Dearest PinkBaby

You know who you are.

I've carried you in my deepest heart since since way before you were born. Riding on a bus full of strangers in Brazil, I cried my soul out to God and begged Him to send you.

Then He did, so miraculously.

All I ever wanted you to know is how much you are beloved, how beyond all worldly price you are, how I still long for and pray for the best for you every day and with every heartbeat of my life here. There was never a time when you weren't our darling.

And that's only a fraction of how much the One Who made you and gave you to us treasures you.

I will never stop loving, never stop hoping, never stop believing. Not today, and not forever.

So not in control

I know you'll forgive me if the bulk of this post is a c&p of one I wrote last night to my Wired4Life sisters. Two-fingered hunt 'n' peck gets tedious.
***************************************
Apparently, I can't do anything in a small way. A friend took me to my GP today
because of painful swelling in the left arm which developed Sunday. Doc sends me
for ultrasound to confirm suspicion of a clot. Young lady at the front desk says
my appointment is for tomorrow, not today. I say I thought Doc said today, right
away; she answers No, earliest we can get you in is tomorrow, you're done for
today, goodbye. Friend brings me home and sees me safely up (we're on the 3rd
floor w/ no elevator.)

Ten minutes after I dismiss my friend, Ms. Not-Today calls sounding almost
frantic. Whoops. Misread Doc's orders, get to imaging center right away. Now! I
call my friend back, who just got home, and ask him to turn around and come back
for me. He does. We're headed back down the stairs--the ones I have negotiated
for 14 years carrying groceries, laundry, kids, etc. with nary an incident--and
on the second floor landing I abruptly step out into space, landing full weight
on my right side before either of us knows what happened! My friend was so
freaked out he reached to grab me by my left arm--double ouchie ooo ooo!!--while
I'm yelling "Don't touch that arm!!"

We both thought I'd broken at least my ankle. My friend, who's also a physician,
examined me and found, thankfully and miraculously, that was not the case. Took
a couple of minutes before I could get up.

Of course I was deathly afraid I'd jarred my wires loose. God being merciful, I
didn't, but my ankle hurt. I got to my appointment holding
onto my physician friend's arm for dear life, shaking all the way.

Rest of the story: superficial phlebitis from the IV at the hospital last week.
Ankle swollen like mad by the time I got home. Both my GP and cardio doc said
I'll be fine, just sore for a few days where I fell and for a few weeks at the
affected vein site. So now I have matching swellings on both sides...wired *and*
symmetrical, all in 8 days.

My poor husband about had a cow when he heard about my adventures (he works in a
gov't contract office and can't be reached easily by phone.) But hey, I lived to
tell the tale, didn't I?

And now it's official: the sling stays on till my arm heals.

Now what was YOUR day like? :-)
*************************************

Nope. I'm definitely not in control...but I know the One Who is.

Needing and accepting are two different things

When crisis comes, most of us are blessed with at least one or two people, friends and family, who want to help any way they can. In my case, I am extraordinarily and abundantly provided for. Why, then, is it so difficult to sit still? I just had a life-saving surgical intervention, and need help with housework. Why am I compelled to get up and dust before my friend comes to dust? She wants to do my laundry; I feel it necessary to lean over the hamper and sort out the clothes, despite how that tires me. Meals arrive from loving hands; I allow the absurd pigeons of misplaced guilt to flock around my head as I concentrate on all the times I was not there for someone else--even when I didn't know they needed it--while dismissing all the times I was.

What is it about me?

Simply put, I'm not a very good receiver of the charitable love of others. And I'm willing to bet you're probably not, either. We have to humble ourselves to be in the position of receiving.

Humility: it's what's for dinner, served up in a nice, golden, flaky crust. And it's the most nourishing meal ever.

Gingerbread Boys and the Bradychardia That Stole Christmas

The hardest thing right now is not seeing the little boys. It's Christmas, and I want quality grandbaby time! However, frisking around with or even picking up Tigger and Pooh is definitely off the plate for now. It's so cool to talk to Tig by phone and hear him describe his pretty Christmas tree and say "Yuh you, Nonna!" with little PoohBoy banging pot lids in the background. They wouldn't understand why Nonna Tickle Monster can't chase after them and make them laugh till their eyes bug out, or swing them by their ankles onto the bed, or lift them up to touch the chandelier, or put them up over her left shoulder and soothe them into a nap the way she often did before.

I am sooooooo glad we went to the Holiday Parade of Lights the week before all this happened! That's a special memory I'll always cherish of Christmas '09, even though it might well be the only one with them. God willing, there will be plenty of gingerbread, glitter, and giggling this time next year.





The girl in the pink hat is my daughter, the Gingerbread Mommy.



The smiling lady holding Tigger is the boys' other grandmother. Can't have too much love!

Blessed are the pacemakers

The dressing came off Friday and for the first time I could assess the damage...hmm, not bad, all things considered. Won't be wearing anything strapless in public for quite a while, but then, I never did. Badge of honor, badge of life.

Here's my new BFF, literally closer than a heartbeat!




The manufacturer calls it Adapta. I call it Thumper (thanks, BBB!)

Wired

Welcome to my new world.

December 7, 2009...a day that will live in memory for the Shannons. That's when I went to the ER and ended up with a pacemaker, after coming really, really close to leaving for good.

I really will start blogging again. There's a whole new life to be thankful for, and it does matter.

Ironically, Memorial Day

Our son's birthday was Monday, which was Memorial Day. Every year takes me farther from him. What would he have been like as a 32-year-old? Forgive me for being selfish. Many, many families marked this holiday by mourning their equally precious children lost or changed forever because somebody else started wars. Jeremy wanted to join the military when he was a boy and would have been good at it (if he'd survived being told what to do). But of course his accident prevented that. He was, however, a different kind of hero, and just as brave.

My deepest gratitude to everyone who made a way for us to enjoy our freedom and the years we had with such a son as Jeremy.

Mini-Review: Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town

Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
Review it? I couldn't even get through it. Not one character interested me enough to endure the alternately mind-throbbing and mind-numbing geekspeak parts--and they were the most normal critters in the tale. Perhaps I'll give the author another try--I was told I started with his weirdest, most difficult one--but I want my brain back first. Life's too short and there are too many books I really do want to read, such as Les Miz.


View all my reviews.

Friendship Bread, Pt. 1

Irish came home from the church council meeting tonight bearing a Ziplock bag with an attached instruction sheet, a gift from the wife of one of the council members. The moment I saw it, my heart did a lead balloon.

I knew what this was: the dreaded starter mix for Friendship Bread.

My intense dislike for Friendship Bread goes way back and through various church families. I have crossed the street, feigned sleep, missed women's fellowship meetings, and refused to answer the phone in my quest to avoid it. I have spent too much valuable time in my life attempting to explain to well-meaning friends why I had to decline their kind offer to join in the Friendship Bread fun. For almost two decades, I have successfully dodged the stuff--until tonight.

Hate Friendship Bread? What's with that? Who in the world could possibly be so cold?

In theory, it's a good idea. You receive a bag of starter mix, knead it once a day for some days, then add ingredients. Depending on the mix, you a) then split it up so you can pass on to others the Unspeakable Gift, and bake the rest into a tasty loaf for the delight of your beloved family; or b) you return to the kneading process for a few more days and then finish a) above. Three or four lucky recipients get to start their own batches of Friendship Bread mix with what you saved back, and so forth and so on, world without end, amen. At least, that's what happens in Perfect Land.

Here's what actually comes down: The bag must be out where you can see and care for it properly for the 10-14 days of its gestation. You can't put it away. It sits on your countertop for days in its clear plastic wrapper, looking like a cross between turkey gravy and something the elementary school janitor had to clean up after Joey Kazinsky brought bad tuna fish for lunch.

You are required to tend babysit it daily. You must tally off the days of kneading/squeezing the bag (the feel alone makes me shiver) and make darn sure that on the appointed date--not a day sooner or later--you add the precise measures of flour, sugar, and milk. Meanwhile, your mix is fermenting, bubbling and gross beyond belief. But hey, remember the tasty loaf that will bring cheer to the family unit! Buck up and count and squeeze and mix and tally, and try real hard not to look at it during anything to do with a meal, unless liquified liver is your thing.

I can't tell you how many times I tried to succeed at this. The social groups we were involved with in those days were rife with Tupperware parties, Color Me Beautiful makeovers, and Friendship Bread gifting, so I was frequently handed a bag of mix after church by a happy homemaker. Each time I tried to make it work. However, being a person not exactly noted for my organizational skills and dedication to routine, I'd invariably forget which day I was on; or neglect to squeeze the bag; or lose the instructions; or drop something on it and rip the bag open. Several times I actually made it to the Add Ingredients step before losing track. Then I'd find a bloated bag behind a the cookbooks or wherever I'd stashed it in a hurry when I had to either cook something else, or just get it out of my sight so I wouldn't gag. Finally I forgot it for a month or two (maybe longer) and the top burst open. It was not pretty. It did not smell pretty, either.

That's when I decided that Friendship Bread was really a divisive machination, a plot to make women like me feel inferior to other women. It's an open invitation for a Sharon fail. Like the bad perm I got back in the 90's, I vowed to never again put myself through that.

(And another thing: How long has the same mix been going around? Are the microbes in each bag the same critters that once graced the crockery of pre-plastic bag Amish settlers? Do I really want to know?)

Over the years, I forgot about Friendship Bread. I'm much older now, and the world has changed a lot. New Millennium women aren't into that sort of thing anymore...or so I thought.

Last week, a smiling friend was at the church door armed with bags. Bags with attached printed sheets. Deja vu all over again! Immediately I sprang into action and headed her off at the pass, explaining my position. She looked momentarily confused, but then appeared to understand. I thought all was well, that I'd dodged the bullet. How was it that I forgot that, once that stuff appears in the midst, it's like chicken pox in a nursery?

Then tonight, Irish went to a meeting.

And now, liquid liver with an instruction sheet sits on my kitchen counter.

Backwards Tuesday : KEEPER

I almost always write first, then find a pic or photo to accompany the text. Today I decided to go through my graphics collection, pick one, and then write a paragraph or poem about it. There was a catch, though: if I selected the picture first I would definitely compromise the point of the exercise, which is spontaneous writing. So I called on my DH to do the dirty work for me. Here's what he randomly chose from the 5000+ images on my hard drive, followed by what it inspired:

 

KEEPER

Many bleating voices call
All at once and in apparent need--
We sound alike. How is it he,
Amidst all this,
Distinguishes the primary
From the merely urgent?

Foolish, fragile things we are,
Apt to follow random butterflies
Over cliffs we do not see;
Inclined to wedge a leg beneath
Boulders camouflaged by daisy clumps;
Lagging behind at wolf-time.

Strong he comes, with crook in hand
To extricate the most recent stray
Without recrimination,
Without expecting thanks or understanding
Surpassing the wisdom of sheep--
Too well he discerns our limitations.

Yet we, despite our foolish tendencies
And stubborn, recidivist ways,
Still know only one voice: that of our Keeper.
We will not go after the call of a stranger
We will not go after the call of a stranger
Or heed
The pretender's sly seduction.

©2009 Sharon L. Shannon All rights reserved

Update on Dinah

The young lady I spoke of a couple of weeks ago is out of the coma and communicating a little. She is really despondent about her condition, however. I hear she's having panic attacks and must be restrained from pulling out her IVs and throat tubes. There is still brain damage and swelling as well.

How can anyone deal with this apart from the grace and comfort found only in the Lord? After going through many hospitalizations with our son and his eventual death, I cannot conceive of trying to do it on my own. There is something about a suffering child which makes the entire world seem askew, reality turned on its head.

I am so thankful that Dinah is still alive. Her mother Selena and her sisters Corina and Marta will need much strength to help her through the long, grueling rehabilitation to come. Dinah's brother Carlos is really having a hard time dealing with it all. Please remember them in your prayers.

How can it be Sunday if I haven't gone to bed yet?

And I haven't, so it's still Saturday.

So there!

He sees you when you're sleeping

He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So conform before you break.

Love o' Scotland, love o' Earth

I'm quite proud to have Scots ancestry via my mother's family, the Bells, and have several times represented Clan Bell at various Highland Games and related activities. In honor of Earth Day, here is a lovely poem I found on Leslie's blog. It speaks to those things most important to the traditional Scot: God, family, societal order, true beauty. (Okay, it doesn't mention Scotch whisky or caber tossing, but you get the point.)

If there is righteousness in the heart,

there will be beauty in the character.

If there is beauty in the character,

there will be harmony in the home.

If there is harmony in the home,

there will be order in the nation.

If there is order in the nation,

there will be peace in the world.

So let it be.

~Old Scottish Blessing

I'm really inspired by that. It's really a prayer, isn't it? "So let it be"...in other words, Amen.

Caving

Blame it on the 99-degree weather (insane for here in April) and say my brain was sun-smacked. Works for me. There is a direct correlation between the thermometer shoving past 85 degrees, and my inability to function at a level much higher than that of a three-toed sloth after a sugar crash.

Or say that I was just lazy and allowed myself to be manipulated.

What is it about convenience stores that turns me, the normally proud pennystretcher, into this alternate personality who thinks it's fine to fork over 2 bucks for a 12-oz. Diet Something? I mean, I was only a half block from home, and cold water costs nothing. That buck-seventy-five could have gone into the babies' Christmas coin jar, or even scored a couple of pieces of cool scrapbooking paper. But no. I was definitely lusting for a cold, fizzy beverage and the store was just...there...so conveniently.

Heading to the cooler where my poison of choice is kept, I noticed another bottle that looked familiar-but-different, and it caught my attention. A new flavor, another variant of one I've enjoyed many, many times--and what's this? The label trumpeting "Amazingly Smooth!" (Or was it "Amazing Smoothness!" I forget...but it's one of those two.)

I don't know about you, but I don't normally associate the word "smooth" with soda pop. After-shower powder, maybe...400-count Egyptian cotton sheets, yes...Dove dark chocolate, certainly. But a carbonated drink...?

And behold! Not only was it smooth--but amazingly so! They promised!

For the briefest of moments I pictured bathing in the stuff, like Cleopatra in her asses' milk. This set off the kind of giggle that one rarely releases in public, particularly when wedged in between a clackety-loud corner store cooler and unopened cases of Seagram's and Cup o' Noodles. Then the knee-jerk reaction so obviously sought by the ad exec who first pitched the idea kicked in. I wondered how a smooth ice-cold one of these would taste and how it would be smooth going down my throat.

I had to find out.


Back in the days of Tyrannosaurus Rex and before color TV--the 50s and early 60s, when I was a child--cigarette commercials were aired frequently. I remember hearing how one's throat could be relieved by a certain brand's "smooth" properties. It was pre-Surgeon General's Report, and every adult I knew smoked except my Methodist grandma and my Sunday School teacher. Didn't They tell us that smoking was a normal adult activity, and could even help a sore throat feel better? All totally absurd now, of course, but what did we know?

And now, all these decades later, I am faced with an icy-cold but strange bottle screaming "I Am Amazingly Smooth!I'll be good to you, you'll feel so much better! Buy me! Drink me! Now!"

You know the rest. I plunked my money down and got my amazing cold drink. Because nothing tastes as good to me as extra-chilled soda on a hot day, I really did enjoy it. There was extra cherry flavor and no sugar, so how could I go wrong? It was even pretty good...pretty darn good!

But I'd been had. Smooth? SMOOTH? Where in Jumping Jack Flash was the smooth?

Somewhere a little New York ad agency weasel is laughing his/her fool head off at us yokels out here who bought into their campaign; which is, in the great tradition of advertising, most likely nothing more than a big hoax anyway. "Gee, I wonder if anybody's amazed yet...'I'm amazed! I'm amazing! Look upon me, and be awed by my great smoothness!' BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaha!"

And I fell for it. I knew it was coming, and I caved anyway--with nothing in the least amazing or smooth to show for it

So now there's nothing left but to pitch the mocking empty bottle in the recycle bin, laugh about how silly I can be sometimes, and wonder...will I still respect myself in the morning?

Disguised

I've never been one of those rather creepy religious people who go around claiming that God speaks to them all the time. I figure if the Almighty, the Creator of the Universe really did decide to talk to me, I'd be too dumbstruck to casually blat 'n' chat about it. He knows that, too, so very mercifully doesn't send me voices, inner or otherwise. Once in a great while, though, something will come into my mind that I think of as a little text message from Heaven. It's never wordy and is not accompanied by flowery language and technicolor 3-D angelic visions. It's just a little impression dropped down deep that stays with me.

Many years ago I received one of these. I had just been through a very painful experience with some Christian people who had clearly wronged me, but adamantly refused to admit it, let alone ask forgiveness. In fact, they stubbornly insisted that they were right. Soothing my wounds, I retreated and pondered how these things could be. Truth is, I was having quite the little pity party, complete with funny hats, balloons, and noisemakers.

Then the "text message" came. (Okay, it was way before texting; I called it a telegram in those days--underscoring my age.) Here's what I "read": "Would you still be willing to be a blessing to people, even if they don't recognize it?"

That shut the party down.

I really had to think about it. Would I be? It's one thing to be the person whom everyone loves and appreciates as a gift in their lives. The sunshine! The sweetness! It's quite another to be the undercover blessing bearer. It means the recipient of the blessing doesn't always see it as such until much later, and after pain is involved--if indeed they ever do.

I'm not talking here about all the times I totally blunder, elephant-like but all too humanly, and say or do something stupid for which I need forgiveness--and there have been plenty of those. I mean the occasions when I had to do something that was most unpleasant at the time, but was an instrument of growth or help for someone else. It's always humiliating, and it always hurts. But God isn't so interested in our happiness as He is in our holiness, and He's working in these situations as much for my benefit as for anyone else's.

A few times over the years I've had the joy of the person contacting me later to thank me. These have been rare, but are such treasures! And I myself have been the "recipient" at times, too--the one who finally sees that what I thought was meant to hurt me was sent to lift me above myself. That gem is no less valuable.

Sometimes I was that blessing without ever knowing it--as others have been for me.

Today I am grateful...I am loved, I am truly blessed. I am a blessing, and so are you--whether or not we see it right now. Together and with large doses of grace and mercy, we'll get through this thing called life.

Susan the Magnificent

Susan Boyle is Queen of the Week. Shoot, she's Queen of whenever and wherever and whatever she wants from now on. I think she's absolutely phenomenal. Her performance touched me profoundly, in a way that many technically flawless professional singers I've heard never have.

YouTube won't let me embed the video. Just in case you're one of the 5 people who haven't seen it yet, here is Miss Boyle flattening the pompous judges and hooting audience at the Britain's Got Talent audition last weekend.

And she won't let "Them" make her over, either! I love this lady!

Sometimes good things really do happen to good people. If Susan never sings another note, she has achieved her dream. She's also given millions of people their possibilities back.

Things that really matter

A young lady we know is comatose and in critical condition after wrecking a car she had no business driving in the first place. It's bringing back a lot of the horror we went through when our own child was in a similar situation many years ago. This girl will have a long, difficult recovery...if indeed she recovers. She may have severed her spinal cord. Unbelievable. Just saw her at our grandson's birthday party, vibrant, lively, smiling. Now she lies wired together in an ICU up in San Jose with her life in the most fragile balance. Her family are completely freaked out. Their suffering is only beginning, as Irish and I know well.

If you pray, please remember the young woman I'm calling Dinah. The Creator of all knows her and exactly what she needs.

UPDATE: Praise God, it appears her spinal cord is intact. Her hip is crushed, though, and she is still severely swollen all over her body. Still not awake yet.

Rotten Monday to me, rotten Monday to me...

Before the Glory: A Good Friday poem

Before the Glory is revealed
There is suffering and scourging
Spitting and cursing and untold shame
Bloody betrayal and no companions who remain
Not overcome by presumption of misspent faith
And terror of complicity.

Before the Glory can be seen
Before lilies can burst open, rejoicing
And transformed men forget their own lives
And disconsolate women see past their own pain--
One being no less miraculous than the other--
Life must turn its face away
And disinherit all hope.

A grave-lust must be satisfied
The seed fallen in darkness and forgotten
And shadows, prematurely triumphant,
Swallow Light alive
And crow in celebration
At the presumed victory.

Before the Glory sunrise brings,
First comes the stone
Of Reckoning.


© 2009 Sharon L. Shannon All rights reserved

What I give is what I get is what I give is what I get

Goodreads mini-review : The Shack

The Shack by William P. Young

My thoughts:

Rating: **** 4 of 5 stars
Many of my fellow evangelical Christians who pan this book because it does not satisfy their strict orthodoxy are the same folks who object to The Chronicles of Narnia since it contains fauns, centaurs, and other fantasy and extra-Biblical characters. This is an allegorical work of fiction, not a theological treatise; imagination highly recommended for maximum benefit.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

That, my friends, is the sound of decompression.

All week long I've paid the price for foolishly thinking that throwing together a nice scrapbook/album for a major event the day before it was due was somehow a good idea. The book actually turned out quite nicely. Of course, it would have been ever so much more enjoyable had I actually put the time into it an hour or two at a jag, instead of pulling a 14-hour blitz! (Didn't get a picture of it. Maybe M will let me borrow it back later for that, but right now she has much bigger fishies to fry--like getting married next week!) Ever since last Saturday when the Shower of the Century took place, I've been recovering from my self-induced burnout by being really under the weather and, if possible, even less productive than usual (read: slower and lazier.) It's all culminated this weekend in the worst allergy attack I've ever experienced...my poor immune system, what have I done to you?

All right now--this is the last time I castigate myself for it. Movin' on.

Always does it for me!

Artsy inspiration + necessity + these guys =






Now please don't interrupt me, world, till I get this project done. Michelle's shower is tomorrow!

"She meant to..."

Please put that on my tombstone.

I don't know why I always do this to myself. I say I'm going to take control next time and give myself plenty of precious time to complete something and have it done well. But then along comes a phone call/Facebook message/email/tenant problem/irresistibly adorable grandbaby/flash of inspiration/ drowsiness/ chocolate craving/ interesting Web site/sparrow outside the window and that's it.

And now I'm up against another deadline for something major, and everything is going wrong.

I guess that means, in Sharon World, everything is as it should be.

In other news: I had a delightful birthday yesterday, thanks to my loving friends and family. The calls, cards, flowers, cake (!) and little notes mean a lot to me. I know I don't deserve you.

(I especially don't deserve a certain Bratabreadasaurus Regina--and I'll leave her to ponder the many layers of meaning in that statement.)

'tis Himself we honor today!

This has nothing to do with the real Padraig (Patrick) who, for some reason, folks think should be memorialized with goofy hats, drunkenness, and bad singing. However, it does have cute bears and Riverdancing--so what's not to love?

Mother, Interrupted

Six years ago today--already enough years in the cycle to have gone around the week--our beloved son Jeremy, trying to save his dog, accidentally slid off a cliff and into Eternity.

Time does not heal. Sometimes it cruelly slices into itself, demanding the present return to the past and feel the void of the future. Sometimes it mocks the living, either fading or exaggerating memories. Always and ever it represents the chasm between those who left and those who remain: all that was and cannot be revisited; and all that was not and can never be experienced.

Ultimately, though, time cannot fully steal. The love that was known remains unextinguished. The fullness of the unique life that was his can never be denied.

I celebrate Jeremy's life every day of my own. On this day, I recall that he went for a hike with his close friends because an irresistible day of splendor in early Spring called him out of his bed and to his final destiny. I marvel that he, who lived with suffering and death so close at hand after having his kidneys destroyed by the horrible train incident when he was 14, stepped out of time and into his Father's arms so quickly and painlessly. Irish and I hold each other close, even closer today and weep again...not only for our loss, but also from from the joy of the unshakable confidence that unites our spirits with his even across time and dimension: "I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE."

Sick

Crying Fowl-er

We haven't had cable in years. The upcoming digital conversion doesn't affect us whatsoever, as we only turn the thing on for movie nights. I'm a bit behind in TV pop culture, though I do occasionally watch a few favorite shows online. The last few weeks, I've heard murmurs about The Most Hated Man on Television, AKA The World's Worst Father. Although I seriously doubt his candidacy for the latter, the former moniker has some justification. The Web is wild with the story, as even a TV hermit like me has heard about it.

Sadly, some of the people in those exotic environs known the San Francisco Bay Area reside in a self-contained, delusional bubble of egotism. Barely regarding the rest of the USA as being of the same species--let alone their fellow citizens--they become pitiable legends in their own minds. Their unchecked narcissism results in some of the most boorish behavior ever publicly displayed--as in the case of Mr. Fowler.

Thanks to ABC and a program I have never watched, what has been heretofore remained mostly secreted behind a glitzy but tattered curtain of "limousine liberal" hypocrisy has been exposed far more adroitly than any blustering talk radio personality could have imagined. And thanks to the Internet, the story will never die.

What two adults have done to lower themselves as human beings, all the while turning self-congratulatory mental cartwheels for having achieved such "superior" status, is in the end their own choices. They themselves are doomed to live with themselves; no one else has to. However, what they have done and are doing to their children is comparable to a crack addict pimping their offspring for the next fix.

Unless Steven Fowler grows a conscience, quite a few therapists will be kept employed when the his daughter and son come of age.

Big bang, little bong

From the Eyrie I can hear, as well as see, a lot happening in our lovely California downtown. Usually the soundtrack is the mundane mix of any city: busy traffic; whining ambulances; bits of laughter and conversation from the parking lot next door; children squealing on the school playground across the street; bass thumps from a passing sound system on wheels. Occasionally the sound of grinding brakes is added, followed by screeching and thudding as two cars try to occupy the same space at the same moment and find their atoms locked. Most often these minor fender benders leave not much more than scratched paint and several annoyed people in their wake. Today, however, the sound didn't drift up lazily--it shattered the normal Friday morning peace with an urgency that shook the entire neighborhood. Almost immediately the sirens began, and I knew this was no casual side scrape.

I was compelled to the window and saw it all happening on the corner just one block over. An ugly dread dropped on me as I stepped into my New Balances and grabbed my house keys. Not normally a gawker, and certainly not wishing to be in the way of rescue personnel, I decided to walk just halfway up the block. The silence of the gathered crowd said everything necessary to grasp the situation. I walked on despite my original intentions and in a moment saw the small SUV that had flipped completely over and squashed roof first into the pavement. In fact, I didn't recognize at first what kind of vehicle it was. Ground up windshield particles lay around like a can of glitter someone had upended. I expected to see blood, and a good deal of it, judging by the disastrous shape of the wreckage. Amazingly, the driver was already out of the destroyed vehicle and being strapped onto a gurney. An eyewitness told me that the young woman had managed to crawl out through what appeared to be a few inches' space between metal and concrete. Looking at her, I could tell how disoriented she was. Her chest and head appeared to be swelling slightly as her eyes, obviously not focusing properly, made her appear as confused as she surely must have been. Internal injuries, no doubt, I thought.

I then noticed a second SUV, a Lexus, pulled off to the side of the street, part of its front fender piled around on the ground. The Lexus' driver, another young woman, stood on the sidewalk calling someone. Police, firefighters, and EMTs were as numerous as the onlookers, each one silently intent on his job. An acquaintance of mine, a Christian man who lives downstairs from me, arrived on the scene and we discreetly prayed for everyone involved in the situation.

The eyewitness told me that the Lexus driver had caused the accident, apparently trying to beat the light at that notoriously tedious intersection. It seemed unjust that the woman on the gurney was not the one whose inattention or irresponsibility had brought the whole thing about. However, as I soon saw, the irony was not yet complete. After the tow truck arrived and pulled the crushed vehicle upright again, an officer rushed in to retrieve the victim's belongings piled underneath. A odd-looking yellow plastic tube fell onto the ground. The incredulous policeman showed it to his colleagues: undeniably an implement for the imbibing of illegal substances...a sweet little bong, right under her coat. Whoops! That's when the second officer joined in a search of the SUV's interior. Within seconds they found what they were looking for. Shaking their heads, they placed everything back inside the wreck and went to their paperwork as it was towed to impound.

Tonight I read on the local paper's Web site that it was the injured driver who was deemed at fault. This contradicted the eyewitness I spoke with, as well as several other people who were on the scene. Funny how things can appear, or how they can be later reported.

Two women left home this morning, neither knowing that her routine would be seriously curtailed before lunchtime. One, driving a new-looking Lexus, would stand by her slightly battered vehicle and talk in subdued tones on her cell, leaving on her own; the other would take a much more circuitous and complicated route before arriving home. Somebody indeed will end up in court, maybe both of them. I certainly hope that nothing more serious will result. All this happened in less time than it takes to walk from the desk where I write this, to my living room light switch and flick it on.

Once again, it is the big bangs that intrude on our lives, ready or not. The little bongs that we think are so well hidden have a way of insinuating themselves, too, at the most inopportune moments...ready or not.

Perchance to...?

It must come with this stage of life: lately one of my favorite activities is sleeping. Not sleeping when normal folks do, oh no! My best sleep comes between 7 a.m. and 9 or even 10 a.m. I realize that most normal folks (like Irish) are up being actually productive during those hours; indeed, many have no other choice. I'm grateful that my situation allows for such idiosyncrasy. But since sleep has become a big part of my life (When can I? How long can I?) I also pay attention to patterns in my dreams as well.

Before you think I'm going off on some silly rant about God speaks to me in dreams--those who know me well are familiar with my hesitation, even loathing to do any such thing. Instead, my silly rant is about changes I've noticed in particular recurring dreams I've had. Self analysis is so much fun, and ever so much cheaper! If you're still with me and are not averse to knowing more about Sharon than you ever thought possible, read on.

Recurring dream 1: Mouth full of glue; I'm forced to continually pull long strands out that stretch like rubber bands
Self interpretation: Need to get up & drink water!
Solution: Remind myself in dream what it means. Stop pulling the strands. Get up and get water.

Recurring dream 2: The hidden room/--sometimes the rooms are junky and sometimes they're delightfully artistic
S.I.: Places I keep all to myself and won't let anyone into.
Solution: Open the doors more. Let people know me better. Shoot, let myself know me better.

Recurring dream 3: In a private moment, people are crowding into the room and refuse to leave
S.I.: These are the characters I haven't written that are sick of me keeping them down. They demand to be seen and heard!
Solution:So start writing again already, blockhead.

Sogni d'oro, everybody.

Three days in a row

Somebody stop me! I'll have to turn in my card to "Procrastinators Unite...Someday" if I keep actually blogging regularly. I mean, I've got a reputation to uphold! My consolation is that practically no one reads these anyway. I'm the quintessential voice-in-a-billion, the grain of sand on the beach, the flitting snowflake in the wintry Sierras. If I posted on the Internet and nobody noticed, would I still be saying nothing?

Rumination: My sister-in-law asked me last night if we'd watched the Oscars. Truth is, I've hardly noticed it since the last Lord of the Rings installment. I think we went to see "Prince Caspian" last year and one other movie which was so very memorable that I can't think of it now. Guilty pleasure: It is kinda fun to look at all those cheesy "What Were They Thinking" day-after reports on how much money some unfortunate celebutard paid to look drekky in front of all those people. I can accomplish that without leaving home, and do so often; but then, I do not have a high-priced stylist to deceive me.

The Boo turns 2

It was a typical family event last Friday night--both sides of relatives gathered under one roof to celebrate with Sponge Bob cake, balloons, noisemakers, and hats (no, Irish would not wear one). Kids were all over the place, or so it seemed. Baby had a bad cold and The Boo was just getting over his tonsillitis. The 3 1/2 year-old cousin couldn't speak English, but was adept at making his wants known. The other grandmother made killer taquitos while I, knowing my place, kept clear of the kitchen so she could perform her magic there. The older girl cousins were on hand along with various tias (aunties), Pa and Nonna (Irish and me), and of course Daddy Christian and Mama Alina. The new toys were a big hit, as was the DVD of "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything"--little Christian is a huge Veggie Tales fan.

And of course, I couldn't stop thinking of my own boy at that age, 30 years ago. It really is true that, as we age, the past becomes ever more alive and present. Little guys on the cusp between babyhood and boyhood have that same irresistible, impatient wistfulness about them, regardless of generation. I saw it on my brothers many years ago; then on my son, and now on my grandson. I know that his brother will have that same look on his face a year from April 4 when he himself arrives at this gate. All my brothers became wonderful men, after some shaky journeys along the way. So did our Jeremy. What is ahead for young Christian and his baby brother, who bears his late uncle's name, remains to be seen. But this I know: the promise of a little boy who is loved and anxious to get on with the business of growing into a man is a marvelous thing.

The Sumner Bucket List

My version of that cheesy "check off all the stuff you've done in your life" list that's making the Facebook rounds. Thanks to my many siblings for making these memories possible. Y'all know who you are.

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The Sumner Bucket List

This is a takeoff on the original that's going around Facebook. To preserve privacy and sanity, I'm not asking anyone to actually check anything off.

For you younger whippersnappers, this version is mainly applicable to your parents, aunts, and uncles. It is here for your edification and inspiration. I'd love to see your own parodies.
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Things you have done during your lifetime:

() Been a blind date
() Got kicked out of school
() Watched someone cook a woodland animal
() Been to an outhouse
() Been to the county seat
() Fed 12 people with 3 lbs. of macaroni and part of a jar of Cheez-Whiz
() Saw Hawaii Five-O in black and white
() Made an airplane out of an oatmeal box
() Thought a helicopter was a giant-ass mosquito
() Been lost...in a Kroger's
() Remember seeing MLK Jr.'s speech in Washington, DC.
() Spent the summer diving into a bathtub
() Cried yourself to sleep...in a bed with at least two other kids
() Played cops and robbers...only you were the object being stolen
() Ate crayons. Extra points for also melting them on the side of an oil heater in December.
() Sang every song to six Broadway plays, in four-part harmony, with your siblings for fun, in your underwear. Extra points if it was your brother's underwear.
() First time you went to a restaurant for anything other than a Dairy Queen was after you left home
() Been to the top of Dog Holler
() Done something you told yourself you wouldn't...like eating a live insect
() Made prank phone calls...on a neighbor's phone
() Walked into town to get the mail
() Laughed until some kind of beverage came out of someone else's nose
() Saw a ten year-old boy pee on the snow
() Danced in the rain...in lieu of taking a shower
() Written a letter to Santa Claus...and had it returned
() Been kissed by a mine pony
() Watched the sunrise with someone...after being out all night "borrowing" bicycles
() Blown bubbles with Ivory soap and a wooden spool
() Gone ice-skating...in the kitchen
() Been banned from a movie theater
() Been crawdab fishing
() Driven across three states with eight people in a Ford
() Rode in the open trunk of a car
() Played Tarzan on a grapevine
() Collected kindling wood in the snow
() Lived in more than one country...without ever leaving home
() Lay down outside at night and admired the stars while listening to people inside playing Whist
() Seen a bug zapper and made a wish
() Enjoyed the beauty of light playing through Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles
() Seen the Statue of Liberty...made out of dirty clothes
() Stepped on a needle in the bathroom
() Seen corn growing in a crack under the kitchen table
() Traveled by train...without paying
() Traveled to Hill Top before there was a paved road there
() Regularly used the word "foofie" in everyday language
() Been dog riding
() Heard your mother talk about riding on a San Francisco CABLE CAR
() Seen a Disney movie on TV...in black and white
() Been in a rain forest...behind your house
() Seen pig guts in a washtub
() Been to beautiful downtown Minden
() Driven through Fayetteville in the fall
() Thrown a household pet out a window at a Peeping Tom
() Swam with catfish
() Eaten a Foot-Long with an orange Ne-Hi and a chocolate Jumbo pie
() Been to the marble championships
() Walked on a railroad trestle
() Seen your grandfather's cowlick getting licked by a cow
() Been fishing with your father, using almond-scented hamburger balls
() Played Snake Tag at 10:30 pm
() Caught lightning bugs in a jelly jar...with jelly still in it
() Got picked up by a church bus
() Dressed for a special occasion from a donation box
() Waded in the New River
() Got tired of hearing "Y'all have enough kids for a baseball team!"
() Slit open your brother's football to see what was inside
() Been skinny dipping... in a cold creek...fifty yards from a baptism
() Wanted to punk slap the Brady Bunch