A Journey with Yogi

When I was a still in diapers, my small world encompassed our little wood-framed house, and a backyard with a green picket fence that looked very tall to a toddler. It also included my brother, who entered the world 18 months before me, my mom and dad, and the milkman.

    Now before you read into that, you must know that we lived on a dairy, where my father was employed. One of the highlights of my week was when my mother would help me place a wire crate, filled with empty glass milk bottles, on the porch. Then magically, early the next morning, the crate would be full of cold glass bottles filled to the brim with fresh milk. I would excitedly announce it’s arrival to my mother, who would smile and come to the door to help me carry the small crate into the kitchen. She would place it on the table where I watched intrigued as she peeled back the pleated paper cap that acted as a seal at the top of the bottle. Usually, I couldn’t contain my excitement and I would try to help her with this process, and she would patiently oblige my little fingers in between her own. Then she would pour some of the milk into my cup and I would take my first sip. It was creamy and cold, and I could feel it flow all the way down to my round, little tummy. It brought pleasure and contentment, and expectation for more good things to come. 

        
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    I spent my days sharing backyard adventures with my brother. One time I looked up to him as he became superman and stood on the roof of the toolshed announcing that he was going to fly. It was quite exciting until my mother shot out the backdoor and yelled for him to freeze right where he was. She promptly removed him from the top of the shed and his dream of flying came to an end. I decided that she was the villain that day.

    My brother was my icon. He instructed me on the technical things in life, like how to climb a chair if you wanted to reach something higher than you, like the cookie jar, and how to open the door to the outside world by turning its round knob and giving it a good pull. He also taught me how to turn the bathtub knobs and make water come out the spout, and how to make things disappear down the toilet.   

    I learned how to walk by holding onto the back of my brother’s overall straps and toddled around the house behind him. One day he fell backwards onto me and I felt flattened like a pancake. I decided to navigate around the house by holding onto stationary items instead.

    One of our favorite morning television shows was Yogi the Bear. We sat on the living room floor together and shared in Yogi’s adventures, along with his smaller side kick, Boo-boo the bear. Soon my brother began calling me Boo-boo, so I decided that he must be Yogi since he was taller than me. Yogi was lots of fun to be with. He told me interesting stories about what bugs like to eat and how nice snakes don’t bite. I liked it when he called me Boo-boo and I wanted to be a part of his every adventure.

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    One day while mom was at work, and dad was in front of the house working under the car, my brother decided that we that we should go on a trip together. We would walk to town to get an ice cream cone and to pay our mother a surprise visit at the Ranch Boy restaurant, where she worked as a waitress. I loved ice cream, so I thought it was the best idea ever. One great thing about being the ages of two and a half, and almost four, is believing that all things are possible. You just decide to do something and you do it. So my brother hoisted me over the back fence, dropping me on my backside, and then climbed over it himself. We slipped away without dad seeing us, just in case he decided to spoil our plans by using the “No” word. My brother took my hand and we walked together down the dusty road that eventually lead us to a highway overpass. Town was a few miles away. 

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    We had walked a very long way and my legs were tired. My face felt hot and sticky. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go to town to get ice cream after all. My brother said, “Don’t worry Boo-boo, we will be there soon.” I felt assured by his words. Then he said that we had to cross the big bridge to get to the other side of the road, because that was the side the restaurant was on. All I saw were a few trees and a long, long road.

    When we were about halfway across the bridge, my nose started bleeding. It dripped down my face to my chin and started dripping on my shirt. So my brother took off my shirt and wiped my nose with it. It was about that time when a big black car stopped on the bridge next to us. A pretty lady with dark hair jumped out of the car and looked very worried. She said we must get into her car with her so she could take us back to our house.

    My brother wasn’t going to have anything to do with that. He insisted that we were on our way to pay our mother a surprise visit at the restaurant. The lady took some Kleenex from her big purse and placed it at my nose instead of my shirt. Then she told my brother that we could not walk to town and we needed to get into her car immediately.

    “No!” My brother yelled. “We aren’t supposed to go in cars with strangers – and you’re a stranger!” I started crying. Strangers were bad, even if they were pretty.

    The lady swooped me up, then took my brother’s hand and pulled him into the back seat of her car and plopped me right next to him. He was hopping mad. I wailed. After some pleading by the woman, my brother finally relented and told her where we lived. Soon we were back on the dusty road and heading toward the dairy where everyone was searching for us.

    When we arrived, dad hugged us tight, then took us inside the house where he changed me and cleaned the dried blood off my face and arms and chest. We took a nap with dad in his big, soft chair, and he wrapped his arms around us tight.

    Mom says that dad left her an apology note explaining the horror of his day. When she arrived home we were still sound asleep in his arms, safe, and unaware of the danger that we had been in that day, and of the urgent prayers spoken for our safety.

    Our adventure didn’t turn out as we had planned, and we were disappointed that we didn’t get to eat ice cream, or surprise momma. But even at a tender age, I learned a lot on our long journey that day. I learned that you can make good plans, but bad things can happen along the way. I learned that there can be goodness in someone that you aren’t so sure about, and that if you lose your way, you can still find your way home. Sometimes it is with the help of others.    
 
    I cuddled up against my father’s chest and I felt safe and secure with his big, strong arms around me. My journey in life had just begun and there would be many more adventures, and seasons of disappointment and tears, and those of contentment and joy. Yet in that moment, life was about bonding with those who loved me, and of hot oatmeal for breakfast with raisins hiding in the middle and brown sugar melting on top. It was about the weekly magic of finding filled milk bottles on the porch at sunrise. It was about daily adventures with Yogi, and it was about being in a place where I felt safe and content and loved.

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At Nest’s Edge

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      I gave birth to my son six days after I celebrated my twenty-third birthday. Although he came into this world four weeks early, while I was lying on the couch with my feet propped up, and staring at the basketball my belly had become, it seemed like an eternity before he would arrive.

     I had always looked forward to being pregnant and to becoming a mother, and to be able to experience all the joys I had heard were attached to those roles. Yet my first experience with pregnancy was anything but joyous. Two weeks into gestation, morning nausea rolled in, and soon stretched into the afternoon and evening hours. I kept hearing that it would end in a few weeks, but those weeks turned into months, and I felt like I had been given a permanent sentence on the deck of the Andrea Gail in the perfect storm. Everything came in waves. Waves of oatmeal and toast and peanut butter, waves of turkey sandwiches on wheat and yogurt with fresh berries. Endless, relentless waves. Even the suggested ginger ale and saltine crackers made their way up the shoot, and sometimes would bubble right out my nose, which felt like a vinegar and baking soda experiment was being performed in my nostrils.

     I dreaded climbing into our old Ford truck on work mornings, knowing that the storm would rise up as soon as I shifted into drive. It didn’t matter that I had already seen my Wheat Chex twice, there was always more waiting in the bilge. It was only two short miles to the office where I worked, and I would fight back the waves as I punched the gas pedal, praying that I would make it there before the second round of barfing would hit. It didn’t matter how fast, or slow, I drove, the nausea swelled up from my stomach and sloshed into my throat with every curve on the road. I would tense the muscles in my esophagus, and press my tongue tight against the roof of my mouth and fight it back. But like clockwork, I would make it to mile marker 1.2, where I would have to whip the truck over into the entrance of a dirt driveway in front of a cute little old house and barf in their ditch. I never looked toward the windows of the house, but I’m sure I spoiled someone’s morning breakfast more than once.

     I read all the books I could about pregnancy and delivery, and I took a natural childbirth class so that, despite my months of suffering with nausea, I would be fully prepared to experience a wonderful delivery. At least that’s what my natural childbirth instructor indicated. I admired this laid-back woman, whose belly bulged with third term pregnancy, and who had already delivered four children au naturele. She surely must know what she was talking about. I listened intently from her sofa as she took a squatting position, to keep her birthing muscles limber, and shared her labor and delivery secrets to a room full of wide-eyed, young women with swollen bellies, each having great hopes of an easy, pain-free birth.

     My co-worker had already given birth to a son and was pregnant with her second child. She told me that that woman was full of bologna and I was wasting my money. Then she said that I had better get ready for the worst pain I’ll ever have in my life. I didn’t like that she told me that. In fact, it really irritated me. I told her that she wasn’t being a very nice friend. She responded by saying that she was my only friend because she was the only one who was telling me the truth. I still didn’t like her for saying it.

     When my labor started I was a little anxious, but mostly excited. Soon I would be holding a new little life in my arms, and I could fit into my skinny jeans again. The first few hours were easy and I was proud that I had learned so much from my au naturele instructor. But as the hours passed, I began to wonder why the labor magic wasn’t working so good. By the time my labor pains were close enough that it was time to drive to the hospital, I wanted to slug my husband. I accused him of hitting every bump in the road, which intensified the pain of each contraction. Where did he learn to drive?

     When we arrived at the hospital, I was quickly rolled into labor and delivery. Everything hurt. Every movement of the bed. Every time the nurse checked my vitals and moved the monitor on my belly. Every touch. Every sound was magnified. I wanted to yell, “No talking!”, but all my muscles were contracted, immoveable, including my voice box, which was silently screaming. I finally was able to drum up a loud, “SHHH!!” The room fell silent. I glanced up at my husband and saw him looking wide-eyed at the nurse. Then he took a step back away from my bed. Smart guy.

     Then suddenly it sounded like all the bells and whistles went off from the equipment surrounding me. There was a blur of nurses and doctors entering and leaving the room. Baby was in trouble. I was being prepped for an emergency c-section.

       My concern for the little life inside of me surpassed the intense pain I was experiencing. It didn’t matter what I had to go through, the pain, the probing, the needles, as long as our baby arrived safely into this world. Through some quick maneuvering by the nurses, and with the help of two doctors, a c-section was avoided. I gave one last gut-breaking push and heard the first cry of our son. I had witnessed my first miracle.

       As they rolled me out of the delivery room, I thanked God for watching over our baby boy, then I wondered how I was going to break the news to my husband that I was never going to go through that again. Two years later I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Then a few years beyond that, our second daughter arrived, adding to our joy. They say that time heals wounds, or sometimes bad memories, but I think God gave me a slight case of amnesia between births, so that I could have the little family I had always dreamed of. He has a way of knowing just what I’m going to need, sometimes in small doses, and sometimes in big doses. 

       Many seasons have come and gone since my husband and I entered the role of parenthood. Our son grew up and moved three states away. That made me cry. Our second child grew up and got married. I cried at her wedding. At least she stayed in town. Then she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I cried again. Recently, I hugged our third baby goodbye at the airport. She’ll be living miles across the Pacific ocean while attending nursing school. You guessed it, I bawled. She did too.

    Crepe paper streamers were left strung across our living room ceiling, and for days I tripped over balloons in every downstairs room of the house, all remnants of a surprise going away party given to our daughter by her friends on the weekend she said goodbye to our small town. I just couldn’t make myself take the decorations down right away. It would be like saying, well, that’s that – that phase of life is done. Mooovin’ on.

       There was a point in my life when I began looking forward to empty nest. In time, each child wobbled at the nest’s edge and I held my breath when I saw that they were ready to spread their wings and fly. But now that I was standing at the edge of the nest watching our last baby fly away into the sunrise of her new life, I wasn’t sure I liked it. I wasn’t sure that I was ready to leave behind a noisy house full of kids, and night-time talks, and mocha dates.

       The once full dinner table has been dwindling, but I have left both leaves in, because it is big and long and inviting. I like to remember how it was when it was crammed full of our kids, and the neighbors kids, and kids from the church youth group, and when our kids teammates gathered there for meals. It was exhaustive, yet fulfilling, and I really loved every minute of it.

       It didn’t matter that on one family vacation, while traveling across Utah in our minivan, with a whining two year old in the back seat, accompanied by her two siblings who were pushing each others hot buttons, that I had threatened to sell them to the nearest family, because people who lived in Utah liked lots of kids. It didn’t matter that there were years of clothes left on the floor, and a continuous parade of socks without a partner. It didn’t matter that I was a constant chauffeur to soccer games and baseball games, basketball games and track meets. It didn’t matter that I had spent hours sitting in the waiting room at the orthodontist office while awkward smiles were turned into lovely grins, or that I spent many long nights in our wooden rocking chair comforting a feverish child.

       There were late nights when I laid restless in bed until I heard our teenagers turn the lock on the front door. There were times when I prayed on my knees for them when they were struggling, and growing, in a very tough world. Sometimes I wondered if we were going to make it. But deep down I knew we would, and we did, and every minute of it was worth it.

       The day I took the crepe paper streamers down, I walked through the house and popped every colorful balloon while reminiscing all those moments, and days, and years that I hold like shining diamonds in my heart. And that’s the truth of it. I don’t have to leave them behind. They will always stay with me, and for that, I am truly grateful.

   

   

I’ve been thinking…

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    Hello there! I am back, and I’ve been thinking…

    When I was a child, life was simple and mostly sweet. As I grew into adulthood, I became aware of a much bigger world that was more complex and bittersweet. There were life-changing decisions to be made, and there were relationships that dissolved as others blossomed and grew into life-long friendships. 

    Along the way, I have discovered that the least expected can happen, like the loss of a great career, or the sudden death of a friend’s child, or that I would travel across the ocean and dance with the Banjara Indians, or that I would end up marrying my brother’s good friend.

    I have found that life is about the opportunities that God offers with each new day. It is facing the sunrise with arms wide open, and celebrating the goodness, and growing through the heartbreaks. It is my past, present and future all folded in together. It is love received and love given, and it is pressing in when life’s challenges become a jagged mountain and my feet become blistered and the air squeezed from my lungs. It is trusting and never giving up hope. It is gathering with family and friends, to share a meal together and to laugh and share stories, and sometimes, to weep together.

It is everyday that we are given breath.

It’s you and me.

This is life…

Whatever You Do, Don’t Run!

                                                                                                                  

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I am always up for an adventure – especially those that promise an adrenaline rush or two. So, exploring new territories, and close encounters with the wild, hovers near the top of my priority list.

When I was growing up, summertime meant family camping trips, exploring national parks, and swimming in whatever body of water we could find. So it was inevitable that I marry an outdoor type of guy who grew up doing the same sort things. Camping has been a summer event for our own family for many years and has included several state parks.

Traveling to Canada and spending some time where the wild things are was on our “Gotta do it” list. So when our friends invited our family to join them on a camping excursion to a remote area of Canada, we were thrilled. We carefully planned our three week adventure and before long it was time to hit the road.

After a two day journey northward, we arrived at Moosehorn, a small, private camping area in British Columbia, with our travel trailer packed with enough food to feed an army for a month. No one would go hungry.

We echoed “Ooo’s” and “Ahh’s” as we scanned the beautiful lake that curbed the secluded property.  We peaked into the windows of the few rustic cabins that dotted the lakeside and we watched the Loon’s flap their wings and glide across the water.

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Then we set up camp and settled in.

Over the next few days, we enjoyed fishing on the lake and taking rides in our small, aluminum boat. The lake provided the perfect perch to view the abundance of wildlife that shared the territory with us. I snapped my camera at nesting bald eagles, coyote, and deer drinking at the lakeside.

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Then we spotted a couple baby grizzly bears frolicking on the hillside. My husband steered our boat closer to shore for a better view, stopping about a hundred yards from the shoreline. I felt safe with a large span of water between our boat and the baby grizzly show. Although I have to admit, I wondered where the momma grizzly was hiding and if she could smell our fish cooking in the evenings.

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There were no septic hook-ups, so we had to use the grounds facilities, which were somewhat primitive. There was a flush toilet in the wash house across the campground, but our friend’s directed us to an outhouse which stood conveniently at a stone’s throw away from our campsite – if you had a good arm. It was also hidden by a large overgrowth of trees and bushes. This made me a bit nervous, but I decided not to be a wussy and use it anyway.

While inside, I contemplated the possibility of a grizzly meandering by and discovering the wild berry bush next to the John. I wished I had not come alone. I considered yelling for my husband to come and get me, but I thought I might sound like a wounded animal that would make the perfect no-cook meal. I also knew that my husband would not let me live it down. So instead, I pressed my face up against the splintering wall of the latrine and peeked through the tiny cracks of the wooden boards. When it looked like all directions were clear, I swung the door open and sprinted toward our campsite. Once I was in the clearing, I did my best to do a casual stride into camp. No one knew the difference. From then on, I walked the further distance to the flush latrine that was situated in a large clearing, stating that I preferred toilets that flush versus those which look like bottomless pits. That seemed to work.

Following the precautions given to us, I restricted my daily exercise to walking or jogging around the large field behind our campsite. I kept an eye on the surrounding forest and wondered if a grizzly with poor eyesight could mistake me for an over-sized jack rabbit. I hopped a little faster.

After a few days of running around in restricted circles, I told my husband I needed to expand my horizons and go on a long walk – on a straight road. He agreed to walk with me. We reviewed bear safety rules as we walked away from the open field and along a dirt road that led toward town. It felt good to have a change of scenery. We were about a half mile into our walk and were joking about what we would do should we encounter a grizzly. My husband said, “You know you’re not suppose to run.” I wondered just how fast I could run if death was chasing me. Then he added, “But if you do run, you better make sure you’re faster than the guy next to you.” He looked at me and grinned. My husband is a runner – and qualified for Nationals in the 800 meters while in college. I decided that it was time to head back to camp.

We walked briskly and spoke louder than usual as we made our way back down the road, hoping to ward off anything that lurked in the woods. I wondered if a grizzly was capable of sneaking up behind us and I wished I had a rearview mirror attached to my head.

When I saw the Moosehorn sign I was relieved. “Looks like we made it!” I said.

“Yep,” my husband replied, “Looks like we’re not going be a grizzly’s dinner tonight!”

I laughed nervously and looked over my shoulder.

We rounded the bend onto the Moosehorn property and started chatting about other things. It was then that I heard a low, guttural grunt come from the thick bushes to my right. The little hairs on the back of my neck pricked up like quills on the back of a porcupine. I kept my pace and I looked over at my husband. He was looking at me wide-eyed. “Did you hear that?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “You mean that grunt sound?” He whispered back. We both looked over our shoulders and quickened our pace.

“Whatever you do, don’t run!” He said in a louder whisper. His teeth were clenched.

“You don’t run either!” I whispered back. I noticed I was having to double-step it to keep up with him.

Just then there was a loud crack about 30 yards behind us. It sounded like a small tree being snapped in two. I restrained a scream, but a stifled sound that mimicked a cow in labor made it’s way through my pressed lips. I won’t repeat what my husband said.

We both hit Olympic speed walking pace, with a few hops thrown in. Buns tight. Tails affright. Our feet were forward, our bodies faced each other, arms pumping, and our heads were whipping front to back. I wondered if the paddling Loons on the lake would think we were an odd species doing a mating dance.

Another loud whack came from behind us. I shot off like a steel marble in pinball machine. It was survival of the fittest. I was in front.

I heard my husband’s panicked voice hit high tenor, “Don’t run!!”

He passed me and took the lead.

“You are!!” I shouted and I reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt.

We both stumbled. I struggled to keep my legs from entangling with his, but held my grip.

“Ahh!!” He let out a labored yelp, “Let go!!!”

It’s strange what one can do when they face possible death. I gripped the back of his shirt with an iron hand.

“No way man! If I go, you go!” I shouted.

My feet bounced and skidded over the dirt like a bare-footed water skier. My husband’s shirt tail was my tow rope.

He burst into grimaced laughter. I joined him.  We struggled to keep in motion, and our laughter quickly progressed to wheezing with intermittent squeaks. I could feel my grasp on his shirt growing weaker. I envisioned doing a cartwheel off the side of the road and becoming human toast.

We came around a curve in the road and I saw the first cabin. I wondered what the occupants would do if a half-crazed couple came diving through their front door. I looked over my shoulder to see if our would be attacker was in sight. The road was empty. “No bear coming!” I gasped. My husband slowed his pace and I skidded to a stop. We stood solitude, hands on our knees and catching our breath.

We figured the grunt we heard was our warning to move on – which we did with enthusiasm.

“You ran.” I said.

“You did too.” My husband answered.

“So, who’s faster?” I asked.

“You held my shirt.” He replied.

I guess we’ll never know.

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Confessions of an Island Tourist

    I relaxed in a patio chair on the lanai of an island condo, enjoying a spectacular view of the Pacific ocean while I worked on my writing. What more could I ask for? I watched turtles gliding through the waves, as near by snorkelers bobbed up and down, and an occasional whale would breach the surface and come crashing down into the deep blue water. While vacationing in Kauai, I was privy to a true Paradise. However, I have to admit, during my tropical get a way I made a couple tourist blunders that left me a little red-faced.

One of my favorite activities is swimming and snorkeling in the aqua marine water that surrounds the Hawaiian islands. One day my husband and I were snorkeling in a popular cove with our good friends, Mark and Beth. Eventually, we all drifted apart as we each followed different schools of tropical fish. Although I thoroughly enjoy participating in submarine adventures, in the back of my mind I am aware that I am sharing the territory with some potentially unfriendly creatures – namely, sharks.

                                                              Fool Me Once

A most brilliantly colored fish had drawn my attention and I had been following it for quite some time, when suddenly I felt something sharp scratch at my leg. An adrenaline rush hit my chest and spread pins and needles to my extremities. I sucked a puff of air through my snorkel as I jerked my leg up toward my chest and looked over my shoulder, hoping not to see my worst nightmare staring me in the face. What I found was the face of our friend – with a snorkel-clenched grin. I shot to the surface and pulled my snorkel from my mouth just as he came to the surface laughing. “You brat!” I hollered, “You’re lucky I’m not carrying a spear-gun!” I laughed as he popped back under the surface. Then I looked around for my husband while treading water and waited for my racing heart to slow it’s pace. Now you would think after suffering such a nerve-rattling offense, that I would never consider inflicting it on someone else. However, I have always thought that one good trick deserves another, so when I caught sight of my husband’s bobbing snorkel, I headed straight for him.

                                                               Fool Me Twice

As I made my stealth underwater approach, I made sure that I stayed directly behind my husband so that I could make my attack un-detected. I maneuvered carefully until I was close enough to see his blondish leg hairs glistening in the sunlit waters. Then I slowly reached forward and was just about to give those hairs a good pull when I noticed that my husband was wearing a different color of swim trunks. I jerked my hand back as one of my fingers just brushed the stranger’s leg and I saw him turn in my direction. I whirled a 180 and shot out of there like a sailfish! Did you know that sailfish can swim up to 70 mph? If they were land creatures, they could out race the average freeway driver. O.K., maybe my fins weren’t going quite that fast, but I was on the move and I never looked back!

                                                                        I Give Up

I decided to avoid pulling any more underwater pranks, although I just couldn’t help but being playful while exploring the underwater world. I mean, life just wouldn’t be fun without playfulness…right?

I had been chasing a cute parrot fish, that would teasingly stay just a few inches from my reach, when I saw my husband snorkeling close by. I did a quick scan to be sure it was indeed the man I married – same color swim trunks, same color snorkel gear, body build matched, and short spiked light color hair – yep, that was him. I was excited about the brilliant fish I had been playing with and wanted my husband to see it. So, in my excitement I quickly made a submerged swim toward him. He was busy studying a small school of fish at the time, so I playfully dove under him and popped up essentially mask to mask and gave him a big grin. He grinned back. It is amazing how different your spouse can look while underwater. Hello? It is also amazing how you can feel the embarrassed heat in your cheeks while you are submerged in

cool water…

 

…reverse fins…

                                                          

                             

                                     

                                                                   Stranger Alert

I had been thoroughly enjoying every aspect of my vacation, including all the yummy tropical desserts which were available, which meant I had to burn off those extra calories somehow. We had just returned from a wonderful day on the beach and I had finished washing off my snorkel gear ahead of my husband and our friends who were with me. So I left them at the outside water faucet in the condo parking lot and I hustled up the outside stairs for some extra exercise. I jogged up a couple extra floors higher than ours, then down a three and back up one to our third story condo, feeling pretty good that with all that I was still the first one back to the condo. I was breathing hard when I walked up to our door. It was then that I noticed that the outside privacy door was closed, but the inner security door was wide open. I dropped my gear and in full alert I cautiously opened the privacy door to find a man standing across the room with his back toward me. The stereo was playing and he was casually leaning against the edge of the  sliding glass door which opened to the lanai. He apparently was feeling quite at home, as he had poured himself a glass of wine and seemed to be enjoying the ocean view.

I don’t consider myself to be the bravest person on earth, but when it comes to fight or flight, I become a fighter. I took a quick breath in and held it as I planted my feet and clenched my fists at my sides. I was just about to yell, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” when I noticed that a different sofa was in our condo…then I heard the voices of my husband and friends echoing from the corridor on the floor below me. Really? I cringed and silently mouthed my panic. I had officially created an all new meaning to the word, dork. I took a cautious step back from the condo entrance and bit my lip as I carefully closed the privacy door in front of me, hoping that Joe islander would stay entranced with the scenic view. But the door clicked as it closed and he started to turn in my direction. I let go of the door handle, whipped around while scooping up my snorkel gear and shot out of there like a sailfish on land. Have you ever tried to run quietly on your tip-toes while wearing flip flops? The flapping sound reminded me of playing cards wedged into the spokes of a fast moving bicycle. The noise bounced off the halls of the corridor as I ran to the staircase and made my escape.  I didn’t slow my pace until I reached the condo with the familiar sofa, and a living room occupied by people I recognized.  My aerobics were done for the day.

Have you ever been, so to speak, caught with your pants down? I would love to know that I am not alone. Mahalo!

Trash to Treasure

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Trash to Treasure

   I spent my childhood years making family trips to the ocean. We spent hours being chased by the crashing waves and warming our wet toes in the heated sand. Those were days that I looked forward to and they have left imprinted memories in my heart. Since then, I’ve married another beach lover and we have had our own family tradition of making summer treks to the oceanside. I’ve watched my own delighted children as they’ve danced in the ocean waves and let the cold sea foam roll over their toes.

One beach that we frequented over the years had an unusual characteristic. Decades before our arrival, the seaside town residents had dumped it’s trash over the cliff’s above this small beach. This was long before the birth of ecology awareness, at least for the general public. Amongst the garbage was tons of discarded glassware and pottery, along with appliances and old cars. Eventually, the dumping was forbidden and a long term cleanup of the beach was done. In the meanwhile, over decades, a wonderful thing happened to the broken glass that had been thrown away.  As the pounding waves cleansed the beach, they also transformed the broken pieces of glass, smoothing, and polishing them into thousands of jewels that washed up onto the shoreline. It became a treasure hunt for our family to find the perfect pieces to bring home with us.

Our children are now grown and several years have passed since we’ve walked along the pebbled glass shore together. A few pieces of those memories sit on my office desk for me to enjoy. When I look at the unique shapes and colors of glass, I wonder if they could speak, what would they tell me about their journey? I think about how these simple pieces of glass had become someone’s garbage that they threw out, they were considered as trash. Yet, here they are on my desk, and they have become my treasure.

I have made a small candle holder that is lined with some of my jewels and on dark days, I’ll light the candle and the colorful glass pieces come to life. Today is one of those gloomy days, and the rain is beating against my office window. I’ve lit the small candle in the holder and as I enjoy watching it’s light dance through the unique glass jewels, the thought occurs to me that there is a resemblance to humankind in this artwork. Each person has their own story of what has brought them to this place in time. Some have had a long and meaningful journey, others have hit rough waters. Then there are some who, as the glass on the beach, have been discarded as trash. But as the glass has been transformed into treasure by a majestic power that cannot be bridled, I believe that  we too, can be transformed. I believe that the One who moves the mighty ocean holds us as treasure in the palm of his hand, and says, “Look! Aren’t they beautiful?”

Bacteriology 101

“Don’t touch your face!” I constantly warned my children during cold and flu season. Children’s fingers tend to gravitate toward the nearest nostrils.  “Bad germs that can make you sick like to live in your nose,” I would instruct, “and sometimes in your eyes.” Then I would direct them, “Scrub your hands and don’t stop until you’ve sung the entire ABC song!” But somehow those little buggers made it to the gateway needed to set up camp in a nostril, or two, and then wreak havoc in our household. Out came the thermometer, Tylenol, cough syrup and case of Kleenex, along with a new set of rules. “Cover your mouth when you sneeze and cough!”

Today I sit with a box of Kleenex at my side, blowing and sniffling, while sucking on a Zicam tablet. While I don’t allow any of my fingers to nostril hang, apparently, at some point I broke my own proverbial rule and “touched my face,” or I was privy to someone’s uncovered cough, or sneeze. I’d like to believe that it was the latter of the two. Either way, an undetected viral organism made it’s stealth transfer into my body and has made itself at home.

When I was in college, one of my required science classes was Bacteriology. I learned more about bacteria than I ever wanted to know. The more I viewed the squirmy, crawly organisms under the microscope, the more I was aware of their encroachment of my surrounding environment. They became my invisible enemy. I envisioned them on my countertops, doorknobs and sink faucets. When I got into my car, they were on the door handles, steering wheel and stick-shift. I battled against them as I scrubbed and disinfected all surfaces of possible contamination. But when my husband took me out to dinner, they were at the restaurant too. I grabbed my little cleaning cloth from my purse and wiped down my fork, knife and spoon prior to use. The first time I did this, my husband took a quick glance around the room, then leaned toward me and whispered, “What are you doing?” I blinked. Didn’t he know the dangers that may lay on the surface of the utensils that he was about to put into his mouth? It was apparent by the look on his face that he did not, so I informed him. “You have no idea who has touched those, and whether or not they washed their hands first – they could be infected with E.Coli for all you know!” He rolled his eyes and retorted, “You are beginning to sound paranoid!” To which I replied, “I’d rather be paranoid than dead!” I’m afraid that it didn’t end there.

One day while working on my home decontamination plan, my husband said, “You know, you can’t avoid germs, they are in the air you breathe.” I promptly went to the closet and grabbed the Lysol spray and fumigated every room in the house with it. When I realized we were beginning to run out of oxygen, I relented to opening up all the windows.

I’m not sure when my germ paranoia began to fade. Perhaps it was my mother reminding me that I had made it through the first two decades of my life in good health. She informed me that in my first few years of toddling around on this planet, that I had eaten with dirty hands on more than one occasion and once had bitten a live snail in half. That totally grossed me out and I told her that she could have kept that information to herself. Perhaps it was reading health related articles about the overuse of antibacterials, that we were killing the good bacteria that protects us while trying to kill the bad stuff. Or coming to realization that mom was right (as well as my all-natural friend who refuses to use hand sanitizers), that we are made with an immune system that works, short of a serious condition, and some exposure to germs may actually be good for us. Eventually, my germ phobia dissolved. But I do have to admit that I still occasionally wipe down my steering wheel and stick shift in my car with an antibacterial wipe.

Yesterday my husband came home and promptly placed his work bag on top of the freshly cleaned kitchen counter. I asked him if he would put it on the floor instead since it wasn’t clean enough to be on the countertop. He said that it wasn’t dirty, that it had only been on his truck floor – and that was clean. I wanted to give him the entire run down on how bacteria is invisible to the naked eye, and how life threatening bacteria can be transferred to kitchen countertops and into the food we eat. But instead I replied, “Would you lick your truck floor?” Point made.

Old habits die hard.

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