Where to Begin . . .

First off, though you readers can't tell from your vantage point on my blog page, the new and improved Blogger draft page and author wall leaves much to be desired.  I don't like it!  Do ya hear me, Blogger.com people?!  Why did you have to go and alter a good thing.  And the white on white plays nasty tricks on my aging eyes.  Most unpleasant.  Most displeased am I (in the voice of Yoda, Jedi Master extraordinaire).

Overall, my summer has been a triumph.  A passage of time marked by family of the in-state AND out-of-state ilk -- including two months with my mother-in-law which proved to be highly entertaining; McDonald's soft-serve ice cream cones (no longer do they serve merely to calm my tummy during extended car rides; they are a bonafide food addiction; on one hand I can count the number of days that I denied myself this 150-calorie gas-free pleasure since this April!); thousands upon thousands of photogenic cicadas which threatened the sanity of my eldest daughter for weeks; an eager and loving white pup capable of devouring large piles of kibble in a single gulp and voiding same in an equally dramatic and copious manner; and continued friendly dealings with my Earth Divas (refer to previous entries for a layout of our varied frolics of fun and fancy).  Oh!  Yes . . . and plenty of coffee!  Did I mention weddings?  Baseball?  Abby the Grandpup?  Dare I say the list could wax endless?

Hard to pass up this deal!

A good day with Ollie.

Bidding a fond farewell to the old house.

Dried out and ready to fly.

He also enjoys a lite snack of toilet paper.

A creamy soy latte ala Rembrandt's in Chattanooga!

Brand new Earth Diva activity on display.

This fabulous red shoe enhanced the foot of a groom's sister at the wedding I DID attend.

They brought in the lefty pitcher this summer!

Abby, no longer a pup but a gorgeous dog.

I also witnessed watershed events in the lives of people around me.  Some momentous in the most wonderfully incredible of ways; others earmarked by shock and heartbreak.  A summer is not simply a happy thing because we wish it to be, merely because it is rife with swimming pools and sandy beaches, bikinis  and barbecues, fireworks and frivolity.  Harsh realities creep in, past the slathered-on sunblock and beneath the hems of brightly colored cotton dresses, fully capable of darkening the skies and canceling those long-planned vacations.  But perhaps it is that very contrast of sunlight and dark news within the parameters of this eagerly anticipated season which makes the bad so much harder to handle.

Here is the sunlight:

My daughter and I spent two overwhelming days of orientation at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga in preparation for her first fall semester as a bonafide college student there beginning in late August!  While she was practically paralyzed with nerves and worries of failure, coming to tears once in the midst of it all, her mother dear experienced a rush of positive feelings all along the maternal rainbow of pride.  I'm excited enough to fill both our cups to overflowing.

In counterpoint to her own choice for this next phase of her young life, her boyfriend (quite a nice young man, in my humble estimation) made the choice to join the Army.  I had the distinct honor of spending an evening and day with him and other men and women in his position, along with their loved ones, concentrating their final moments of togetherness into those anxious hours before the last good-bye.  Watching the convoy of white passenger vans drive off, single file toward the highway leading to South Carolina and other military points which escape me, holding a great many BOYS and GIRLS straight out of high school, I couldn't help but feel a curious mixture of patriotism and angst.  Admiring those headed out for their brave endeavor; wishing many, including said boyfriend, could have had a year, or at LEAST a summer, to themselves, free of the high school institution, before entering into another controlling institution.

Me and Derek -- the night before.

Boys on the verge of becoming men.

Parents waiting for good-bye.

Swearing in.

A happy moment before departure.

Hugging his mama.

We met Dakotah, now stationed with Derek, and an extraordinary young man.

Headed for basic.

Those were the highlights of life-changing events with hopeful outcomes.  But as I mentioned earlier, not everyone entertained such good news.  I wrote on "The Reluctant Suburbanite" blog about good friends of mine in the throes of possible divorce due to a drug problem hiding in the shadows of denial.  That frustrating situation continues.  The kids are adjusting, resilient as youth tend to be when they are loved even in the most difficult of times.  And it has been heartening to see how relationships outside the marriage have been strengthened as neighbors and acquaintances prove their loyalty and step up to the plate in terms of support and assisting.  I can't call this one, though the odds seem stacked to one side.

While my elderly dog was diagnosed with terminal abdominal cancer recently, that sad state of affairs pales in comparison to what my husband's previous boss called to tell him several weeks back.  Cancer.  Aggressive.  Advanced.  Already to a point where only a miracle could keep him alive until Christmas of this year.  This man is one of those regular good guys.  A fantastic father.  A literal savior of a husband.  It is with his wife that I am well-acquainted.  On that morning of horrific revelation, I grabbed my phone and rang her after quickly sending her a message on Facebook mail.  I was pissed.  Tired of cancer and all life-altering, life-sucking, life-taking illness.  Wrecked to realize their two sons, adopted out of what was once the USSR, would graduate without their dad in the audience.  Sad to think that his grandchildren, thankfully he has them and spends quality time with them, would grow beyond the seeing of his watchful eyes.  And deeply upset to picture the love of his life without him in their approaching golden years.

So I gave to my friend what I could.  My unique perspective.  My direct approach.  My empathy without the dubious benefit of placatory statements intended only to buffer the discomfort felt in such painfully awkward times.  My stalwart ear.  I listened.  And listened some more.  At one point, stay with me here, I took to hiding in the pantry to escape the happy weekend morning noises of our kitchen and it's hungry denizens.  But I was tied to the wall because she returned my call by cell with her own call to our home phone.  My bladder began to make known its presence.  Before long, it was screaming for relief.  However, there was no good stopping point in our conversation.  Rather than interrupt her very appropriate tirade concerning a physician who should have seen certain signs a country-mile away, I emptied a rather large and deep recycled margarine container of its chocolate chips and dried coconut, OH, BUT I DID . . . and voided the contents of my protesting bladder.  I "psssted" my husband on the other side of the door, where things had gone rather quiet.  Handed him the container before he could register the contents.  And continued to give of myself as my valuable friend needed.  (No worries.  There were Wet Ones for hand washing; and my experience with a coffee can in my closet during my second pregnancy -- I had a sister-in-law who often spent incredible amounts of time in our one shared bathroom -- proved invaluable.  It's like getting back up on a bicycle after 18 years!)  I later explained my predicament to her, and we had ourselves a stress-relieving laugh.  Take the silver linings however they present themselves, I say.

Panda kissing Ashley the weekend after her diagnosis.

I've gone long.  Terribly long, I'm afraid.  But so busy have I been enjoying this life of mine, stopping to observe the small, the beautiful, the obscure, that which is right before the eye, that my time on the blog has been short these past many months.  Oddly enough, when I do sit down to write and post my photo essays, I forget what has actually been set forth in blog and what has merely been thought of in my 'blog speak' brain.  I'm continually in the ON position.  Where once it was letters to my imprisoned little brother running through my head, it is now ideas for entries on PUSH-UPS.  I can't seem to help myself.

As summer winds down, remember to slow down, touch, taste, feel, think, rest.  It's the best advice I have to offer.