We were connected from our very first meeting.
There are those kinds of people in our worlds... the ones with whom we feel an instant kinship, a soul-mating that tells us we've been connected forever.
Helen fit that description perfectly. She was principal at Marlton Middle School when I was hired as Public Information Officer for the Evesham Twp. School District and I, having heard of her no-nonsense approach to administration, felt more than a little trepidation the first time I stuck my head in her office doorway and asked for a minute of her time.
We've been sharing those "minutes" ever since, and when weeks or months go by without a chance to visit, I feel an emptiness that is like a part of me is missing.
Luckily, I caught her on Facebook last week and immediately snagged the chance to chat for a few exchanges. We set up a date for lunch at her house and I hoped nothing would get in the way of keeping the appointment.
When she was healthier, we met often, she and I and another soulmate, Carol. We solved the problems of the world, discussed politics heatedly (all three of us are committed, proud liberals), talked about religion and its place in our lives today (Helen was a nun for 13 years and her viewpoint on spirituality is unique and simply beautiful) and anything and everything that came to mind. Carol and I liked to regale her with funny stories about our grandchildren and she countered with tales of her many nieces, nephews and cousins. There was never a topic that could not be thoroughly aired.
Our lunch today was no different. Because Carol couldn't make it, I had the high privilege of being the only guest at her table. We started talking, taking a break for me to pick up lunch, from about 12:30 to 3:30, three hours that passed in the blink of an eye. There was much more to be said but Helen was tiring and I had a long drive home before dark.
Friends like Helen are precious. She has always been in my life even if I might not have known it at the time. In a previous existence, maybe, but surely always there. I love her compassion, her kindness, the way she relates to the world and people in it. I'm grateful she's still around and willing to share time with me whenever possible. I'm already looking forward to our next "lunch."
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The King's Speech
The summer of my sixteenth year was very bad in many ways.
My stepfather's friend offered me a job as a desk clerk in an old family hotel in Atlantic City, on Florida Avenue where now an empty lot stands. I jumped at the chance to work so close to the beach until my first day on the job, when the boss's wife explained my duties, one of which consisted of answering the switchboard and directing calls.
Sounds simple enough, no? It should be, except I had to say, "Good morning, Roma Hotel," and I stuttered too badly to get out the "R." After several "Ruh, ruh, ruhs," I usually managed to force it out, but was humiliated and angry at myself every time.
Then, I employed a trick many stammerers use. I found that, if I switched the name of the hotel around, I could push out both words without stumbling on the "R." Even though the management wasn't thrilled with my solution, no one seriously rebuked me for answering the switchboard with "Good morning, Hotel Roma."
Preparing to see the Colin Firth movie, The King's Speech, I read a lot about King George VI and his speech problems. I learned how different stammers can be, and how each afflicted individual finds ways to cope, but never really "kicks" the stammer. Now, as a adult, I find myself struggling occasionally when I'm trying to speak too fast, so I simply force myself to slow down and do just fine.
Sitting in the theater on Saturday night, I felt such sadness for the king. Not just because he stuttered so badly but because, in him I recognized myself... the frightened child who bore insults and ridicule from relatives who knew very well what they were doing but chose to follow their penchants for being mean-spirited.
In many interviews, Firth points out the heroism displayed by this king, who doggedly pushed on, taking on the unwanted burden of monarchy, fearing every word he had to utter. George VI was saved by a speech coach who was far less a clinician than he was a friend. In the end, it was simply friendship that gave George VI the extra courage he needed to face his demons and give his empire the wartime leadership for which it turned to him.
I will see this film again and again. To look at Colin Firth for two hours, certainly. But more importantly, with this Firth film at least, to relish the victory George VI achieves. I felt such pride for the way Firth portrayed this lovely man, since he brought to life the tender, kind and caring person "Bertie" really was. Friendship, dogged persistence and the love of a friend are the three main themes of this movie. Sure hope you get to see it!
My stepfather's friend offered me a job as a desk clerk in an old family hotel in Atlantic City, on Florida Avenue where now an empty lot stands. I jumped at the chance to work so close to the beach until my first day on the job, when the boss's wife explained my duties, one of which consisted of answering the switchboard and directing calls.
Sounds simple enough, no? It should be, except I had to say, "Good morning, Roma Hotel," and I stuttered too badly to get out the "R." After several "Ruh, ruh, ruhs," I usually managed to force it out, but was humiliated and angry at myself every time.
Then, I employed a trick many stammerers use. I found that, if I switched the name of the hotel around, I could push out both words without stumbling on the "R." Even though the management wasn't thrilled with my solution, no one seriously rebuked me for answering the switchboard with "Good morning, Hotel Roma."
Preparing to see the Colin Firth movie, The King's Speech, I read a lot about King George VI and his speech problems. I learned how different stammers can be, and how each afflicted individual finds ways to cope, but never really "kicks" the stammer. Now, as a adult, I find myself struggling occasionally when I'm trying to speak too fast, so I simply force myself to slow down and do just fine.
Sitting in the theater on Saturday night, I felt such sadness for the king. Not just because he stuttered so badly but because, in him I recognized myself... the frightened child who bore insults and ridicule from relatives who knew very well what they were doing but chose to follow their penchants for being mean-spirited.
In many interviews, Firth points out the heroism displayed by this king, who doggedly pushed on, taking on the unwanted burden of monarchy, fearing every word he had to utter. George VI was saved by a speech coach who was far less a clinician than he was a friend. In the end, it was simply friendship that gave George VI the extra courage he needed to face his demons and give his empire the wartime leadership for which it turned to him.
I will see this film again and again. To look at Colin Firth for two hours, certainly. But more importantly, with this Firth film at least, to relish the victory George VI achieves. I felt such pride for the way Firth portrayed this lovely man, since he brought to life the tender, kind and caring person "Bertie" really was. Friendship, dogged persistence and the love of a friend are the three main themes of this movie. Sure hope you get to see it!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
An unusual tradition
I'm getting an early start with Christmas cards this year. They are bought, labels are printed and the boxes neatly stacked, ready to be addressed.
Every other Christmas, however, there is one very special card that must be prepared. A very simple message, usually only one sentence, is pondered for days and then carefully written in the tiny space left on the 8 3/4x3 3/4 card. It's in remarkably good condition, considering its history, but its time is finite, since available white space is shrinking with each year.
Back in 1982, when my partner at the newspaper and I first sent the card, we got a laugh out of it because it suggested the recipient save it and then send it back to us the following year. Who could have known that 2010 will mark the 29th year this bright red card with a silly cartoon on the front has been sent back to my dear friend, Mike DeNardo. Mike will store it somewhere and next year, it will make its 30th journey to help brighten my Christmas holiday.
Mike was just a kid in 1982. He'd graduated from high school in 1979 and gone on to Temple University where he studied broadcasting and put in some free hours helping us at The Journal, doing some writing about local high school sports. I still have a photo of our staff from that year, taken at Christmas when we gathered for a party in the beautiful old office on the White Horse Pike in Berlin.
I stayed with the paper until 1994 and Mike had long been gone to bigger and better things... a stellar career with KYW Newsradio, where he reports to this day. I still smile when I hear his "broadcasting" voice on my car radio.
But no matter where each of us went through the years, that little Christmas card made its faithful journey from me to Mike and then Mike to me, carrying a little message just to keep the connection open, to keep us mindful of our friendship.
In 1985, Mike wrote "Is this a tradition yet?" I responded in 1986, "Sure is." "It's cheap, too!" came from Mike in 1987 and in 1990, I wrote "Long live tradition!" In 1991, Mike asked, "Remember when cards used to cost 75 cents?" And the following year, I wrote "Remember when life was simple and fun?" As if only hours had passed since he received my query, he responded in 1993, "Sure do... it was just last Thursday, as I recall. Merry Christmas!" In 1995, noting the passage of time in his own inimitable way, Mike remarked "Hey... where'd all this gray hair come from?! Have a blessed Christmas!" In 1999, noting the timely story of the day, he remarked, "This card is so old that it HAS to be fully Y2K compliant! Merry Christmas!" In 2004, we began to keep track of the number of years the card had changed hands. I wrote, "This card has survived 23 Christmases and so have we!" To which Mike replied, "Christmas wouldn't be the same without it!" I replied, in 2006, "It's the 25th anniversary of this card, my dear. Funny how we're not any older!" "You can't get old if you continue to think young! Happy year 26!" responded Mike, to which, in 2008, I said, "The mind is willing but the body isn't. Hope you are well." Undaunted, Mike responded just last Christmas, "Let the mind and heart lead... the body will follow."
There are only about two and a half inches left of white space on this precious message-carrier, so we'll have to get creative in a few years and find a way to continue the tradition. Certainly it will continue... something as unique as this tradition must find a way to go on.
For now, I have to sit and ponder my message for 2010. This is much more fun than affixing labels to envelopes!
Every other Christmas, however, there is one very special card that must be prepared. A very simple message, usually only one sentence, is pondered for days and then carefully written in the tiny space left on the 8 3/4x3 3/4 card. It's in remarkably good condition, considering its history, but its time is finite, since available white space is shrinking with each year.
Back in 1982, when my partner at the newspaper and I first sent the card, we got a laugh out of it because it suggested the recipient save it and then send it back to us the following year. Who could have known that 2010 will mark the 29th year this bright red card with a silly cartoon on the front has been sent back to my dear friend, Mike DeNardo. Mike will store it somewhere and next year, it will make its 30th journey to help brighten my Christmas holiday.
Mike was just a kid in 1982. He'd graduated from high school in 1979 and gone on to Temple University where he studied broadcasting and put in some free hours helping us at The Journal, doing some writing about local high school sports. I still have a photo of our staff from that year, taken at Christmas when we gathered for a party in the beautiful old office on the White Horse Pike in Berlin.
I stayed with the paper until 1994 and Mike had long been gone to bigger and better things... a stellar career with KYW Newsradio, where he reports to this day. I still smile when I hear his "broadcasting" voice on my car radio.
But no matter where each of us went through the years, that little Christmas card made its faithful journey from me to Mike and then Mike to me, carrying a little message just to keep the connection open, to keep us mindful of our friendship.
In 1985, Mike wrote "Is this a tradition yet?" I responded in 1986, "Sure is." "It's cheap, too!" came from Mike in 1987 and in 1990, I wrote "Long live tradition!" In 1991, Mike asked, "Remember when cards used to cost 75 cents?" And the following year, I wrote "Remember when life was simple and fun?" As if only hours had passed since he received my query, he responded in 1993, "Sure do... it was just last Thursday, as I recall. Merry Christmas!" In 1995, noting the passage of time in his own inimitable way, Mike remarked "Hey... where'd all this gray hair come from?! Have a blessed Christmas!" In 1999, noting the timely story of the day, he remarked, "This card is so old that it HAS to be fully Y2K compliant! Merry Christmas!" In 2004, we began to keep track of the number of years the card had changed hands. I wrote, "This card has survived 23 Christmases and so have we!" To which Mike replied, "Christmas wouldn't be the same without it!" I replied, in 2006, "It's the 25th anniversary of this card, my dear. Funny how we're not any older!" "You can't get old if you continue to think young! Happy year 26!" responded Mike, to which, in 2008, I said, "The mind is willing but the body isn't. Hope you are well." Undaunted, Mike responded just last Christmas, "Let the mind and heart lead... the body will follow."
There are only about two and a half inches left of white space on this precious message-carrier, so we'll have to get creative in a few years and find a way to continue the tradition. Certainly it will continue... something as unique as this tradition must find a way to go on.
For now, I have to sit and ponder my message for 2010. This is much more fun than affixing labels to envelopes!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thoughts from a funeral
My wonderful friend, Lesley Gross Fuchs, lost her mother, Sophie, this week. Mrs. Gross was 90 years of age.
I drove to Cherry Hill for the funeral today, in dreary, wet, chilly weather, thinking of Les and her family dealing with what is always a heartbreaking blow.
Both Les and Andy, her brother, gave stirring, lovely, humorous tributes to their mother, as only children of devoted mothers can. Les's husband, Mordecai, known more commonly as Moti, a well-known New York cantor, conducted the service. His sweet tenor voice intoned the psalms in Hebrew, then he read them in English. But it was what happened next that stayed in my mind as I drove home and is still rolling around in there somewhere, niggling away for no seeming reason.
Moti could have been a very successful actor. He knows how to deliver lines in stentorian tones or in the crooning way of soft-spoken orators. Best of all, he knew his wife's mother well and loved her dearly, so the words of his eulogy were personal, moving, sentimental and compassionate.
I listened to the praise of Sophie and all that she meant to her family... her exemplary mothering skills and, then, her son-in-law spoke about tachlit, the Hebrew word that means a sense of purpose, the purpose for which each of us was created. Motherhood, he said, was Mrs. Gross's tachlit, and Lesley and Andy were living testaments to how faithfully their mother had fulfilled her purpose.
I sat in the silent room, half of my mind on Moti's words and half of it searching my own life, asking if I had found my tachlit and either fulfilled it or was on my way to doing so. My answers were unsettling.
Yes, I was a mother, but not of the stripe attributed to Sophie Gross. Yes, I'd worked at a variety of tasks but none of which stamped my indelible mark for future note. Yes, I had made and cherished countless friends whose love I valued, but making friends hardly qualifies as a purpose fulfilled. Where, then, does that leave me? What do I have that stands out as a tachlit achieved?
Obviously, I don't have an answer. Perhaps my "purpose" is still waiting to be discovered and fulfilled. Perhaps something along the way, something unconscious or appearing to be trivial, was a purpose for which I could claim fulfillment.
Regardless, the life of Sophie Gross held up to me the value of doing everything I attempt with a zeal, a dedication or an attempt at making it part of my tachlit. I'd never looked at life that way.
Now, in the shadow of one remarkable woman, I do.
I drove to Cherry Hill for the funeral today, in dreary, wet, chilly weather, thinking of Les and her family dealing with what is always a heartbreaking blow.
Both Les and Andy, her brother, gave stirring, lovely, humorous tributes to their mother, as only children of devoted mothers can. Les's husband, Mordecai, known more commonly as Moti, a well-known New York cantor, conducted the service. His sweet tenor voice intoned the psalms in Hebrew, then he read them in English. But it was what happened next that stayed in my mind as I drove home and is still rolling around in there somewhere, niggling away for no seeming reason.
Moti could have been a very successful actor. He knows how to deliver lines in stentorian tones or in the crooning way of soft-spoken orators. Best of all, he knew his wife's mother well and loved her dearly, so the words of his eulogy were personal, moving, sentimental and compassionate.
I listened to the praise of Sophie and all that she meant to her family... her exemplary mothering skills and, then, her son-in-law spoke about tachlit, the Hebrew word that means a sense of purpose, the purpose for which each of us was created. Motherhood, he said, was Mrs. Gross's tachlit, and Lesley and Andy were living testaments to how faithfully their mother had fulfilled her purpose.
I sat in the silent room, half of my mind on Moti's words and half of it searching my own life, asking if I had found my tachlit and either fulfilled it or was on my way to doing so. My answers were unsettling.
Yes, I was a mother, but not of the stripe attributed to Sophie Gross. Yes, I'd worked at a variety of tasks but none of which stamped my indelible mark for future note. Yes, I had made and cherished countless friends whose love I valued, but making friends hardly qualifies as a purpose fulfilled. Where, then, does that leave me? What do I have that stands out as a tachlit achieved?
Obviously, I don't have an answer. Perhaps my "purpose" is still waiting to be discovered and fulfilled. Perhaps something along the way, something unconscious or appearing to be trivial, was a purpose for which I could claim fulfillment.
Regardless, the life of Sophie Gross held up to me the value of doing everything I attempt with a zeal, a dedication or an attempt at making it part of my tachlit. I'd never looked at life that way.
Now, in the shadow of one remarkable woman, I do.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Slaying the packrat
I have a terrible time discarding "things" that matter.
There are shoeboxes filled with birthday, anniversary and holiday cards piled high on the top shelf of my closet. The file cabinet in our office contains one whole drawer filled with memorabilia from thirteen years of working in school districts.
I have a terrible time discarding any of these important things.
Oops! Let's be correct... I had a terrible time etc. etc. As of today, I am well on my way toward being cured of this affliction.
Credit Daughter #1. Terri casually mentioned not long ago that she and her sister would not hesitate to unceremoniously chuck the piles of papers and letters, greeting cards and employment records when they were in the throes of unloading my "stuff," either upon my entrance to an assisted living facility or the crematorium of a local funeral home. Why, I thought, should I leave the task to them? They will, after all, have their hands full with the houseful of knick-knacks, family hand-me-downs and other treasures which hold no value or sentimentality for them. Certainly not fair, then, to add reams of paper to that job.
So, today it began. First went the greeting cards. Boxes of them (read, of course, before discarding) were emptied into paper bags destined for the recycling dumpster. I'll admit to holding onto a few bearing little girl signatures, dating back to the babyhood of my girls, which I simply could not assign to the trash. I'll find another place for them and hope my daughters will consider keeping them.
Tonight, I attacked one file cabinet drawer. Throughout my career in school public information, I kept an annual file labeled "Personal." Into it, I placed employment contracts, notes from colleagues, annual evaluations and an occasional citation for one job or another having been done well. That makes thirteen files containing items meaning absolutely nothing to anyone but me. So, I callously visited each folder, removed its contents and began a new recycling basket, saving only a few photos and newspaper clippings the girls might decide have enough family value to preserve when...
I'm proud of myself. I'm sure my girls will share that pride, tempered with gratitude for having saved them the task. Tomorrow, more files to be discarded.
Then, when it gets cold and gray outdoors and I need a good winter project, I intend to tackle the thousands of photographs that are scattered in albums, boxes, drawers and just about anywhere a photo can hide. Hopefully, I will have a few years to complete the task of sorting, cataloging, even scanning and captioning the ones I choose to retain. Wish me luck.
The pack rat has been successfully captured and slain.
There are shoeboxes filled with birthday, anniversary and holiday cards piled high on the top shelf of my closet. The file cabinet in our office contains one whole drawer filled with memorabilia from thirteen years of working in school districts.
I have a terrible time discarding any of these important things.
Oops! Let's be correct... I had a terrible time etc. etc. As of today, I am well on my way toward being cured of this affliction.
Credit Daughter #1. Terri casually mentioned not long ago that she and her sister would not hesitate to unceremoniously chuck the piles of papers and letters, greeting cards and employment records when they were in the throes of unloading my "stuff," either upon my entrance to an assisted living facility or the crematorium of a local funeral home. Why, I thought, should I leave the task to them? They will, after all, have their hands full with the houseful of knick-knacks, family hand-me-downs and other treasures which hold no value or sentimentality for them. Certainly not fair, then, to add reams of paper to that job.
So, today it began. First went the greeting cards. Boxes of them (read, of course, before discarding) were emptied into paper bags destined for the recycling dumpster. I'll admit to holding onto a few bearing little girl signatures, dating back to the babyhood of my girls, which I simply could not assign to the trash. I'll find another place for them and hope my daughters will consider keeping them.
Tonight, I attacked one file cabinet drawer. Throughout my career in school public information, I kept an annual file labeled "Personal." Into it, I placed employment contracts, notes from colleagues, annual evaluations and an occasional citation for one job or another having been done well. That makes thirteen files containing items meaning absolutely nothing to anyone but me. So, I callously visited each folder, removed its contents and began a new recycling basket, saving only a few photos and newspaper clippings the girls might decide have enough family value to preserve when...
I'm proud of myself. I'm sure my girls will share that pride, tempered with gratitude for having saved them the task. Tomorrow, more files to be discarded.
Then, when it gets cold and gray outdoors and I need a good winter project, I intend to tackle the thousands of photographs that are scattered in albums, boxes, drawers and just about anywhere a photo can hide. Hopefully, I will have a few years to complete the task of sorting, cataloging, even scanning and captioning the ones I choose to retain. Wish me luck.
The pack rat has been successfully captured and slain.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Getting hit by a freight train
That's what a birthday is nowadays. At least for people of my age.
Most of my dearest friends in the world are gone. They were all older than I when we grew our friendships, but I never anticipated they would one day just not be there... how bleak life could be without them. One by one, they moved across to the Other Side where I know they will be waiting for me when it's my turn. But now, as I look at the calendar for the month of May, 2010, I see a lot of birthdays for friends who are blessedly still with me. I send greetings and wish them health and happiness. But the older I get, the more I realize I need to do more than that. I need to tell them how much they have enriched my life and given me strength when it's been needed.
Friends like Carol Panella, a kindred spirit if ever there was one. Sometimes, I think the Creators made two identical minds, didn't know what to do with them so they gave one to me and then, a year later, the other to Carol. We laugh at the same things, cry at the drop of a hat over who-knows-what, get goopy sentimental about our kids and love to swap grandchildren stories. I don't "collect" anything like Carol collects bunnies (not the live ones, of course)and Santas and steins and Christmas items. Carol doesn't enjoy the casino and hasn't my penchant for spending hours doing nothing. Carol is a phenomenal cook and a world-class hostess. I serve up the same dishes again and again, minus the panache, and am lucky if I have matching candles on the table, but we both love to eat and appreciate each other's efforts. We love old movies, music and good writing. She is articulate and expressive with a killer sense of humor. We make each other laugh.
We met at work in the Evesham School District and are both passionate about public education. We are both fierce Progressives and could discuss politics for hours without pausing for a breath. We like the same kinds of television shows and are fans of NPR, Rachel Maddow, Keith Olbermann and Ed Schultz. I love "24," but I'm not sure about Carol and I know we share a fascination for "Flashforward." I like a good mystery like "The Mentalist" and appreciate the humor of "Castle." Don't know about Carol because we rarely get to discussions about television preferences when we're cramming our conversations into two-hour lunches (okay, three). After all, solving the problems of the world takes time.
One of the my favorite things about Carol is that we can really talk to each other. Not prattle, gossip or chatter. Talk. Time always goes too fast when we are together and there doesn't seem to be enough excuses to plan another lunch.
Carol has a birthday on Saturday, May 22. That's tomorrow. She's been under the weather a bit and so have I, so I haven't gone shopping and there's no birthday card or gift (for now). But she will be on my mind all day as I flit from one task to another and I'll be certain to call with a rousing version of a song that's supposed to sound like "Happy Birthday to You!" She, being the wonderful friend she is, will not suggest I stop singing.
Most of my dearest friends in the world are gone. They were all older than I when we grew our friendships, but I never anticipated they would one day just not be there... how bleak life could be without them. One by one, they moved across to the Other Side where I know they will be waiting for me when it's my turn. But now, as I look at the calendar for the month of May, 2010, I see a lot of birthdays for friends who are blessedly still with me. I send greetings and wish them health and happiness. But the older I get, the more I realize I need to do more than that. I need to tell them how much they have enriched my life and given me strength when it's been needed.
Friends like Carol Panella, a kindred spirit if ever there was one. Sometimes, I think the Creators made two identical minds, didn't know what to do with them so they gave one to me and then, a year later, the other to Carol. We laugh at the same things, cry at the drop of a hat over who-knows-what, get goopy sentimental about our kids and love to swap grandchildren stories. I don't "collect" anything like Carol collects bunnies (not the live ones, of course)and Santas and steins and Christmas items. Carol doesn't enjoy the casino and hasn't my penchant for spending hours doing nothing. Carol is a phenomenal cook and a world-class hostess. I serve up the same dishes again and again, minus the panache, and am lucky if I have matching candles on the table, but we both love to eat and appreciate each other's efforts. We love old movies, music and good writing. She is articulate and expressive with a killer sense of humor. We make each other laugh.
We met at work in the Evesham School District and are both passionate about public education. We are both fierce Progressives and could discuss politics for hours without pausing for a breath. We like the same kinds of television shows and are fans of NPR, Rachel Maddow, Keith Olbermann and Ed Schultz. I love "24," but I'm not sure about Carol and I know we share a fascination for "Flashforward." I like a good mystery like "The Mentalist" and appreciate the humor of "Castle." Don't know about Carol because we rarely get to discussions about television preferences when we're cramming our conversations into two-hour lunches (okay, three). After all, solving the problems of the world takes time.
One of the my favorite things about Carol is that we can really talk to each other. Not prattle, gossip or chatter. Talk. Time always goes too fast when we are together and there doesn't seem to be enough excuses to plan another lunch.
Carol has a birthday on Saturday, May 22. That's tomorrow. She's been under the weather a bit and so have I, so I haven't gone shopping and there's no birthday card or gift (for now). But she will be on my mind all day as I flit from one task to another and I'll be certain to call with a rousing version of a song that's supposed to sound like "Happy Birthday to You!" She, being the wonderful friend she is, will not suggest I stop singing.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
A rose is a rose
Bev's funeral is over and she is resting in a place where there is no pain and so many people who loved her were waiting to greet her.
I was feeling down this morning. Instead of giving in to the mood, though, I stripped the beds, started laundry, cleaned my bathroom and dusted a couple of rooms. As I was walking through the living room on the way to the kitchen, I glanced out the window and stopped in my tracks. Those knockout roses, the ones we planted last May, have just erupted into gorgeous blooms of various hues... best of all, the bushes grew so much over the winter we can see the flowers from inside the house! And from our screened porch, there is an unobstructed view of the bushes laden with colorful blossoms. How beautiful they are!
Since I was a child, the rose has been my favorite flower. My favorite teacher, and later friend, was named Rose Theresa Abbott. At confirmation time, when I was 13, I took "Rose" for my confirmation name. There is something steady and beautiful about the word... rose.
I was feeling down this morning. Instead of giving in to the mood, though, I stripped the beds, started laundry, cleaned my bathroom and dusted a couple of rooms. As I was walking through the living room on the way to the kitchen, I glanced out the window and stopped in my tracks. Those knockout roses, the ones we planted last May, have just erupted into gorgeous blooms of various hues... best of all, the bushes grew so much over the winter we can see the flowers from inside the house! And from our screened porch, there is an unobstructed view of the bushes laden with colorful blossoms. How beautiful they are!
Since I was a child, the rose has been my favorite flower. My favorite teacher, and later friend, was named Rose Theresa Abbott. At confirmation time, when I was 13, I took "Rose" for my confirmation name. There is something steady and beautiful about the word... rose.
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