A Robot and Her Pictures

You know, I love it when I can actually BE bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the early morning hours.  This used to be a much more common occurrence in years gone by and fading in the rearview mirror of my life. But, as my body began to more openly rebel against being used and abused as if it was a robot (which it decidedly is not . . . I don't think robots experience aggravating shoulder pain which precludes said robot from pumping out those 126 push-ups every other day which impart to said robot a feeling of self-worth and physical accomplishment . . . and then ingest a 6-day regimen of cortico-steroids which, while doing absolutely nothing for the burning joint pain, did cause burning BELLY pain and anxiety in the poor robot . . .  but I digress), um, as I was saying, my body reacts in ways most undesirable these days.  And, sadly, that includes requiring more sleep on the back end as sleep on the front end continues to remain rather elusive.

Sigh . . .

But since I'm am up, rise and shine, and hopping in true techno fashion between a Facebook photo album upload of my daughter's very-much-fun Senior Picture Photo Shoot (yes, it deserves first-letter CAPS) and this here blog entry and the dictionary app on Girlfriend (iPhone to you newbies), I thought I might as well upload a few pics here, too.  Especially after visiting the recent blog entry of one of my Earth Diva's daughters,  City Girl  (please click and read: you WON'T be disappointed -- pics of a St. Patty's Day Parade in Toronto -- the cute Asian girl and her man . . . hilarious!).

1.  There's something odd about this here yellow bell pepper.

2.  Mama loves frowning girls in green with floral headbands!

3.  The boy has decided to put more effort into his Honors English class.  Proud of that!

4.  This pair of mourning doves were a'courtin' one morning.

5a.  My daughter's boyfriend claims to dislike our cat.

5b.  He has a weird way of showing it . . . 

5c.  Oh, wait!  It's the CLAWS he dislikes -- those sharp curved scimitars in the foreground there!

6a.  Zachary needed $$.  Ashley agreed to pay him to clean her bathroom.

6b.  He's a rather brave boy to tackle the job.

6c.  That's what being cash-strapped will do to a fellow.

6d.  He didn't, however, extend his bravery to her bedroom.  Greed has its limits!

7.  Starbucks cups, with a few foreigners intermingled, that I'm saving for SOMETHING.

Any ideas?

8.  Taking candid shots of my sweet babycakes is a way of life for moi.

9a.  Evidently, sweet babycakes enjoys catching me in candid moments, too!

9b.  Whose the REAL BIRD here, anyway?

9c.  I can answer THAT question!

10.  My Eastern redbud and weeping willow caught holding hands.

Love is certainly in the air as spring doth approach . . . 

Have a LOVE-ly day, friends.

Just Say "NO" to Mrs. Butterworth!

If your household is anything like mine -- in the most general of senses -- then there's always something going on.  Especially if there are children floating about.  It doesn't matter what age.  Someone at sometime in some way has an ax to grind, a knife to sharpen, a fork to poke, and spoon to scoop.  At anything and everything.  And the scope and scale vary from day to day.  Last week, such a something occurred.  With the help of a fork and a tree.

Recently, one of my sweet sunshine rays of goodness and light had himself a moment that just about floored me.  Though what I'm about to say may seem insignificant when placed next to the behemoth issues which often run rampant across the ceramic tiles of our kitchen and the stained carpet of our stairs, it's a biggie for this nature-loving, uber-recycling, health-conscious mom who yearns for just a glimpse of her idealistic influences within the hearts and minds of her babies gone hormonal.

(A self-portrait of the syrup-sucking son circa 2002!)

I'm a fan of real maple syrup.  Beautiful light amber and handsome dark amber.  Grade A and grade B. Liquid gold.  Naturally derived and without unnatural enhancements.  It's history on this continent reaches back to a time before the white man ran his ships ashore.  I think of the colonists who, having learned the secret from native Americans, passed the trade down from generation to generation.  There are a host of complex flavors hinting at the transition from winter to spring which spurs the sugar maple trees into producing the wondrous sap for boiling down from a vat to a bucket.  It takes roughly 43 gallons to make one gallon of this lovely rich ooze; and the demand has yet to be outstripped by supply.  Obviously, this translates into a pricey product.  But with such a unique and warm profile, it stands heads and shoulders above any and all competition in the breakfast condiment arena.  Not to mention how it transforms ice cream and sweet potatoes.  My favorite use is with my oatmeal and flax most mornings -- a bit of butter, a dash of cinnamon, and a handful of nuts . . . delightful!

 
That thick viscous stuff  masquerading as syrup in myriad formulations of butter-flavored, lite, even maple-flavored, stored in lob-cabin'ish squeeze bottles and glass bottles shaped like ample-figured house cooks from an era best not memorialized in such a fashion, does little to titillate my tastebuds.  I'd rather swear off French toast and waffles for the remainder of my life than taint them with such drivel.  Besides the high-fructose corn syrup found in a place of prominence on the ingredient list, there's a host of other additions with names even I have trouble pronouncing.  Though it is quite cheap in comparison to its naturally-derived cousin, what it produces on the palate is often just as cheap.  It offers no depth of flavor other than that of bland white sugar.  And though my affection for sweets cannot be pushed off to the side of the road here, a sweet should reflect flavors -- be they chocolate or lemon, vanilla or caramel, berry or MAPLE -- which have been enhanced by sugar, and NOT run over by a Mack truck spilling a surplus of the grainy white stuff everywhere!

And THAT is exactly why my kids loved the fake stuff.  Much to my chagrin.  For most of their young lives, they worked those bottles of lite artificial syrup, suffocating their poor whole grain pancakes to within an inch of their short existences, and all the while their mama lovingly Maple-drizzled her biscuits with the respect due such a wonderful example of baking.

(While I don't have a pic of Zach eating his waffles, this here is my niece, Grace, 

enjoying her Auntie G's waffles quite some time ago.)

About a year ago, I did one of my motherly about-faces and banished said pseudo-syrups from the pantry.  Needless to say, the Valdez household experienced a revival of breakfast cereal for several months before one-by-one the members begin to defect.  Our Canadian friends would be proud!  But, alas, there was one holdout.  My sugar-baby boy.  He held steadfast and missed out on some of my best waffle iron work ever.  I didn't budge.  Not once.  Not ever.  Not to save a dime.  Well, until I did.  Last week.  I figured if a year had transpired and his palate had not evolved, this was a battle best surrendered.  The nutrition inherent with my style of cooking and baking could balance out this equation.  You win some.  You lose some.  (But I so-o wanted to WIN!)

(Gratuitous shot of ONE of aforementioned Canadian friends.)

So, it's the scene of one of our breakfast-for-dinner nights.  His perfectly done waffles, crisp on the outside and steaming with tenderness from the inside, underwent his precise application of butter to each of the square cells on their surfaces.  Then, excitedly, Zachary grabs the cheap bottle of crappy goo and lets it loose.  His knife and fork work in tandem to release a bite.  The fork journeys to his mouth.  Several chews occur.  He swallows.  A queer look crosses his features, followed by the words I'd given up on ever hearing, "That is so gross.  It's thick.  Yuck."  He grins before pounding the sap-collecting spout all the way into our family tree, "I guess I like maple syrup better now."


Now THAT . . . is a something in my house.

The Pleasure of A Picture

There are few things that give me greater pleasure than taking pictures of the people and events in my corner of the world.  Except possibly sharing those shots with others. Though my status as an amateur photographer will most likely never change, I try to wring the most out of the opportunity as much as my ability and time constraints allow.  Sometimes, getting the best shot, the one frame which captures the mood, the moment, the must-see-ability, requires clicking off a number of pictures.  Digital technology makes this easier than ever, without all of the waste that film often incurs.  You try and try again.  Hoping for perfection but knowing that rarely happens.  Usually, something a bit better comes along.  Perfect can be rather dull.

********************** 

You start with one.  Kind of a warm-up.  Get a feel for what you hope to convey.

Here, it is important for me to forever record what it was to tug my mom around 

in her rollator while we both held our heads up high.

We're at the mall.  My Ashley is in charge of the Canon.

I'm in charge of directing her work.

"No, that's not it.  Keep snapping as I walk."

"You say I'm walking too fast?  Well, let me

PRETEND to walk . . . like this."

Mom's smile is still in place.

I decide that perhaps the other side of the entrance has better lighting.

Mom's smile is beginning to stiffen.  

My daughter wants to hand the camera back to me.

I'm still trying for just the right shot!

"How about THIS angle, Ashley?

Are you close enough . . . we need to FILL the frame!"

Mom's smile looks more like a grimace.

"Wait, this may be our better side!

Does it look like I'm walking?  My foot is cramping."

My smile has grown.

Mom's appears to have LEFT the building.

I think we all get the idea -- she's been tugged around enough!

**************

Then, there are those impromptu sessions which most likely amuse or disturb my neighbors in the early AM hours when the light is fresh and the birds are blissful in their song and habits.  I grab the Canon for a quick stalk-n-shoot.  Wrapped in my purple animal-print robe.  Wild morning hair shooting out at odd angles.  Crouched in my purple Crocs.  Waiting.  Focusing.  Holding my breath.  And smiling from ear to ear in my delight.  Because TRYING for just the right shot is sometimes as enjoyable as finding success at the end of my efforts.

I know that Cardinals are skittish.  And I've observed my hunter cat enough to understand stealth.  So, I wait for him to turn his head before I move one step closer.  And another.  And another. Looking through my viewfinder, I try to quickly find him and zoom in, angling to avoid large branches which might steal the focus.  This male is quite caught up in his romance with the female just out of shot range.  Their calls rise and fall in that charming musical collections of titters and trills which are responsible for causing me to fall in love with Tennessee so many years ago.

On this outing, sandwiched between setting the recyclables on the curb and packing my husband's lunch for work, my attempts to preserve an image of this gorgeous bird amongst the bright green of my weeping willow's new spring buds is unsuccessful.  He's a bit jumpy despite my catlike reflexes (hah, Crocs and a full robe do NOT lend themselves to stealth).  But the fact that I allowed myself to follow through with my impulse instead of ignoring it pleases me.  Admiring this handsome fellow in the throes of romance has been sweet.  I only wish Gayla had been around to shoot a picture of the large purple bird lumbering on the lawn, darting from tree to tree, resembling, for all the world, ME!

**********************

Every now and again, though, you nail it.

There's detail and thirds and foreground.

And to see it is to be moved.

The image conveys a season.

It has the power to disperse the clouds . . . 

and let the sunshine in.

*****************

And for me, folks, whether it be through words or image, THAT is my desire, my drive, my one true thing: to let the sunshine in and share it with whomever I can.  Whenever I may.

A Newsworthy Man

This is NOT Charlie Sheen.  Thank goodness!  This here is a regular good guy -- working a 9 to 5 job, fathering 3 children, supporting 1 quirky wife, balancing a mortgage, several cars, 1 wayward cat and 1 elderly dog.  You may know of one in your corner of the world.  You won't soon hear about him on NBC or CBS or ABC or any other news outlet because what he does is not considered newsworthy.  He doesn't have a drug problem supported by a grandiose ego and enabled by those around him who are either too starstruck or too worried about missing the story to confront him with the ugly truth. 

Though in high school he excelled in several sports, and he passed on his athletic ability to his one and only son (as evidenced below in what I must modestly proclaim to be a rather outstanding shot), his prowess on the field and the court did not translate into a multi-million dollar contract.  It actually ended without any newsworthy fanfare after a knee injury, followed by knee surgery, sidelined him from a semi-professional football team in his early 20's.  Thus ending his chances of becoming a retired-athlete-announcer on ESPN.

This regular good guy spends a rather large portion of his valuable breadwinner time on a computer, both at the job site and at home.  (At home, he must compete for screen time on his laptop with that self-entitled feline of ours . . . who quite literally spends his nap time ON the computer!)  He considers himself a PART of the team and NOT the pivotal player who MADE the team what it is.  Hmmm, definitely not Charlie Sheen.

When he's not busy speaking programmer's mumbo-jumbo on his iPhone, palavering with his peoples about various technical support and system crash issues which leave my head reeling, he likes to pick his (NO, not his NOSE) guitar and bang on drums.  There he is on the far right, providing excellent percussion to our church worship music.

Though his career path veered away from coaching, encouraging his son through his victories and losses fills that niche quite nicely.  While he won't sign any lucrative contracts, he can rest assured that his player won't suddenly up and take his ball/bat/singlet to another team.

In times of minor crisis, this regular good guy steps in to assist -- without fanfare or cameras.
(Save that one family paparazzi to whom he's been married almost 22 years this month!) 

Often for something as simple as burying the poor Valdez hamster, Snickerdoodle.

No one will call for an interview.  There will be no probing questions about his choice of 'casket' or burial site.  No queries as to the fine craftsmanship of the rubberband-and-stick cross -- compassionately constructed by the saddened high school freshman boy.

Instead of trashing my reputation and accusing me of outlandish behavior, he encourages me to do that all by myself through my blog!  Though I sometimes judge and pester him, he hasn't traded me in for two post-pubescent goddesses, yet.

He's a brother and a son.  I think they would both agree that he has not brought shame upon the family.  On the contrary, they all mutually respect and admire the accomplishments of one another.  Quietly.  Behind-the-scenes.

His children not only have a cozy roof over their head, neat clothing to cover the rest, and filling food for their bellies . . . they can also count on their dad to be home at night, present at their important functions, lucid, loving, and capable of putting others ahead of himself.

If he has any vice, it's that danged chewing tobacco those cowboys back in high school hooked him on (but you'd never know it to see him -- perfect oral hygiene).  Oh, and strong black coffee in his favorite pink cup!

You know, if you hadn't guessed, I'm just tired of hearing about Charlie Sheen when there's an entire planet worth of other subjects, other people, other men.  What's new about a famous guy with an inflated sense of his own importance getting caught up in drugs and alcohol, making a complete fool of himself, bringing children into the mix, leaving a trail of women in his wake, living in complete denial thanks to the walking paychecks surrounding him, escaping jail time thanks to fancy lawyers when regular guys like my brother pay through the nose?  The only thing new is the mass media attention he has garnered as every network and magazine jumps through hoops so as not to be the only one without coverage.  Coverage which will air on some primetime special when this very ill man self-destructs and his abused body finally gives out.  

If we need to hear about men who struggle with life but continue to soldier on despite their flaws and the challenges of the everyday, I'd rather watch a story on the regular good Jimmys, Jeremys, Jerrys and Johns,  Daves, Darrells and Duanes, Kens and Kevins, Rodneys and Rons, Chucks and Clarks, Marks, Phils . . . you get the drill?! 

NO MORE CHARLIE SHEEN!  EVER-R-R!!!  (At least until he's dried out and humbled?) 

Brother Kevin

I'm sitting at this here keyboard, remembering how pleased I felt when both my brother, Kevin, and his wife, Julie, told me that Jimmy and I had done a wonderful job with our children.  "They're the kind of kids you like being around," said Kevin.  Julie went further with a qualifier, "Trust me.  I don't say that lightly.  As a teacher, I've seen enough kids to know what I'm talking about!"  As a mother of three, two yet teens, my doubts concerning my parenting skills come into play every now and again -- I'm not above accepting a well-needed compliment on a job possibly well done.  And, I'm enough of a little sister to still want to impress my big brother.    

Now, I haven't seen Kevin in fourteen years or so.  In fact, the last time we shared space we were both at our Grandma Opal's house in California, keeping a family-and-friend vigil of sorts because our great-grandmother, Roxy, was dying of cancer.  Her hospital-style bed filled the entire space of the small TV room just off the kitchen area.  Our sister, Laurel, ran interference between guests and the patient.  Even in her frail state, Grandma Roxy kept her hair set in the high altitude pin-curled updo which was her signature look.  And the fight hadn't left her by a lo-ong shot.

My oldest brother is the owner of a naturally booming tenor; his indoor voice would alarm Barney and Friends.  He receives a fair amount of teasing and flack about it but, you know, he doesn't go out of his way to fill the air with his dominating sound waves: in the words of Lady Gaga, he was "born that way."  So, he's talking at the kitchen table with someone waiting to have a last visit with our matriarch.  Grandma Roxy is trying to listen to the kind words of folks standing at her bedside.  Suddenly, we all hear this authoritative shout in a surprisingly strong voice, "Kevin!  You need to be quiet.  I can't even hear what [these people] are trying to say to me!"  The room falls quiet as it sinks in that our terminally ailing elder has just chastised her healthy adult great-grandson.

He downgraded to a whisper.

That was my most current memory of Kevin, the eldest of our mother's eight children.  As for my kids and husband, the visit to Kevin's and Julie's country place in California -- where horses and domesticated fowl shared outdoor living space AND where Zachary wobbled into his very first steps -- was their most recent recollection.  Zachary will be 16 this August; Kevin has lived in Nevada for the past twelve years.  It's been awhile.

That makes his visit in Middle Tennessee a truly big deal.  What bumps it into extraordinary is that his reason for coming here had nothing to do with me.  Maybe a full year ago, his two grown daughters purchased four tickets to an annual horsemanship event which happens to take place in Murfreesboro.  They were a gift for their equestrian mother.  Evidently, three highly respected 'natural' trainers were making a rare appearance together.  A very big deal.  A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a horse lover.

Kevin mentioned that he knew I lived SOMEWHERE in Tennessee.  I'm friends with his entire family on Facebook, but only his oldest daughter actually utilizes its social aspects.  For no reason other than being raised separately and the distance of age and miles, Kevin and I, and consequently our families, are not that close.  That would soon change.  A few queries were volleyed between me and my niece and my sister-in-law, and it was quite a surprise for them to realize that their venue was a mile from my home!  Me, too.  I immediately rolled out the welcome mat and offered our home to them.  They accepted.  And on Thursday of this past week, they rolled into our neighborhood in their airport rental car, ready for whatever might transpire.

After filling their bellies to burgeoning with homemade enchiladas and the remainder of those yummy coconut-lemon cupcakes, we set about really making them feel at home with an old-fashioned, first-of-the-season, pantry-emptying Tornado Warning.  Talk about your instant bonding!  It was a humdinger of a first evening.  Good stuff, Maynard!

Our second day opened with a sociable morning of chit-chat, coffee, and breakfast before everyone embarked upon their predetermined rounds.  My delightful niece surprised me with a box of Red Vines in the afternoon because she recalled my Facebook posts over the past year or so about this most tender and delicious of licorice classics.  What she actually did was leave the candy on the kitchen counter during their break from the show.  I wasn't home.  But when I returned, with Grandma Sharon in tow, my radar went haywire over the the mysterious Red Vines and their origin.  No one would fess up.  I didn't dare open it.  I moved it.  Scooted it.  Kept it under my watchful eye.  Finally, I decided my Ashley was teasing me.  She HAD to have bought them for me!  I gobbled down two whips before receiving her confused text message about my line of questions concerning concerning the sweets.  Worried I had wrongfully consumed candy belonging to one of my guests, I hid it on the fireplace mantle, away from me and my son!  Imagine my delight when my niece finally returned and fessed up to leaving it there for me.  Awww.

That second night was a wild and wooly adventure with the 'Salad Bowl' game.  Just imagine a three-layered amped-up version of Charades and you've got it!  The video clips I recorded are hilarious.  And a bit lengthy.  That'll be an editing project for another rainy day.  Our mom looked-on and laughed.  She shtayed the night.  All of the kids, including Sarah's boyfriend, got in on the action.  The television never came on once.  No extreme weather.  Just extreme fun and a very comfortable level of interaction between us all.  For me, seeing my brother in the recliner the next morning, with my mom on her couch bed next to him, was a good moment.  I amused them with my chatty morning persona for a bit before running off for those replete-with-cinnamosity cinnamon rolls from our local bakery.  They were a hit.

I snapped pictures at every turn.  Every hug.  Every opportunity.  Julie's sister was the fourth ticket holder and guest.  A splendid aunt to my 'long lost' twenty-seven year-old niece.  She told me this morning, before they headed back to the Nashville airport for the return flight home, "I wasn't planning on wearing ANY makeup for this trip . . . but then I remembered you, downstairs, with that camera, and I put it on!"

Saturday night was Tennessee BBQ night.  The local grease pit, The Slick Pig, closed before our company could escape the departing traffic from their event, so we waited for a table at a local sit-down chain restaurant by the name of Jim n' Nick's.  Our crowded corner table of eight had itself a real good time.  And there were eight very full bellies.  Again.  (Ashley had to work her hostess night shift elsewhere.)  It was after this dinner, on our way home in their new-car-smelling rental, that the subject of our sweet kids came up.  Once home, Jimmy broke out the acoustic guitar.  My brother's family sang several worship songs (they lead the worship music service at their church) while Jimmy and my niece took turns strumming.  This was followed by a round of Red Vine snacking and throwing.  At one memorable point, I caught -- WITH MY MOUTH, THANK YOU -- a section of Red Vine which Zachary first threw in the air and bounced off his face.  Where was my camera THEN?!

Sunday.  Our final full day.  Cowboy church for Kevin and family.  Church at Cross Point for the Valdez Bunch.  Also, my own version of Superbowl Sunday: the Oscars.  I whipped up a creamy fattening batch of baked mac n' cheese because I knew the guest auntie was fond of this all-American starch classic.  I chopped and cut veggies and fruit.  I set out the smoked wings my daughter picked up from that greasy BBQ joint before it closed on Saturday.  My husband begged for blueberry pie.  "NO!" was my emphatic reply.  My brother begged for blueberry pie, too.  "Call Sarah and ask her to stop by the grocery store!" was my obvious response.  Save for Best Actress and Best Film, I'm clueless as to the other awards or who wore what gown.  I even missed the clever opening vignette which is an annual highlight for me!

But I am now privy to a great deal concerning the who and what of my brother.  And his family.  And his life.  My children pointed out similarities in our personalities.  They noticed facial resemblances between their Uncle Mark and this Uncle Kevin guy.  Sarah graduated from calling them "those people" BEFORE they arrived, to asking if "Uncle Kevin and everyone got away okay" AFTER they left.  His low-key spouse is the necessary yin to his yang, much like it is with myself and my mate.  She is her own person.  And they, too, have raised some pretty good kids, if the one who tagged along is any indication.  Sheila is her name.  An intelligent, sociable, hoot-and-a-holler of a gal.  Everyone, including Auntie Lee Ann, has been doused in Gloria-hugs.  I've made promises I intend to keep in regards to crossing the Nevada border for the sake of staying in THEIR home and meeting my other niece.

Stormy weather which would later spawn yet another tornado warning, escorted them out of my neighborhood as I stood on the soggy lawn, in the rain, waving.  Maybe a touch sad but primarily happy for this 'chance' reunion which I don't believe was chance for one hot minute.  We aren't in Oz.  A violent windstorm didn't blow them in.  In my circle of faith, we call it "a God thing!"

So, with all of that being said, I'm sitting here at the Mac, tapping away on this sleek compact keyboard, thinking about those well-adjusted kids of mine.  The ones in the kitchen right now.  The ones whose bellowing indoor voices I can hear as they travel the length of the stairs and into this study.  Sarah is washing dishes.  Zachary is teasing her in a dangerous and desperate bid for some attention.  Ashley and her boyfriend are trying to watch Hillary Swank get her face bashed in under Clint Eastwood's tutelage in the living room. Kevin and Julie are missing the display of good manners and sensitivity.  But I'll record it here for them.

Sarah: "ZACHARY-Y-Y!!!Get OUT of here!  You are SO annoying!  Go-o!  Nobody WANTS you in here!"  Dishes clank.  The boy laughs loudly.  No distinct words.
Ashley: "MO-O-OM!  We can't HEAR our movie!  He shouldn't be IN here!  It's too loud!  Ooooh-h!"
Zachary:  "It's My house, too.  I can be downstairs.  You guys don't OWN the downstairs!"
Me:  "You KNOW what?!  Zip it!  All of you!  Right now.  Or I'm gonna cram each one of you well-raised rotten apples into one of those pre-priced postal boxes and SHIP you off to Uncle Kevin and Aunt Julie!  Phew!  Well, what did you expect?  We'd been storing it up for four days!

Observations

Observing, while unobserved, those unaware.  People watching.  Human eyeball distractions.  An oft practiced past-time of mine.  Libraries, airports, ball games and wrestling matches, even grocery stores.  Ooh, and Starbucks.  Men, women, children.  Employees.  College students.  Pre-schoolers.  Toddlers.  Octogenarians.  En masse.  Solo.  Duos.  Standing or sitting.  Smoking a cigarette or pumping gas.  Mothers who are forced to discipline their children in parking lots; fathers caught gazing far too long at the Hooters waitress.  Little boys chasing little girls around the playground, behind the swing set, and across the merry-go-round.

MOM AND SARAH -- WHOLLY UNAWARE

When driving, by all means, especially those compulsive individuals who simply can't wait for the privacy of their own home to dig deep for their nasal obstructions.  (If it's not crustily painful or emerging from the bat cave and and ready to take flight, you should really tie your hands down and back away from such nasty practices in public.  I can SEE you behind the wheel!  While it's grossly amusing, I'd rather see you rock out to your radio.  Unless your drive through my town is your first and last, the chances are good that we will cross paths in the future.  If you offer your hand in greeting, don't be surprised at my rudeness when I yank my hand away.)  Did I ever tell you about the time I spotted the dude in the car right next to mine snorting cocaine on a CD case with a rolled bill while we waited at a stoplight?  Can you say, "Hello, 911?"  He didn't warn us so we could take an alternate route, far away from his illegal stupidity, did he?  He did provide a real-time case study for my curious progeny.  No photographic examples of these.  Bummer.

Watching my kids while they watch TV or visit with their friends or simply sleep.  Every once in a while, they catch me.  Call me out.  Especially the observant middle one.  Sometimes it bugs her.  I can't help myself.  Can't stop myself.  They are fascinating subjects.  Brown eyes.  Sculpted brows.  Distinctive noses.  Thick heads of wavy dark hair.  Brimming with humor and life.  They carry the sum of these past two decades.  They reflect a shining aspect of myself back on me.  It's quite hard to look away from all of that.  The middle one will simply have to deal with her irritation concerning my maternal ogling.  

   

Church is another fine venue for human observation.  The pastor is an obvious one.  No-brainer.  Musicians on the stage.  What they do with their hands, eyes, chins.  (Yes, chins.  Lead with 'em.  Lift them to the heavens.  Drag them to the chest.)  Fellow parishioners roosting in their familiar chairs.  Everyone seems to gravitate toward the same seating week in and week out.  I'm a front row gal.  Neighbors are another avenue of interest.  I know my good neighbors on the left quite well.  Busy and habitual folks.  Always on their way to somewhere with a blue-eyed blond boy, or three, in tow.  Hard workers.  Great grillers.  fast friends.  Then there's the couple with the hostile German shepherd that they can barely contain with the industrial-strength coil of rope to which she's attached.  I just heard them go by on their nightly 11PM walk: the dog barks as it passes the house.  She bit my son's buddy when he rang the doorbell of her owner's house last summer.  No one feels safe anymore.  Not a good scene.

CAUGHT IN THE ACT OF NEIGHBORLY PEEKING

(KIDS AT CHURCH -- DOUBLE WHAMMY!)

The Earth Divas are a joy to visually peruse.  The elegant one.  Long-limbed and perpetually stylish.  She transforms a simple blouse and jeans!  The exuberant artist.  A giddy giggle which ties my belly in knots with responsive laughter.  An eye for color as function and fun that constantly impresses me.  The deadpan gal.  Tackles it all head-on.  With unabashed frankness.  The driest of wits.  Practical from birth.  All of them a feast for my eyes.

And that's merely the tip of an enormously satisfying and never-ending iceberg.  I didn't mention my husband.  Or Laurie Geiser.  Or my mother.  Or my brother.  The vastness of the animal kingdom extends beyond homo sapiens.  Birds.  I practically weep over a great blue heron sighting.  My cat.  He enhances my affection for all things orange.  Tomato hornworms.  They turn my stomach, but so plump and juicy when they ooze green blood beneath my feet. 

BIRDIE BUFFET ALA YUKON HOOD?

Pulling back for the panoramic sweep, trees, tall, short, blooming, dying.  Mountains which end sharply against the plains.  Rising oceans surging against sandy shores rife with kelp, sea glass, broken shells.  Skies in hues of blues.  Cerulean meets steel-gray meets scudding puffs of water mist.  Give me a chance and I'd observe the planets.  Contemplating their odds in a cosmic round of pool against the slate of the universe.

THE UNFURLING BARK OF OUR RIVER BIRCH

The objects of creation parading across the screen of my life.  If only I could push the 'pause' button every now and again.

I wonder who I distract?