars

I didn't want to be there. I did not want to be sitting in the waiting room of the UCI Chao Family Cancer center yesterday awaiting my turn to reveal my freshly healing Frankenstein scar on my right thigh to my doctor. I already knew he told me everything was going to be fine. "We got it all," he said. This, along with his glee at what a beautiful work of art he and his gorgeous plastic surgeon side-kick had created. I am truly surprised they did not think to tattoo their names around the landmark, being that proud.

Well, in truth, for me, everything is not fine just yet. I am glad they are confident there are no lingering cells growing in the site of my surgery, truly I am. But for me, the truth of his "we got it all" statement but in the sense that in taking out the growing cancerous tumor, they also removed a little piece of my youth and left a souvenir of my mortality, left me with an obstructed view as I try to move forward from this. It's like one of those stone-hit-my-windshield damages that you cannot ignore as you are trying to drive in rush hour. It is always there in front of me now, like it or not. Gone forever are the expectations of having perfect thighs which in the past might have been funny, but now as I say this, I want to cry. This bruised, red, inflamed gauge in my leg is there to remind me of that now every day.

I heal up well, though. I am pretty sure that Dr. BradPitt who aspires to a career in Orange County plastic surgery did a gorgeous job on an area of my body that seldom ever sees the light of day. Just the same, a year from now it will be a faded, light pink mark, lacking feeling around its perimeter which is, apparently, another "normal" new-normal. It joins the ranks of my rotator cuff incision, appendix, c-section, abdominal surgery and other landmarks. I am officially disqualified from the Perfect Pageant. I should be relieved that the pressure is off, but to be honest, I am sad about it.

Seasons Change

It is very disconcerting when the temperature gauge is out of sync with the current month of the year. It's October, after all. I was raised in New England where the turning of the calendar page to this month spells the cue to pack up the cotton, light-weight clothes, bathing suits and cover-ups, sandals and sun gear and make room for wool and flannel, the smell of good leather boots, crisp apples and cinnamon sticks.

I should know that to live in California means to be always ready for things to change and above all, that nothing is what it is supposed to be. So I should not be surprised that last week it rained and the temperature dropped (gasp!) to the 60-degree mark and this week it is almost 90-degrees again. I do not begrudge the sunshine, trust me. I think I am longing for cycles I can count on, traditions that do not fail me, and a solid mark I can spot to anchor my equilibrium.

Seasons change. I have known that all my life. The change of an entire season keeps us rotating through the days conscious there will be an ending of this semester and a new one will begin, like it or not. Right now, I find myself weary of the fluctuations that happen within these seasons. I'd like to just get on with accepting the "next" without having to have these pop-up moments that don't belong here right now to interrupt the flow.

Six years ago (almost), Mike and I were driving home from an engagement party on a chilly and slightly damp November evening. In a split second, seasons changed for us in a much larger sense. Tires squealed, there was impact, shattered glass and a new trajectory in my world. What to wear now included a whole line of post-surgical, therapeutic comfort wear. There are new prescriptions to be filled and a whole line of pharmaceuticals in my medicine cabinet. This is the new season of "right now" around here... every year about this time I have a total recall of that abrupt, unexpected change in my life. It has created a micro-climate of consciousness of the likelihood of more of these necessary adjustments to come, like it or not. I get it, but no, I do not like it.

I believe something happened in my own atmosphere after that wicked November night. I have acquired an internal atmospheric pressure sensor that picks up on any microscopic indications of impending variance in life. It's a feeling that happens when something is slightly askew -- an unsettling quiet lull, paling skill, a run of silent phones and absent children under your roof.... I am constantly in a state of vigil, anticipating the next shift in the forecast. It is the way the thermostat works around here now -- I feel it more than ever this time of year for some reason.

Right now as some leaves are falling (yes, leaves do fall somewhat even here in California), I have the air conditioner running full blast and I am holding off packing away the sandals a little longer. I'm going to be a sport about it all, but meanwhile, I will not leave home without also packing a sweater and an umbrella, too. I'm not sure what "normal" seasons look like anymore, but I am trying to adapt somehow.

I Have Never Cartwheeled

I've never done a cartwheel. I am not sure if that should be gravely disappointing, typically, but today the realization just hit me. I was walking past a park where two pre-teen girls were doing cartwheels, trying and failing, trying and succeeding, trying regardless of who was watching, who would judge them, or whether they were good at it or not. Their complete lack of self-consciousness was stunning to me. And it created a gnawing feeling in my gut (again), running concurrently with the recitation of The List -- the list of things I never tried but wish I had (maybe).

I wish I had jumped off the big rock in Hawaii. My kids followed my husband up that black rock to dangerous heights and shook off their nerves and fear of belly-flopping or bad, wet hair and jumped. I remember the look on Emily's freckled 12-year-old face when she emerged up from the salty ocean having accomplished this. I am so proud of her. She won't be sitting here like me, wondering why I never tried it, why I carry so much fear around with me all the time.

I wish I followed through with my singing and guitar lessons. While I don't think I would ever be cast as the lead diva in Swan Lake, I also wish I had not let the fear of being caught in a leotard prevent me from continuing my work at the barre and those pirouettes I dreamed of at age 4.

Right now, I wish I already knew how to Zumba. My hero-friend, Carmen has Zumba'd off 30-lbs and had fun every step of the way, including a stint with a broken foot. (Way to go, Carmen!)

Somewhere along the way, I think I established that if there was danger involved, I should withdraw. I must have also adopted the notion that not instantly becoming proficient at a skill must be lethal, so the prospect of staring at the imperfect learning curve, complete with falls, embarrassment, shame, sour notes and bruises to the thighs were just not for me.

What I want to know is how to hush those warning voices from my head... the ones that say, "ooooh, be careful" and "people have gotten hurt doing that, you know" ... and worse, "could you imagine being caught on film doing this?" How do I get to the place where I don't care about all that and the drive to freely cartwheel across an emerald green patch of lawn supersedes everything?

I have become Queen of the Excellently Cautious, a dubious distinction. I carry in my purse more items of first-aid than I carry cash, I realize. Ever vigilant, I stand by, watching the cartwheelers in my life with an eye toward their eventual need for an ace bandage, anti-inflammatory medication and a little snack, God-forbid their sugar plummets too quickly from all that twirling. I realize that I am the one people come to in a crowded room if they need a Tylenol, they know I will be standing by fully equipped to fix and rescue. I will surely not be the one jumping off the rock, I will be watching the stuff instead.

Maybe not. Maybe I will be the one who is absent-mindedly singing out loud while listening to the Black-Eyed Peas on my treadmill at the gym. Who cares? Someone might laugh at me, but just maybe, someone else might wish they were brave enough to try that, too ... and sing along. I am not going to die wondering, that is for sure.

The Kindred Spirits

Right now, on the other side of the country, in a little country house in North Carolina, my sweet redheaded sista-friend, Annie, is fighting like a champ. She has just completed aggressive rounds of chemotherapy and brain-surgery-while-awake to shrink/remove/obliterate the growing tumor in her head. The tumor is not backing down, but then, neither is Annie.

Is there some kind of firing squad line-up that has summoned all the good people to stand against the wall so that this dreaded blight can aim-fire-shoot deadly cancer rays at them? I am horrified at how many times I am hearing and seeing these precious and innocent people under attack. Most of the ones I know in my inner circle have not even touched a cigarette or taken illicit drugs. Most have lived quiet and wholesome lives, care taking others, and it just doesn't seem fair. As far as I know, right now, Osama Bin Laden is alive and doing well, and I seriously doubt he has cancer. So... it just isn't fair. I know I sound like a toddler right now, but it just isn't fair.

I grieve the prospect of a world without Annie's voice or incredible laugh. She has got to be one of the most interesting, full of life, imaginative and quirky-intelligent people I have ever known. She is the only friend in my circle who has bubbled over with glee about the revelations she uncovered while reading a book on quantum physics, of all things. I have no idea what she was talking about, but the passion for learning that has impressed me "evah so" as she would often slip and say when she let her inner Southern Belle loose.

A few weeks ago, I called her and caught her when she was waiting in the clinic for her first round of chemo/radiation. Her voice was full of light and optimism and from the chatter and constant interruptions to our conversation, I knew she had charismatically enchanted a room full of fearful patients and their families. She was cheering them on as they were being wheeled back to the room of monster-robot-cancer-killers. The tumor had caused her to be unable to "ambulate" (she loves that word) without the use of a walker. When her physical therapist wasn't looking, she told me, she did her very best "shuffle-ball-change" dance move, just to defy the rules. That's soooo Annie.

Annie is my walking tutor to all things good and Southern. She knows how to put a good scald on some fried chicken, how to serve "sweet tea" and she was there, my down-the-hall neighbor, to bail me out of my first cheesecake-gone-wrong disaster. She has drawers upon drawers of hand crafted linens, and dusty bookshelves that hold an eclectic variety of reading matter -- all of which I know for sure she has consumed. She knew of coffee houses in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia long before they became vogue niches for the yuppies to occupy. She sat still and listened in the midst of a room full of diverse conversations, able to extract brilliant sound bites from them all, which could be repeated at a moment's recall. I am convinced that somewhere deep in her closet is a hoop skirt and an invite to a cotillion. She would be ready and nothing, if not appropriate...

Annie was on the edge of 39 when she married her soul mate. She asked me to help her to hand pick her lingerie for the honeymoon. It was one of my first visits to Victoria Secret and she opened up the curtain, without a hint of self-consciousness whatsoever, to ask me if she should be seen in this: a fabulous thong-teddy. I don't think I had ever met anyone who I knew personally would be able to pull off that look, and here was Annie, not scared of being 40, not nervous or self-deprecating -- just ecstatic that she was getting to have this moment in her life after all the searching. I literally fell over laughing with her. All these years later, I still remind her to behave herself because I have seen her in a thong and might just have pictures to prove it.

Annie, Julie H. and I all met down in San Diego a few years ago, lunched at the Hotel Del Coronado. We called ourselves "The Pinky Sisters", making a commitment to not give up on expressing ourselves freely through our writing. "The Pinky Sisters" lunch was so inspirational, I began to write again, beginning this blog shortly afterwards. I did not see it coming... that I would write about this fight of Annie's. She will be upset if she thinks she made any of us feel sad or sorry for her. She just wants us all to fight beside her, cheer her on, help her cheer everyone else on, too ... so I will. I just won't let her see my tears while I do ...

28 Winters

Somewhere in the world today, the winter winds are still blowing, snow is falling and the roads are slick and icy. Somewhere in the world there are fireplaces lit and the wood burning smoky clouds through the chimneys is sending sweet aromas into the chilly air. Somewhere there are quiet places where people are sitting, hidden from the elements, wrapped up in woolen blankets and toasty socks. They are enjoying the quiet ... and somewhere in corners of the winter world, there is new love blooming and seasoned love turning the ground over for another round of anticipated blooming.

So it was for me 28 winters ago, when Michael joined my family on a weekend getaway to a mountain cabin in Western Maryland. We were old friends on the verge of our new life together, committed and in love, and I was on a daily vigil for a marriage proposal. I was that sure. Michael was anything if not predictable, or so I thought. He must have known this assessment I had of him and decided to defy it by proposing to me at a time he knew I would least expect it. This he did with great success, for I surely did not expect him to pop the question while I was sound asleep at 6:00 a.m., all clad in flannel with my very best morning breath to provide him the answer. It's a blur, but I think that I said "yes" to his question and found a ring on my left hand which confirmed it.

Outside, gorgeous clumps of snowflakes fell that day. We had snowball fights and embarked upon our commitment together on a winter's day, surrounded by family chaos and disarray, puddles and mud. We looked ahead to our life together with equal parts naive confidence and numbing fear. We put on our boots and bundled up against the cold and trudged away together.

I'm thinking of my son and daughter in law -- now they are in their second winter together, also trudging. While winters out here in Southern California are not that cold, there are still times when the fireplaces roar, sometimes they are fire pits outside at the beach or on a patio, and always there are moments found to huddle from the rains or Santa Ana winds with someone you love. Their road together is so new ... as if it is a pathway of fresh snow with only little bunny rabbit tracks to pock the lane.

I loved that new winter time in my life. Against the white landscape, everything is clear and crisp. Since the new beginnings there have been new babies, bundled up in snowsuits, brought into our warm home, one winter after another. There have been new friends and old alike gathered around the table, warming up hearts with soulful chatter around bowls of soup, winter after winter. We have had some sloppy wet and bitter ice storms, too -- some slips and falls, painful losses against dark gray stormy skies. Under the ground, whether it has been wet with rain, scorched by wildfires and mudslides or blanketed by snow, life has been busy regenerating blooms and blossom and inevitably, there is a concert of color that follows the end of winter year by year. The view is always spectacular when the snow melts away... eventually.

If anyone knows about winter seasons and how to survive them all, I think it is my friend, Bettie. She knows about sheltered love in a marriage that was interrupted abruptly by the storm of cancer. Bettie's home has always been my metaphor for cycles of difficult and marvelous rolling and rolling like a wheel. When her Charlie passed away, she filled in the pool in her back yard and made it into a phenomenal garden retreat... filling the potholes with plants and life. She chose to close up empty and gaping holes with life, as she has done with her own these past cold winters she has been spending alone. And every spring her flowers remember their promise to bloom. I take such courage from all of that life under the snow.

All these images come together today as I think of my children as they celebrate their first year of marriage. I feel blessed to have had these past 28 winters, not merely for surviving the cold outside, but for having the shelter inside where we huddle together with such incredible warmth.

Varnishkes and Kasha

I've never tried to make a brisket. I keep imagining a context in which I might attempt it -- but the mere thought collides with defeat when I face the reality that no matter how many ways I would try to prepare it -- never, ever, would it be like the pan that used to come out of my mother's oven. I can even see her hands, her thin and delicate, veiny skin, grasping the handles of some baking pan which we had told her to discard decades earlier. Perhaps the secret to her delectible presentation was in that beat up and scratched pan -- no one else could possibly own one like that. No one could duplicate this thing she created with those hands of hers. There is magic in that.

I couldn't make the brisket, but tonight I made the varnishkes and kasha, the side dish that inevitably accompanied the meal. I sauteed the onion and garlic, toasted the egg-coated kasha grains till they were nutty brown, stirred and mixed and tossed and seasoned. The aroma that filled my kitchen wrapped around me and cast a spell. Even the sound of the sizzle in the pan was like music to me.

It's not like you can order up this dish anywhere. If you could, I think it would be missing the fact that the draw of it is the preparation with your own hands, with the sounds of home and family, puppies playing and telephones ringing -- all that stirred together and blended into the flavors I dished onto the plate. It conjured up for me an average evening from my long-ago. Nothing special, not for company coming to dinner, not a celebration -- just an after school or long day at work welcome home.

I sat down with my steaming plate, savoring each bite this simple Sunday night. I wished I had a side of brisket, but the memory of it is just as full of flavor as I close my eyes tonight...

Hoarding

Recently, the curtains have been pulled back and have revealed an illness called "hoarding" which is, apparently, growing in alarming numbers. I have been watching several documentaries about this disease, which seems to affect people who can often pose as functional, normal, even brilliant individuals. They just can't seem to find a way to throw out the junk they've accumulated in their homes.

It made me pretty scared, if truth be told, to watch the trauma these people go through in the process of letting go. I realize that maybe I have leanings in that direction myself, as there are pockets in my home of accumulated "stuff" that sits unattended, day in and day out. I seem to possess either an ambivalence about it or even a foreboding fear of approaching these piles. Do I simply "not care" or it is that somewhere in the stacks there are things I will uncover which are too painful to find? Am I too paralyzed in my fear of it that I just can't even sort it out? Oh oh. I think I just looked in the mirror.

Three places in my home are my potential danger zones: The Garage, The Office and The Closet. I might be onto something here which could nip this in the bud. There's got to be a reason I let these places accumulate the hodge-podge of chaos they have become. There are times I will grab a trash bag and tackle one small space, throwing things out left and right... and then it stops for another run of weeks ...

The Garage is the worst of all the collections. There, I have boxes of old collectables of my own, from my old, unfortunate teapot and "country" rooster phase, sporting goods from sports which we will never engage in again (really? will I ski or roller blade again???), and the worst, the things from my parent's home which we just could not decide what to do with at the time they each passed away. And here they sit. The hardest throwaway for me? Pictures they have framed of our family and odd mismatched items that evoke such strong memories but hold not current useful purpose any longer in my life ... I'm also thinking the IRS probably doesn't need my dad's 1988 tax returns either, but I guess at the time, I thought there was danger in throwing it out? Worse even, the mere thought of discarding any item with my mother's handwriting, for fear I would lose the memory of her beautiful looping letters, now that they have stopped production.

I already know what the problem is in The Office and The Closet. Denial. Plain and simple. I'm not going to be size 4 in this lifetime and the reminders of that have got to go. If I ever do stumble on a trimmer physique, which is the plan, mind you, I will have earned my trip to find new things to fit myself and this old stuff should not be my incentive. For that matter, I hope to also not be a 2X again, so really, all I need is a couple of teenagers to help me load those bags into my trunk and get it off to Goodwill. It's time.

My ultimate goal this year is to streamline and simplify. Peering into the windows of the lives of people with this hoarding sickness has made me assess that any large scale changes I want to make are still sitting atop the daily, physical reminder that I can't start fresh unless I purge the old and superfluous items which are getting in the way. It is not impossible and there is help available when I am ready to ask for it.

Trash bags in hand, I am heading for the garage... determined to clear the pathways in my home and in my head.

Lessons from Susan B.

By now, most of the known universe has witnessed the amazing performance on the Britain's Got Talent competition of Susan Boyle.

Beneath her frumpy, weathered exterior was this geyser of talent which erupted to the shock of everyone who viewed it for the first time. Shocking more, was that in a world of appearance-obsessed people, the unbelievable achievement of seeing millions exercise the ability to look beneath the surface and validate another still exists.

For me, it has been an inspiration resulting in my new epiphony for the year... "you don't die from being less than perfect." I've spent years living in a body which I neither admire or frankly, even recognize sometimes. I have performed daily rituals of dressing to camoflague this with the slight of hand of magical undergarments -- hoping the world might just not notice today that, yes, I have put on weight. And in the mirror are hundreds of products I religiously apply to shade and treat the places that time has marked on my face. With every one of these applications, I have endorsed the daily affirmation that I have now arrived at the place of total irrelevance because, gasp, I am not now, nor have I ever been -- perfect.

When I was in 6th grade, I began my passion for writing ... scrawling in pencil in a brown composition notebook my poems and thoughts which freely flowed back in those days. I wrote without worry about who would read, edit or even critique my words. It felt good just to let the words out of their cubicle and onto those blue lined sheets of paper.

I can't remember exactly when it happened that I was infected with the Self-Conscious Virus, but it seems that it locked up my will to write and sing and dance without wondering who was watching and ... what they thought. And so it was that decades came and went and here I am just now accepting that it might be okay to be less than perfect.

Susan Boyle has a lyric she sings in a song on her new album which says,

"And though I may not know the answers,

I can finally say I am free,
And if the questions led me here,

then I am who I was born to be."

Unwrapping the gift it is to hear Susan's voice sing has stirred in me an inspiration to leave my lifelong fear of rejection at the "side of the road". Today, I will write and sing -- and even dance. I will be content to do it for me and not for the audience full of rejection buzzers in their hands. I know I still will never be perfect at any of it, but I have stopped worrying about that now. I love the freedom I found to do it anyways.

“Are there not... Two points in the adventure of the diver: One—when a beggar, he prepares to plunge? Two—when a prince, he rises with his pearl? I plunge!” —Robert Browning

Light the Candles

The other day, my friend Carly sent me an email with pictures she was eager to share showing her regular, everyday mantle illuminated with candles. I immediately wrote her back and asked, "What was the occasion?" and she replied that a friend was over and, for no particular reason, thought it would be a good idea.

Indeed, it was ... and her little relay of this fraction of time in her home took me back to a conversation I had with my mother in the early days of her illness.

I remember the day in which I helped her into a bubble bath which I had prepared for her in the beautiful, deep tub in her master bedroom. I added lavender and rosemary oil drops and then proceeded to hunt for candles throughout the house. It seemed that we needed to dim the lights so that my ailing mother could find a moment's peace from the pain, stress and pressure of the shards of reality she faced with her cancer diagnosis looming overhead.

My parent's post-children home was somehow transformed into a showpiece of "look-don't-touch" finery. The carpets, sofas and piano were white, with only hints of color in the accent pillows and throw blankets and area rugs. But, yes, in the home there were candles ... everywhere. In every room, they were placed artistically on display shelves and in between books which were never read, and adjacent to incomplete photo albums and random curios. Looking back, I see that the real "living" in that grand home really only happened in a few square feet, around the kitchen eating nook or the adjacent TV room. The rest of the house stayed empty and still, awaiting someone somewhere to admire the silent beauty of it all. The good china was never used, the guest towels stayed untouched, and the candles were never lit.

That day, I gathered up every candle I could carry and brought them to the ledge of my mother's bath. I lit them, maybe 30 in all -- in different colors, heights and scents. My mother began to protest the use of the "good" candles, and then caught herself in the moment and stopped short of uttering her complaint. Her pale and sickly demeanor was magically illuminated into a golden hue of health, the enchanting flickering light seemed to dance some stresses from her eyes. The air was rich with a fragrance combination I can never forget-- lavender, rosemary, candle wax and burning wicks. I swear I can even gather in deep breaths of good life in the mix from that moment.

Mom said, "Why did I wait to have cancer to light my beautiful candles?" There were no spoken words between us after she asked the question which hung in the air before boring a place deep into my soul's memory. She knew what I now know, too, that we don't need a reason to drink in a moment of calm and beauty. Carly knows it, too ... and I hope her mantle is illuminated for many days to come.

81 Charles Avenue

The window of my upstairs attic bedroom faced the back yard and was framed by ruffled, sheer curtains of the palest pink. My brothers would play outside but I stayed up in my girl sanctuary -- a lavender wallpapered room. There, I played with my kitten and read books every day. In that room, was my portable record player -- I knew every word to every song that spun around in black vinyl in those years. My cat would watch me, amused, as I danced and perfomed in the full length mirror that hung behind my bedroom door.

My mother used to carry soup upstairs to my room when I was sick, and always on the aluminum silver tray, she would write a note or bring me something to color. I could hear her feet padding up the wooden stairs and creaking across the hardwood floors as she looked for a place to set the tray. She always took a moment to smile at my vanity table arrangement of Avon perfume bottles and jewelry boxes. Mom needed a spot in her world to be a little girl, too, and I think that visiting me in my room gave that to her.

In the years that I lived in that house, my brother and I always walked to school, taking shortcuts every day through the Stoughton cemetery. I carried a briefcase and imagined myself to be a young Maria as I skipped without a care through the gates of the cemetery singing quite fearlessly, "Nobody solves a problem like Maria..." as she did in "The Sound of Music".  I would arrive to school or home again, sweaty and flushed, and not the least phased by the fact that this trip, come rain or shine, was about a mile and a half each way. That is what umbrellas and boots were made for, of course, and in those days, simply opening up an umbrella could inspire a scene from "Singing in the Rain" on those trips home.

Waiting at home each day was my mother, undoubtedly already at work in the kitchen and with a cold glass of milk and a Hostess cupcake or other treat ready on the Formica counter top. The kitchen was avocado and harvest gold, with pops of bright orange in the mugs that hung from little c-hooks under the cabinets where I would snack. While I devoured the treats she prepared for me, my mother let me rattle on about my day and spread out all my school papers on the counter for her to approve with great enthusiasm and admiration. In the background, there was always dinner baking -- faint streams of meatloaf, brisket, chicken or something wonderful that would appear in a few hours. Always there was a full pot of coffee, freshly brewed, just in case someone stopped by ... and often, in this home, people actually did drop in. Quite often, in fact.

We had one telephone that hung on the wall, only one, if you can imagine that. It was a new and modern shade of avocado, too. If we were on the phone, a caller would get a busy signal and have to call back later. There was no answering machine to take messages, or interrupting beeps to notify us that someone else was calling. No one would interrupt our sacred dinner time by calling to sell us anything. Home was where all that outside transacting ended and where nothing but the inner workings of family life was allowed to unfold.

81 Charles Avenue was such busy place. Everyone had assignments but in the early evenings, work was done and we could all crowd together in our family den to watch our one and only black and white TV. There were only a few channels to choose from ... this was the day of variety shows and cowboy westerns. No way to fast forward through commercials or record a show to view later... it was a time to stop or not stop, and life didn't end if we missed an episode or two. On the evenings that our home was filled with dinner guests, we assembled in the big added on room with the spinet piano in the far corner. There was always music being played on that piano and my memories flood me with images of my mother singing while my father played to accompany her, maneuvering the piano keys in his heavy-handed, grand way.

As a child, I remember being proud of this house. It didn't seem small to me, although now by comparison as I have adapted to such a different life, perspective has certainly changed things. These days, 1400 sqf. would be considered a cramped way to raise three children in a family of 5. Back then, it felt spacious and grand at times. Other times, such as when I removed my bedside lamp with the ruffled lampshade and placed it inside the eaves of my room so that I could curl up with a collection of pillows, my books and a cat, it was the womb in which I grew.

Somewhere in that attic corner, under a loose floor board, I hid away my first journals. I don't remember retrieving the chocolate-brown, lined composition notebook with the yellowed pages when we moved away. In those journals, I wrote poems of where I would be later in my life. I wish I knew where they are today and if they were ever discovered later by the new occupants of that home.

I wonder how many families moved in and out of 81 Charles Avenue over the years that have passed since we migrated away. I wonder if there are lingering scents of brisket and banana bread still remaining in any of the walls. I wonder, too, if there are layers and layers of wallpaper to peel away to reveal a confirmation of these snapshots of the aromas, sounds and colors in my head today.

I am 3000 miles and about 5 times that many days removed from this place. Still, I can simply close my eyes and I am there, the kitten purring in my lap even now.

Red Shoes Would Be Better

My father played the role of Captain Von Trapp when I was growing up, everything but the high-pitched whistle that would summon the troop of children into formation.

He used to line us up, my older brother, Mark, and Joel, the youngest, and he would perform an inspection of us before we would leave the house. Fingernails clipped and clean? Every hair in place? Ties strait? Shoes shined? First the boys went through the drill and then it came to me.

One day, I was in the line wearing a beautiful blue and white gingham dress with big red buttons. My mother had bought me brand new black patent leather Maryjane shoes and I couldn't stop staring at the shine that came off of them. I had ruffled ankle socks that I remember tugging at until they were straight and even before I came downstairs to model my look for Dad. I twirled around (when it was my turn, of course -- never breaking rank) and waited to hear my Daddy say how pretty I looked. I could tell he loved my dress but there was a pause. I remember the pause to this very day, and then, I was only about 3 years old.

He said, "Very nice, but ... red shoes would be better."

I have often said that if I ever wrote an autobiography it would have the title, "Red Shoes Would Be Better." This single phrase has burned a groove into my life, etching an opinion, spoken or otherwise, about every single thing I do. It hits me first thing every morning, of course, as I face my daily mission of finding the perfect outfit and accessories to introduce to my waiting public each day. But subtly, it is the message that filters through everything and aligns the world according to a standard, only to fail on a detail. This "red shoe" epiphany was the commencement of the global "what's-wrong-with-this-picture" game I have played my entire life.

This perfection-driven insanity has created a world of remodeled freaks of nature, sporting new noses and breasts so that one little thing that is a little "off" will just go away. No job is ever really well-done, there is always something that could have, should have, might have, been done better. All this looping, rewinding, editing, and the like has crippled the world I live in. For years, I was afraid to try something new, because grand failure had to be fatal if you could have a crisis over the wrong colored shoes, after all.

The best thing that ever happened to me (eventually) was having children. The harder I tried to duplicate the Perfection Endeavor I knew from my own childhood, the worse I failed. These creatures got dirty, broke things, and even dressed themselves in play clothes that didn't match! When I got too sick to hold together the details of the perfect little life I was striving to achieve, I found that the world did not end. All that fear was wasted energy.

Once, my husband dressed my toddler to meet me and go out one evening and I discovered that Ben had two different color socks on his feet and no emergency change of clothes in the diaper bag, just in case there was a traumatic occurrence of a Stain. No matching socks?! Somehow, Ben did not lose a moment of joy over that and neither did his Dad. Fortunately for me, I married a man who did not have a whistle to blow or even a remote desire to inspect his children this way. He let them be who they are and I joined into the remedial education course he was teaching back then.

My friend Terry and I were in Shoe Wonderland (DSW) some time ago and I persuaded her to try on a delightful selection of shoes. She got a gorgeous pair of bronze Coach platform shoes made of soft, Italian leather. She also, per my directive, purchased a pair of scarlet-red slingback, wood platform 4" heels. Now, when she puts them on, they are her own "ruby slippers" that give her courage when she goes to speak in public.

A few years ago, I received a gift from some friends in lieu of flowers after surgery. The note attached to the gift card gave me express instructions to use it only for the purchase of some fabulous shoes. It was a substantial gift, and I was delirious as I moved through the Nordstrom shoe department trying on dozens of shoes. And then, by the suggestion of a total stranger, I was handed a box with a pair of shoes he had a hunch I would love/love/love! I tried them on, and they were indeed truly wonderful shoes.

So maybe my father was right after all? They were, after all, red shoes.

Love Notes

My friend, Pam, just emailed me a copy of a treasure she found this week while rummaging through a box of old photos in preparation for her family reunion. She found a handwritten note from my mother. And then we followed with a back-and-forth dialogue about my mother's letters -- her swirly-loopy penmanship and so many, many other details that were uniquely and utterly ... my mom.

My mother was known for writing notes and letters. She had a collection of cards she purchased that could have stocked a few Hallmark stores. They were for almost every occasion -- a few special favorites were the funny Maxine cards, and cards with pictures of cute little girls, Victorian ladies and Springer Spaniels. One thing you could count on if you got a card from Lorrie Frager was a lipstick stamp on the flap of the envelope (and one on the card itself if there was room) and lots of "xxoo's".

In my childhood world I remember those notes popping up everywhere -- sometimes they were tucked into our lunch bags, tacked on the mirror where we dressed every day, on a pile of folded laundry or even under the pillow. Her favorite thing to say was "Have I told you lately that I love you?" (Yes, Mom, you did.)

She scratched out her notes often and in so many different ways I have absolutely no doubt that she did love me -- a lot. What I am reminded of by Pam's discovery today is another expanded (but not surprising) view of how much she loved so many people, and what a mark she made on their hearts by those loopy letters of hers. These little notes keep on popping up in the strangest places and at the most random times. But never a minute too soon and always welcome.

My mother used to wear a Revlon berry-pink shade of frosted lipstick as her standard favorite. After a few applications, the lipstick in the tube was formed into a perfect slant to one side. She applied her lipstick about 50 times a day, I think, and one out of every three of those times, she reminded me to go put some on myself. (God forbid, I might be seen with bare lips!) She'd would blot her lips on a tissue afterward. Often, when rummaging through her bottomless pit of a purse, I would come across quite a collection of these Kiss You Tissues.

Those gorgeous lip marks were her signature "I love yous" at the end of all the little messages she wrote in the 68 short years of her life. Once, a long time ago, I tried to trace her handwriting so I could feel, maybe, what she did when the words came out of her hand. I couldn't pull it off. But now when I compose my own handwritten notes for those I love, I remember the feeling of it all and what it meant. And then, I sign with the loopiest signature possible and leave a lipstick kiss at the bottom, too. Some traditions are definitely worth passing on...

xxoo

Sarah's Lens

Last summer Sarah came to visit and when she left, I was changed forever.

Sarah was 15 years old last summer and came to us, all flushed and full of giggles, to play and sight see on the first California trip of her life. I am reaching way, way back into my brain to access the memory of the days that I was 15 and I wonder if I had that kind of spunk and spirit back then. I am told I did, but these days I get confused between the legends and the truth. And, well, 15 was another life ago.

When I was 15 years old, I was living in East Tennessee on a parcel of farmland which my father had purchased to whisk us away from suburban life. I thought it was punishment to be 45 minutes from a mall or a McDonald's and to be confined in a place so remote you could sing at the top of your lungs and the only creatures to hear you were grazing cows, pecking chickens and lazy horses. Dad had excavated a swimming hole at the bottom of the hill on our rolling acreage and he stocked it with fish. He added a pier to fish from and a sandy "beach" (for effect, the way he did everything). We had a red barn which never housed the horses ... only a ping pong table and some hay, I think. It was sticky-hot in the summer and tiny insects would swarm around in circles in the high grassy areas. And in the summertime, Sarah's dad and his sister, Marjorie, would come to dunk and splash in that pond with the disgustingly slimy bottom made of mud. I have taken pictures of this place with the eyes of my memory and a few very poor quality photographs. They are what remains to mark the spot.

Those muggy summers all came and went and so did a few decades. Along came marriage and mortgages and children and scary sadness all layered on top of each other like some kind of inedible lasagna. Hidden inside those drippy layers were the remnants of all those adolescent summers and the things worth keeping ... that is, until Sarah came to visit.

When your child meets the child of your friends from childhood it is a miracle of sorts. They enforce the need to go back in time and dig into the pile of goo, to clean up and salvage to find the "keepers".

When Sarah came off the plane, hidden in her luggage was the Miracle Lens. In the process of pulling back the curtains to show her California coastlines and tourist haunts, I would stop and look around to see Sarah lagging behind, contorting herself into the strangest poses to snap photographs of things I didn't see and probably never would have cared to capture. She told me this was called "macro photography" and that she loved zooming in to the most infinitesimal details -- a drop of rain on a blade of grass, the wings of an insect, eye lashes, table settings, flooring patterns... and with each discovery she shared by way of the pictures she snapped, I was jarred out of my oblivious trance so that I could really "see" again all the little things right here, right now, which I was missing as I sped up and down the freeway.

Sarah came to town just in time for me. Whatever she brought into my life was contagious. I find myself "doing a Sarah" almost every day now ... stopping to see and explore something normal in the context of my every day traffic patterns. The other day, when I was doing a "Sarah" I actually noticed Zoe sitting in a stream of sunlight and it inspired me to think and blog about it. She tutored me to "see" the pictures and images that flash in front of me every single minute as a diving board which allow me to feel again.

In the year that has passed since Sarah was here, we had our first family wedding and along with it came some very remarkable milestones. But, I don't think I missed a thing, not a single important memory. I have a very full mental website (still clicking away), now capturing the look on my very happy son's face, their casual smiles, her strands of hair blowing in the breeze at the beach, sandy feet, half sipped cups of take out coffee, my husband's hard working hands, my daughter's laugh ... and so on, and so on...

Sarah was like a little muse that dropped in from the sky and sprinkled some kind of potion on all of us that suddenly made life come alive, look brighter, taste sweeter. She probably has absolutely no idea that she inspired a gallery of beautiful things that now travel on a daily exhibition tour with me as I pack up my briefcase and change the view from mother to wife to professional every day ... click, click, click goes my own lens.

Thank you, Sarah.

Falling Petals

I got the news on Saturday morning that Jack Dodd had passed away. He had been fading away for a while now, in and out of rehab hospital centers and at home being cared for by hospice and his family for months. I heard there were flickers of "Jack" that would appear from time to time, but really, the true Jack has not been around for way too long.

If life was a beverage, Jack Dodd would have been Sprite, all light and full of joyous bubbles. He was supposed to be life's eternal Peter Pan, always hearing big band music somewhere in his head. He was a box of crayons on a rainy day, always good for color and splashes of laughter no matter what the occasion. And he certainly didn't care that much about formality ... in a tux, a pair of shorts and Hawaiian shirt or even wheeled in a chair, he was who he was and that was that.

I used to go over and visit his daughters, Juli and Cathie, for years and Jack would ask me to reprise Gilda Radner's "Roseann Roseannadanna" and he would laugh so hard he snorted as if it was the first time he ever heard it. Lord, I wish I could garner that kind of an audience today.

These last years watching his pilot light go out ever so slowly, it was like collecting the fallen petals from the bouquet that just isn't ready to take off the center of the table just yet. Well, the centerpiece is missing and I just can't find the right "something" to put in its place that would be as delightful as it was having Jack in the middle of our lives.

We'll miss ya, Jack.