tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6725633386182648852024-03-14T02:02:17.644-04:00Women On TractorsKaren http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-82682254239847990792014-01-01T12:51:00.000-05:002014-01-01T12:51:51.008-05:00Forward into 2014!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Looking for an extra bit of good luck in 2014? Try starting the year off with a pork dish. <br />
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I'm not a particularly superstitious person, but I'm ethnic enough to believe that there are a few family traditions best kept, and eating pork on New Year's Day is one of them. <br />
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Boar, and domestic hogs (<i>pigs, to you city folk</i>), forage for food, by putting their nose to the ground, and moving forward. Many european cultures believe, that your chances of good luck, good health and good fortune increase, if you move forward into the new year with a belly full of pork.<br />
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It doesn't have to be anything special. A traditional pork roast is the obvious choice of many, but we've made due in past years with bratwurst, knockwurst, pork sausage, and an occasional hot dog.<br />
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This year, I'm baking a ham I picked up from a great little smokehouse just up around the bend from our cottage. I'll glaze it with a recipe I found in Ree Drummond's new cookbook (<i>the recipes in this new one are divine</i>) which features, a can of Dr. Pepper (<i>I don't have any Dr. Pepper, but I do have a renegade can of Cherry Coke in the frig</i>).<br />
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In keeping with the 'rooting forward' theme of the day, I thought I'd throw in a resolution or two before signing off for the day (<i>the grandkids are expected to arrive at any minute and I'm already late in getting that ham in the oven</i>). <br />
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With the eighth grandchild on the way, I've decided its time to make an honest attempt at scrapbooking again (<i>I'm about five grandbabies behind now), </i>so I'll be dragging out the Cricket, and moving some of my supplies downstairs for a few months (<i>might as well enjoy the fireplace and big screen tv set while I work</i>).<br />
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I'd also like to spend a bit more time writing, so resolve to post at least one new blog entry per month (<i>a cautiously optimistic goal</i>).<br />
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Gotta run now! I've got a ham waiting!!<br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-12068277190672008452013-12-04T12:29:00.004-05:002013-12-18T11:11:56.116-05:00Frank Sinatra Got It Right<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhOg09ZgrpE/Up9ly2xCfbI/AAAAAAAALTc/K9ljQwrDQb0/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhOg09ZgrpE/Up9ly2xCfbI/AAAAAAAALTc/K9ljQwrDQb0/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" width="200" /></a>With the promise of warmer temperatures, I climbed out of bed a little less reluctantly this morning, grabbed my bathrobe and hurried to the thermostat. A child of the energy crisis of the 1970's, I still ascribe to my parents' 'dial-down-at-night' philosophy.<br />
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I lit the furnace (<i>anyone remember those days</i>), turned on the coffee pot (<i>'coffee-maker' sounds so urban</i>), fed the dog, and sat down at the computer to check my e-mail and facebook page ( so <i>I'm not as discerning as I'd like to think I am when it comes to the 21st century</i>).<br />
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A click later, I was listening to Frank Sinatra's beautifully simple ode to Christmas past, An Old Fashioned Christmas (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1PpgbtIO3w">click here to listen)</a>. The song was posted by a close friend, another refugee of the real-world (<i>we both live, by choice, with one foot deeply rooted in another century</i>).<br />
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Strangely, before Frank even warbled a word, I was overwhelmed with melancholy (<i>I'm sure that wasn't my friend's intention). </i>I contemplated moving on to a brighter post, when my melancholy took a nostalgic turn. <br />
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Somewhere between the first and second verse, I was no longer a groggy, fifty-something, sipping coffee before a cold computer screen, but a little girl, bundled in winter woolens, awaiting a pick-up from school on the last<i>-</i>day-before Christmas break (<i>they actually called it 'Christmas-break' in those days</i>).<br />
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I stood waiting, my book-bag stuffed with colored-paper-Christmas-decorations we'd cut and pasted together in days preceding. <br />
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One mitten-clad hand clutched a paper plate piled high with sugared cut-out cookies, and foil wrapped chocolate bells and santas (<i>the room-mothers always made too much)</i>. <br />
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The other held a clumsily bundled, hand-made gift I'd proudly crafted in school for my parents, probably a decoupaged paperweight or ashtray with my freckled-face school photo pasted to the bottom (<i>imagine, stubbing-out a cigarette on a grinning child's face!</i>)<br />
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The snow fell heavily as I waited for the big Ford Country Squire Station Wagon to pull around the mounds of snow, and up to the curb. I knew, from previous experience, that it would be packed to the brim with luggage and gaily wrapped Christmas gifts (<i>without the bows of course</i>). <br />
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In a protected corner, my Dad will have placed the big, yellow and brown-speckled, Charles Chips can, inside of which Mom had lovingly layered her delicately beautiful Christmas stars (<i>ethnic pastries</i>).<br />
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There'd be pillows and blankets waiting in the backseat, a big old metal Thermos (<i>filled with black coffee, of course</i>), waxed-paper wrapped, white-bread, bologna sandwiches, potato chips and pretzels, in a brown-paper grocery bag, and Duncan, the family dog (a little black, Scottish moppet we all adored).<br />
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I couldn't wait! Along with thousands of others, we'd be making our way along America's highways and by-ways to Grandmother's house. <br />
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Along with the forced-air heat, there was always an air of anxiety in the car. Most of the drive would be made in the dark, and the weather was always a concern, whispered about between Mom and Dad.<br />
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With threats of 'Santa's watching' hanging over our heads, my brother and I, were generally reluctant to make too much of a fuss in the backseat. But threats wouldn't stop us from trying to sneak into the cookie tin in the cargo hold.<br />
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As the sun set on the slushy, two-lane interstate highway, we'd burrow contentedly beneath our button-front wool coats and blankets, secure in the knowledge that we were in good hands with Daddy at the wheel . . .<br />
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Too quickly, Sinatra's song ended. I blinked, and found myself staring once again, at a post on the computer screen.<br />
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Thank you Cyndi for the unexpected trip down memory land. You and Frank got it just right . . .<br />
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<i>(the photo above, is of my brother at age two, with Santa)</i><br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-68843184687852408422013-03-14T12:57:00.002-04:002013-03-14T14:38:08.592-04:00A New St. Francis?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Prayer of St. Francis</div>
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Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,</div>
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Where there is hatred, let me sow love;</div>
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Where there is injury, pardon;</div>
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Where there is doubt, faith;</div>
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Where there is despair, hope;</div>
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Where there is darkness, light;</div>
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Where there is sadness, joy.</div>
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O Divine Master,</div>
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Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;</div>
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to be understood, as to understand;</div>
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to be loved, as to love.</div>
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For it is in giving that we receive.</div>
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It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,</div>
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and it is in dying that we are born of Eternal Life.</div>
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Amen</div>
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<i>Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, in the 13th century.</i></div>
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Yesterday, the Catholic Church announced the selection of a new pope, the Argentinian Cardinal, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, forever onward referred to as Pope Francis I.</div>
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Regardless of my personal feelings toward the scandal plagued, culturally conservative Church, I find myself whole-heartedly hopeful, and satisfied with the Cardinals' selection. Honestly, who wouldn't?</div>
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By all accounts, Cardinal Bergoglio distinguished himself as an outwardly humble and devoutly, holy man; a champion of the sick and poor he lived amongst. His first request, as the head of the world's 1.2 billion Catholics, was for a blessing from his expanded flock.</div>
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It disappoints me to hear disaffected Catholics, and others denigrate this simple man with snarky comments, and negative commentary. Sadly, many can't see beyond their own pain, or cultural agenda.<br />
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What harm is there in having an open heart, and mind? What harm will come from praying that God will bless and guide a humble servant, charged with shining His light upon a world grown dim? What does it matter if there are cracks in the foundation, as long as the beacon shines forth from the top of the tower, guiding its ships to safe harbor? Cracks can be repaired. </div>
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Only God knows what's in a man's heart (I seem to remember quoting that before). Cardinal Bergoglio appears to be a right, and just man. What possible good can come from mocking him?</div>
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This Pope chose the name Francis. God willing he will leave footprints in the sand, next to those of the saints of the same name, for a new generation of men to humbly follow.</div>
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Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-22696294147922205302013-02-28T21:54:00.000-05:002013-12-04T09:49:43.361-05:00My Board of Grace <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
"The board itself doesn't impact reality; what changes your life is the process of creating . . . " Martha Beck</div>
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<i>Vision Board (page one)</i></div>
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Once upon a time, I reluctantly set out to complete what I believed to be a cheesy little arts & crafts project, and wound up (much to my delight), on a spiritual journey. <br />
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As a <i>one-little-word</i> traveler, I was prompted to create a <i>vision board - </i>a personal collection of representative words and images, of things or concepts, that I'd like to welcome into my life. In theory, a vision board is a poor man's <i>Field of Dreams</i> . . . <i>if you build it, he will come!</i><br />
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I trekked to the book store, grabbed a handful of magazines (the one's with the most fun photos I could find), and headed home to cut and paste!<br />
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At some point, it occurred to me that I paid a ridiculous amount of money for magazines I was going to destroy. I hoped the end result was worth it.<br />
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Back on task, I started through the pages, looking for images that spoke to me (made me ooh! or ah!). Nothing! Struggling, I reread the directions, followed the suggested links, and tried again.<br />
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This time, to my surprise, I finished with a substantial collection of words, images and phrases. I spread them out, and planned how I'd arrange them on paper. I began trimming my treasures to fit the page, but opted to tear them to fit instead. Go figure!<br />
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<i>Vision Board (page 2)</i></div>
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Once finished, I was pleased with myself, but still had a hard time seeing anything more than two fairly decent scrapbook pages. Humph . . . I must have missed something. I photographed them, and filed them away in my scrapbook. Done!<br />
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Two weeks later while lying in bed, I had an epiphany! The ragged <i>(torn, not cut) </i>words, phrases and images I struggled to mine from magazine pages, are metaphors for <i><u>goodness</u></i> - <i>faith, light, love, joy, beauty, courage, creativity. </i><br />
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In my brokenness, I've struggled to recognize God's blessings, often taking what I have for granted. My vision board was a <i><u>celebration</u></i> (my one-little-word) of goodness! <i>In the process of creating the board, I was visualizing God's grace in my life. </i><br />
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The real miracle of my vision board happened a few days after my mid-night epiphany, when I received a phone call that was so full of goodness, it flooded and mended my wounded heart.<i> </i>The call was an <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/resignation-olw-blog-hop.html">an answer to my prayers</a>, something I thought would never happen.<br />
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It worked! My vision board worked! I made it. I prayed it. I dreamt it. It happened. And in the end, it was worth every penny I paid for it.Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-63445959779511760262013-02-22T11:29:00.001-05:002013-12-04T09:49:00.683-05:00What's In a Man's Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"A father should be his son's first hero, and his daughters first love."</div>
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When I was a child of five or six, I climbed into my father's lap as he sat waiting for my mother to finish dressing. Without objection, he stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled me close; his right arm held me protectively against his chest.<br />
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Freshly showered and shaved, Daddy smelled of Skin Bracer, and Lucky Strike cigarettes.<br />
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Comforted, I breathed deeply, and burrowed my cheek into the front of his crisply, starched shirt.<br />
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We sat there, just the two of us, in the quiet, semi-darkness of twilight. Safely wrapped in my daddy's arms, I was profoundly content. In my innocence, I knew what it was to be loved.<br />
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Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom . . . with my ear pressed warmly against his chest . . . ba-boom, ba-boom . . . I could hear the rhythmic beat of my father's heart . . . Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!<br />
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Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I was afraid. Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! I couldn't help but wonder . . . BA-BOOM . . . what would happen if . . . BA-BOOM . . . it stopped? The thought was too painful to consider!<br />
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Panicked, I sat up, and broke the spell. <br />
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In every lifetime, there are defining moments. In that moment, I knew death, and understood what it meant to be mortal. My daddy, the person I loved more than any other, wouldn't be mine forever.<br />
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I was overwhelmed with fear. I simply couldn't bear the idea of a world void of my father's love.<br />
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Daddy's heart beats on into it's eightieth year, a milestone I tearfully celebrate with the little girl I once was. <i>Our</i> relationship with my father didn't end overnight in an exchange of angry words, and the slam of a door. It slipped away like water through the fingers of a cupped hand.<br />
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I accept responsibility for the role I played in the disintegration of our relationship, but still I wonder, did Daddy just forget who I was? I tried to remind him that<i> I</i> was still here, but he didn't seem to recognize the face of <i>his child</i> in the adult I'd become. I could speculate forever on the whys and wherefores, but in the end, only God knows what's in a man's heart.<br />
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For most of my life, my father made me feel loved, and for that I will always be grateful. <br />
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Happy Birthday Dad - <i>we</i> will always love you.</div>
Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-42270370060753038632013-02-04T19:18:00.003-05:002013-02-04T23:24:53.250-05:00Black Leather and Lace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thanks in part to Beyonce's half-time burlesque performance at this year's Super Bowl, I've officially declared the Women's Liberation Movement, the defining cause-celebre of my youth, a train wreck!<br />
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To be honest, I was never a big fan of the feminist revolution, fearing it's leaders were throwing the proverbial <i>baby out with the bath water. </i>So while I supported gender equality, I cautiously watched from the sidelines as my contemporaries rallied around the ERA, defiantly marched on Washington, and triumphantly burned their bras.<br />
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I began to wonder a few years back, if the wheels hadn't slipped the track when the painted, powdered and plumed, Madonna shot to super-stardom. Apparently, along with gender equality, and reproductive freedom, we have a God-given right to publicly express ourselves, intellectually, and sexually. Who knew?<br />
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The train rolled further along.<br />
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My suspicions were affirmed last year when Lady Gaga writhed her way through a stilettoed S&M parody on the American Idol stage. Clearly, cultural acceptance of what was once considered deviant behavior had evolved right along with the feminist agenda.<br />
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Considering the brouhaha surrounding Janet Jackson's purported costume malfunction, (dubbed, Nipplegate) at the Super Bowl in 2004, I was frankly surprised that the NFL would deliver another sexually-explicite half-time performance.<br />
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Silly me! When one considers the demographics of the viewing audience, how can one blame the NFL for giving the consumer, exactly what HE wants - provocatively clad, beautiful, young women, spreading their legs to the strains of throbbing music.<br />
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Leather and lace! Um-um! Just listen to them slobber on ESPN! <br />
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As far as the feminist movement is concerned, correct me if I'm wrong, but <i>radical feminism </i>was supposed to free women from the<i> sexual, intellectual, and economic bondage </i>of their male oppressors?<br />
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I would dare to guess, that Madonna, Lady Gaga, Janet Jackson and Beyonce are among the wealthiest entertainers of their perspective generations. I suppose we should celebrate their success - <i>modern women, daughters of the feminist revolution, make good!</i><br />
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Certainly these women have learned how to successfully compete economically on the world stage - literally - in front of millions, but escaped male bondage? They're selling the same old product, packaging it differently, and making a whole lot more money!<br />
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Three cheers for the feminist revolution! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to turn on <i>Lifetime</i>, pour myself a <i>Skinny Girl</i> cocktail, light up a <i>Virginia Slims</i>, and wait for the fourth book in the <i>Shades of Gray</i> series to be published. <br />
<i><br /></i>Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-48766080490821262212013-01-31T23:00:00.000-05:002013-02-22T11:30:18.830-05:00Celebrate! One Little Word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lwU-chJpgPQ/UQrVA_qW4aI/AAAAAAAAK18/i6zoQsyrlnQ/s1600/IMG_7473_Celebrate_5x7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><i>"I celebrate myself, and sing myself."</i></div>
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<i>Walt Whitman</i></div>
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<i>"Do we need any other proof of being spiritual-beings, than watching a child grow, and a personality blossom?" </i><br />
<i>Fr. Jonathan Morris</i></div>
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I began this post with life affirming quotes from what would appear an odd-fellowship, American poet, humanist and author of the esteemed, <i>Leaves of Grass, </i>Walt Whitman, and television personality, Fr. Jonathan Morris, a Catholic priest, spiritual advisor, and author of the best selling book, <i>The Promise: God's Purpose and Plan for When Life Hurts. </i></div>
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While one hundred years, life-styles and religious philosophies separate them, the quotes of both men enthusiastically <i><b>celebrate</b></i> the human condition. The passages, along with the whimsical photograph of my uninhibited, three-year-old grandson, make me smile!!<br />
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All in all, not a bad way to begin :)</div>
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In my last post <u style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2013/01/dancing-in-rain.html">Dancing in the Rain</a>,</u> I made reference to the One Little Word concept of selecting a single word each January to reflect and meditate on throughout the year. </div>
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I stand at the threshold of the new year, in my pink wellies (English rain-boots) and raincoat, umbrella in hand, with a new companion -a new word - CELEBRATE!</blockquote>
As a child of God, created in His image, I am called to walk in His light - to seek out, recognize, and <i><b>celebrate</b> </i>the good in my earthly life.<br />
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I purposefully chose a word that I felt would enrich not only my physical-being (the <i>human</i> condition), but my spiritual-self (<i>soul</i>) as well. I looked for, and chose a word I believed to be life-affirming.<br />
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To this end, I have put forth the following twelve, monthly-intentions beginning with January's <i>Celebration of a New Year</i>, and continuing on with <i>celebrate love, celebrate my faith, celebrate myself, celebrate motherhood, celebrate the earth, celebrate my freedom, celebrate the summer, celebrate God's bounty, celebrate family tradition/ritual, celebrate God's grace, and finally, to prepare for and celebrate the birth of Christ at Christmas. </i><br />
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I'll be documenting my journey through written word, and photographs in a personal photo/journal inspired by Ali Edward's, <u>One Little Word</u>, prompts.<br />
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<b>Pages from the journal will be located in the filmstrip at the top-right hand corner of this blog (click on the film-strip for full-sized, easy to view, copies of the pages).</b><br />
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For more of my OLW story, you're invited to read the short post, <u style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2013/01/dancing-in-rain.html">Dancing In the Rain</a>,</u><br />
<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-17523311306762483362013-01-22T19:10:00.000-05:002013-02-22T11:30:35.898-05:00Dancing In the Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2b; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>A single word can be a powerful thing. It can be the ripple in the pond that changes everything. It can be sharp and biting or rich and soft. From my own personal experience, it can be a catalyst for enriching your life. </i> Ali Edwards, <a href="http://www.bigpictureclasses.com/onelittleword2013.php">One Little Word 2013</a></span><br />
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Two years ago, an ill wind blew a rather large, dark cloud into my little corner of the world and parked it directly over me and mine. The ensuing storm dumped buckets and buckets of water, caused the creek to rise, and temporarily knocked me off my feet.<br />
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In response to the rising water, I sought shelter in the warmth of our home, affectionately referred to as, the Ark, and prayed on a daily basis for an end to the menacing weather.<br />
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And while I still believe, that the shortest distance between a problem and a solution, is the distance between my knees and the floor, I now recognize that affecting climate change in <i>happy valley</i> isn't on God's immediate to-do list.<br />
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A pragmatic being, I realize that life is short. Compelled to make the most of my time on earth, I hesitate to waste a moment more brooding about my misfortune, while watching the world go by my rain-streaked kitchen windows. Surely, God wants more for me. Certainly he expects more from me.<br />
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Still, there's risk associated with wandering into a storm. No matter how well I prepare, or clothe myself against the elements, I could be lost in a torrent of rain or overwhelmed by a flash flood. Is it really worth taking the chance?<br />
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Yes! Behind the dark clouds, there is light, beauty and goodness. Further, I know that God doesn't want me to spend the rest of my life cowering in fear of the darkness. As a Christian, I am called to step into the light, to seek out, and <i>celebrate</i> each and every ray of light that peeks through the clouds, no matter how briefly, even if it means I end up <i>dancing in the rain.</i><br />
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Four years ago, I began the tradition of selecting a single word each January that I reflect and meditate on throughout the year. Words that have enriched my life in the past, are <i>simplify, forward, <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2011/02/believing-in-angels.html">mystery</a></i> and <i><a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/resignation-olw-blog-hop.html">resignation</a>. </i><br />
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While I may be an ordinary person, my life-journey has been extraordinary - full of blessings, travel, adventure and opportunity. <i>My word </i>is a companion on my journey along the road-less-traveled, challenging me to step outside my comfort zone, encouraging me to think outside the box, and comforting me in the darkness.<br />
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I stand at the threshold of the new year, in my pink wellies (English rain-boots) and raincoat, umbrella in hand, with a new companion - a new word - CELEBRATE!<br />
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I've resolved to step out into the rain, eyes to the clouds, in search of light and silver linings<i>. </i>I <i>will</i> be happy, and I <i>will</i> <i>celebrate</i> the goodness.<br />
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<i>(left) Granddaughter Regan, who shares my taste in rain boots.</i><br />
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Click here for more information on the <a href="http://aliedwards.com/2007/01/one-little-word-3.html">one little word concept</a> and Ali Edwards.<br />
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Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-45983281398517734282012-12-23T02:09:00.002-05:002012-12-23T08:32:19.829-05:00Walk Humbly With Your God - My Christmas Message 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b style="font-style: italic;">Act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God. </b><i> </i><b>Micah 6:8</b><br />
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It seems nobody sends good old-fashioned Christmas cards anymore - the sort with silver bells that deck the halls, nativity scenes, or jolly elves in Santa's workshop.<br />
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The few cards I get each year are mostly vanity cards with photos of people or pets I don't recognize - and have little if anything to do with Christmas.<br />
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For a while, vanity letters were all the rage, but they too seem to have gone by the wayside, along with foil-lined envelopes and flocking.<br />
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I'm not so much lamenting the death of the traditional card itself, as I am the ritual associated with them, and the message they delivered. <br />
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I remember my mother sitting at her card table each night the second week of December, surrounded by stacks of boxed cards she'd thoughtfully selected the week before. Mom's cards, always religious in nature, were intended to make a statement; our household celebrated the <i>Christ</i> in Christmas.<br />
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The cards we'd received the year before, complete with envelopes, were stacked alongside our out-going cards. Mom used a little plate and wet sponge to seal the envelopes. Each card was hand-signed, included a short personal note, and was posted with a beautiful Christmas stamp.<br />
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Each December day, I'd come home from school and flip through the newly arrived cards, looking for the popular <i>Currier and Ives</i> type depictions of horse-drawn sleighs, and snowy woodland landscapes. They were my favorites!<br />
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Mind you, I have nothing against today's vanity cards. In my book, anyone that takes the time, and puts forth the effort to send anything, should be commended. I have friends and family who say, they'll no longer send Christmas cards to those who won't reciprocate. That's sad, but understandable. <br />
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Like my mother before me, I want the cards I send to make a statement. <br />
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This year, I selected one of my favorite images - a simple, one-room schoolhouse I captured in an Old-Order-Amish community, not far from my home in northwestern Pennsylvania.<br />
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The school sits on a rise alongside a bend in a rutted, dirt road. I'd driven around one side, and past the front of the school before noticing the flash of color in my rearview mirror; two red sleds were propped against the side of the weathered, whitewashed building.<br />
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To me the image evokes, humble simplicity. <br />
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Today, there is so much glitz and glamour associated with the celebration of Christmas, that we forget the humble circumstances of the Christ-child's birth. The message of <i>giving without the expectation of getting something in return</i>, has been lost. We seem to be celebrating ourselves, rather than our Savior's birth.<br />
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Maybe my card will serve as a gentle reminder of what this holiday is all about.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Therefore, the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, a virgin will be with child and bear a son, and she will call His name Immanuel - God with US</i></b>. <b>Isaiah 7:14</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God. </i>Micah 6:8</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Merry Christmas, </i></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Karen</i></b></span><br />
<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-26283701032910895312012-12-17T06:42:00.003-05:002013-02-22T11:31:05.880-05:00All I Want For Christmas is You<br />
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<i>You are the angel atop my tree</i><br />
<i>You are my dream come true</i><br />
<i>Santa can't bring me what I need</i><br />
<i>'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you</i><br />
<i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zPXEhqjyQE">Vince Vance & the Valiants</a> (click)</i><br />
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She was my dream come true, my Christmas angel, born just ten days before Christmas, 1982. We brought her home from the hospital, lovingly swaddled in a handmade blanket, and placed her under our Christmas tree, the greatest gift.<br />
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Twenty-nine years, and seven months later, I received a simply worded text message, sent from the number I recognized as my daughter's phone, indicating that she'd <i>passed away. </i>In utter disbelief, I reread the text, checked the number, and read the text again. <i> </i><br />
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Only an hour before, while driving home from the city, I'd called that number, left a heartfelt voicemail, and requested a return call. The text message I received, came as I was slowing to exit the freeway. Gut-punched, I kept my wits about me long enough to safely pull the car off the roadway.<br />
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Our daughter was seven months pregnant, a horse trainer and riding instructor. It was conceivable, that she'd had an accident, been kicked or thrown from a horse. I tried to stop my heart from racing - to catch my breath. My only thought, <i>not my baby!</i><br />
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Ten minutes later, after multiple hysterical phone calls, I confirmed that my daughter was alive and well. The text was merely a monstrous joke.<br />
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Twenty-four hundred miles, separate my daughter and I - my middle child - my Christmas angel. The call I'd placed earlier that day, was only the third I'd made to what I believed to be her phone in almost two years. I really hadn't expected her to answer. <br />
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I loathed the distance between us, but can't fully explain why I didn't do more sooner, to mend what was broken between us. In spite of the love I felt for my child, I stubbornly clung to my pride, and hurt feelings. Further, I'd inadvertently left the door open so others could meddle in what should have been a sacred relationship.<br />
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The cruel text I received was sent in response to the emotional message I'd left on a <i>stranger's</i> phone that morning. My daughter's number had been reassigned. That text, was my wake-up call!<br />
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To be estranged from one's own child seems inconceivable to me, yet there I was - here I am. Did the physical miles between us make it that easy to forget the love I felt for her, and the pain I willingly endured just to bring her into this world? Had I taken my daughter for granted? Was I asking too much? Did it matter? <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_rXo26pi4bU/UM8Mw2r7NuI/AAAAAAAAKrw/3panOS2I_Gw/s1600/IMG_6922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_rXo26pi4bU/UM8Mw2r7NuI/AAAAAAAAKrw/3panOS2I_Gw/s320/IMG_6922.jpg" width="213" /></a>Yesterday, while once again driving home from the city, I thought of my daughter, on the occasion of her thirtieth birthday. I hummed softly along with the radio, the words of the song made famous by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zPXEhqjyQE">Vince Vance & the Valiants</a>, grateful that I still have an angel to place atop my tree when so many others do not. While the road between us is still bumpy, most of the potholes have been filled.<br />
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As a nation, we mourn the loss of innocents in Connecticut - death at the hand of a madman. By the grace of God, I was able to wish away the tragic ending to my story. Rather than mourning the lost years and distance between us, I'll celebrate my daughter's life, remembering the love and joy I felt the morning I placed her under our Christmas tree.<br />
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<i>All I Want For Chistmas is You</i>, was written by Mariah Carey <br />
<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-58496815326335115392012-11-30T22:06:00.000-05:002013-02-28T22:22:57.462-05:00Resignation Each January I choose<i> a focus word </i>for the coming year (aka <i>one little word) </i>which I use as a prompt for personal growth. This year, my word was <b>resignation</b><b>:</b> <i>the acceptance of something undesirable but inevitable.</i><br />
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I recently began <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/id-like-to-report-drowning-my-own.html">blogging again</a>, after a two-year struggle with literary laryngitis. My loss of voice can be attributed to a series of <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/a-pain-i-can-live-with.html">tragedies</a> (for lack of a better word) that consumed my once tightly-knit family over the course of five years, under the guise of dementia, alcoholism and estrangement.<br />
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The sweet little house my husband and I call home, sits on the bank of a rocky creek that spills endlessly down the side of a woodsy mountain. Ironically, I successfully managed the construction of the house, while my extended family fell apart. I sought comfort in the serenity of my wooded environs. So while the following water-related analogy makes perfect sense to me, I can only hope that it does so to others.<br />
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To sum it up, my collective tragedies were to me, like stones fallen into the creek - at first causing little more than ripples in the water. With time however, the protruding stones gathered debris; other stones washed downstream and collected around them. The ripples became dark, raging rapids.<br />
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Each year, those of us living along Mill Creek must wade in and remove the larger stones and obstructions that threaten to turn our serene little waterway into a tumult. If we don't take action, water will eventually wash up over the bank, causing chaos and destruction.<br />
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Spunky little go-getter that I am, I never hesitate to do what I must to avoid pending disaster, or to lessen its impact. But, in the case of my family, the stones I attempted to move, had been in the water too long. Try as I might, they were either too slippery, or too deeply embedded in muck to be moved. A flood was inevitable.<br />
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I'd like to believe that I fought the good fight against the darkness that enveloped my world, but I couldn't prevent the blackness from spilling out when I put pen to paper (or, fingers to keyboard). I felt I had no choice but to <i>resign</i> myself <i>(there's that one little word) </i>to the fact that I was speechless.<br />
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I stopped writing altogether (a welcome end to hours spent staring at a blank computer screen), and threw my creative energy into something else, my photography. Through the lens of my camera, I found I could still successfully focus on other things in my life. <br />
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Months have crept by. Most of the immovable stones remain in the creek that is my life, but I've learned to accept the white water around them as a new normal. I've <i>resigned</i> <i>(there it is again)</i> that I am powerless to heal my broken family, but I'll never stop hoping that it might be healed.<br />
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Years ago, I had the joy and honor of attending seminars by one of the world's greatest living equestrians, Germany's Conrad Schumacher. The advice Mr. Schumacher offered his students for successfully riding a 1000 pound animal competitively, was to concentrate solely on controlling the controllables. <br />
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In deference to Mr. Schumacher, I put my energy into healing what I could of myself, letting the rest go. And while still a bit raspy, I rejoice in the fact that I'm no longer silent.<br />
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<i>Grandson Conor, sitting among the stones. </i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Courier, 'Courier New', monospace; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span>Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-85939580586281803702012-11-21T17:23:00.002-05:002012-11-30T11:58:53.098-05:00An America Abroad On Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Happy Thanksgiving to all.<br />
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A friend recently reminded me of a story I posted on my cooking blog a few years back, that recounts my first Thanksgiving living in Europe as an ex-patrioted American. <br />
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I've reposted it here, as it's quite an amusing tale. <a href="http://thefarmhousefoodie.blogspot.com/2010/11/its-turkey-time.html">It's Turkey Time</a>! (click link for story)Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-26661065949956764492012-11-11T09:46:00.000-05:002013-02-16T13:51:01.944-05:00Accepting That It's Simply So <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"></span>"How is one to lead a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture, but within oneself?</span></span><br />
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<i style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">If there is a stage at which an individual life truly becomes adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox.</span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light. <i>Barry Lopez, Arctic Dreams</i></span></span><br />
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I was born and raised a Catholic Christian, attended Mass on a regular basis throughout my life, raised my own children Catholic, sent them to parochial schools, studied at a small Catholic college, and worked for several years as a parish director of religious education. I even had the honor of attending a seminar program held by some of the most celebrated moral ethicists in the contemporary Catholic Church.<br />
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So you'd think I'd have a fairly thorough understanding of what it means to be a Christian, from a behavioral standpoint. <br />
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In <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/id-like-to-report-drowning-my-own.html">my last post</a>, I wrote that during my time of crisis, I looked for help, but found little offered. By help, I mean compassion and understanding, the proverbial shoulder to cry on. I wasn't expecting, nor was I asking for someone to solve my problems. I just needed a little relief from treading water now and then. <br />
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I was, and continue to be eternally grateful to the handful of souls that did in fact come to my rescue. Ironically, those that did so were not the strongest swimmers, or the bravest of those that stood on the shore. <br />
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For the most part, it was the battered survivors of previous storms, victims of earlier shipwrecks, some still wading in waist deep water themselves, that threw me a line, or swam out to tread water beside me.<br />
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I've asked myself why? To idly sit on a beach and watch as somebody sputters and flails in the waves a few yards off-shore, without even running for help, is reprehensible. Yet it happens every day, on some sandy slip, in some dark little corner of the world. Self-absorbed people watch, as somebody drowns.<br />
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Another paradox. Another unanswerable question. Accepting that its simply so, will have to be enough.Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-62543392704809845952012-11-11T09:21:00.003-05:002012-11-11T12:30:50.580-05:00Some Mother's Son<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><i>(This has been reposted in remembrance of Veteran's Day)</i></span><br />
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In my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd end up the proud matriarch of a military family.<br />
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As a child, the closest I got to anyone in the armed services, was an arm's length from the television set while watching Gomer Pyle, McHales Navy, and F-Troop.<br />
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While I may have laughed at the antics of the military characters on TV, I knew that in real life, soldiers, sailors and marines weren't the baffoons that Hollywood made them out to be.<br />
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We were reminded of the serious nature of war, every night on the evening news, as the networks ran footage of the carnage in Vietnam. Sadly, rather than being awed and frightened by what I saw, the routine delivery of the reporting night-after-night-after-night was anesthetizing.<br />
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Living as we did, in predominately white, upper-middle class communities, the turmoil I witnessed on television seemed as remote and irrelevant to me as the history we studied in school.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9Hlblgb0nTo/S_QB4B3gqPI/AAAAAAAAAnk/fFet3jZmRLw/s1600/make-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9Hlblgb0nTo/S_QB4B3gqPI/AAAAAAAAAnk/fFet3jZmRLw/s200/make-love.jpg" width="196" /></a> The young men I witnessed fighting and dying in our family room nightly, were little more than characters in a movie. <br />
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My brother, and the other boys of our generation, imagined their way into combat with G.I. Joe, and company, but I couldn't in any way relate or identify with the American soldier and his experience.<br />
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As unpopular as the Vietnam War was, it would never have occurred to me to denigrate American troops.<br />
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I didn't fully understand the politics of the time, but I did try to make sense of what was going on around me, and I knew it was wrong, based upon the values my parents had instilled upon me, to vilify the people our government was sending into combat.<br />
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The war in Vietnam ended in 1975, two years before I graduated from high school. Mandatory conscription was discontinued two years before the end of the war.<br />
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I spent the next twenty-five years, blissfully ignorant of the perils of military service, as I raised my three daughters in the insulated environment of upper-middle class America.<br />
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On the morning of September 11, 2001, my husband was on an American airlines flight from LA to DC. His flight landed without incident, but our lives were forever changed.<br />
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We moved to San Diego, home of the First Marine Corps Battalion when my girls were in their late teens.<br />
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I was obviously apprehensive when my daughters' dates appeared on our front porch in uniform. I had no idea what to expect, or how to entertain somebody trained to fight and kill another human being. Combat did strange things to people, or so I'd been told.<br />
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The young men that sat at our dining table, or gathered around our pool were just that, young men far from home, appreciative of a home-cooked meal, and a chance to be a part of a family again, if only for a few hours.<br />
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Invitations to barbecues, led to invitations to holiday dinners. As they rotated back and forth to Iraq, I found myself worrying for their safety, and wondered how on earth their mother's slept at night.<br />
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For the first time in my life, the American soldier/marine/sailor/airman, was more than just a card board cut-out to me.<br />
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My son-in-laws are civilians now, with more than twenty-eight years of service between them. They are loving husbands, and daddies, sweet, kind and gentle. I don't think about it often, but I never want to forget, that they are also real-life, flesh and bone heros who were willing to give their lives for their country. <br />
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I'm proud to call these Marines, my sons.Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-90011476188337421492012-11-03T18:02:00.001-04:002012-11-30T12:00:08.459-05:00I'd Like To Report a Drowning . . . My Own! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No, the creek hasn't risen and washed me away in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Though no less real from a psychological standpoint, I'm speaking figuratively here. <br />
<br />
Actually, my drowning began almost two years ago, when a tsunami-like personal crisis knocked me off my feet, and cast me adrift in a sea of fear, where I've battled waves of insecurity, self-pity, and distrust. <br />
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For a long time, I thought the water would recede and leave me where it had found me, safe, and secure on dry land. So, I set my mind, on simply trying to stay afloat. <br />
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My father taught me to swim in the water off the coast of New Jersey, where we lived for several years in the late 1960s. My dad had determined that I would be a strong swimmer, so he paddled me out beyond the surf, and commanded that I swim a few yards parallel to the shore before riding the waves back to the beach. <br />
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I was a tough kid, and eager to please, so it wasn't long before I was swimming confidently against the waves and the current, waving proudly to my father, as he stood watching from the shore.<br />
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For some, a crisis can be a turning point, or a crossroads. Mine wasn't. It was a full-blown catastrophe, the sort that devastates everything in its path, only no disaster declaration was issued. No aid or relief was available. I simply had to suffer through it.<br />
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As any surfer will tell you, its impossible to simply stay still in the ocean. The current and the wind will eventually carry you further up or down the coast, and eventually, out to sea. At some point, one must take action.<br />
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At times during my drowning, I contemplated giving up. The water wasn't receding. No help was forthcoming and one can only tread water for so long, without suffering exhaustion. <br />
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I let the current carry me further out into deeper and colder water. There was comfort in the numbing darkness. If things wouldn't get better, maybe they couldn't get worse. But still, the waves came, along with the occasional storm, pulling me under, prodding me to fight.<br />
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It was the laughter of the children I heard on shore, that motivated me to do what was necessary to save myself. I swam. I swam the way my father taught me, through the dark water, against the current, and finally toward the shore.<br />
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While no longer in over-my-head, I'm not exactly on dry land either. In the wake of my tsunami, I'm wading in knee-deep water, trying to regain my footing. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8MWcxhR7iw/UJWZVz6qC_I/AAAAAAAAKcA/TugrcL3Ssys/s1600/Footprint+in+Sand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8MWcxhR7iw/UJWZVz6qC_I/AAAAAAAAKcA/TugrcL3Ssys/s320/Footprint+in+Sand.jpg" width="320" /></a>I stopped blogging shortly after my drowning began. I tried for a while, but I simply had no words. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure what led me to once again put pen to paper. Perhaps it was the email I opened this morning, sent from a dear friend. It read, "With God, all things are possible." Matthew 19:26 <br />
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JESUS SAVES!<br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-39731746749045083212012-11-01T07:44:00.000-04:002013-02-28T22:20:52.166-05:00A Pain I Can Live With"Never, never be afraid to do what's right, especially if the welfare of a person or animal is at stake. Society's punishments are small compared to the wounds we inflict on our soul when we look the other way."<i> </i>- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.<br />
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<br />
A dear friend of mine brought that quote to my attention last week. As soon as I read it, I felt the hand of God on my back, once again giving me the push I need to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).<br />
<br />
Dr. King's statement isn't only an admonition against moral negligence, it's a sad commentary on what <i>can</i> be expected when one does in fact <i>act</i>.<br />
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<i>Doing the right thing</i>, requires making a judgement call against the actions of another, or lack thereof, something popular, American culture frowns upon.<br />
<br />
Unless the perceived violation is obviously offensive, the whistle-blower is forever left wondering if his or her intrusion was indeed justified.<br />
<br />
Almost ten years ago, my mother, an exceptionally intelligent and well educated woman, began exhibiting signs of dementia - memory loss, confusion, disorientation. She lost her ability to fluently articulate herself, maintain the family finances, buy groceries.<br />
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My father, her husband and soul-mate of fifty years, assumed the household chores. He also made it his mission to cover for her mistakes - to keep her condition hidden.<br />
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Incredibly social individuals, my parents were determined to live the retirement lifestyle they'd aspired to, in spite of Mother's illness. That lifestyle included the liberal consumption of alcohol.<br />
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I don't know if Mom was ever formally diagnosed with dementia, but she was prescribed a drug most commonly used to treat its symptoms.<br />
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I fully understand my parents' right and desire to live their golden years to their fullest, but there came a point at which I felt they were being reckless. Mother still self-medicated, had free access to the car, and the gas stove. Cocktail hour began at home, or on the road, at 4:30. It wasn't a stretch to believe that somebody needed to remain sober.<br />
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I wasn't the only one alarmed. Others shared their concerns with me. Mother herself complained bitterly about Dad's inability to moderate his alcohol consumption. Clearly, something needed to be said, but sadly I was the only one willing to speak up. Others opted to <i>pray nothing bad happened</i>, or worse, to <i>wait for a crisis and then intervene</i>.<br />
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While a firm believer in the power of prayer, I also believe that God gives us a voice and expects us to use it (something Mom's father used to say).<br />
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There were boundaries I never crossed with my Dad, and I worried he'd look upon what I had to say as an intrusion. Nobody wants to be told how to live, least of all an educated man in his seventies.<br />
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As anticipated, Dad perceived my show of concern as an attack, and launched a counter-attack, dividing the family. <br />
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I'll never know if my words or actions prevented a tragedy, or caused my parents to moderate their lifestyle. I would like to believe that some good came from the suffering that ensued.<br />
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My parents consider my intervention a betrayal they can't forgive. I am no longer welcome in their home. I love them, and pray they are safe and happy.<br />
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Morally, and intellectually, I know I did the right thing. Would I do it again? You bet! The faint-hearteds' refusal to intervene empowered my father to continue down a path of self-destruction with my mother in tow.<br />
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Still my heart aches for the loss. But it's a pain I can learn to live with.<br />
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To read more about this story, CLICK the following links: <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/id-like-to-report-drowning-my-own.html">I'd Like To Report a Drowning . . . My Own</a>, <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/accepting-that-its-simply-so.html">Accepting That It's Simply So</a>, <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2012/11/resignation-olw-blog-hop.html">Resignation</a>, <a href="http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2013/01/dancing-in-rain.html">Dancing In the Rain</a>.Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-38574909579464087882011-11-27T18:12:00.001-05:002012-11-03T19:58:03.652-04:00Clinging to My Toilet Brush and Rolling Pins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I suppose I should feel vindicated by an opinion piece in the Washington Post last week, announcing that the feminist movement has finally blessed a woman's right to engage in what two generations ago, were considered traditional domestic pursuits associated with homemaking, and childrearing.<br />
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After slightly more than thirty years of defending my role as a stay-at-home wife and mother, I was justifiably skeptical. But, as I skimmed the article, I was pleasantly intrigued by what I read.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I've lately been hearing things like, "There's just something natural about women taking on the nurturing role in the home" coming out of the mouths of women's studies grads and Ivy League PhD's.</blockquote>
Praise the Lord! The powers-that-be have finally affirmed my right to not only <i>collect</i> as quaint-vintage-relics of the past, but <i>use</i>, my rolling pins and pastry cloth? Are they suggesting, that I needn't hang-my-head in shame, when exposing myself at dinner parties, as a stay-at-home wife and mother?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What used to be a reactionary right-wing view now passes as almost progressive - stuff like "We're biologically hard-wired to do this" or "It makes evolutionary sense." </blockquote>
At last, the declaration I've been waiting for. A grudging admission from the culture-police that I haven't betrayed my gender by raising my own children.<br />
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With gratification, I read further, as the author pointed out what has been obvious to me; that while pursuing careers outside the home, women have sacrificed the ability to take care of themselves. Once simple tasks such as attaching a button, mending a hem, removing a stain from an article of clothing, home-cooking a meal, truly cleaning one's own home, and rearing one's own children, are now hired out.<br />
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She recounts how salmonella and e-coli scares have renewed women's interest in gardening and home cooking, and presented data on the increased sales of canning supplies and home schooling.<br />
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But beware dear reader! The final few paragraphs revealed a dreaded caveat.<br />
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In her article, <i>The new domesticity: fun, empowering, or a step back for American women,</i> twenty-something, free-lance journalist Emily Matchar suggests that women like herself, are embracing some aspects of house-husbandry because they see domesticity as a '"choice" rather than a role imposed upon them by society.<br />
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<i>(Choice!?</i> There it is - the favorite word of the feminist elite. I just knew, if I waded further into the article, I'd find it :)<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
" . . . But how many moral and environmental claims can we assign to domestic work before it starts to feel, once more, like an obligation? If history is any lesson, my just-for-fun jar of jam, could turn into my daughter's chore.</blockquote>
So there IS a sinister side to domesticity. Apparently, those that might benefit from our zeal for hand-knit socks, organic jam pots, and a house that smells of lemon oil, can't be trusted. Give them a taste of the good-life, and the men we've spent two generations beating into submission may rise up against us, with shackles and toilet brushes.<br />
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Get a grip ladies! Turn off that stove, set aside those mason jars, rent a copy of the <i>Stepford Wives. </i>And, when you're done with the movie, cowered in fear, grab your briefcase, blackberry and bottle of antacid, and get back to work! <i>Crack!</i><br />
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<i>Emily Matchar's opinion piece ran in the Washington Post on November 25, 2011, and can be read on-line. </i><br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-26284950601291045762011-10-29T13:15:00.000-04:002011-11-28T14:56:02.735-05:00Sink or Swim<i><b>When you fall in a river, you're no longer a fisherman; you are a swimmer</b>.</i> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Field and Stream Magazine</span></i><br />
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I'm not now, nor have I ever been a fisherman, but I find that quote from <i>Field and Stream Magazine, </i>humorously positive, and strangely applicable to my life, at the moment. <br />
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Each evening before retiring to bed, I make my way from the house to the kennel, to tuck Maggie and Trooper in for the night. Though a mere twenty feet from door to door, I must navigate the uneven ground, often through inclement weather, and in poor light. <br />
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It has occurred to me, that a few misguided steps could lead me to the edge of an embankment that drops down to the swiftly flowing, icy creek below. A turned ankle on a loose rock, or a strong nudge from a hyperactive hound, could lead to certain disaster - PLOP!<br />
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Sink, or swim? Both, choices confronting an individual upon realizing they've managed to wade a tad too far from shore, or in my case, fallen off the creek bank. I sincerely doubt I need worry about sinking in four feet of water, considering I'm a somewhat competent swimmer. Barring an incapacitating bump on the head, I'd most certainly emerge cold, bruised, and mad as a wet hen. <br />
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So much for a literal application; metaphorically, however, I might as well have fallen off the fishing boat while crossing the English Channel. <br />
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A few short years ago, my dear husband, researched and purchased for me, a fancy new digital SLR camera (a Canon Rebel). At the time, I was wearing out the best point-and-shoot model cameras at the rate of one, every eighteen months, or so. <br />
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To say, that I threw myself into learning how to use my new <i>toy</i>, would be an understatement. I read the book, enrolled in photography classes, and took the camera with me <i>everywhere, </i>taking photographs of <i>everything.</i><br />
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The new digital camera, led to a new computer, and that in turn, to the purchase of photo-editing software (more classes, and much frustration followed). I began to refine my subject matter. A laptop was purchased for road trips, along with better lenses, and fancy camera bags. Finally, the trusty little Rebel was put aside, for a beefier, more professional model.<br />
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So, where has my camera-mania led? To me, paddling wildly about, in the middle of the English Channel. Sink or swim?<br />
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As long as I keep my wits about me, and the seas remain relatively calm, I think I have a pretty good shot at making it ashore.<br />
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If you have time, check out my new blog site, <a href="http://Farmfreshphotography.blogspot.com/">Farmfreshphotography.blogspot.com</a>.<br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-85430322150873848322011-09-14T16:38:00.000-04:002011-11-28T14:58:09.055-05:00No Man Is An Island<i>No man is an island,</i><br />
<i>entire of itself . . .</i><br />
<i> John Donne (1572 -1631)</i><br />
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I've never minded spending time alone, which has been both a blessing and curse. I wasn't exactly a nerdy child, but I admit to spending long hours alone in my room sorting through envelopes of foreign stamps, researching the value of old coins, composing poetic ditties, and short stories. As an adult, my ability to spend long periods of time happily in my own company has been a godsend, considering the fact that my husband has traveled routinely throughout our thirty-one year marriage.<br />
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When we had horses at home, I never minded the hours spent mucking stalls, cleaning tack, or polishing riding boots. In fact, we used to joke that my daughters had the shiniest boots on the dressage show circuit. <br />
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Yesterday, I was tasked with scrubbing century old moss from stone cut from the old mill foundation. The stones will be used to face the hearth and fireplace in our new home. I was alone for hours behind the garage - above the rushing creek - on my hands and knees - just the stones, a wire brush and I. Lost in my thoughts, I enjoyed the alone time.<br />
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It's been a particularly busy summer for Rick and I. Overseeing the construction of our home, has been a full-time project. Living on an open construction site was quite an adjustment, but we grew accustomed to waking to a symphony of bulldozers, power saws, and nail drivers. After our morning coffee, we'd take our daily marching orders from the contractor, and set off across the countryside to fill them, returning each afternoon with research to share, or boxes to unload. <br />
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Through it all, Rick had a business to run, making several trips back and forth to California via Pittsburgh. From our little cottage on Mill Creek, we endeavored to plant business roots in our new community, holding strategy meetings on our summer porch. <br />
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In May, we welcomed a new member to our little farm family. Trooper, our little red lab puppy, now more closely resembles Clifford, the Big Red Dog. After three summers of TLC, my flower garden was a sight to behold, and my carefully researched feeding station managed to attract a wide variety of butterflies and songbirds. My little vegetable garden produced its first cucumbers in late June, zucchini in August, and tomatoes in abundance. <br />
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From locally grown organic produce, I've processed enough veggies, jams, pickles, soup, salsas and relish, to stock our new pantry for at least a year. At one point, protesting the time and space my food science projects were demanding, Rick banished my cookbooks and canning supplies to the storage pod (they've since freed themselves, and have returned to the cottage).<br />
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Our happiest days, were those spent with our children and grandchildren. They came, and we went - to country fairs and tractor shows - to the diary hut for homemade ice cream. We watched them splash and play in the cool water of Mill Creek by day, and roast marshmallows around the bonfire by starlight. What a pleasure it's been watching them grow to enjoy the magic of this place.<br />
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There was sadness too in this summer - loss and frustration - the sort that one either survives, or doesn't. I survived.<br />
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At one point yesterday, as I crouched over the foundation stones, focused, busily scraping away the layers of lichen and moss, the mason appeared before me, dripping in sweat and covered in stone dust. He admonished me saying that if I scrubbed too hard, I'd alter the very character of the stone that I admired so much.<br />
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The mason was right. I stood up, turned on the hose, and washed away the layers of dirt and moss that I'd loosened. The old foundation stones came alive with color. There were divots and cracks, tool marks left by the original masons that quarried and cut the stone by hand, and bits of the original mortar that had adhered to, and become part of the stone. I stood back and proudly admired my work, and added my name to the invisible list of those that had handled the massive chunks of sandstone across two centuries.<br />
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Sometimes its alright to be content with yourself, blissfully ignorant of the world around you, and sometimes its okay to retreat and grieve. But there always comes a time, when one must stand up, step back, and look at the bigger picture to gain perspective. Sometimes we need others to remind us to do so, and the wisdom to listen to them.<br />
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The construction on our house, is coming to a long anticipated end, and our busy summer is drawing to a close. In a matter of weeks, autumn will die away into winter, and with the inevitable snowfall, there will be long periods of quiet and solitude here. I'll enjoy the alone time. But I have faith that winter will give way to spring, and spring into summer, and with it, the hustle and bustle, the laughter, and children . . .<br />
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<i>No man is an island entire of itself;</i><br />
<i>every man is a piece of the continent, </i><br />
<i>a part of the main;</i><br />
<i>if a clod be washed away by the sea, </i><br />
<i>Europe is the less, </i><br />
<i>as well as if a promontory were,</i><br />
<i>as well as a manor of thy friends or of thine own were;</i><br />
<i>any man's death diminishes me, </i><br />
<i>because I am involved in mankind.</i><br />
<i>And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;</i><br />
<i>it tolls for thee.</i><br />
<i> John Donne</i>Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-84907602492666464952011-07-22T02:04:00.008-04:002011-11-28T14:58:30.257-05:00Old-Tractor Folk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YGHvpNK6-I8/TikF4PQku_I/AAAAAAAAHeg/N3qeHpzyo3M/s1600/IMG_9263_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YGHvpNK6-I8/TikF4PQku_I/AAAAAAAAHeg/N3qeHpzyo3M/s200/IMG_9263_edited-1.jpg" width="200" /></a>In northwestern Pennsylvania, owning a tractor is a big deal. It seems everyone has one. In addition to the tractor dealers that display the latest and greatest in new farm machinery, used tractors seem to be everywhere. I'd be hard pressed to drive five miles in any direction, without running across a used tractor parked at the end of some country driveway, a hand-made for-sale sign, dangling across its grill.<br />
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I used to wonder, what on earth anyone would do with an old-rusty-tractor. Then I went to my first tractor show, and found all the old-rusty-tractors, painted, polished, and proudly paraded to the applause of a crowd of old-tractor enthusiasts. There were weathered farmers in bib overalls, young farmers in jeans and t-shirts, sixty-something-sneaker-clad women wearing straw hats and sunglasses, young women in cut-off shorts and tank tops, and fresh-faced-adolescent boys, all driving old tractors. I was thoroughly intrigued by the lovingly restored pieces of old farm machinery, and the people that cared for them.<br />
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Going to a tractor show, is like going to one of those vintage car shows, where people walk around oohing and ahhing, remembering the good-old-days. Tractor folk spend hours debating the merits of the different makes and models. Everyone has their favorites (I'm partial to the McCormick Farmall). <br />
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I used to tease Rick about using our clunky, old, orange Simplicity riding mower (circa 1973), to maintain the cottage grounds, goading him to buy a newer, cooler model. He responded by saying there was a certain prestige in being the owner/operator of a <i>vintage lawn tractor. </i>I honestly thought my dear husband was pulling my leg, until I saw our <i>tractor's</i> twin, parade by at last year's tractor show, its chesty driver, beaming with pride. I took the Simplicity a little more seriously after that.<br />
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This spring, Rick climbed aboard the old girl for his first mow of the season, turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened. I knew something was wrong, when I failed to hear the roar of her engine across the acreage. A while later, Rick appeared in the cottage, grease on his shirt and hands, a concerned look on his face, and pronounced we had a problem.<br />
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I'm not altogether sure, what the problem was, but it was resolved with the help of our neighbor-friend, the one with 1957 Allis-Chalmers tractor. The Simplicity spent a week or so in his barn, alongside his two <i>vintage lawn tractors</i>. I still hold my breath when Rick goes out to the shed to start her up. It would be a shame to have to replace her.<br />
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Last week, while attending the first of this season's tractor shows, I overheard an elderly woman recalling childhood memories of riding along on her father's lap, as he plowed the family's fields. I took a seat on a bench in the barn, that doubles as a church on Sunday mornings, and listened to the music of the bluegrass band. It could have been the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a quiet innocence in the crowd around me, and I couldn't help but feel as though I really didn't belong among them. They were a community unto themselves, with a shared history. I envied them that.<br />
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Perhaps I'd feel differently next year, if I could talk Rick into showing the Simplicity.<br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com106tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-44314630573013042912011-07-06T10:02:00.004-04:002011-07-06T22:23:23.528-04:00I'm Too Darn Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm not a kid anymore! That's one message I took away with me Saturday night, as I left Heinz Field in Pittsburgh, after a country music concert.<br />
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It wasn't the volume of the music that turned me off, or the behavior of the crowd during the show. It was what went on before the concert that convinced me that I just might be too darn old to party all day with a bunch of strangers in a parking lot.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fi2SMZAHnfw/ThRP-v9bykI/AAAAAAAAHZM/2qTiaWUPfkA/s1600/IMG_7583_edited-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fi2SMZAHnfw/ThRP-v9bykI/AAAAAAAAHZM/2qTiaWUPfkA/s320/IMG_7583_edited-2.jpg" width="213" /></a>Pittsburgh's north-shore riverfront is home to both Heinz Field, and PNC Park. The river-walk, from which one may view the city center, Mount Washington, and Point State Park, provides easy pedestrian access to both. It also serves as mooring for pleasure boats, water taxis, and Pittsburgh's famed Gateway Clipper fleet.<br />
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Last Saturday, the river walk, as well as the parking lots surrounding the football stadium, served as a playground for thousands of concert-goers waiting to attend a late afternoon music-fest. By all accounts, a staggering amount of alcohol was consumed outside the stadium in the hours before the concert. <i>I repeat, <b>staggering!</b></i><br />
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Please don't misunderstand, I'm no tea-tottler. There's nothing I enjoy more on a sultry, summer afternoon, than sipping a slushy Margarita. <br />
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What appalled me most about this drinking crowd, was the revelers blatant disregard for the immediate environment. Granted, there didn't seem to be any real effort made on behalf of the city, or the stadium to provide trash receptacles, but come-on folks! It's 2011! Didn't we renounce the public disposition of our personal trash back in the 1960s?<br />
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While the party raged, it was difficult to really assess the amount of trash accumulating on the ground around us. Not so, after the concert, when the virtual mine field of plastic cups, broken bottles, and empty beer cans that littered the landscape between the stadium and our car was clearly visible. I can still hear the crunch of broken glass under the exiting auto tires.<br />
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The relationship between the the local police and the tail-gaters was also quite intriguing. The merrymakers didn't seem at all intimidated by the police presence in the parking lot. Apparently, there are few, if any restrictions on open containers of alcohol in the city, because the police made little if any effort to rein anyone in. <br />
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Totally unreasonable, was the prohibition against awnings and canopies. With temps in the 90s, it only made sense to get out of the sun, but each time a canopy went up, the police arrived with instructions to tear it down. Call me out-of-touch, but I have to wonder about a city code that blesses beer bongs and Margarita machines, but outlaws a basic 10 x 10 EZ-Up.<br />
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All in all, I tried to be non-judgemental, and to look the other way when they hauled our inebriated neighbor off to the first-aid center. I wanted to fit in, honestly I did. But, in spite of my kick-ass cowboy hat, I couldn't forget that I was five somebodies' grandmother.<br />
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Maybe next time I get the urge to play dress-up with the kids, I'll skip the tail-gate party, and just set-sail with Captain Morgan instead!<br />
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<i>All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans at Farm Fresh Photography, 2011</i>Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-5131428354514245642011-07-01T02:29:00.003-04:002012-11-11T12:45:41.697-05:00House in the Big Woods<b><i>Another post in the My One Little Word Series - Mystery</i></b><br />
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<i>The reality of any place, is what its people remember of it. Charles Kuralt</i><br />
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Three years ago, we bought a little cottage on a sleepy creek in a very big woods. At the time, we knew little of the area, only what we remembered of it as visitors, years before. Our memories were good ones, and the cottage seemed sound. <br />
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We couldn't have known then, that we'd love the big woods, as much as we do, or that once gone, we'd long for the sound of the rush of the water as it tumbles and spills through the rugged little creek bed.<br />
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Our weekend visits became more frequent, and the days spent at the cottage were extended. We were simply enchanted by the peaceful, serenity of the place.<br />
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With a heavy heart, we turned the key in the lock of the cottage door at the end of each fall, and counted the days 'til the spring thaw, when we'd unlock it again. We began to think that perhaps we belonged in the big woods, on the banks of Mill Creek, in a real house, along side the cottage.<br />
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This autumn, when the leaves have all fallen, and the little cottage is covered with frost, we won't fret having to leave the peace and gentle quiet of the big woods.<br />
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We'll lie in bed each night, contentedly listening to the rush of the water over the rocks, as it makes its way down the creek bed past the cottage, and our new house.<br />
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<i>All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans, 2011</i><br />
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Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-59468301290873898782011-06-23T10:37:00.000-04:002011-06-23T10:37:47.709-04:00Just A House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ENmsqi9bTng/TgK9q5JvbWI/AAAAAAAAHJc/-ORsp7YYxbU/s1600/IMG_2486_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ENmsqi9bTng/TgK9q5JvbWI/AAAAAAAAHJc/-ORsp7YYxbU/s400/IMG_2486_edited-1.jpg" width="266" /></a>Building your own home, is like buying a purebred puppy. You may be willing to pay more to get exactly what you want, but you feel a little guilty doing so. <br />
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After all, there are a lot of perfectly good used houses for sale, as well as mixed breed puppies, up for adoption.<br />
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Strange analogy I know, but oddly enough, we've recently done both - bought a puppy, and started a construction project - and while I have no regrets, I feel a tad guilty.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFDoojk0pcg/TgNDX3B9LNI/AAAAAAAAHKQ/O5Kk8qVddxc/s1600/IMG_2470_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFDoojk0pcg/TgNDX3B9LNI/AAAAAAAAHKQ/O5Kk8qVddxc/s320/IMG_2470_edited-1.jpg" width="213" /></a>Irrational? Yes! Lord knows, we've rescued more than our share of homeless horses, kittens and puppies, and pumped enough money into the housing market, buying dwellings built to somebody else's taste and standards. Still, I feel almost as sorry for all those sad, empty houses, as I do for the shelter puppies.<br />
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Maybe it's a girl-thing, my tendency to view inanimate objects as though they were human, and I'll admit to having been a gullible child. I loved all those old-world fables, fairy tales and Saturday-morning cartoons that antropomorphised everything from rabbits and roosters, to roadsters and rickshaws. <br />
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I can avoid the sad eyes of unloved puppies by steering clear of animal shelters, but the old houses haunt me.<br />
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Our countryside is littered with the remains of what once were family farms and homesteads. I drive by them everyday, and would like to save them all.<br />
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While other passersby see an eyesore, I see a monument to somebody else's dream. I imagine them young and proud. Windows polished, clapboards freshly painted or white-washed. <br />
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From my perspective, behind the lens of my camera, I see children playing in the front yard, Mom and Pop watching idly from the front porch swing. I see Grandma serving Sunday dinner in her farmhouse kitchen, and Grandpa sitting in the parlor, thumbing through the Farmer's Almanac. <br />
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In rural America, houses were built to last a lifetime. And, most did!<br />
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Living on a construction site as we do, I awake each morning to the hammering of nails and the buzz of an electric saw. I momentarily picture my dream house complete - windows polished, clapboards painted, and rise with a smile on my face at what will be. <br />
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Later at dusk, I walk the plywood floors, and see beyond the bare studs, my dining table -family gathered for Sunday dinner.<br />
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I imagine someday, passersby will glance at what was once my house, proud and new, and see nothing more than a sagging facade of weathered timbers and loosened shingles. <br />
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But, it doesn't make me sad to think of it. For I know, that long after the its builders are laid to rest, my house will stand. And eventually, some curious soul will stop and wonder about the folks that lived there, when it was young . . .<br />
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<i>The photos above, with the exception of those of the new construction, are all different angles of the same house, one I found along the roadside, in northwestern Pennsylvania. It's weathered grandeur continues to fascinate me.</i><br />
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<i>Mrs. Green Jeans @ Farm Fresh Photography, 2011</i><br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-92128169385784415092011-06-14T15:52:00.363-04:002011-06-15T08:55:02.662-04:00Just a Little Quirky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I just love the raised trim on these milky-white, vintage, spice bottles from the 1930s. The little red tops really POP! A little elbow grease, and they'll clean up nicely.</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><i>This post was inspired by a recent road-trip I took with my aunt and her best friend, to Ligonier, a poster-child-candidate, for the title of 'Small Town USA.' Ligonier, which was founded in the 1760s, and is home to Fort Ligonier, is located in the Pennsylvania's Laurel Highlands.</i></span><br />
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One of the greatest aspects of living in a free society, is that we are constantly afforded the opportunity to evolve. If we don't like what we're doing for a living, where we're living, or the car we're driving, we can change it!<br />
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We have absolute freedom to express ourselves in just about whatever reasonable manner we choose. So when the urge moves you to paint that wall a nice shade of chartreuse, go for it! Express yourself!<br />
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<i>The little red jackets on these Canadian Mounties, screamed my name from the musty basement of an old antique store. </i><br />
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It's easy to get stuck in a design rut. Most people think they know what they like, and are often afraid to venture far from their comfort zone. My philosophy - you only live once, so dare to be different. <br />
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While traveling the British Isles, I found every well appointed English garden inhabited by brightly painted, ceramic gnomes. I thought a lot about inviting a few into my own garden, but was intimidated to do so. Not any more!<br />
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<i>Garden gnomes and pink flamingoes seem to be on the top of every HOA list of "tacky-don'ts." Good taste be damned! I no longer have to worry about those pesky lawn-police.</i></div>
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Recently I've found, that the older I get, the greater my desire to surround myself with vintage items that invoke that warm, fuzzy feeling of my childhood. So, I find myself haunting flea markets, antique fairs and curiosity shops. I never know what I may find, but I always know when I find IT - that one something that I just have to take home with me.<br />
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I'd like to think, the slightly-worn, once-loved items I sprinkle through my house, give my home character. So what if some find it a little quirky. Quirky makes me happy!<br />
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<i>The delft-blue characters on this salt cellar, invoke memories of touring old, rural Pennsylvania, where Pennsylvania Dutch decor was all the rage in coffee shops and motor hotels.</i><br />
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<i>Photos by Mrs. Green Jeans at Farm Fresh Photography, 2011.</i><br />
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<br />Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-672563338618264885.post-29252987988128802812011-06-09T21:44:00.302-04:002011-06-10T09:14:29.165-04:00Teddy Bears' Picnic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>If you go out in the woods today</i><br />
<i>You're sure of a big surprise.</i><br />
<i>If you go out in the woods today</i><br />
<i>You'd better go in disguise.</i><br />
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<i>For every bear that ever there was</i><br />
<i>Will gather there for certain, because</i><br />
<i>Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.</i><br />
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When I was about thirteen, my aunt gave me an album of children's songs that would have been a more appropriate gift had I been at least five years younger. The album cover illustrated the title song, The Teddy Bears' Picnic. <br />
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In spite of my age, I was intrigued enough to play the record, and now admit that I fell in love with, not only the melody and lyrics of the song, but with the idea of a gathering of faux-fur, woodland creatures, frolicking about on a carpet of checkered tablecloths. <br />
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I don't know what happened to that album, and I'd forgotten almost entirely about that little song, until I found myself absent-mindedly humming it a few days ago, while reviewing photos from a recent family gathering.<br />
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Who doesn't love a picnic? I suppose there are those few poor, antiseptic souls, that prefer their meals served on sterile plates in a climate controlled environment, that shudder at the idea of swatting flies from the potato salad. I'm not one of them. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvev5kU415g/TfGdIQRg7SI/AAAAAAAAG60/Ng5chqBGsuY/s1600/IMG_5096_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvev5kU415g/TfGdIQRg7SI/AAAAAAAAG60/Ng5chqBGsuY/s400/IMG_5096_edited-1.jpg" width="266" /></a>I love to eat outdoors! As a child, indoor mealtime meant, sitting squarely in a chair, left hand resting passively in my lap, fork held firmly in my right hand. <br />
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There was no squirming about, no sniffing or poking at what was served. We were not invited to share our opinion about the boiled Brussel sprouts, or salmon cakes, but were expected to eat whatever was placed before us, without sniggering, gagging or crying.<br />
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<i>Picnic time for teddy bears,</i><br />
<i>The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today. </i><br />
<i>Watch them, catch them unawares,</i><br />
<i>And see them picnic on their holiday.</i><br />
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<i>See them gaily dance about.</i><br />
<i>They love to play and shout.</i><br />
<i>And never have any cares.</i><br />
<i>At six o'clock their mommies and daddies</i><br />
<i>Will take them home to bed</i><br />
<i>Because they're tired little teddy bears.</i><br />
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Once or twice a year, my grandparents would host a family picnic. It was heaven. Rules of etiquette, and table manners were suspended for the day, and nobody seemed to care whether we cleaned our plates, asked for seconds, or used a napkin. <br />
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There were giant, ice-filled metal tubs, containing individual-serving-sized glass bottles of pop in every flavor imaginable - orange, grape, cherry, strawberry, root-beer, lemon-lime, cream soda. We could have whatever we liked, and as many as we wanted. Nobody cared!<br />
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After supper, they cut the watermelon which had spent the day in a requisite ice-packed cooler. My brother, cousins and I, sat cross-legged in the grass, slurping melon, and spitting the slippery black seeds at one another. <br />
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At about the time we finished tossing our watermelon rind in the bushes, the fireflies began to flit across the yard, and we clamored for glass jars. <br />
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Dusk came and went, and nobody seemed to notice that we were still outside, running with sticks and glass jars (somebody might have put an eye out, but never did), pushing and shoving, laughing and shouting. We wore the remains of the day on our upper lips - ketchup and mustard, red-pop and grape-soda. Tattered and torn, we were kids at a picnic.<br />
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<i>Every teddy bear, that's been good</i><br />
<i>Is sure of a treat today</i><br />
<i>There's lots of wonderful things to eat</i><br />
<i>And wonderful games to play</i><br />
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<i>Beneath the trees, where nobody sees</i><br />
<i>They'll hide and seek as long as they please</i><br />
<i>Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.</i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9RmgiJQZrcQ/TfGZStZlqSI/AAAAAAAAG6o/oBnZ9bOyTCM/s1600/IMG_4404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9RmgiJQZrcQ/TfGZStZlqSI/AAAAAAAAG6o/oBnZ9bOyTCM/s320/IMG_4404.JPG" width="228" /></a>Once a year, Rick and I host a picnic for our extended family. Everyone brings a dish to share, and an ice-filled cooler with beverages. We play horseshoes, and washers, toss the football around, listen to old rock and roll, and today's country. We eat, we drink and we make merry together.<br />
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The children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, play in the creek, eat and drink whatever they want, run with sticks and glass jars, push, shout, laugh, and learn (really learn) what it means to be FAMILY. <br />
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In retrospect, perhaps my aunt's gift to me, all those years ago, wasn't as inappropriate as it appeared. I believe she was sending me a message, <i>you're never to old, to be young at heart! Grrrrrr!</i><br />
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<i>If you go out in the woods today,</i><br />
<i>You'd better not go alone.</i><br />
<i>Its lovely out in the woods today,</i><br />
<i>But safer to stay at home.</i><br />
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<i>For every bear that ever there was</i><br />
<i>Will gather there for certain, because</i><br />
<i>Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.</i><br />
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<i>A Teddy Bears' Picnic was composed by John Walter Bratton (1907); lyrics are by Jimmy Kennedy (1932).</i><br />
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<i>Photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans, Farm Fresh Photos, 2011.</i>Karen http://www.blogger.com/profile/00312995379090282752noreply@blogger.com3