Tree Farm

“…and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well…May that be truly said of all of us…” - about the changed Ebenezer Scrooge, Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Mr. Clark and I went to get our Christmas tree today, and were devastated to find the best Christmas tree source EVER is no longer selling trees. For twenty years we’ve made the short trek to Glass Tree Farm to find and cut the tree of our dreams - for only $20. (Actually, when we first started making the trip, the trees were only $15.)

This would be a great deal (and great experience) for anyone, but since our old house has big rooms with 13-foot ceilings, the opportunity to get a tree that will fill our space suitably – for only $20 – was an annual Christmas miracle. And, we came to depend on it and love it.

The first year we got our tree at Glass Tree Farm the kids were little – in the third and fourth grades – and, we were celebrating the first Christmas in our “new” house – the one we had worked so hard to renovate (and bring back to life from a fire) for the past year. We still hadn’t gotten used to how big our rooms were and how high our ceilings are, and our little family was very excited about the prospect of finding the perfect, really big tree.

Someone had told us about this great tree farm just outside of town, so we piled into the old Volvo wagon we had at the time (a 1970 version named Mr. Brown because of his character and color) and headed for a Christmas victory. Glass Tree Farm did not disappoint. We found the biggest, most spectacularly tall and round Cypress tree on the place, cut it down, tied it to the top of Mr. Brown, forked over our $15, and headed home, not believing our good fortune.

As is often the case with Christmas trees, when we got it inside, it looked a lot bigger than it had out in Mr. Glass’ field. Never mind, though! We put that huge tree up, decorated it with loving fervor, and enjoyed the heck out of it on through early February, even though it nearly filled a fourth of our really big dining room. (It seemed like a shame to take such a huge, beautiful tree down just because Christmas was over…)

The next year we went back to Glass Tree Farm, and the year after that, and the year after that…Several of our Christmas card photos were taken there, kids in Santa hats, festive family picking out a tree…Pretty soon, the little kids on the Christmas cards became gangly middle schoolers, still willing to sport a Christmas hat at the tree farm because, by this time that annual trip had become a well-loved family tradition…A few more years and the awkward middle schoolers on the Christmas card were replaced by attractive teenagers, willing at this point to don a festive holiday scarf or a pair of red tennis shoes, in a nod to holiday tradition…Once the kids went to college, it was Mr. Clark and I doing the Christmas tree shuffle alone, but we did it no less joyfully, because we knew the sight of that really big, really beautiful, really affordable tree would light up our kids’ faces, the minute they got home…

At some point along the way, pretty recently it seems, Mr. Glass raised his price from $15 to $20 – for any tree in his fields. We couldn’t believe it took him so long to make that $5 move, and we were more than glad to pay the “extra” as the trees we cut on his land continued to be the most spectacular beautiful Christmas trees “ever!” as the kids said every year, with every tree being “even better” than the last.

If you get your Christmas tree from the same man for 20 years (and it is as big of a deal as it was for our family) you get to know the tree farmer a little bit. We found out that Mr. Glass got into the business to “make a little extra money” to pay for his kids’ college; and, once the kids’ college was paid for, he liked selling Christmas trees enough to keep going...until, well, this year.

I don’t know why Mr. Glass decided not to sell any more trees. He’d been saying he was thinking about getting out of the business for several years now, which was understandable, given how long ago his kids graduated from college, and how much time it must’ve taken to tend to and clip all those trees into proper Christmas tree shape each year…But, we really were sad, when we drove up to his farm today, and there was no sign of Christmas tree sales, anywhere in sight.

So, thank you, Mr. Glass, for making so many of our holidays so merry and bright. Your wonderfully huge trees and incredibly affordable pricing have allowed our family to enjoy bigger and more spectacular Christmas trees than we could ever imagine, year after year; and, for that we are profoundly thankful. You gave us a lot of good memories and great Christmas card pictures, and for that, we most sincerely thank you, too.

Leftovers

Mr. Clark and I just finished the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers, but we are by no means done being thankful. A year ago, Mr. Clark was out of work during the holidays. In fact, his period of unemployment lasted 14 months, and things got pretty bleak there towards the end.

Thankfully, Mr. Clark is now employed, so this year our holidays are, once again, looking merry and bright. That is probably not so for all of the people in our nation, in our state and in our county who have been laid off or downsized, and are still looking for work.

The unemployment rate in Georgia right now is 10.2-percent – one of the higher in the nation. Barrow County is even worse off, with an 11.1-percent unemployment rate. According to the economic forecasters, Georgia is predicted to remain in a severe unemployment recession and continue to lose jobs through 2010.

What does this mean? It means a lot of folks are hurting out there, and the holidays tend to be a time when their pain is more intensely felt. Skim any article about any charity organization, and you will read that the need for help continues to rise, while donations continue to fall. Churches have also been hit pretty hard, as needs increase and contributions decrease.

The obvious thing to do, if you and yours remain blessed with employment, the means to pay the bills, and have a little left over at the end of the month, is to donate – donate whatever you can - to the charity or church of your choice. Local churches do a lot of good work not only this time of year, but all year long. And, the Barrow County Cooperative Benevolence Ministries (BCCBM) runs the local food bank, and helps those in need in our community in many other ways.

Another thing you could do is simply help out someone you know who is out of work and struggling right now.

Last Christmas some friends Mr. Clark and I usually exchange only cards with gave us a $100 Walmart gift card. It was tucked inside their usual Christmas card, with the amount not written on it. I was expecting maybe $25 or so, which, times being what they were, would’ve made us profoundly thankful. When the cashier told me the card was worth $100 tears welled up in my eyes.

$100 might not seem like a lot when times are good, but when times are tough, and there is no hope in sight, $100 feels like a fortune.

Not knowing how bad things would get, or how long we could hold out without Mr. Clark’s income, I clipped that Walmart gift card to the calendar - to save it for an even rainier day. And, for several months the sight of that gift card made me feel a little better, a little safer, a little more optimistic and thankful, every time I walked by. It felt like we had a little insurance policy which was ours to use, when times got really bad…

Mr. Clark found some contract work early in the year, so we never had to use the gift card for food, pet food or medicine; we had those things barely covered. We ended up using it to buy two new tires, in the spring, when the rains began to hit hard. One of our cars, the one we use all the time, had really bald tires on the front, and, based on the amount of hydro-planing already happening, we were at risk for a serious accident.

Using that gift card for tires felt like a big decision. Would the contract work last until Mr. Clark found real work? Would we end up regretting the tires, because we needed food?

My point is, people who are accustomed to toting their own load – and donating to church or charity – aren’t good at asking for help. It never occurred to Mr. Clark and me to go to the food bank or ask a church for money. We’ve always been able to take care of ourselves…There are others in greater need…We don’t need to ask for charity…

I’m all for donating to the food bank and giving generously at church. I’m also profoundly aware that there are people out there struggling in silence, who would really appreciate the kind of emotional and financial insurance a gift card can bring.

Contact the BCCBM at 770-867-3925 to donate food. Tax deductible donations can be sent to the Barrow County Food Pantry, PO Box 547, Winder, or any charity of your choice.

Thai for lunch

“Don’t judge me, just pray for me and help me… Don’t pray for me, just walk with me and talk with me…” - Celest Divine Ngeve

Mr. Clark and I had Thai food for lunch the other day; and, I am a political Liberal. While neither of these things is probably a surprise to my loyal readers, there is a surprising connection between the two statements – a connection that Mr. Clark told me about over our Thai lunch.

According to a website called Hunch, which uses multiple choice questions to compile what 64,000 people (to date) think about a whole bunch of different topics (5,000 to be exact), self-described Liberals eat more Thai (and Indian) lunches, than self-described Conservatives, who prefer pizza, macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.

For dinner, Conservatives lean towards fried chicken, meatloaf and steak, while Liberals eat things like “veggie burgers” and curry. According to the site, Conservatives eat fast few “a few times” each week, while 92% of Hunch Liberals say they never eat fast food. However, when asked if a bacon double cheeseburger is “delicious” or “despicable,” over half of the respondents in both groups said “delicious.” (Hmm…go figure…)

Liberal Hunchers prefer thin or regular crust pizza, while Conservatives go for deep dish. When asked how often they eat fruit, Conservative Hunchers said less than once a week, while Liberals say they eat fruit almost daily. Conservative Hunchers like white bread and prefer “mild” foods, while Liberals said they prefer multi-grain bread and “spicy” foods.

When asked what “exotic ethnic food” they prefer, a large majority of Conservative Hunchers said “Chinese take-out,” while the Liberals went for “Pan-Asian” or “French-Fusion.” Along the same lines, Liberal Hunchers said they prefer “smaller portions” and “artfully arranged” foods, while the Conservatives prefer bigger portions, “plainly arranged.”

Both groups, however, have several things in common. Their favorite lettuce is Romaine; the second pick for Conservatives is Ice Berg, while Liberals chose arugula. (Bitter! Yuk!) Apparently, both groups like salt on their margarita glass rims, and also prefer that their sandwiches be cut diagonally, rather than vertically. And, according to Hunch, everybody likes hot dogs.

So, what does all of this have to do with anything that might even remotely matter?

Maybe it’s that we all – Liberals and Conservatives - like hot dogs…Maybe it’s that a guilty little sin both groups admit to is that they find the notion of a bacon double cheeseburger to be “delicious” rather than “despicable”…Maybe it’s that, given the choice, we could choose to respect each others’ differences and agree to disagree - rather than distrust, disrespect, and (in the vernacular) generally “dis” each other with the frequency that we do.

There is a level of bile, rancor, disdain, disrespect, anger and even hate, that bubbles between people with differing opinions in our society and, in addition to being destructive, it’s very unattractive. All you need to do to experience this first hand is go to this paper’s on-line version and read what some of the bloggers have to say.

My response to them is that life is not a reality TV show, and everyone around you is not an extra waiting to hear what you say next. We are all in this together and there’s no reason the ride needs to be filled with rudeness, disrespect and hate. We live in a still-wealthy country (in spite of the recession); we have the freedom to speak (and blog) openly; and, we, as a nation and a people, remain well and bountifully blessed.

Thank goodness for a level of security and wealth that allows us to spend time responding to on-line questionnaires about what kind of food we like - may we remember that most of the people in the world don’t enjoy this luxury.

So, the next time you sit down to enjoy a hot dog (whether it be meat or “veggie”) maybe your grace could be (in the words of the Charter of the United Nations) “to practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbors…” That might be a lot more positive than firing up the computer and blogging away anonymously.

Thank you

“If the only prayer you say in your whole life is ‘Thank you,” that would suffice.”

- Meister Eckhart

This week we move from the month of ghosts and spooks and things that go bump in the night, into the month of thankfulness. And, even in the context of this really beautiful time of year - the trees on fire with colorful leaves and the air so crisp, cool and fresh – “thankful” is sometimes a hard thing to remember to be.

“We count our miseries carefully, and accept our blessings without much thought,” a Chinese proverb states…so true, so much of the time!

How often do we nurse an old hurt, big worry or some concern carefully and oh! so attentively – at the expense of remembering how many things we have to be grateful for? Too often, is the answer for me. I can tell you, enthusiastically and in great detail, about the things on my “hurt and worries” list. I have to stop, breathe, focus and think to remember how consistently and generously well-blessed I am.

The other night was Halloween and Mr. Clark and I were giving out candy. I always like watching the parade of trick-or-treaters in their bright costumes - attentive parents with flashlights in hand, standing at the curb. I like to see what the kids are wearing and how they behave as they ask for and receive their candy.

We didn’t have as many young revelers as in years past, but the ones we had were in high spirits, and, in general, politer and more thankful than I remembered. A surprising number of them yelled, “Happy Halloween!” or a really joyful “Trick-or-Treat!” as they ran up our walk. And, almost all of them said a sincere “Thank you!” as they left.

Maybe the rain kept the sullen, non-costumed teenagers with pillow cases away, or maybe the tough economic times had everyone feeling a little cheerier about a hand-out. Either way, even the parents seemed more upbeat, friendly and thankful this year…

One little guy stands out in my mind. He looked to be four or five, and he was clearly an enthusiastic fellow, as we watched him come bouncing down the street and up to our house. He was dressed in red long johns and brown cowboy boots. His face was painted to look sort of like The Joker from Batman. He thanked us loudly and whole heartedly for the candy, and seemed to bubble over with energy and joy, as he stood there looking at our dogs, barking from inside the front door, the candles burning brightly inside our foyer, and the tall columns that dwarf our front porch.

“Wow!” he said, taking it all in, with a big smile on his face. Then, “Wow!” again. “I like your costume,” Mr. Clark said. “Are you The Joker?”

“No!” the little guy exclaimed, a bit indignantly. “I’m a Dead Clown!” His much quieter brother was standing next to him, wearing a thermal shirt, camouflage pants and a red clown nose.

“I’ve got his nose!” the brother proclaimed. Then they ran down the walk, into the night, once again calling, “Thank you!” and “Happy Halloween!”

Something about the little guy’s joy was infectious and, Mr. Clark and I laughed and laughed, for the rest of the evening, when one of us said, “Are you The Joker?” and, the other replied, “No! I’m a dead clown!” and, “I’ve got his nose!”

A year ago, Mr. Clark was unemployed and we had only a little bit of candy to hand out. We turned the porch light out early that Halloween night, and went to bed sad and worried about what lay ahead. This year, thankfully, Mr. Clark is employed again, and not only did the porch light stay on until our street fell quiet, but there was plenty of candy to go around, with even a little leftover. And, we went to bed feeling happy, thankful and well blessed.

Prayer is so important, as is faith and thankfulness and, cliché as it sounds, those are the things that bring us through the tough times, when joy and ease are hard to come by. There are still a lot of people out of work in our country, and a lot of folks have worries that are looming pretty large as this holiday season approaches…For my part, I will try to be generous of spirit and remember to be thankful, even when the temptation to count my miseries strikes.

I think bringing the image of that joyful, thankful, enthusiastic little “Dead Clown” (as well as his quieter brother, sporting the clown nose) to mind will help me remember that if I had only one prayer to pray, a joyous “Thank you!” would be enough.

Ghost

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us!” - Cornish prayer

We have a ghost in our house; his name is Pete; and, he’s just fine with me. It only seems right that a big ole’ rickety house built in 1903 would have a ghost…And, what better time than the week of Halloween, to talk about such things?

We first met Pete through hearsay. When we bought our home it was condemned and about a third destroyed by fire. It had been sitting vacant for over a year, and, well, yes, it did seem quite spooky. But, it wasn’t the house that let us know Pete was with us; it was people familiar with our house from past times who started stopping in to tell us about our ghost, as they passed by and noticed the work being done.

Apparently, the last family to inhabit the house before us was a large, creative, boisterous bunch with five kids. Those kids had a lot of friends and the house was what would now be called a “hang out house,” meaning it was a gathering place after school and before football games and for sleep-overs.

According to the accounts of the now-grown-up, once young visitors in our home, Pete was a young male entity who “liked to play tricks” especially on the kids spending time in his home. He was never malicious and only rarely appeared as the ghost-like image one might expect. He mostly just enjoyed “hanging out” with the kids and sometimes took their car keys or made noises in the night, probably just to remind them he was here.

We heard a lot of Pete stories as we restored our home, so we were primed for him to make a grand appearance once we moved in - that, it turns out, is not Pete’s style. It took him months to do anything at all, and when he finally appeared, all he did was play a series of notes on the piano or strike several random hits on my son’s drum set – only occasionally, in the middle of the night.

“Not much of a ghost there,” we thought, probably all four secretly glad that is all we had inherited...But, when the kids hit high school, Pete began to have some fun.

True to the home’s history, it was once again a “hang out house,” and, more than once, after a football game or during a sleep-over, one of our guests would have something come up missing. That happened often enough that Pete became a legend in our time, as well, and the kids would call him by name, tell stories about him, and, when necessary, ask him politely for whatever was missing, and, every time, the object would reappear, within about a half hour, in an obvious spot where we had all been looking.

One night Pete hid one of my son’s friend’s car keys, and let them reappear again, after the young man said, “All right, Pete – enough! I know you’re here. I just want to go home!” That young man told his girlfriend’s dad about the event (probably because he got the girl home late…) and that dad, it turned out, knew all about Pete, from his experiences in our home, when he was in high school…

What we heard about Pete seemed to mesh with our experience. He was good natured and loved it when the house was full of noise and energy. The only time he got grumpy was when he thought his beloved house was in danger (and we heard tales of very scary things being seen in the windows during the time the house was empty and folks were creeping around outside, perhaps hoping to steal one of the pretty mantels or ornate fireplace covers…) or when things got too quiet.

I didn’t experience Pete first hand until the year both kids left for college. One morning I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and the kitchen clock flew off the wall, onto the floor. Startled, I picked it up and hung it back on the wall. A few minutes later, it flew off the wall again…”Wait a minute,” I thought…”this must be Pete!”

“I know you miss them, Pete,” I said. “I do, too! But it’s just you and me here now, buddy, so let’s make the best of it.” The clock never flew off the wall again…

A few years later, during the week my daughter got married, our house was once again full of young vibrant energy and Diet Coke cans started flying off the top of the fridge. (That is where we keep canned drinks.) This had never happened before, but then it hit me - my son-in-law-to-be was a big Diet Coke drinker and Pete was mad that he was taking Pete’s friend away.

We talked about it and my daughter suggested that Pete “just wants to be included.” So, we “sent” him an invitation to the wedding by putting one addressed to “Pete” on top of the fridge. And, we told him we’d set him a place for him at the family table at the reception, which is exactly what we did. The Coke cans stopped flying, and I like to think Pete had a great time dancing in his ghostly best, the night his friend, my daughter got married.

I don’t’ know if ghosts are “real,” but I like to think the nice ones like Pete are. After all, wouldn’t any house or family be lucky to have such a loyal, fun-loving being standing by, taking watch, and enjoying the unique energy that each house and family have?

Birthday

My birthday is this week. I will be 52, and for a long time I didn’t think I’d make it this far. You see, my mom died at the age of 38, back in September of 1977. I was 19 at the time and her death sent me into a tail spin that kept me swirling around in a frantic whirlwind of activity for the next 20 years because somehow, in my mind, my mom’s death at 38 meant that I would die at 38, too.

My mom and I were living in Santa Cruz, California at the time. She and my dad had divorced, and after 21 years of marriage and being a stay-at-home mom, my mom wasn’t sure what to do next. She had always loved the ocean and dreamed of living by the sea, so that is what she decided to do. I went with her, partly as an adventure, and partly out of worry – she had a lot of health problems, and having married my dad fresh out of high school, had never lived on her own.

Santa Cruz is a pretty town, right on the coast. At that time it was affordable, and my mom found a little apartment two blocks from the shore. There was a long sidewalk along the cliffs above the sea and we spent a lot of time walking along it, talking and watching the waves and the sea lions, the sea birds, surfers and boats just off the shore.

It seemed odd that my mom loved the ocean so much, because she was deeply afraid of water and couldn’t swim. It seemed particularly odd that she loved walking along those Santa Cruz cliffs, because she was also afraid of heights and the cliffs were steep, slick, and obviously, potentially quite dangerous.

The evening my mom died, she picnicked with a friend near the edge of one of the cliffs. Something happened – no one knows what – and she slipped and fell into the sea. Before anyone could call for help, she drowned. (Imagine…life without cell phones. Her friend frantically trying to flag down a car or get someone to call for help from a house nearby…)

I was too young and too sad and in too much shock to process what had happened. I moved back to Colorado (where the rest of my family still lives) and tried to figure out life without my mom. For years, I’d see someone in a crowd that looked like her and my heart would leap and I would think, “Is that her?” Of course, it never was, but it took me a long time to stop looking for her…

Shortly after my mom’s death, I put myself on a crash course to “get everything done” before my 38^th birthday. (I’ve since read this is a common reaction among young women who lose their mothers - especially to a sudden death - but, knowing I was not alone did not make the urgency to “do it all” by 38 any less pressing.)

I married at 21 and had kids right away. I threw myself into raising my kids as if I wouldn’t be around long enough to see them through. I threw myself into a lot of other things that way, too. And, I had a very hard time committing to things that reflected a belief in permanence. There was never much savings and little or no concern about working any job long enough to earn retirement…after all, I wasn’t going to be here that long…

When our kids were growing up I spent a lot of time with them. We traveled a lot and took them on a lot of fun trips because every moment seemed precious and every year brought me closer to my last…

My 38^th year came and, miraculously, nothing happened. When I turned 39, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was alive and well! The curse was over! I had escaped my mother’s fate…But the fear, urgency and expectation of disaster continued, and the voice of doom never stopped whispering in my head…

I remember realizing that my life might, indeed, be only half over when I took my then 90-year-old grandmother to a family wedding in Mexico when I was 45. She was (and still is) quite spry, alert and mobile. We had a good time, but doom still whispered and I continued to move quickly, unsure of how much longer I might have…

It was not until a recent visit to the mausoleum where my mom’s ashes are, that I realized I had the power to silence the fear and hurry that have been my companions since my mother’s death. It had been 20 years since I had been to Santa Cruz and much had changed. The mausoleum, however, was the same – a pretty peaceful place, with lots of big windows, flowers and nice light. It took me awhile to find my mom’s marker and my first reaction, when I saw it, was shock that it looked just the same.

That reaction surprised me - of course nothing’s changed; it’s a mausoleum! Then it occurred to me that while my mom’s story ended, abruptly, on the date on that marker, my story had continued on, but I had been in such a hurry I hadn’t actually experienced it.

As I walked out into the sunlight, I realized that I could honor my mother’s memory and let my story be my own. I didn’t need to harbor the ghosts of her tragedy any longer; I could leave them, along with my sense of doom and urgency, inside those mausoleum walls and simply walk away. And, that is exactly what I did.

So, for the first time in a long time, I welcome my birthday with calm and I look forward to what the year will bring – good or bad – knowing that the ghosts I will tote from here on out, will be my own.

Josie

Josie’s breast cancer is back. She prayed and suffered, worked through and ultimately triumphed over her first bout with the disease a few years ago. Since then she’s earned a Habitat for Humanity house for her family and finally, a couple of months ago, paid off the last of her medical bills. I cannot imagine how hard it must’ve been for her to hear that her old enemy is back; she’s got to fight the fight again; and, this time she’s going to lose both breasts.

Josie is a housekeeper at the hospital where I work, and I have never met a more hardworking, cheerful, optimistic, faith-filled person. While some of the other housekeepers skulk around reading magazines in the bathrooms and talking on their cell phones in corridors, Josie mops, dusts, sweats and hustles, doing the work of two or three. And, she does it with a smile on her face and a cheerful word for everyone she encounters.

A single mother with high standards for how her two children should live, Josie works all the time. And, on a housekeeper’s wage, the time she lost to treatments, surgery and recovery the last time, not to mention all the co-pays, almost got the best of her financially. Not one to talk about her problems or ask for help, Josie suffered in silence and did the best she could.

But, because she is such the hard worker, and such a delightful person, Josie is well-liked in the ER, and her prayers for help were answered in the form of a constant stream of donations, big and small, “to help Josie out.” Literally several thousand dollars were silently and anonymously donated by the ER staff during the months of Josie’s first battle with cancer. We helped with her medical costs, light bills and her rent. We even helped with her kids’ Christmas that year. Josie still cries and thanks the Lord when she talks about how “everyone took care of me and my kids at a time we really needed the help.”

Since Josie’s first cancer a lot has changed in the ER and many of the original folks who had a long history with Josie are gone. Donations this time have been slow coming in. Economic times are harder for everyone and the staff now has a higher percentage of young people just trying to make their own ends meet…I was beginning to worry that we weren’t going to come close to helping Josie the way we did before, and this time her treatment and recovery period is going to be longer and harder.

Then, yesterday, one of the older docs stepped in. He’s a rumpled kind of a guy who wears funny ties. He’s been in the ER long enough to be blunt with patients when the situation calls for it, and sometimes that generates complaints. He’s a quiet fellow who sort of sticks to himself around staff. So, it surprised me when he pulled me aside and asked, “So, with Josie, what are we looking at? How much does she need to make it through this thing this time?”

I told him and then he pulled a wrinkled blank check out of his white coat pocket and wrote it for a very generous amount. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, back into a patient’s room, not seeming to need any comment or thanks in reply.

It took me a few minutes to pull myself together, gulp back the tears and go find him to thank him. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with the thanks as he seemed to be writing the check. “I’m just worried about Josie,” he said. “She works so hard; she doesn’t deserve this – especially not a second time.”

Last night, after I got home, I turned on the football game - a rare thing for me, but I got sucked into the Favre-and-the-Vikings-face-Favre’s-old-team thing. One of the first things I noticed was a deep shade of pink all over the football field. Both teams’ wristbands were pink; the bills of the coaching staff caps were pink; most of the players’ cleats and gloves were pink; the sideline towels were pink; even the refs were sporting little pink ribbons with the NFL emblem in the middle.

“What’s going on?” I wondered. “Has it been that long since I watched a football game? Since when is pink a football color?” Then it struck me, this is a breast cancer thing. About that time I noticed a big pink sign on the sidelines that said, “Catch the Cure!” So…the NFL has hopped on the breast cancer awareness bus. Now that’s some pretty awesome backing.

It occurred to me that what that doc did for Josie today was pretty much the same thing as what the NFL had done by putting all that pink on the field. In both cases, big men had stepped in and made a powerful effort to help women fight a great big foe.

I called the doc, who was still on shift in the ER, and told him about all the pink on the football field, and how that check he wrote was going to make an NFL-sized difference in Josie’s life over the next few months. He just laughed, and said he couldn’t imagine so many big men wearing pink…

“But, for a good cause,” he said, “Why not?”

Chaos

“I’m beginning to think peace is something we make up to keep us from being satisfied with all this luscious chaos.” -- Story People



The Chimney Swifts are gone. They left about a week ago, to fly back to South America, where they will spend the winter. Early in the season, we had only one family of these elegant, little, flying insect eating birds in our old brick and mortar chimney. But, according to the bird websites, after the two broods of the season are raised, the birds share their chimney with other families, in some cases creating a large, temporary colony.

That is what happened in our chimney beginning in early August. Chimney Swifts are a protected species because their numbers are dwindling so, due to the loss of their habitat, which is large hollow trees and masonry chimneys. Apparently, our big, tall, uncapped chimney was an ideal location, as the number of Chimney Swifts living in it continued to grow through August and into September.

By mid-September, every evening, right around dusk, a spectacular aerial show took place in the skies above our house, with hundreds of Chimney Swifts dodging and circling and whirling and diving as they feasted on flying insects and circled our chimney creating a swirling vortex of small, fast-flying, loudly twittering black birds. It was like an elaborate, elegant ballet with our chimney at the center of the stage. (Knowing a single family of Chimney Swifts consumes 12,000 flying insects each day made the performance that much more enjoyable.)

For months, no – actually years - Mr. Clark and I have “been gonna’” get the chimney repaired and have a new cap made for it. Our house was built in 1903 and the chimneys – like so many other things – have fallen into a bit of disrepair. But, in typical Clark house fashion, the “been gonna’s” persisted until something wonderful happened that will justify and prevent further repair work being done – at least for now.
This happens a lot at our house.

For years there has been a colony of bees living in one of our four front columns. In times past, (before the bee fungus started radically decreasing hive numbers throughout the country) there was a veritable swarm of bees flying in and out of the big hole their bee ancesters carved in that column top a long time ago.
Folks walking by always point at the bees and a surprising number ask why we haven’t had them exterminated by now. Why would we? They’ve never hurt us, and bees are a good thing. They’re responsible for a huge amount of the necessary pollination that occurs, even in commercial crops…

Every spring there’s a family or two of some kind of bird that nests in other holes, carved by their bird ancesters, high up on the other front columns of our house. Again, the question comes up – “Why don’t you plug those holes, so the birds can’t get in?” Again, my response is – “Why would I?” The birds aren’t doing any harm and it’s fun to watch them raise their young each year.

One of the carpenters we had working for us (back when there was money, time and interest in home repairs) was so amused by my bird habitat conservation policies that he built little metal roofs over each bird hole.

“Now your precious birds won’t even have to get wet when it rains,” he laughed, at me – not with me - I’m sure.
Right now there are four young squirrels living in the top of one of our front columns. The columns are Corinthian, so there is plenty of room for a squirrel nest, up there amongst all of that embellishment. I see these little guys peaking down at me from what looks to be a pretty perilous perch, as I come and go each day. I’m not sure how they got there or how they’ll escape, as I don’t hear them in the attic and there are no trees near enough for them to jump to. But, they seem to be well-fed, so whatever they’re doing is working for now…

Passersby stop and point them out, laughing at their antics, as the four little squirrel siblings peak their cute little faces over the column top. And, yes, the obvious question is, “Why don’t you do something about those squirrels? They’re going to destroy your column top, you know…”

I have added “find source of replacement Corinthian column tops” to the “been gonna’” list. In the meantime, I continue to look up at them and smile, even as I survey the bees to see how the population seems to be doing today. (Their numbers are dwindling…damn bee fungus!)

I’m comfortable with a bit of a mess around; a touch of chaos suits me just fine. In fact, a lengthy “been gonna’” list and too many piles of things needing organizing is way more comforting to me than an alphabetized spice shelf or a neatly edged lawn.

Life is short and organizing things takes time. Order (at least in my mind) is over-rated and often an illusion. Things happen - good and bad – suddenly and unexpectedly, no matter what state our chimneys, spice shelf or Corinthian column tops are in.

And, should something bad happen to me or mine, I will be glad to have seen the Chimney Swift ballet and cohabitated with the swarming bees. I will remember how much fun it was to watch the birds raise their families, and I will recall how the sight of those four silly squirrels peaking down at me always made me smile.