By: Karen Walker
He seemed like a heck of a nice guy, this stranger who my husband brought into our home for me to meet. Seems they were out in the garage shootin’ the bull about what NOT to do while turkey hunting. Both had gotten up at 4:00A.M. and both had returned ‘fowless.’ I’m surprised because my husband is such an expert shot.
“Ya gotta see one to shoot one,” was my husband’s flimsy excuse. If I sound impatient and slightly bitter it’s because the man would never, I mean never, get up at 4:00 A.M. for anything I wanted to do. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t go to bed either for anything I wanted to do. I really better be careful with what comes out this mouth, because I did say he’s an expert shot, didn’t I?
Well, in treks his turkey hunting buddy with a pleasant smile, an unassuming manner and when I offered him a chair, he was very considerate of our humble furnishings. Funny how wrong we can be with first impressions.
“No thanks,” he softly replied, as he refused to walk on our carpeting with his muddy boots, or sit on our couch with his less than fresh smelling camouflaged clothing.
“Don’t be silly,” I insisted, “I still have to do my spring cleaning.”
“For which year?” roared my husband, and because he thought that was so uproariously funny, he had to take out his ‘hunting’ handkerchief to blow his nose and wipe his eyes. That’s when I noticed something very strange, even for him.
“Why the florescent orange colored handkerchief?” I asked. “I thought all you owned were monogrammed white and red bandana ones?”
“That’s how much you know about me,” he flippantly replied. Sometimes when other people are around I don’t like him very much, because he speaks to me differently than when we’re alone. He accuses me of the same thing and you know something? He could be right.
“Ya never wave a blue, red or especially a white handkerchief while out in the fields, because other hunters can easily mistaken you for a turkey and bang!” he whispered.
Boy, what a come-back I could have with that remark, but because I really am such an exceptional wife, I decided not to embarrass him in front of his new found friend. That man should really appreciate me more than he does. I turned my attention to this stoic stranger who resembled a decoy and again, I pointed to the chair and uttered those two little words that unleashed his ire---“Please sit.”
“You women never listen to us men like you’re supposed to,” he blurted out.
“That’s the damn trouble with this world, the women wanna be the boss.”
So help me, girls, I almost choked on my saliva. “’Like we’re supposed to?’” I gasped. If that ignoramus had even dared to sit down to make himself comfortable, I would have called the Border Police because clearly, he had over-stepped his boundaries. I might have taken my husband’s feelings into consideration, but not this stranger’s.
“My husband mentioned to me how you’ve been married and divorced more than once. I’m shocked you attracted anybody at all!” I snapped.
Immediately I felt guilty and ashamed for having stooped so low as to retaliate. But I’m only human, so to appease my conscience I packed this ‘Turkey the Terrible’ a lunch to take with him hunting the following morning. But because I’m only a woman, ‘inferior’ to men by their assessments, and I don’t know any better, I slipped a gleaming white handkerchief into the bag. The man might sneeze, God bless him--- he’ll need it.
To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Thursday, March 4. 2010
Why I Don't Frequent The Library Anymore
Recently, I was cleaning out my wallet and stumbled upon my dusty library card, which got me thinking that maybe I should make the visit with the familiar old friend soon. On the other hand, I now find bookstores to be an inviting place more so, but I’ll get to the reason why later.
Then a friend and I were talking and one thing led to another and he asked me if I had been to the library in a while. My answer was no.
I love books. When I was little and when most kids took cuddly stuffed animals to bed, I was the “unique” one taking stacks of books to comfort me in bed. They were the things that would protect me from the monsters in under the bed, or in the closet. When it was time for lights out I wasn’t the one reading underneath the covers with a flashlight. I would sleep, I just liked the presence of books surrounding me as I dreamt of all the foreign lands I would visit and things I could do when I opened up the cover of the next book I would engross myself in.
My mom would always warn me, pretty much every night as mothers do best, that if I was not careful I would poke my eye out in my sleep with the corners of the books. I survived my childhood unscathed from the books. That is an accomplishment all in itself considering I am a klutz.
One of the places my nana and papa would take me when they were babysitting me was the library. We would listen to stories, or just curl up in a chair and read for hours. When we were done I would come out with piles upon piles of books. My mom would also take me to the library to get my never ending hunger fulfilled.
There is just something about a library that you can find comforting, like a home cooked meal. With its endless shelves of books, big and alluring chairs and coves where you can get lost for hours with the words, the library has always been a special spot for me.
It was only natural that in college I would resort to going to my local library to study my textbooks or catch up on my work. And I went there for a good portion of my freshman year and half of the first semester of my sophomore year, until one fateful day.
I like my privacy, so on that given day, textbooks in tow, I settled into a spot far in the back, behind the research books. I thought no one would be able to find me and only a few would delve that far into the stacks, boy was I wrong.
After about an hour of studying a female who was probably in college as well sat right across from me. When she opened her sack she didn’t withdraw a book to read or study notes, what she brought out was a sketchpad and a pencil.
I was intrigued and although pretending to read my book, I was actually observing her.
What I saw I didn’t much care for. She kept glancing up at me making me feel uncomfortable with each stroke of her hand. I figured out within 15 minutes, (I know that’s a long time) that she was sketching me. I was the object of her sketch.
I didn’t know what to do. On one hand she must have to have this sketch turned in for a class of some sort, but on the other hand she could have asked me if I didn’t mind being her subject. It freaked me out.
When I finally figured out what she was doing I packed up my stuff and left. Maybe I should have confronted her, but I didn’t want her to think I was full of myself or something. Peculiar things like this seem to only happen to me, I must note.
Since that day, I have not been back to the library. Maybe one day I’ll ease back into it with a friend, but until I’m ready for it, you’ll just see be perusing the shelves at the local bookstore.
Then a friend and I were talking and one thing led to another and he asked me if I had been to the library in a while. My answer was no.
I love books. When I was little and when most kids took cuddly stuffed animals to bed, I was the “unique” one taking stacks of books to comfort me in bed. They were the things that would protect me from the monsters in under the bed, or in the closet. When it was time for lights out I wasn’t the one reading underneath the covers with a flashlight. I would sleep, I just liked the presence of books surrounding me as I dreamt of all the foreign lands I would visit and things I could do when I opened up the cover of the next book I would engross myself in.
My mom would always warn me, pretty much every night as mothers do best, that if I was not careful I would poke my eye out in my sleep with the corners of the books. I survived my childhood unscathed from the books. That is an accomplishment all in itself considering I am a klutz.
One of the places my nana and papa would take me when they were babysitting me was the library. We would listen to stories, or just curl up in a chair and read for hours. When we were done I would come out with piles upon piles of books. My mom would also take me to the library to get my never ending hunger fulfilled.
There is just something about a library that you can find comforting, like a home cooked meal. With its endless shelves of books, big and alluring chairs and coves where you can get lost for hours with the words, the library has always been a special spot for me.
It was only natural that in college I would resort to going to my local library to study my textbooks or catch up on my work. And I went there for a good portion of my freshman year and half of the first semester of my sophomore year, until one fateful day.
I like my privacy, so on that given day, textbooks in tow, I settled into a spot far in the back, behind the research books. I thought no one would be able to find me and only a few would delve that far into the stacks, boy was I wrong.
After about an hour of studying a female who was probably in college as well sat right across from me. When she opened her sack she didn’t withdraw a book to read or study notes, what she brought out was a sketchpad and a pencil.
I was intrigued and although pretending to read my book, I was actually observing her.
What I saw I didn’t much care for. She kept glancing up at me making me feel uncomfortable with each stroke of her hand. I figured out within 15 minutes, (I know that’s a long time) that she was sketching me. I was the object of her sketch.
I didn’t know what to do. On one hand she must have to have this sketch turned in for a class of some sort, but on the other hand she could have asked me if I didn’t mind being her subject. It freaked me out.
When I finally figured out what she was doing I packed up my stuff and left. Maybe I should have confronted her, but I didn’t want her to think I was full of myself or something. Peculiar things like this seem to only happen to me, I must note.
Since that day, I have not been back to the library. Maybe one day I’ll ease back into it with a friend, but until I’m ready for it, you’ll just see be perusing the shelves at the local bookstore.
Monday, March 1. 2010
Michael’s Gift
Years ago at 192 pounds, I would corner my brother Michael and ask, “Do you think I’m fat?” Hesitantly he would reply, “Well, you can afford to lose a few pounds, Karen.” Of course I would become all huffy and hurt, that isn’t the reply I wanted from the one who was considered the best one of the lot in our family of seven.
Michael got all the brains, looks and that incredible mix of both strength and gentleness. When you’re the only brother amongst four sisters, you’re put in the position of being the ‘king.’ Michael wasn’t a self-ordained or self-righteous idol. We unfairly placed him there and he proved he could handle such a lofty position.
You’d think we girls would be seething with jealousy, but our family has never experienced that useless, destructive, wasted emotion. We lived in a three-bedroom home and Michael had his own room. I repeat, a family of seven, three bedrooms and Michael had his own room. He also had one of the five-bed pillows when; actually, our family desperately needed seven. Whoever went to bed first got a precious pillow, but seldom when you awoke was it there because it was swiped from under your slumbering head. You couldn’t steal Michaels’ pillow though, because he’d tie it to the bedpost and attach a cowbell to it so that the slightest movement would signal that a ‘thief’ was about to attack. “Hey Ma, “ Michael asked years later, “Why didn’t you just run out and buy two more pillows?”
I tell ya, you can’t throw curves at the women in our family. “You know, honey, I never even thought of it,” she replied.
In Mother’s defense she had a hectic life raising five kids and my father. It was fun being raised in an active household with a highly dramatic mom and a Hollywood handsome dad. Michael seemed to roll, but I didn’t fare as well.
Michael went on to eight years of college but stopped short of his doctorate.
“Why?” we asked.
“I don’t like titles and I want to do it all on my own.”
“Do what?” we pressed on.
“Escape from this funny farm,” he winked.
I ask you, how many go from janitor (in his college years) to senior executive at a huge company? He never once boasted, or even mentioned when he got a promotion or a raise, but when you swap flannel shirts and jeans for suits and silk ties, you sorta can tell it’s no longer mop and bucket. But no matter how high Michael climbed on the corporate ladder, the farm remained in his blood, and during summer vacations, he’d toiled ‘The Good Earth.’
When you lose a loved one in a tragic farming accident you seriously doubt your ability to cling to your sanity. When you can’t scream loud and long enough to purge yourself from the deep pain, you must seek other ways to cope.
It’s been 11 years now since I started walking. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t step briskly to divert my mind and dispel the energy I would otherwise use for mourning. “Michael, my Michael,” I want to cry out, “I can easily now slip into a size 12, and when the tag is mismarked, a size 10. Am I getting too thin?”
I can almost hear him say, “Well, you can afford to put on a few pounds, Karen.”
And if I could have him back, I would so willingly do just that. My brother gave me the gift of health---physically, that is.
To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Michael got all the brains, looks and that incredible mix of both strength and gentleness. When you’re the only brother amongst four sisters, you’re put in the position of being the ‘king.’ Michael wasn’t a self-ordained or self-righteous idol. We unfairly placed him there and he proved he could handle such a lofty position.
You’d think we girls would be seething with jealousy, but our family has never experienced that useless, destructive, wasted emotion. We lived in a three-bedroom home and Michael had his own room. I repeat, a family of seven, three bedrooms and Michael had his own room. He also had one of the five-bed pillows when; actually, our family desperately needed seven. Whoever went to bed first got a precious pillow, but seldom when you awoke was it there because it was swiped from under your slumbering head. You couldn’t steal Michaels’ pillow though, because he’d tie it to the bedpost and attach a cowbell to it so that the slightest movement would signal that a ‘thief’ was about to attack. “Hey Ma, “ Michael asked years later, “Why didn’t you just run out and buy two more pillows?”
I tell ya, you can’t throw curves at the women in our family. “You know, honey, I never even thought of it,” she replied.
In Mother’s defense she had a hectic life raising five kids and my father. It was fun being raised in an active household with a highly dramatic mom and a Hollywood handsome dad. Michael seemed to roll, but I didn’t fare as well.
Michael went on to eight years of college but stopped short of his doctorate.
“Why?” we asked.
“I don’t like titles and I want to do it all on my own.”
“Do what?” we pressed on.
“Escape from this funny farm,” he winked.
I ask you, how many go from janitor (in his college years) to senior executive at a huge company? He never once boasted, or even mentioned when he got a promotion or a raise, but when you swap flannel shirts and jeans for suits and silk ties, you sorta can tell it’s no longer mop and bucket. But no matter how high Michael climbed on the corporate ladder, the farm remained in his blood, and during summer vacations, he’d toiled ‘The Good Earth.’
When you lose a loved one in a tragic farming accident you seriously doubt your ability to cling to your sanity. When you can’t scream loud and long enough to purge yourself from the deep pain, you must seek other ways to cope.
It’s been 11 years now since I started walking. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t step briskly to divert my mind and dispel the energy I would otherwise use for mourning. “Michael, my Michael,” I want to cry out, “I can easily now slip into a size 12, and when the tag is mismarked, a size 10. Am I getting too thin?”
I can almost hear him say, “Well, you can afford to put on a few pounds, Karen.”
And if I could have him back, I would so willingly do just that. My brother gave me the gift of health---physically, that is.
To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Thursday, February 25. 2010
The Underlying Reason Why I Don't Cook
With the news of the death of Easy Bake Oven Inventor Ronald Howes, I think I’ve figured out my aversion to cooking.
Most little girls are given toys that they can use to be good housewives and mothers later in life like vacuum cleaners and lots of baby dolls.
As a child I had an electric Porsche, always the hottest and must-have toys, and a closet full of the latest fashions, but what I never had was an Easy Bake Oven.
I did have a Fischer Price kitchen though. I didn't use it for a kitchen though, I used it to play restaurant. I was trying to be an entrepreneur at a young age.
Growing up I was more a tomboy than anything else, yet I managed to play with Barbies and dolls here and there to at least hone in on my less than perfect mothering skills, which most likely, and fingers crossed to spare all of humanity, won’t be put to test with real offspring.
If I had asked for an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas or my birthday, I bet I would have grown fond of being domesticated. The only time I put an apron on now is to use my new espresso machine that I got for Christmas.
Why put on an apron to make espresso? Well, the answer is simple. I like to dress for the part. When I make my coffee products I make sure the apron is on just like the baristas wear them at Starbucks.
Two years ago I didn’t even know how to boil noodles.
Yes, I was the girl who in trying to make Velveeta Shells and Cheese threw the shells into the un-boiled water.
It’s sad, but so true.
Now I know enough to boil the water before putting the macaroni in. Picked up that life lesson real quick.
Maybe if I was given an Easy Bake Oven I would have grown an appreciation for baking and cooking. Personally, I don’t see the point in putting so much time and effort into a meal when it takes only minutes to inhale it.
It's not that I CAN'T cook it's that I DON'T want to cook. Those are two completely different things. I can easily whip something up from a box, or my following a simple recipe. One of my bucket list items is to successfully cook a Thanksgiving dinner, although I'm really not ready for that task just yet.
Recently, I’ve been cooking here and there and baking. I’m trying really hard to unleash my domestic diva from within, but it’s proving to be more difficult than it looks.
Maybe for my birthday I’ll get that Easy Bake Oven to practice and hone in on my skills. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
Most little girls are given toys that they can use to be good housewives and mothers later in life like vacuum cleaners and lots of baby dolls.
As a child I had an electric Porsche, always the hottest and must-have toys, and a closet full of the latest fashions, but what I never had was an Easy Bake Oven.
I did have a Fischer Price kitchen though. I didn't use it for a kitchen though, I used it to play restaurant. I was trying to be an entrepreneur at a young age.
Growing up I was more a tomboy than anything else, yet I managed to play with Barbies and dolls here and there to at least hone in on my less than perfect mothering skills, which most likely, and fingers crossed to spare all of humanity, won’t be put to test with real offspring.
If I had asked for an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas or my birthday, I bet I would have grown fond of being domesticated. The only time I put an apron on now is to use my new espresso machine that I got for Christmas.
Why put on an apron to make espresso? Well, the answer is simple. I like to dress for the part. When I make my coffee products I make sure the apron is on just like the baristas wear them at Starbucks.
Two years ago I didn’t even know how to boil noodles.
Yes, I was the girl who in trying to make Velveeta Shells and Cheese threw the shells into the un-boiled water.
It’s sad, but so true.
Now I know enough to boil the water before putting the macaroni in. Picked up that life lesson real quick.
Maybe if I was given an Easy Bake Oven I would have grown an appreciation for baking and cooking. Personally, I don’t see the point in putting so much time and effort into a meal when it takes only minutes to inhale it.
It's not that I CAN'T cook it's that I DON'T want to cook. Those are two completely different things. I can easily whip something up from a box, or my following a simple recipe. One of my bucket list items is to successfully cook a Thanksgiving dinner, although I'm really not ready for that task just yet.
Recently, I’ve been cooking here and there and baking. I’m trying really hard to unleash my domestic diva from within, but it’s proving to be more difficult than it looks.
Maybe for my birthday I’ll get that Easy Bake Oven to practice and hone in on my skills. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
Thursday, February 18. 2010
Black Sheep, A Few Shades Lighter
By: Karen White-Walker
Like payments on an expensive purchase, this is the last installment on my writings about Uncle Giuseppe. If they’ve bored you I haven’t done ‘Biggie’ justice, because you never yawned when he was around, more like you got a migraine because he always operated on high C.
Papa, my gentle grandfather, had to wait till almost the very end of his life to witness his son’s goodness. To think, Papa worried all those years, and for what? Giuseppe passed the final test---scoring points that can only be calculated in heaven.
In his 86th year, Papa suffered a debilitating stroke that left him bed-ridden. Mama kept wringing her hands and sobbing, “Get-up, get –up, Papa, we-a only had 62 years-a together, that’s-a nothin’, nada. I’m-a selfish-a pig. I wanna more. I know I gotta bigga mouth and drive-a you crazia in the head, but I love-a you. And if-a there was no-a God, no-a children, you would be-a first.”
Papa’s failing body cringed at the sound of ‘no-a God,’ that could never ever be. Family and friends came and went and paraded passed Papa’s bed. Just because the dear man couldn’t talk, they assumed he couldn’t hear, too.
“He’s gonna die!” wailed my aunts, and my uncles smacked their smothering hands over their sisters’ blubbering mouths. Yes, many people came and went, but only one stayed---one. And he stayed around the clock with his mouth and hands going every minute.
“If you think I’m going to just sit here and watch you rot, Pa, you’re wrong,” warned Uncle Giuseppe. “There’s still life left in you and I’m giving you a jump-start at getting it going again. Hey Pa, all men need a jump-start once in a while, huh?” he devishly grinned.
Uncle Guiseppe gave Papa three vigorous rubdowns every day. ‘Biggie’ couldn’t sing a lick, but he belted out arias that would have made Enrico Caruso cry, not from joy, but from regret at how an Italian could crucify such majestic music. Papa tried to smile, but he looked pained, and pretty soon he was struggling to speak, if for no other reason than to say, “Giuseppe, shut-up-a your face!”
Strength slowly came back into his limp arms and legs and suddenly, there was bold ‘Biggie,’ leading Papa around the backyard. He became his father’s human walking stick, and Papa never stumbled. Papa eventually learned to talk again, but it was difficult for them to reminisce about the ‘good old times,’ because after all Giuseppe had pulled in the past, things were best left unsaid. Besides, Papa believed you don’t go back, only ahead. For Mama it wasn’t so easy.
“I used to no trust-a you this-a much,” and she measured less than half an inch with her thumb and forefinger.
“You’re not bringing THAT up again?” and Giuseppe’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“You were like-a snake, son. I pray-a for saints and what do I-a get?”
“You get a snake, Ma,” mumbled her son.
“I pray-a for saints and I get-a sinners AND a snake, shame-a shame.”
“Leave-a the kid alone,” begged Papa.
“Please Pa, I’m 60 years old; I don’t need my father fighting my battles for me.”
“Who’s-a fighting?” asked a surprised Mama. “I was just-a remembering when---that reminds-a me, don’t remind-a me.”
Giuseppe gave his father his last shave and Papa gave his son his final smile that reflected true love, gratitude and inner peace. Papa’s waiting was over.
To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Like payments on an expensive purchase, this is the last installment on my writings about Uncle Giuseppe. If they’ve bored you I haven’t done ‘Biggie’ justice, because you never yawned when he was around, more like you got a migraine because he always operated on high C.
Papa, my gentle grandfather, had to wait till almost the very end of his life to witness his son’s goodness. To think, Papa worried all those years, and for what? Giuseppe passed the final test---scoring points that can only be calculated in heaven.
In his 86th year, Papa suffered a debilitating stroke that left him bed-ridden. Mama kept wringing her hands and sobbing, “Get-up, get –up, Papa, we-a only had 62 years-a together, that’s-a nothin’, nada. I’m-a selfish-a pig. I wanna more. I know I gotta bigga mouth and drive-a you crazia in the head, but I love-a you. And if-a there was no-a God, no-a children, you would be-a first.”
Papa’s failing body cringed at the sound of ‘no-a God,’ that could never ever be. Family and friends came and went and paraded passed Papa’s bed. Just because the dear man couldn’t talk, they assumed he couldn’t hear, too.
“He’s gonna die!” wailed my aunts, and my uncles smacked their smothering hands over their sisters’ blubbering mouths. Yes, many people came and went, but only one stayed---one. And he stayed around the clock with his mouth and hands going every minute.
“If you think I’m going to just sit here and watch you rot, Pa, you’re wrong,” warned Uncle Giuseppe. “There’s still life left in you and I’m giving you a jump-start at getting it going again. Hey Pa, all men need a jump-start once in a while, huh?” he devishly grinned.
Uncle Guiseppe gave Papa three vigorous rubdowns every day. ‘Biggie’ couldn’t sing a lick, but he belted out arias that would have made Enrico Caruso cry, not from joy, but from regret at how an Italian could crucify such majestic music. Papa tried to smile, but he looked pained, and pretty soon he was struggling to speak, if for no other reason than to say, “Giuseppe, shut-up-a your face!”
Strength slowly came back into his limp arms and legs and suddenly, there was bold ‘Biggie,’ leading Papa around the backyard. He became his father’s human walking stick, and Papa never stumbled. Papa eventually learned to talk again, but it was difficult for them to reminisce about the ‘good old times,’ because after all Giuseppe had pulled in the past, things were best left unsaid. Besides, Papa believed you don’t go back, only ahead. For Mama it wasn’t so easy.
“I used to no trust-a you this-a much,” and she measured less than half an inch with her thumb and forefinger.
“You’re not bringing THAT up again?” and Giuseppe’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“You were like-a snake, son. I pray-a for saints and what do I-a get?”
“You get a snake, Ma,” mumbled her son.
“I pray-a for saints and I get-a sinners AND a snake, shame-a shame.”
“Leave-a the kid alone,” begged Papa.
“Please Pa, I’m 60 years old; I don’t need my father fighting my battles for me.”
“Who’s-a fighting?” asked a surprised Mama. “I was just-a remembering when---that reminds-a me, don’t remind-a me.”
Giuseppe gave his father his last shave and Papa gave his son his final smile that reflected true love, gratitude and inner peace. Papa’s waiting was over.
To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 17. 2010
PETA AND FUR!
By Klew
Some people would think that these two words are in direct opposition to each other….but in my world, that is not the case and I am a card carrying PETA member.
(A topic for a future blog!)
This morning, I was taking a final look at myself in my full length mirror and
gave the thumbs up on my fashion choice…gray blouse, black skirt, black leotards and black suede boots!
When I arrived at work, I was met with my peers giving me the once over and handing me a lint brush! I had white fur all over my leotards and boots!!! I removed enough fur to be designated a "kitten"! While this would bother most people, I realized that I was
lucky enough to have cats that love me enough to want my undivided attention no matter what I am doing or what I am wearing!!! Purr-fect little bundles of love that love unconditionally and without reservation. They love me even when I take them to the vet for physicals. They love me even when I have to force feed them medications and have to stick my fingers down their throat. They love me even when I do not clean up their kitty litter box immediately. They love me even when I feed them dry cat food instead of their favorite artisan inspired meals. They love me even when I don't retrieve the catnip filled mouse that they swatted under the stove. They love me even when I allow my friend to bring over her puppy and her grandkids. They love me even when I try to dress them up for holidays. They love me even when…….
And they know that I love them even when they cough up furballs (usually on the carpet instead of on the tile!). I love them even when they jump on the forbidden territory of the kitchen counters when I am preparing meals! I love them when their curiosity knocks over a keepsake and it becomes two keepsakes! I love them when they decided to use the kitty litter box immediately after I clean it. I love them even when they
stick their furry little paws into the fish bowl terrorizing my poor little fish. I love them even when out of the blue, they swat me causing me to have to pour peroxide on the wound in fear of contracting "cat scratch fever".
So it's mutual….unconditional love….. now if I could only find that kind of love with a man!!!
Some people would think that these two words are in direct opposition to each other….but in my world, that is not the case and I am a card carrying PETA member.
(A topic for a future blog!)
This morning, I was taking a final look at myself in my full length mirror and
gave the thumbs up on my fashion choice…gray blouse, black skirt, black leotards and black suede boots!
When I arrived at work, I was met with my peers giving me the once over and handing me a lint brush! I had white fur all over my leotards and boots!!! I removed enough fur to be designated a "kitten"! While this would bother most people, I realized that I was
lucky enough to have cats that love me enough to want my undivided attention no matter what I am doing or what I am wearing!!! Purr-fect little bundles of love that love unconditionally and without reservation. They love me even when I take them to the vet for physicals. They love me even when I have to force feed them medications and have to stick my fingers down their throat. They love me even when I do not clean up their kitty litter box immediately. They love me even when I feed them dry cat food instead of their favorite artisan inspired meals. They love me even when I don't retrieve the catnip filled mouse that they swatted under the stove. They love me even when I allow my friend to bring over her puppy and her grandkids. They love me even when I try to dress them up for holidays. They love me even when…….
And they know that I love them even when they cough up furballs (usually on the carpet instead of on the tile!). I love them even when they jump on the forbidden territory of the kitchen counters when I am preparing meals! I love them when their curiosity knocks over a keepsake and it becomes two keepsakes! I love them when they decided to use the kitty litter box immediately after I clean it. I love them even when they
stick their furry little paws into the fish bowl terrorizing my poor little fish. I love them even when out of the blue, they swat me causing me to have to pour peroxide on the wound in fear of contracting "cat scratch fever".
So it's mutual….unconditional love….. now if I could only find that kind of love with a man!!!
Posted by Karen Lewis
in The New 50= Age 30 with 20 Years Experience
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Friday, February 12. 2010
My Experience Curling
I received the confirmation text at 11:08 a.m. Thursday, Feb. 11.
I was on the team. I was on the team!!! I was actually picked for a team!
What team you may ask?
Answer: Star 102.5’s Curling Team, which was composed of Rob Lucas, morning show host, Justin Swain, traffic guy, and me, a producer and fill-in for one of the guys from WGR who had other obligations to tend to.
We were up against WGRZ Channel 2’s Daybreak Team, made up of Jodi Johnston, Andy Parker and John Beard. Heather Ly filmed the festivity.
Next week, during the 2010 Olympics, the Daybreak Team will be airing different Olympic type competitions between various other morning show ensembles.
When I heard the news, I went out to purchase sneakers, I got some with treads, and immediately looked up online to see what curlers wore. Looking up what the whole sport was about was important, but not impending like the fashion aspect of it was. Good ol’ Wikipedia helped me there.
Jodi had the best outfit though for curling. It even contained many articles of jewelry.
I was psyched and pumped. I was more than excited. With my passport in hand I bolted out of my house to arrive at Rob’s house to carpool to the Niagara Falls Curling Club, located just over the border in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada.
Both teams were greeted by Murray, the curling coach of Brock University. When we entered the curling arena we were asked to clean off our shoes in this machine that used a spinning wheel to get the access debris off before entering onto the pebble ice.
Murray went over the instructions, the equipment and asked us to give hurling the rock down the ice a try. The ice isn’t as slippery as a skating arena, but it does have its moments.
I was the last one up trying and it was fun. You use the broom to balance as you push off from a track like mount and ride on the handle of the rock until you let it go before reaching the hog line.
Sweeping…now that is a different story. You get winded sweeping harder and faster. It’s pertinent to also outrun the rock, which is difficult at times to do considering your running on ice with sneakers. With sweeping you can definitely feel it in your arms.
In my younger years, I watched curling here and there and it looked easy. The college students who were there helping Murray made it look so easy.
When you take part in certain activities you realize how challenging it is. You realize how hard these athletes work to be the best they can be. You get an appreciation for the sport when you participate in it. Murray and his team of students, when they talked of curling, were so passionate and engaged with it. You could definitely tell they loved it.
After we tried our hand at each part of curling, we commenced our game.
Each of us threw the rock twice. My rock actually landed in a scoring spot, until Jodi knocked it out. But her's was a really good shot. Everyone was good at it, despite all of us being novices, although Andy did have some experience.
Although I cannot tell you the outcome of the competition, as you have to watch it during WGRZ’s Daybreak show from 5 to 7 a.m., I can tell you that it was on-the-edge-of-your-seat exciting.
All in all it was an amazing, one in a lifetime experience. The 2014 Winter Olympics have six great backups if they need them. Check out the video on WGRZ’s Daybreak during the Olympics.
The only disappointment of the experience was not getting my passport stamped.
At Niagara Falls Curling Club they rent out lanes, just like bowling. Maybe, I'll suggest that activity to my friends.
Read Jodi's blog here
Wednesday, February 10. 2010
Be Still My Heart
The Beatles crooned it best, “Love, love, love….”
Although I am a sappy romantic deep down, I rarely like to let on that I am. Not letting on allows me to keep my barriers up and avoid getting hurt.
In high school, girls would anticipate the coveted carnations sent from sources fawning over them during homeroom on Valentine’s Day. I never got one. I was never bitter about not receiving one, nor wished I did get one.
Girls would walk down the corridors adorning red and pink accessories and carrying their stuffed animals, balloons and flowers from that week’s fling. I wrote them off as tokens of a guy’s “love” for them for that one day.
To this day, I’ve always withheld the philosophy that two people’s love for one another should be displayed and shown in little ways each and every day and not just once a year in a big way.
One day should not echo your quantity of affection toward your loved one.
People deem me a skeptic or a cynic or say I have these opinions toward the “holiday” because I am single. This however is not true in any sense of those accusations.
I just happen to find Valentine’s Day and Sweetest Day to be a collaborative effort from card companies, florists, jewelers, chocolatiers and restaurants to gain extra income between the slow parts of the year. It’s all a farce.
I don’t get what all of the hype is about.
Life is too short to wait to tell someone you love them once a year. Tell your special person every day. Celebrate it. Embrace it. In the end, the little things count more
Although I am a sappy romantic deep down, I rarely like to let on that I am. Not letting on allows me to keep my barriers up and avoid getting hurt.
In high school, girls would anticipate the coveted carnations sent from sources fawning over them during homeroom on Valentine’s Day. I never got one. I was never bitter about not receiving one, nor wished I did get one.
Girls would walk down the corridors adorning red and pink accessories and carrying their stuffed animals, balloons and flowers from that week’s fling. I wrote them off as tokens of a guy’s “love” for them for that one day.
To this day, I’ve always withheld the philosophy that two people’s love for one another should be displayed and shown in little ways each and every day and not just once a year in a big way.
One day should not echo your quantity of affection toward your loved one.
People deem me a skeptic or a cynic or say I have these opinions toward the “holiday” because I am single. This however is not true in any sense of those accusations.
I just happen to find Valentine’s Day and Sweetest Day to be a collaborative effort from card companies, florists, jewelers, chocolatiers and restaurants to gain extra income between the slow parts of the year. It’s all a farce.
I don’t get what all of the hype is about.
Life is too short to wait to tell someone you love them once a year. Tell your special person every day. Celebrate it. Embrace it. In the end, the little things count more
Tuesday, February 9. 2010
The Black Sheep, Italiano Style
My five foot one inch Uncle Giuseppe, also called ‘Biggie,’ would strut around town like a big shot and a Casanova with just a few pennies rattling in his pockets. Poor Papa worried incessantly about Giuseppe’s soul.
“It no look-a so good,” he’d say to Mama, “I wanna to meet ALL my-a children in the next-a world.”
“Let us first get-a through this-a world,” sighed Mama. “No you-a worry, Papa, he-a come from-a good, sturdy stock.”
Giuseppe would almost have to for all the dalliances he supposedly had. A man couldn’t work if he…hey, come to think of it, Biggie did only work sporadically. Oh, he had his own crew of men who worked construction with him and sometimes he would be high up on a scaffold when out of nowhere, a car would pull up, honk and Biggie would practically break his neck scrambling down the ladder and disappearing into the back seat of the car with a…. You never saw him again until a much slower, tired man now ascended the scaffold, and with his face and forefinger practically up his workers’ nostrils he’d begin with his spiel.
“Ya didn’t see nothin’, ya didn’t hear nothin’, you don’t know nothin’, got it gang?” he threatened. “Hey Tony, what’d ya see?”
“Nothin’, ‘Big B’.”
“Phi, what’d ya hear?”
“Heard nothin’, Giuseppe.
“Lou, what do ya know?”
“Know nothin’, Boss.”
“Good! Remember, one word out of your stinkin’ mouths and you’re all fired! And I’ll see to it ya never work in this area again!” He’d then slap them all on the back. “Nice havin’ you aboard, boys.”
Tell me my uncle wasn’t a character---you can’t. It’s not like you have to condone what a skunk does, but you have to look at the whole picture of a person to get it into proper focus. Yes, he could be a lying scoundrel like when he pretended to be in college studying art. Papa senthim tuition money but he squandered it on wine, women and the horses. Yes, Uncle Giuseppe embarrassed the family, but there’s a true story that he probably even made the Blessed Mother blush, that is, if she was in human form. You see, Uncle Giuseppe was commissioned by the Catholic Church to touch up the saints’ delicate faces in our area’s churches’ altars. He had a skilled hand when he painted intricate things because he was articulate with detail. How a hyper shrimp could funnel such patience when working was a mystery to all. He certainly was a contradiction in character. He also couldn’t work without a cigarette constantly dangling from his mouth. Of course you couldn’t smoke in church, but ‘Big B’ altered the rules to suit his needs and wants. Beside, Mass wasn’t going on and the church was empty. Nobody would know except God, and Giuseppe always bargained with Him anyway. Off to the side was a statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the baby Jesus. Two of her fingers were positioned in the shape of a V, and while he needed two hands to mix his paint, he had to find a place for his cigarette. You guessed it, he propped it in between the Blessed Mother’s two fingers, and the smoke encircled her head like a crown. Just then Monsignor walked in and paled at the sight.
“You leave her alone!” ordered Giuseppe, “She’s old enough to smoke!”
Incredibly Monsignor didn’t fire him, it was like a miracle. There was something about the little twerp everybody liked. That something? Just wait till you hear what he did for Papa. (to be continued)
To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit
homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
“It no look-a so good,” he’d say to Mama, “I wanna to meet ALL my-a children in the next-a world.”
“Let us first get-a through this-a world,” sighed Mama. “No you-a worry, Papa, he-a come from-a good, sturdy stock.”
Giuseppe would almost have to for all the dalliances he supposedly had. A man couldn’t work if he…hey, come to think of it, Biggie did only work sporadically. Oh, he had his own crew of men who worked construction with him and sometimes he would be high up on a scaffold when out of nowhere, a car would pull up, honk and Biggie would practically break his neck scrambling down the ladder and disappearing into the back seat of the car with a…. You never saw him again until a much slower, tired man now ascended the scaffold, and with his face and forefinger practically up his workers’ nostrils he’d begin with his spiel.
“Ya didn’t see nothin’, ya didn’t hear nothin’, you don’t know nothin’, got it gang?” he threatened. “Hey Tony, what’d ya see?”
“Nothin’, ‘Big B’.”
“Phi, what’d ya hear?”
“Heard nothin’, Giuseppe.
“Lou, what do ya know?”
“Know nothin’, Boss.”
“Good! Remember, one word out of your stinkin’ mouths and you’re all fired! And I’ll see to it ya never work in this area again!” He’d then slap them all on the back. “Nice havin’ you aboard, boys.”
Tell me my uncle wasn’t a character---you can’t. It’s not like you have to condone what a skunk does, but you have to look at the whole picture of a person to get it into proper focus. Yes, he could be a lying scoundrel like when he pretended to be in college studying art. Papa senthim tuition money but he squandered it on wine, women and the horses. Yes, Uncle Giuseppe embarrassed the family, but there’s a true story that he probably even made the Blessed Mother blush, that is, if she was in human form. You see, Uncle Giuseppe was commissioned by the Catholic Church to touch up the saints’ delicate faces in our area’s churches’ altars. He had a skilled hand when he painted intricate things because he was articulate with detail. How a hyper shrimp could funnel such patience when working was a mystery to all. He certainly was a contradiction in character. He also couldn’t work without a cigarette constantly dangling from his mouth. Of course you couldn’t smoke in church, but ‘Big B’ altered the rules to suit his needs and wants. Beside, Mass wasn’t going on and the church was empty. Nobody would know except God, and Giuseppe always bargained with Him anyway. Off to the side was a statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the baby Jesus. Two of her fingers were positioned in the shape of a V, and while he needed two hands to mix his paint, he had to find a place for his cigarette. You guessed it, he propped it in between the Blessed Mother’s two fingers, and the smoke encircled her head like a crown. Just then Monsignor walked in and paled at the sight.
“You leave her alone!” ordered Giuseppe, “She’s old enough to smoke!”
Incredibly Monsignor didn’t fire him, it was like a miracle. There was something about the little twerp everybody liked. That something? Just wait till you hear what he did for Papa. (to be continued)
To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit
homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Saturday, February 6. 2010
Dear John...
Dear John, the letter started, as most letters that end a chapter begin.
The phrase was believed to be coined during World War II when wives and girlfriends in the United States met another partner and would end their relationship with their old boyfriend or husband who was stationed overseas or in another part of the country.
A friend of mine, Jen, told me about Nicholas Sparks’ novel Dear John. That was before the holidays. I decided I’d read it. I read A Walk To Remember, The Choice, At First Sight, The Notebook and Nights in Rodanthe. I was somewhat of a fan of Sparks’ work. Yes, it is chick lit at its finest, but when you need a skewer of hope to last a few days you pick up a Sparks’ novel and immerse yourself in the plot. PLus, at that point I could use a good, sappy book.
When I got done reading the novel I had mixed feelings. Normally I ultimately decide in the final sentence if I really liked it or not, but Dear John was different. It left me thinking. A few days later I came to the conclusion that I loved the book.
It is about time not being on each of the lover’s side and hope slowly fading for his and her return to their arm.
Sometimes if the stars are not aligned it’s just time to say goodbye. It’s time to end something that could never really be anything. To keep hope in your heart for something that does not exist or will not exist as it would have already happened if it should happen is torturous to one’s soul. Let things go. Move on to bigger and better things. If the commitment’s not there, it won’t ever be.
Yesterday, Friday, February 5, Dear John, the movie, opened in area theatres. Of course I had to see it.
During the movie I was a little disappointed I will admit. The movie, although I knew was inevitable, was nothing like the book. I thought minor changes would be done, but not complete story changes. The meat and potatoes of the plot was still there, but the structures and how the outcomes were attained were not like the novel.
As separate entities they are extraordinary stories. If you go see the movie, comparing it to the novel, you’ll be disappointed. See it with an open mind.
Dear John really explores the dynamics of a long distance relationship and the fact that one allegiance can be broken because of another.
Sometimes life doesn’t let you choose what you want to do, but what you need to do to survive, which is not always a bad thing. One must decide though if either you can live with your choice. Can you pick between love and duty, or surviving or taking a leap of faith? Which would you choose? Could you let someone you loved go so that they could move on with their lives while you stayed in the state that was most comfortable to you?
Letting go is the ultimate test of love.
Dear John, both the novel and movie, I give two thumbs up.
The phrase was believed to be coined during World War II when wives and girlfriends in the United States met another partner and would end their relationship with their old boyfriend or husband who was stationed overseas or in another part of the country.
A friend of mine, Jen, told me about Nicholas Sparks’ novel Dear John. That was before the holidays. I decided I’d read it. I read A Walk To Remember, The Choice, At First Sight, The Notebook and Nights in Rodanthe. I was somewhat of a fan of Sparks’ work. Yes, it is chick lit at its finest, but when you need a skewer of hope to last a few days you pick up a Sparks’ novel and immerse yourself in the plot. PLus, at that point I could use a good, sappy book.
When I got done reading the novel I had mixed feelings. Normally I ultimately decide in the final sentence if I really liked it or not, but Dear John was different. It left me thinking. A few days later I came to the conclusion that I loved the book.
It is about time not being on each of the lover’s side and hope slowly fading for his and her return to their arm.
Sometimes if the stars are not aligned it’s just time to say goodbye. It’s time to end something that could never really be anything. To keep hope in your heart for something that does not exist or will not exist as it would have already happened if it should happen is torturous to one’s soul. Let things go. Move on to bigger and better things. If the commitment’s not there, it won’t ever be.
Yesterday, Friday, February 5, Dear John, the movie, opened in area theatres. Of course I had to see it.
During the movie I was a little disappointed I will admit. The movie, although I knew was inevitable, was nothing like the book. I thought minor changes would be done, but not complete story changes. The meat and potatoes of the plot was still there, but the structures and how the outcomes were attained were not like the novel.
As separate entities they are extraordinary stories. If you go see the movie, comparing it to the novel, you’ll be disappointed. See it with an open mind.
Dear John really explores the dynamics of a long distance relationship and the fact that one allegiance can be broken because of another.
Sometimes life doesn’t let you choose what you want to do, but what you need to do to survive, which is not always a bad thing. One must decide though if either you can live with your choice. Can you pick between love and duty, or surviving or taking a leap of faith? Which would you choose? Could you let someone you loved go so that they could move on with their lives while you stayed in the state that was most comfortable to you?
Letting go is the ultimate test of love.
Dear John, both the novel and movie, I give two thumbs up.
Thursday, January 28. 2010
Learning Something New
I don’t always finish things that I start.
Well…that’s one of my problems.
This time though, I’m going to. I have confidence in myself.
It’ll be two weeks Tuesday since my mom taught my how to crochet. You ask why in the world a woman in her early 20’s would want to learn the art of making an item out of yarn by using a hook. I say why not?
Next thing you know I’ll be sitting home on a Monday night crocheting an watching Antique’s Roadshow on PBS. Oh wait, I did that this week. One thing I won’t do though, is eat peanut brittle or give out pennies at Halloween.
I asked my mom to teach me how to crochet to simply make myself a scarf, I told her that was the reason at least. In actuality, I wanted my mom to teach me how to crochet because it was a good reason to spend some quality mother-daughter bonding time, something we have been lacking for a few months due to life catching up with us.
While she was teaching me, she told me a story. My mom’s grandmother taught her how to crochet at a young age. My great-grandmother use to sell her wares at craft shows. At the age of 9 my mom sold her first crocheted blanket. I had never heard the story and was astonished. I wasn’t bewildered by the fact that my mom had made something so spectacular that someone would buy it, I was amazed that she was 9 years old when she sold her first piece and had entered a craft show.
I was proud of her, even though it happened so long ago. I was glad that my mom had taken the time to share this information about her life before me. My mom had told me several stories about her childhood, but this was a new one, a new moment added to the other collection of anecdotes in the filing cabinet of my brain labeled “Mom.”
Crocheting teaches you patience. I’d like to think that in these almost two weeks of my crocheting career that I have grown a tad more patient. Patience is a virtue.
Crocheting helped my mom and I share something again. Sure we share many things, but I wanted to learn something new from my hero.
Currently, I am a quarter of the way through with my scarf. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll finish it by the end of winter, just before spring hits, so I’ll be able to show off my craftsmanship. And maybe I’ll be able to finally say that I finished something I started. Even if I don’t finish it though, at least I learned a little more about my mom, of who she was and how she transformed into the person that I know today.
Well…that’s one of my problems.
This time though, I’m going to. I have confidence in myself.
It’ll be two weeks Tuesday since my mom taught my how to crochet. You ask why in the world a woman in her early 20’s would want to learn the art of making an item out of yarn by using a hook. I say why not?
Next thing you know I’ll be sitting home on a Monday night crocheting an watching Antique’s Roadshow on PBS. Oh wait, I did that this week. One thing I won’t do though, is eat peanut brittle or give out pennies at Halloween.
I asked my mom to teach me how to crochet to simply make myself a scarf, I told her that was the reason at least. In actuality, I wanted my mom to teach me how to crochet because it was a good reason to spend some quality mother-daughter bonding time, something we have been lacking for a few months due to life catching up with us.
While she was teaching me, she told me a story. My mom’s grandmother taught her how to crochet at a young age. My great-grandmother use to sell her wares at craft shows. At the age of 9 my mom sold her first crocheted blanket. I had never heard the story and was astonished. I wasn’t bewildered by the fact that my mom had made something so spectacular that someone would buy it, I was amazed that she was 9 years old when she sold her first piece and had entered a craft show.
I was proud of her, even though it happened so long ago. I was glad that my mom had taken the time to share this information about her life before me. My mom had told me several stories about her childhood, but this was a new one, a new moment added to the other collection of anecdotes in the filing cabinet of my brain labeled “Mom.”
Crocheting teaches you patience. I’d like to think that in these almost two weeks of my crocheting career that I have grown a tad more patient. Patience is a virtue.
Crocheting helped my mom and I share something again. Sure we share many things, but I wanted to learn something new from my hero.
Currently, I am a quarter of the way through with my scarf. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll finish it by the end of winter, just before spring hits, so I’ll be able to show off my craftsmanship. And maybe I’ll be able to finally say that I finished something I started. Even if I don’t finish it though, at least I learned a little more about my mom, of who she was and how she transformed into the person that I know today.
Monday, January 25. 2010
Black Sheep Add Color To One’s Family
By: Karen White-Walker
Do I dare? Oh, why the heck not. Everybody has at least one, but nobody likes to admit it because they might, God forbid, be a reflection on them. But you’d have to be mighty insecure not to survive a smudge on one’s family’s fabric. I’m referring to the black sheep in the family who, incidentally, have the biggest hearts and sometimes the biggest mouths, too.
Uncle Giuseppe, fully grown, was a mere five feet one, 120 pounds, but had a voice that could rival a megaphone. Just ask the survivors who may have attended the Passion play back in the early 1920’s. There’ probably nobody left, but the family’s offspring still talk about it. At the time, seven-year-old Giuseppe (they called him Biggie) with an angel’s face was playing our Lord in the play. Sister Mary Martha pulled rank because she wanted her student ‘nailed’ to the cross. That’s what the Passion play, you know, re-enacting the Stations of the Cross. Little ‘Biggie’ shouldered the heavy wooden cross and the entire family was captivated by the sudden transformation in the little tyke’s demeanor. Surely this couldn’t be their smart-alect, street-wise, dirty mouth little guy?
“Mama, that’s our-a son,” whispered a teary-eyed Papa.
“Shut-up-a your face,” warned Mama. “Hey Papa, you tink we should kiss-a-his First Communion ring when he come-a home tonight?”
The play’s climatic moment was approaching but unfortunately, not fast enough. Our ‘Lord’ lay on the cross while Herod’s men drilled ‘nails’ into his hands and feet. They hoisted the cross upright and the audience gasped at the scene’s authenticity. People felt the little boy’s, I mean, our ‘Lord’s pain and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Some people had to use their sleeves to wipe their eyes and even their noses, and suddenly the sacred scene definitely lost something. The re-enactment had been going on for hours---much too long to test a hyper, restless, little imp. ‘Biggie’ began twitching and squirming, and that should have tipped off Sister Mary Martha had she been on the ball. A kid’s kidney can only dangle so long, you know. Suddenly his angelic expression turned distorted, mean, hateful, and ugly.
“Hey you guys,” he shouted out to the audience. “If one of you damn dummies don’t get me down from here, there’ll be hell to pay!”
There was Mama snorting smelling salts, and the whole family never fully recovered from the humiliation. Had Giuseppe not been the product of such a highly respected family, this seven-year-old would have been run out of town. If the Vatican had gotten whiff of the Passion play gone awry, excommunication proceedings surely would have been started. Sister Mary Martha said a million years in purgatory would never absolve him from his sin of blasphemy. Maybe deep down Mama felt the same way because years later when ‘Biggie’ sought his parent’s approval and blessing for the woman he wanted to marry, Mama led the naïve girl to the kitchen window. “Rosalina, you say you love-a my-a son?”
“Very much, Mama, very much,” the timid thing answered.
“My-a dear, look outta the window and tell-a me what you-a see.”
“The canal?” she stammered.
“Good, you see-a the canal. Do your-a self a bigga favor, Rosalina. Go down-a to the canal, tie-a bigga cement block around-a your-a neck and jump-a in! Believe-a me, you be-a better off.”
And THIS is the blessing the poor girl received from the family. She still married my Uncle Giuseppe, but out of respect for the sacrament of marriage, we’ll leave it at that---for now anyway. In later years this midget of a man turned out to be a giant in the family, but first I must tell you, if you thought he offended our Lord, (unintentionally, of course) wait till you hear what he did to God’s mother!
It’s very comforting that God doesn’t hold a grudge, so why do we? (continued)
To read more of Karen’s previously articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Do I dare? Oh, why the heck not. Everybody has at least one, but nobody likes to admit it because they might, God forbid, be a reflection on them. But you’d have to be mighty insecure not to survive a smudge on one’s family’s fabric. I’m referring to the black sheep in the family who, incidentally, have the biggest hearts and sometimes the biggest mouths, too.
Uncle Giuseppe, fully grown, was a mere five feet one, 120 pounds, but had a voice that could rival a megaphone. Just ask the survivors who may have attended the Passion play back in the early 1920’s. There’ probably nobody left, but the family’s offspring still talk about it. At the time, seven-year-old Giuseppe (they called him Biggie) with an angel’s face was playing our Lord in the play. Sister Mary Martha pulled rank because she wanted her student ‘nailed’ to the cross. That’s what the Passion play, you know, re-enacting the Stations of the Cross. Little ‘Biggie’ shouldered the heavy wooden cross and the entire family was captivated by the sudden transformation in the little tyke’s demeanor. Surely this couldn’t be their smart-alect, street-wise, dirty mouth little guy?
“Mama, that’s our-a son,” whispered a teary-eyed Papa.
“Shut-up-a your face,” warned Mama. “Hey Papa, you tink we should kiss-a-his First Communion ring when he come-a home tonight?”
The play’s climatic moment was approaching but unfortunately, not fast enough. Our ‘Lord’ lay on the cross while Herod’s men drilled ‘nails’ into his hands and feet. They hoisted the cross upright and the audience gasped at the scene’s authenticity. People felt the little boy’s, I mean, our ‘Lord’s pain and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Some people had to use their sleeves to wipe their eyes and even their noses, and suddenly the sacred scene definitely lost something. The re-enactment had been going on for hours---much too long to test a hyper, restless, little imp. ‘Biggie’ began twitching and squirming, and that should have tipped off Sister Mary Martha had she been on the ball. A kid’s kidney can only dangle so long, you know. Suddenly his angelic expression turned distorted, mean, hateful, and ugly.
“Hey you guys,” he shouted out to the audience. “If one of you damn dummies don’t get me down from here, there’ll be hell to pay!”
There was Mama snorting smelling salts, and the whole family never fully recovered from the humiliation. Had Giuseppe not been the product of such a highly respected family, this seven-year-old would have been run out of town. If the Vatican had gotten whiff of the Passion play gone awry, excommunication proceedings surely would have been started. Sister Mary Martha said a million years in purgatory would never absolve him from his sin of blasphemy. Maybe deep down Mama felt the same way because years later when ‘Biggie’ sought his parent’s approval and blessing for the woman he wanted to marry, Mama led the naïve girl to the kitchen window. “Rosalina, you say you love-a my-a son?”
“Very much, Mama, very much,” the timid thing answered.
“My-a dear, look outta the window and tell-a me what you-a see.”
“The canal?” she stammered.
“Good, you see-a the canal. Do your-a self a bigga favor, Rosalina. Go down-a to the canal, tie-a bigga cement block around-a your-a neck and jump-a in! Believe-a me, you be-a better off.”
And THIS is the blessing the poor girl received from the family. She still married my Uncle Giuseppe, but out of respect for the sacrament of marriage, we’ll leave it at that---for now anyway. In later years this midget of a man turned out to be a giant in the family, but first I must tell you, if you thought he offended our Lord, (unintentionally, of course) wait till you hear what he did to God’s mother!
It’s very comforting that God doesn’t hold a grudge, so why do we? (continued)
To read more of Karen’s previously articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Havelock!
By Klew....warning...This story is sad and may be offensive to those who do not share my beliefs.
Havelock, my beloved furbaby of nine years died on Thursday, January 21st. The only solace I can take is that it was sudden and I was with him. For me, this was easier than to see him go through an illness and make the decision to euthanize. The hard part was going through this knowing the tragic outcome.
Needless to say I was hysterical grief stricken. In addition, my own private guilt is that he may have ingested a cleaning agent that I did not rinse.
My friends and family told me that Havelock would have been too smart to continue to drink the poison. I felt they were just telling me that because they love me. However, upon investigation, they may be right! A cat's sense of smell is greater than humans, and the "fumes" should have been repulsive enough to stop any ingestion. Also, some of the symptoms that appear with ingestion of poison did not take place.
To deal with the "what if" factor I turned to my belief that "when it is your time, it is your time".
Havelock would have died on that day....no matter what!! I truly believe it.
Now I am dealing with the grief of missing him! He was very special and very loving! He was beautiful. He was EVERYTHING a furbaby should be. I would post his picture but I would be worthless for the rest of the day. In the future, when the pain subsides, I will memorize him.
A sense of humor is needed at this time and this is a story that will be remembered! For burial, Havelock was wrapped in a blanket and placed in a cardboard box. His food bowl, his toys, etc. were buried with him. The problem is that he is buried in a shallow grave that the rain pounded on the whole weekend. Because I did not like the thought of him in that rain soaked box, I made the decision to have his body exhumed and have him cremated. While many may find this morbid, I look at it as closure. In addition, having his ashes with me will provide me with the comfort that I need!
When I first mention this to family and friends, they look at me with visions of Pet Cemetery or Practical Magic!!! The looks on their faces make me laugh!!
Even in death, he brings me laughter!!!!
A more meaningful tribute to follow............................
Havelock, my beloved furbaby of nine years died on Thursday, January 21st. The only solace I can take is that it was sudden and I was with him. For me, this was easier than to see him go through an illness and make the decision to euthanize. The hard part was going through this knowing the tragic outcome.
Needless to say I was hysterical grief stricken. In addition, my own private guilt is that he may have ingested a cleaning agent that I did not rinse.
My friends and family told me that Havelock would have been too smart to continue to drink the poison. I felt they were just telling me that because they love me. However, upon investigation, they may be right! A cat's sense of smell is greater than humans, and the "fumes" should have been repulsive enough to stop any ingestion. Also, some of the symptoms that appear with ingestion of poison did not take place.
To deal with the "what if" factor I turned to my belief that "when it is your time, it is your time".
Havelock would have died on that day....no matter what!! I truly believe it.
Now I am dealing with the grief of missing him! He was very special and very loving! He was beautiful. He was EVERYTHING a furbaby should be. I would post his picture but I would be worthless for the rest of the day. In the future, when the pain subsides, I will memorize him.
A sense of humor is needed at this time and this is a story that will be remembered! For burial, Havelock was wrapped in a blanket and placed in a cardboard box. His food bowl, his toys, etc. were buried with him. The problem is that he is buried in a shallow grave that the rain pounded on the whole weekend. Because I did not like the thought of him in that rain soaked box, I made the decision to have his body exhumed and have him cremated. While many may find this morbid, I look at it as closure. In addition, having his ashes with me will provide me with the comfort that I need!
When I first mention this to family and friends, they look at me with visions of Pet Cemetery or Practical Magic!!! The looks on their faces make me laugh!!
Even in death, he brings me laughter!!!!
A more meaningful tribute to follow............................
Posted by Karen Lewis
in The New 50= Age 30 with 20 Years Experience
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Thursday, January 21. 2010
To Dine Alone or Not To Dine Alone...That Is The Question
My bucket list contains a few items that are easy to accomplish; one being, eating alone someday in a restaurant.
I’m afraid to eat alone because I am not sure of what to do while I wait for my food or while I’m eating where to stare or whatnot. These are the hurdles I must overcome before embarking on this journey and eventually crossing off this item on my to do list. Quite frankly, I just don’t have the confidence to dine alone. I have flown alone though, which sadly was one of my greatest accomplishments of 2009.
When I see people dining alone my heart instantly breaks. I want to walk over to their table and join them, but then again if they really wanted to eat with someone they could have found someone (I usually assure myself with that bit of information.)
While browsing through Yahoo News, I noticed the article “How Not To Feel Humiliated When Dining Alone.” The article is found at, http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/food/how-not-to-feel-humiliated-when-dining-alone-567610/.
I’ve talked to a few friends of mine asking if they have ever eaten alone, and what they have done to pass the time in between ordering and your food arriving.
The answer is always the same; either bring a newspaper, magazine or book to read. Most say that it is great to eat alone.
The article talks about it taking guts to eat alone and that is the truth. Even though part of me pities the lonely diner, the other part of my envies them for having that confidence I lack.
If your phone has the internet on it, you could always be on that the whole time, although I only have my usual five Web sites I check and that takes less than five minutes to go through. When I wait for someone to show up wherever we are meeting I usually peruse my cell phone and the seconds don’t go by fast enough.
Now, not every place is an acceptable restaurant to dine alone. Acceptable places include diners, family restaurants, small places, the like. I wouldn’t attempt going to places like The Friar’s Table (I only grab a few drinks there alone and only because I know some of the staff there), Buffalo Wild Wings (where everyone is there with friends watching a sports game) or Mr. Bill’s (a cozy little place in Cheektowaga).
One day, eventually, I will dine alone. I’ll get up enough courage to tell the hostess it’s only a table for one and I’ll truly experience life and cross off another item on my list of things to do before I die.
I’m afraid to eat alone because I am not sure of what to do while I wait for my food or while I’m eating where to stare or whatnot. These are the hurdles I must overcome before embarking on this journey and eventually crossing off this item on my to do list. Quite frankly, I just don’t have the confidence to dine alone. I have flown alone though, which sadly was one of my greatest accomplishments of 2009.
When I see people dining alone my heart instantly breaks. I want to walk over to their table and join them, but then again if they really wanted to eat with someone they could have found someone (I usually assure myself with that bit of information.)
While browsing through Yahoo News, I noticed the article “How Not To Feel Humiliated When Dining Alone.” The article is found at, http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/food/how-not-to-feel-humiliated-when-dining-alone-567610/.
I’ve talked to a few friends of mine asking if they have ever eaten alone, and what they have done to pass the time in between ordering and your food arriving.
The answer is always the same; either bring a newspaper, magazine or book to read. Most say that it is great to eat alone.
The article talks about it taking guts to eat alone and that is the truth. Even though part of me pities the lonely diner, the other part of my envies them for having that confidence I lack.
If your phone has the internet on it, you could always be on that the whole time, although I only have my usual five Web sites I check and that takes less than five minutes to go through. When I wait for someone to show up wherever we are meeting I usually peruse my cell phone and the seconds don’t go by fast enough.
Now, not every place is an acceptable restaurant to dine alone. Acceptable places include diners, family restaurants, small places, the like. I wouldn’t attempt going to places like The Friar’s Table (I only grab a few drinks there alone and only because I know some of the staff there), Buffalo Wild Wings (where everyone is there with friends watching a sports game) or Mr. Bill’s (a cozy little place in Cheektowaga).
One day, eventually, I will dine alone. I’ll get up enough courage to tell the hostess it’s only a table for one and I’ll truly experience life and cross off another item on my list of things to do before I die.
Friday, January 15. 2010
No Time Like The Present!
By Klew
It's really easy to forget about what is happening elsewhere in the world as we look forward to the weekend! Tonight I have plans which include a great play, fine wine and a wonderful man! ( I will discuss "Gamma" in a future blog) I know that once I begin my weekend activities, my mind will NOT be on Haiti or on any other third world issue. But.... at THIS moment in time, right NOW, I can't think of anything but the devastation and carnage.
I have the sincere desire to ask my publisher for a leave of absence in order to join the relief effort in Haiti. But because of my need for instant gratification and being unable to work out the logistics of my desire, a monetary donation is all I can do at this time.
My agency of choice is the American Red Cross. I was trained as a Disaster Relief Volunteer many years ago. I was involved with the ARC when their reputation was tarnished during 9/11. What few people realize is that the only mistake the ARC made at that time was failure to communicate. The disaster relief fund was not set up for just ONE disaster but for EVERY AND ALL disasters. I am very glad that the ARC was able to effectively inform people of their mission and regain their sterling reputation.
SO...at THIS moment, right NOW, I am asking YOU to make a donation to the disaster relief agency of choice to help the Earthquake Relief/Recovery Effort before your wonderful weekend begins.
http://www.redcross.org/
It's really easy to forget about what is happening elsewhere in the world as we look forward to the weekend! Tonight I have plans which include a great play, fine wine and a wonderful man! ( I will discuss "Gamma" in a future blog) I know that once I begin my weekend activities, my mind will NOT be on Haiti or on any other third world issue. But.... at THIS moment in time, right NOW, I can't think of anything but the devastation and carnage.
I have the sincere desire to ask my publisher for a leave of absence in order to join the relief effort in Haiti. But because of my need for instant gratification and being unable to work out the logistics of my desire, a monetary donation is all I can do at this time.
My agency of choice is the American Red Cross. I was trained as a Disaster Relief Volunteer many years ago. I was involved with the ARC when their reputation was tarnished during 9/11. What few people realize is that the only mistake the ARC made at that time was failure to communicate. The disaster relief fund was not set up for just ONE disaster but for EVERY AND ALL disasters. I am very glad that the ARC was able to effectively inform people of their mission and regain their sterling reputation.
SO...at THIS moment, right NOW, I am asking YOU to make a donation to the disaster relief agency of choice to help the Earthquake Relief/Recovery Effort before your wonderful weekend begins.
http://www.redcross.org/
Posted by Karen Lewis
in The New 50= Age 30 with 20 Years Experience
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