It Is Well With My Soul Part 2

MEMORIAL AT FORT HOOD

I haven't blogged about the Fort Hood Ambush, but today's televised memorial service really made me sad. My father was an Army physician, so the thought that another Army physician could do such a terrible thing is horrifying to me.

I wept through the entire service for these brave soldiers, but I was really gratified to hear the passage from Isaiah, you know the one, "Whom shall I send?" and the response is, "Send me, Lord." I was glad that our attempts at political correctness, our zeal to remove God entirely from public life, did not prevent Scripture from being read at a government memorial.

As I stood there watching the President stop before a picture of each fallen soldier, I heard the Army band playing "It is Well With my Soul."

I remembered the God who laughs as the nations rage.

When I feel scared about what happenes in the world, I like to listen to this amazing Rich Mullins song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgKDte0d_7M&feature=PlayList&p=CE138EBD0DA72809&index=0

May the God of all comfort be there for anyone reading this.

Weekend Walk in Virginia Beach

Bruce and I spent a warm November Saturday afternoon over in VA Beach, about 15 miles away from our town. We tend to avoid it during tourist season due to the crowds and difficult parking, but it was sunny, beautiful, and easy to find parking on Saturday.

First we stopped at The Heritage, wonderful natural foods store. They have a discount called the "Age and Wisdom" dicount which sounds so much better to me than "Senior Citizen's" discount. I don't qualify, but another family member who shall remain nameless does!

Then we had a beautiful walk along the boardwalk with Little Bit. It is too far for our other dog, Maxine, to walk with her arthritis. As you can see, the day was simply beautiful.

We stopped to walk around the Cavalier, an old 1920's grande dame which put Virginia Beach on the map as a hot tourist location. I could faintly hear, in my heart, the sounds of "Yes, We Have No Bananas" and "I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire" playing with a crooner singing through an old-fasioned chrome microphone.

I could almost see the ghosts of women in soft silk flowing to the ankles, marcelled hair smelling of Chanel No. 5 and gardenia corsages float past in a the arms of their beaus.

Then we tucked into some lunch at The Jewish Mother, which right next door to the Heritage. The JM is low on ambiance, but the sandwiches are to die for. They even had birch beer!

We finished our afternoon by driving around through the older, residential area of Virginia Beach and enjoyed the lovely older homes, old-growth trees, and houses that don't all look identical.

Yes, in fact I AM the Queen of Sheba

Little Bit could give Miss Maggie from Daisy Cottage a run for her money. Just sayin'...

Autumn Mantle

I change this up every season.

My Office Corner

A few months ago, Bruce re-arranged things and set up this great little office space for me. I needed better light, so I searched and searched for the rooster lamp. I couldn't find the kind I liked, so I ordered one on line for $17 which had a white shade and a brownish, resin rooster. The shape was right, so I spray-painted the colors the way I wanted them.

I am crazy about ceramic birds. I love the two cardinals at my window and if you look carefully you can see my old-fashioned clothes line with the wooden clothespins. I use it all the time.

Autumn in New York

My Christmas Cactus

Isn't this amazing? I bought this at a church rummage sale. An old man named Judson Wright, a World War II vet, cultivates these in his green house and uses them to raise funds for his church.

It blooms three or four times per year and as you can see, not just at Christmas.

Nailed to the Cross

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

I often stand in awe of the writing ability of my dear Internet friend Debra from As I See It Now at http://debrasotherthoughts.blogspot.com/ One of the things I most admire about precious Debra (as all of her loyal readers do) is that she is so transparant, even in her struggles in the Christian life. I wish that other writers, published and bloggers alike, could have Debra's courage. She took a little bloggy break recently as she struggled a bit and then shared honestly with us all when she came back.

Instead of writing that I wish I had her courage, today I will share my struggles, even though I don't really have the courage to do it. I'll do it scared and uncomfortable anyway.

I struggle constantly with my sinful nature. Not only do I beat myself up about past mistakes, made both before and after accepting Christ, but also for simply stupid, confused, awkward and less-than-perfecft things I've done.

Deep breath. For instance, I have been tortured for years about being in a bookstore with my husband. He was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a red plaid shirt. I was absent-mindedly looking at a book and we had gotten separated in the stacks. I suddenly came across Bruce, seeing him out of the corner of my eye and took his hand. Only it wasn't him, it was some other guy dressed the same way! I've suffered agonies after that for 22 years.

Or the time in junior high-school, self-conscious goober that I was. I was balancing my lunch in tupperware on my pile of books when it fell to the floor, where the top flew off and splattered all over three of the cool kids. Agonies over thinking of this for over 30 years.

Sins I commit and have committed torture me. Not that still, small loving voice of God telling me I have done wrong, but the shrill, obnoxious, convicting voice of the Accuser of the Brethren. Thinking about something silly I've said that came out wrong. Musing about what someone else meant when I perceived that they had spoken harshly. Frequent thoughts about not being good enough or cool enough or pious enough.

Yesterday after church, I was listening to praise music by Selah on a CD and heard the lyrics I've listed above, from the old hymn, "It is Well With my Soul." I'd never heard that verse listed.

Suddenly an A-HA moment! It is all nailed to the cross! Sins before accepting Christ, as well as after. Not only sin, but my shame, my embarassment for being an awkward teen and an awkward grown woman. My pain of often feeling as though as I do not fit in, that I do not measure up. All of it...nailed to the cross. Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, o my soul!

Saturday in New York City

We had the best day Saturday. After breakfast we headed out to Chelsea Market and the High Line in lower Manhattan.

The High Line was a railroad built on elevated tracks that served commercial businesses, such as Nabisco. In fact, the High Line actually ran through the Nabisco building, high above the streets below. Freight trains used to run right on the streets in New York, but so many pedestrians and horses were killed that the railroad decided to build up.

The High Line was abandoned in the early 1980's. Nabisco moved away and for quite some time, this was an abandoned area. In the fullness of time, nature, which abhors a vacuum, began filling in the tracks of the old High Line with grasses, flowers, and even a self-seeded apple tree. Conservationists organized and the High Line is now the elevated green space which you see above. http://www.thehighline.org/

Chelsea Market is located in the former Nabisco complex, which encompasses an entire city block. It is now occupied by indpendent shops and a bakery and is truly a wondrous space. There are gourmet food stores, baked goods, candies, a produce market, a waterfall fed by a natural, underground spring, and lots of wonderful places to eat. We had already eaten breakfast, but I had a wonderful natural grapefruit soda with no sugar added. Unique and refreshing. http://www.chelseamarket.com/

We bought lunch at the market and took it back to our hotel room for lunch followed by a much-needed nap. We had my favorite Courtland apples, whole-grain crackers, brie, and some ginger cookies with lemon filling. Yum.

We took a cab up to the fabulous Zabars on the Upper West side. Zabars is a gourmet market, deli, and kitchen ware store with a great deal of character. If you've ever seen the movie "You've Got Mail" with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, there is a scene at Zabars in which Meg is in the wrong line and Tom Hanks, the big, bad ogre from the chain bookstore has to help her out because she has no cash. http://www.zabars.com/our-store-on-broadway/OUR_STORE_ON_BROADWAY,default,pg.html

I picked up a tiny white syrup pitcher and a larger which pitcher for cream. I'm addicted to pitchers and would estimate that I probably own over 25 of them.

We had dinner at Niko's, a Greek restaurant on Broadway and 76th Street on the Upper West Side. We had avgolemono soup, a delicious chicken and rice soup with lemon in it and horiatiki (Greek country salad) with stuffed grape leaves. HOOOOOOOOOOPA! (Greek Hurray!) http://nikosgrillnyc.com/AtHome/Nikos-Mediterranean-Grill-Bistro-New-York-City.1947.r?QueryStringValue=y5TUDKzMBPTG+8ADndLT5w==

Morning Star Restaurant New York City

George and Harry run the Morning Star Restaurant in Midtown West near our hotel. People think of New York City as this big monolith, a huge impersonal machine. Mew York City is really a collection of small neighborhoods much like yours or mine, only a lot more of them. The Morning Star is a neighborhood place.

A mother and a daughter come in for their regular breakfast. The little girl is about six and beautifully dressed with a huge red bow in her hair. She is Asian; her mother is white. They sit at the counter on stools that the daughter spins around and around. The daughter complains that she doesn't want to go to school. George looks into the kitchen at a large stack of dishes and acts delighted that she can stay and help him wash all the dishes. She picks up her backpack without complaint and heads out the door. "Hey, wait, who's gonna wash all these dishes?"

We eat delicious omlets, home fries, fresh-squeezed juice and toast. Harry waits on us. He has a goatee and a ponytail held in place with four precisely spaced rubber bands. He tells us that he is one of 8 kids and the only one born in America. All his siblings were born in Greece. "All of of us are educated, we all work in restaurants." George is fifteen years older than Harry. "I was a mistake, I think," he says, laughing.

Harry offers personal service. A touch on the shoulder with the coffee refill. "We all worked in the restaurant in Brooklyn when we were kids. Someone sees me and my brother in the back peeling potatoes. They call Child Protective Services. They come to interview us and my older brothers are smiling at the social worker. They say in Greek, still smiling, "If you complain, we kill you." The social worker tells my father that there are slavery laws. "What slavery...this is a family!"

Hungry diners come in, others are paying the check and leaving. Individual boxes of corn flakes and Rick Krispies are stacked high and a multi-layered yellow cake with chocolate frosting waits under the glass. Conversation rises and falls, coffee is refilled, juice is fresh squeezed. Horns sound on the street outside and the walk signal changes from Walk to Don't Walk over and over.

There are a million stories in the naked city.

Glory Days Diner Greenwich CT

On the way to New York City, we stopped at a diner in Greenwich, CT. It was the quintessential Jewish diner. I had matzoh ball soup and a roast beef sandwich. Oy vey!

Cupcakes, Cupcakes, Cupcakes

We got to New York and took one of our monster long walks through the Upper West Side. Bruce estimates that we may have walked eight miles all together. First we walked through Central Park and then north on Central Park West. Then all the way back to our hotel at Columbus Circle.

Gourmet cupcakes are a huge deal in New York, to the extent that I've been reading about them on line, in magazines, and have even seen cupcake cookbooks in the bookstores. I confess to coveting these cupcakes. Coveting them, I tell you.

Imagine my gratification when I stumbled upon (my feet were getting pretty tired) Crumbs...the definitive cupcake place that started the entire craze. Oh my GOODNESS! I had a red velvet cupcake that you can see in the picture above and Bruce had a raspberry swirl. Sublime...that says it all.

http://www.crumbs.com/

Coliseum Pub

This is where we had dinner this evening. I had a fabulous panini sandwich and Bruce had a turkey burger. The Colseum is about four doors down from our hotel. It was so blustery in between the buildings this evening that my umbrella blew inside out. Fortunately, I had my black trench coat and wrapped myself up in a very cool scarf I bought near the Plaza Hotel from a street vendor. Five bucks. We were happy to find something close by our hotel.

The top of this building is residential space, with two store front windows and an awning indicating the restaurant. It is a very cozy space down three steps to the basement level, with the interior wall the orginal restored brick. Folks there looked to be a local crowd and not tourists, which suited us just fine.

http://www.thecoliseumpub.com/index.html

Jerry Orbach

We were walking toward MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) and stumbled upon this homage to one of my favorote actors, Jerry Orbach. Jerry was a Broadway actor for many, many years, but is best known to audiences as Detective Lennie Briscoe of Law and Order. A recent poll by TV Guide determined that 72% of all Law and Order fans judged Jerry to be their favorite actor in the 20-year series.

Jerry was also Frances "Baby" Houseman's father in another favorite of mine, Dirty Dancing. Sadly, both Jerry and Patrick Swayze, two stars of Dirty Dancing, have passed away from cancer, God rest their souls.

Starry, Starry Night

Vincent Van Gogh's amazing work, Starry Night, also hangs at MOMA. I guess I was the only person on planet Earth who didn't realize that the pop song, "Starry, Starry Night" was about this painting until about three years ago.

The song played through my mind today as I gazed upon Vincent's work, the thick paint layed on with a palette knife and thought of his despair, his letters to his brother, Theo, and the fact that he was never recognized during his lifetime for the genius that he was. The despair he felt finally led to him taking his own life, which is the subject of this poignant song. If only he had waited for the fullness of time to show him all that God had planned.

As I saw the school children sitting in a circle today, enraptured by the words of a young, red-headed docent with wildly curling hair about this painting, I thought of those lyrics..."They did not listen, they did not know how, perhaps they'll listen now. All those children were listening...

Starry, starry night.

Paint your palette blue and grey,

Look out on a summer's day,

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Shadows on the hills,

Sketch the trees and the daffodils,

Catch the breeze and the winter chills,

In colors on the snowy linen land.

Chorus

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,

How you suffered for your sanity,

How you tried to set them free.

They would not listen, they did not know how.

Perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry, starry night.

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,

Swirling clouds in violet haze,

Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.

Colors changing hue,

morning field of amber grain,

Weathered faces lined in pain,

Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

Chorus

Bridge

For they could not love you,

But still your love was true.

And when no hope was left in sight

On that starry, starry night,

You took your life,

as lovers often do.

But I could have told you, Vincent,

This world was never meant for one

As beautiful as you.

To see a slide show of Vincent's paintings and Don Maclean's haunting song, click here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkvLq0TYiwI

The View from West 58th Street and Broadway, New York City

Bruce and I are vacationing in New York City, following a wonderful time enjoying fall leaves in Connecticut. We had many little adventures, not the least of which has been that the report from my wonederful eye doctor, Dr. Gaudio, was fantastic. I went North thinking that I would have to have surgery in my right eye, following the repair of my left. What I found instead was that I received an excellent report, needed to come back in six months instead of three months and advised to, "keep doing what I've been doing." My eyesight has improved from 20/70 with contact lenses to 20/40...not too far away from perfect at 20/20.

Our pictures are all over the place, in the digi-cam, in the cell phone, and on the hard drive, so I won't be posting the trip in chronological order.

We're at our beloved Hudson Hotel in New York City:
http://www.hudsonhotel.com/#/photo_gallery/

I'll do a number of other entries, but right now I want to share about listening to that small, still voice within which is the Holy Spirit. One of my favorite paintings on earth is called Christina's World by the New England painter, Andrew Wyeth. I'm not specifically sure why I love it so much. It is poignant, to be sure. It evokes a sense of longing as I look at it, as well as a sense of triumph over personal struggle. The model for this picture was a neighbor of Mr. Wyeth's who was disabled due to polio. I also love the faded pink thirties-era dress.

Bruce and I visited the Museum of Modern Art today. There are many treasures there that I enjoyed communing with, not the least of which were Monet's water lillies, a self-portrait by Frieda Kahlo, and the exquisite "Starry Night" by Vincent Van Gogh. But Christina and her world remain my very favorite. I had no idea that this painting was at MOMA.

We reached the top floor and Bruce hit the button for the elevator for the ground floor after we'd finished looking at the art on the top floor. But that still, small voice said quietly, deep within, "You will miss something, take the escalator." And sure enough, as we turned the corner, there was Christina. I almost missed her.

Autumn House

I don't know that name of the woman on High Street in Western Branch who so lovingly decorates the exterior of her home for every season. But I feel like I know her and wish I had the nerve to ring her bell and tell her how much I enjoy her home.

Since I first saw it 11 years ago, I have made sure to go back and peep at it as often as I pass by. I find inspiration and feel her love for beauty and her sense of style. If I thought I wouldn't be caught, I'd be a peeping Thomasina so I could press my nose against the glass to see her living room decor. Don't you just know that it would be full of very special, homey things?

The Germans have a word that doesn't really translate well into English...gemutlich. Gemutlich is an adjective that means sort of cozy and homey, inspiring a feeling of warmth and family. This house makes me feel gemutlich. I feel grateful to the special person who decorates for the delight of the Portsmouth community. Please note the straw hat on the horse. LOL!

Life Imitates Art

I hope I can adequately explain what this is a picture of. Double-click on the pic to get a really good look.

I have a long, high-ceilinged, skinny hallway upstairs. Back in June, I was in Atlanta with my sister and we went to a Ballard's store outlet. Ballard's Designs is high end, but the outlet has amazing bargains.

What you see is a very tall painted canvas that I purchased there for $40. The effect is trompe l'oiel (fool the eye) and it really looks as though it is painted in on the wall. I've never seen anything else like it.

The table and chair in front are real, of course. The whole "scene" in the front, which echoes the canvas, was assembled from items I already had. I was amazed at how perfect a match the pitcher was.

Katherine - Anya Seton

I decided to post up my favorite books to the left here, because books are so incredibly important to me. I'd shrivel up and die without them.

One of my favorite books of all time is "Katherine" by Anya Seton. It is a fictionalized version of the true story of Katherine Swynford, one of the most remarkable women of medieval history.

Katherine was the third wife of John of Gaunt, a member of the Plantagenet royal family of England during the 1300's. Although John, Duke of Lancaster, was one of the most influential men of England, he was never king. Through Katherine, however, the entire royal family of England now traces its heritage.

Katherine is one of the most incredible love stories of all time. She was the daughter of a knight from Hainault (present day Belgium) who traveled to England with John's mother when she married his father. Katherine was s lady in waiting to John's first wife Blanche, who died very tragically and quite young. After her death, Katherine and John fell in love, but he remarried Constanza of Castile (Spain) for political reasons.

John and Katherine had four children together. They eventually stopped seeing each other due to a deep sense of guilt over their affair. After Constanza died, John shocked all of England by marrying Katherine for love, a love that spanned 25 years, and making her his Duchess.

Katherine is still in print, many years after its first publication, but you can also easily find it in the library. You will be enthralled with Katherine and John's story, more meaningful because it is true.

The God Hunt

All of us have access to God, but each has different access. Our great chance lies precisely in our unlikeness. God's all-inclusiveness manifests itself in the infinite multiplicity of the ways that lead to Him, each of which is open to one person.

Martin Buber

Book Review - The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I just finished a book that was so fabulous, that I had to get up after 1 a.m. and write about it right away.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett is the best book I've read all year. I tend to follow book reviewes pretty carefully, but I've seen no advertising about this book at all. I picked it up at Walmart, of all places, for $17.34 instead of the list rice of 24.95. I'm sure it is on sale (gently used) on Amazon for even less.

The Help is a story about African-American domestic staff, the dawning of the Civil Rights movement and the white families who employ the maids. It is written from the perspective of three different women, two of them are the housekeepers and one is the progressive adult daughter of a traditional Southern family. The story is riveting and the dialog is superb, with an often ruthless look of the pettiness, as well as the deep cruelty, of racial prejudices. With such a serious topic discussed, The Help still managss to be very funny and entertaining. I literally could not put this book down, which is why I am up so late.

Part of the porgnancy of this book for me was remembering our housekeeper, Rose Brown, whom we hired in Virginia just at the same time period of the the book. Rose was a very tall woman, who had the most beautiful, long-fingered hands I'd ever seen. She wore a distinctive gold ring that formed a knot with a little ruby, her birth stone, on it.

Rose frequently spoke of herself in the third person, such as "Don't you kids be back-sassing Rose." She had very distinctive angular hand-writing. A few years back, I found a grocery list stuck inside my mother's New York Times Cookook,in Rose's handwriting which washed me over in nostalgia. Apparently the tunafish, baking soda, and celery never made it home.

She used to make really incredible peanut brittle that she smashed into pieces with a hammer. She had a big, plywood board that she'd covered with an old sheet so that we could do 1,000 piece puzzles with her while she watched her "stories" (Like sands through the hour glass, so are the Days of Our Lives...") She'd slide the plywood under a bed until the next time we worked on the puzzle. Rose moved with us from Virginia to Connecticut, but finally moved back home when my mother remarried and we moved to New York.

Pick up the book, you'll love it. Even if you didn't have the blessing of a Rose in yoru life.

Eliminate and Concentrate

In my favorite book, Disciplines of the Beautiful Woman, written by my mentor, Anne Ortlund, she makes an important statement about time management by suggesting that we "eliminate and concentrate" in order to get the most important things done.

Eliminating and concentrating can also work well for me in decorating around my home. My kitchen shelf, which is up very high, had become a catch-all for anything I thought was cute. My ktichen is black, white, and red...but there were all sorts of tins and other items that really didn't fit in with the color scheme.

So, I eliminated and concentrated. I removed about half of what was up there. I limited myself to items I really loved. I love the new look.

This is what smithereens looks like

Ever hear of breaking something into smithereens? This is what it looks like. Ever hear that Corelle is unbreakable? It isn't. Just sayin.

Main Entry: smith·er·eens
Pronunciation: \ˌsmi-thə-ˈrēnz\
Function: noun plural
Etymology: perhaps from Irish smidiríní
Date: 1829
: fragments, bits

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Good evening from Portsmouth, Virginia.

I've found a wonderful new blog from a woman in New York City.  I love New York City blogs, because I just love New York City.  Each entry starts something like the way I just started.  I find it so dignified, spare, and restrained...all the things I'm not, but I thought that I'd try the greeting on for size.  See if you enjoy Frances' blog as much as I do.

http://cityviewscountrydreams.blogspot.com/

If I was blogging as Frances does, I'd say that I spent a very enjoyable day today.  I slept in and had a cup of coffee out while reading a wonderful book about dynastic marriages in the 1200's in Europe.  (I'll go back to my Anne personae here and say, seriously, I really was.  No kidding. I always read books like that.   I just never tell people because I would sound like a freak.)  Back to channeling Frances. 

I  met a charming man who is very patient with me for a lunch along the river.  (It's Bruce, my husband, but still..)  Then I traveled to the old, cobblestoned area of town, to an elegant 1880's row house with a bay window featuring glass so old that the panes were wavy. It is a magnificent home with marble busts, tapestrries on the walls, and wonderful oil paintings.

I met with my employer, a dignified British man who is writing his memoire with my help.  We spent some time together in World War II during the Blitz of London when he was a boy,  I could nearly hear the sound of the air raid sirens droning on and on. (again true, but if I were being flippant ole Annie, I'd say, "You've heard of Tuesday's with Morrie?"  This is Sunday with Joseph.) We made great progress on our work together.

I then returned home and painted, appreciating the vibrant brush strokes of maize (on the wall, because Frances is a wonderful oil panter and I'm a mediocre painter of walls.) I cleaned up all my brushes and watched the paint swirl into the sink, down the drain and out in the Hudson River...(oops, too much of Frances, there) into the Elizabeth River.

I cut up some lovely vegetables for a simple pasta dinner with freshly-grated paremesan cheese and a small salad.  It was a a fitting end to a good day.  I listened to some classical music while I ate...(Okay, I listened to Law and Order Crimina Intent and daydreamed how I'd love to be an extra on that show when it shoots in New York City..)

Wait a sec...Did I tell you guys that Bruce and I are booked to go to New York City on October 22?   We will be going to an exhihbit of Vermeer paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  One of the masterpieces which will be shown is the amazing painting I've included here called "The Milkmaid."  We're also going to visit the High Line which Frances mentioned in a recent blog.entry.  Which is great.  Seriously. You must read it.

Best wishes to all.

23 Wind Road, East Hartford, Connecticut

My grandmother, Helen, was a truly amazing woman.  She lived at 23 Wind Road, East Hartford, Connecticut in an old seafoam green Cape Cod home with a deeper green door and shutters.

We moved around a lot when I was little, from Boston to Philadelphia to Virginia to Connecticut to New York. 23 Wind Road was a constant in my life.  My grandmother inspired my love of antiquing, of knitting, of flea markets...of salvaging something that others would think unusuable, from a Victorian Directoire sofa on the curbside to the ornery widow whose property taxes she quietly paid for many years. 

I have so many wonderful memories, The sound of her rotary dial telephone making a call.  The dry sink in the kitchen filled with plants.  The little porthole window over her bed.  Watching Elvis movies and Miss America with her,  The glow-in-the-dark rosary beads she gave me to keep me from being afraid in the dark, telling me, "Don't be afraid if you fall asleep before you're done because the angels will finish it for you."  Her ironing board that folded right into the wall.

Her knitting needles clicking row by row.  The sound of the storm door opening.  The breakfast nook. Her bed with the carved pineapple posts that's in my house now.  Her Beleek china with the little shamrocks on it.  The gorgeous cranberry glass in the living room.  Her pantry.  The crows cawing in the back yard.  Her spaghetti and meatballs, New England boiled dinner, pork roast, and homemade mashed potatoes.  Can you tell I still miss her?

The last time I visited her, she went up to the attic and came downstairs with the painting you see pictured here.  She had it painted years ago by someone who desperately needed work during the Depression.  She handed it to me and said, "Now you can take 23 Wind Road wherever you go."

When my father first visted me here in Virginia, we walked the dogs.  He kept looking up and down the street and finally said, in a bemused way, "You recreated Wind Road right here."  I'm not sure if that's because I have 23 Wind Road hanging in my dining room or because there are many houses here that look like hers...maybe both.

Doing Dishes

I found this great little quote from this month's Country Living, from a book called, "The Gift of an Ordinary Day" by Katrina Kenison

I magined a simple kitchen, a farm sink full of soapy water, a view from the window that would lift my heart, and time enough just to stand there, fingers swirling a sponge across a chinat plate.

Crosby, Stills, and Nash

I relived my childhood, or at least my young adulthood recently when I saw Crosby, Stills,and Nash at Ntelos Pavilion. It was David Crosby's birthday and it was the fortieth anniversary of Woodstock, which combined to make it a truly amazing experience. I haven't been to this type of concert in nearly twenty years.

I found a perfect CSN shirt to wear with my jeans, a retro sixites print with flowing sleeves It wasn't the tie-dyed, peace sign grubby retro garb which I don't care for, but retro in a sweet, tiny floral and paisley, purple-y kind of way.

CSN's harmonies have lost nothing over the years, in fact, I think they've probably been enhanced. The acoustic and electric guitairs were amazing. The atmosphere in the audience was electrifying.

They sang "Wasted on the Way," "Ruby Tuesday," "Teach Your Children Well," and "For What It's Worth." (Hey now, what's that sound, everybody look what's going down...") My favorite moment was hearing the unmistakeable beginning chords of "The Southern Cross," a very meaningful song to me. If you've never heard it, here it is for you from You Tube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HlVNod_krsM

Got out of town on a boat
Goin' to Southern islands.
Sailing a reachBefore a followin' sea.
She was makin' for the trades
On the outside,
And the downhill run
To Papeete.
Off the wind on this heading
Lie the Marquesas.
We got eighty feet of the waterline.
Nicely making way.
In a noisy bar in Avalon
I tried to call you.
But on a midnight watch I realized
Why twice you ran away.

Chorus

Think about how many timesI have fallen
Spirits are using melarger voices callin'.
What heaven brought you and me
Cannot be forgotten.
I have been around the world,
Lookin' for that woman/girl,
Who knows love can endure.
And you know it will.
And you know it will.

When you see the Southern Cross
For the first time
You understand now
Why you came this way'
Cause the truth you might be runnin' from
Is so small.
But it's as big as the promise
The promise of a comin' day.
So I'm sailing for tomorrow
My dreams are a dyin'.
And my love is an anchor tied to you
Tied with a silver chain.
I have my ship
And all her flags are a flyin'
She is all that I have leftAnd music is her name

Chorus

.So we cheated and we lied
And we tested
And we never failed to fail
It was the easiest thing to do.
You will survive being bested.
Somebody fine
Will come along
Make me forget about loving you.
At the Southern Cross.

Before and After

I bought some new living room furniture a few months back which includes a big, cushy chair with matching ottomon. It's the perfect place for reading and reflection EXCEPT...there was no place to put a coffee cup or iced tea glass. Clearly unacceptable as you will all know. I cast about in my mind for some low cost solution. The spot didn't lend itself to a table. Then I remembered a little marble-top table, tiny really, that belonged to my grandmother. It is the perfect thing and cost me only a half a can of spray paint I already had and some gorilla glue. I love the way it turned out and the price was right.

Flood

I drove downtown today. It took me three and a half hours to drive home, a distance of a little over half a mile. I was in a meeting with the police chief when the skies opened up and enough rain for a month poured down in an hour and a half. As I left the chief's office and saw the cars floating in the back parking lot, I was thankful that I used metered parking right out front on higher ground.

I've been working out a lot for the past few months. Tonight I was very thankful that I'd been getting into better shape. After being stuck in traffic gridlock for two hours with both of our major tunnels completely shut down, I drove across a sidewalk and on to the grass. I parked my car on the highest ground in the parking lot, took off my sandals, rolled up my jeans, and waded home through sometimes waist-deep water. I wasn't even out of breath when I got home. I don't think I could have done that six months ago.