Stick Horse Cowgirls

Until the last five or so years (coinciding with husband's departure), my house was the Christmas gathering point beginning with Christmas Eve where every child under 18 received their Christmas Eve Bag full of goodies, continuing through a highly-family-traditionalized Christmas breakfast, ending with a Christmas evening dinner with friends.  This concentration of holiday festivities demanded lots of planning.  I would begin in the summer grabbing sale items off the end caps of big-box stores for gifts.  By Christmas week, all presents were wrapped and ready because I would have to turn my attention to food. Since I have been single, however, things have conspired to dwindle my Christmas activities down to almost nothing.  First, following my husband's abandonment of me and his entire family, I went into a shock state that prohibited exact replication of  past celebrations, although we went through the motions.  In more recent years, there have been other factors, not the

          The holidays are fast approaching and I am not ready!  Mentally I am ready, but physically-- no way!  I don't even have a shopping list yet and there is so much cleaning to get done!  The decorating will be simple as we have some repairs going on, but that's okay.   "C" and I have taken a long break from posting.  We both lost our moms early this summer after they both had suffered declining health the past few years.  Still, as they say--it is true--you are never really ready to lose them.  This past year I have been retired from my job and in many ways that has helped.  "C" is busier than ever at her law practice and has just moved back into her home after a leak last January that flooded the entire downstairs of her house.  She has been somewhat of a refugee living nomadically with friends, in a hotel for almost 8 months while her home was being restored--a difficult time.  Oh, and I almost forgot--a terrible tornado that

  Today, (February 17) would have been my dad’s 92nd birthday.  I can hardly believe he’s been gone over 20 years.  Seems like yesterday I last heard his voice, saw his face.  Time assuages grief, but rarely a day goes by that I don’t think of something I would like to talk to him about.    He was reserved and shy to those he did not know well, but at home there was lots of conversation about so many things.  I suppose that is what I miss most.  Discussing books, politics, religion—so many things he was interested in.      He was born in 1922 to young parents who did not belong together.  His mother was loving and faithful, but his young father (barely 20 years old) was not up to fatherhood and left to seek employment in Utah.  He did not see his son until he was almost three years old.  There little interest shown and the resulting pain of indifference and broken promises.  I’ll never forget my dad telling me of the time when he realized that the dad he had idealized i

I heard a great sermon Sunday.  It was about the story of the rich, young ruler.  The point of the story, my pastor said, was not just about “rich” folks—it applies to us all.  We all have things we prioritize over God…even our “good works,” as the rich, young ruler had always meticulously obeyed the law. Pastor ramped up, driving home the point that we cannot tell where we stand solely by our actions—that good actions can often mask impure motivations.  It is not the “outward,” he says, that is telling.  It is the “inward.” And this, folks, is where I was jolted upright because what I heard is: “ What is important is the “N” word!  Do you have an ‘N-word’ problem?” And, through the rest of the sermon about our “ inward struggles,” I heard repeatedly: “N word,” although I knew well what he meant.   It was my ears. My consciences is clear:  I have no “N-word problem,” although it is probably evident that my “inward” regions could use some cleaning up. Thank goodness there was

What is it about me that makes random folks just want to tell me their troubles?  Probably I ask for it.  I am very interested in people. You’d think, being a divorce lawyer for over thirty years, that I would become bored and jaded by human drama—not so!  I remain interested.  I hope it makes me good at my job. Anyway, my paralegal/sister and I were in the ATT store today doing some phone switcharooing.  The man helping us was a nice, late fortyish man who noticed my business name on the account.  He asked, “ what kind of law ?”  I told him. He had a story. This guy has an 18-year-old and a 15-year-old from his former marriage and of whom he has custody.  Then, there is the just-turned-six-year-old by his baby-mama.  He has a concern about the situation she is living in with her mother (he should be concerned,  from his description).  We talked about it just a few minutes. As he walked us to the door, he quipped, “ I really messed up.  I was 44, and she was 20.  I never pl

I love words.  As a part of that interest, I love to consider regional differences in language.  In my next life, I think I’ll be a linguist.  This morning brought a discussion/disagreement on this very topic.  Although I doubt it is a “regional” question in this particular usage, I find it interesting.  (Yes, I am easily amused) Son and I were riding in the car together.  We passed a lovely, two-story, square-log home that is on our regular route.  (V will know immediately the place I am talking about).   He commented on it, calling it a “log cabin.”  This is NOT an actual picture of the place, but is here for illustrative purposes (such as the size of the structure!) This is reminiscent of his father, who also made this mistake of nomenclature.    The house in question must be over 3,000 square feet—a “cabin” it’ ain’t.   The second picture on the page ain’t a “cabin,” either. I remarked on this, saying I did not think a “cabin” could actually be over two rooms.  He argued.

I am a cynic about “true love,” doubting that it exists—at least in the sappy-movie sense.   The only “true love,” I sometimes say, is that of the Creator for His Creation. We humans are too fickle and self-serving to carry it off. And, yet, something has happened in our neighborhood that makes me re-think whether true love can be found here on this earth. There is a couple down the road from me (we’re in a rural area).   They are in the latter-half of their eighties and have lived out here all their lives.  We will call them “Mama” and “Daddy,” for that has been their main identity the vast majority of their lives. These are kind, warm people.  When my mother lived out here, they reached out to her in a kindness that she will never forget. Their Son was born with severe disabilities over sixty years ago and has never seen nor heard so far as can be told.  He has lived his life in a completely helpless state with no sign of recognition and few, infant-like, responses.  His food