The Wonder of a Snowy Day

All day I have been sitting near my computer, mostly staring out the window.

A winter storm with maybe 1-3 inches of snow was predicted, snow to start around 3 a.m. today. I awoke about 3:45 a.m., and in curiosity glanced outside. Nothing. Cold and sere, No snow. I awoke three hours later to find at least 2 inches of snow and a steady fall. I've been watching every since. I even left in mid-morning to go to the store--can't run out of diet Dr. Pepper--and played in the snow a little. Wiped about 4 inches off my car to drive. I was gone about half an hour, and when I returned, my footsteps were filled with nearly another inch of wet snow. The guy who picks up our trash on his golf cart was grounded in too much snow. He was stuck. In at least 25 years, we haven't had such snow. He eventually dug out. His muddy spot where the vehicle had foundered is totally level with the rest of the pristine snow as of now.

The snow continues to fall. And fall. I never in my memory remember seeing snow fall, vigorously and energetically, all day. With more to come. Call me easily enchanted, but it is exciting, and beautiful. My amazement and fascination is a reality check to parts of the country whose people are used to snow, but not the current 70-plus inches. They are having to endure long-time

In mid-North Texas, the snow has been falling all day with almost no wind, temperatures around 30-33 degrees. So there is melting and slush. Tomorrow morning, temps are predicted to be in the mid-20s, and lethal. We will have ice on the roads, and little equipment to alleviate it. I will not go out at all tomorrow before noon. I can drive on ice. I am less willing as I age to walk on it without salt, kitty litter, or some way of clearing the walks. But today I loved listening to the sqee-runch, sque-runch of walking in it. Of breathing the clean snow-air--nothing like it.

I've thrown out birdseed under the trees where the snow may not cover it, or the birds will find it as the snow melts. Predictions were for a high of 50 tomorrow earlier in the week, but with all the snow, highs in the 30s are predicted. More cold, but no moisture, on Sunday.

Okay, factual. I have never seen a White Christmas, which I would have if I had stayed for Christmas this year, but I went to Austin. It was the first white Christmas since 1927 in the North Texas Metroplex. When we got back, there was still enough snow for the grandkids to play in.

I keep looking out the window. The snow keeps falling. I still wonder. And exult.
Bless you all, I drove in this stuff for years. Now I don't have to. As long as it is not more than a day, I can stand the isolation. And blessed North Texas Metroplex, it won't be much more than that.

See why people move here?

Summer is coming. It will be hot. And we have had so much rain, gardeners don't know if they will get their onions, potatoes and spinach out in time.

Future crises. Today, I have watched the snow fall all day on a beautifully white landscape. It has been beautiful. Amazing.

Memorable. How old do we get before memorable is not important? I don't think I want to get that old.

It is still snowing.

I've been thinking a lot lately about bases. Where do you go for the camaraderie and comfort of a home base? Most of us have several. Bases are a way of identifying ourselves. They are also a way of belonging to a "we", not just an "I". And humans mostly need that, at least a little bit.

This week my son and I attended the funeral of his great-aunt, a dear, sweet woman who slipped quietly away at 94. It was a happy funeral, a celebration. It's a large family. Several couldn't get there, and still, about 25 or 30 were together for lunch after. It was a time to touch base, to remember that, no matter how scattered, all these folks have others they are related to. It is a pleasant reminder, particularly since this is a warm, caring family.

So. A base.

When you do work you like and/or believe in, that is another base. It becomes stronger if you manage to work there several years, an increasingly difficult feat. I am definitely defined by all three of the professional careers I have had. I still keep up with people from all three. For two of the professions, in particular, I don't know any other people I have so much in common with. It's not just memories we share. It is ideas and ways of examining the world around us. They are real bases. I get so hungry to talk to people with keen curiosity, wide-ranging interests, depth of knowledge.

The third is churches. I've finally found a liberal Christian church that encourages questioning, harmony, and diversity. I'm loving it. The kids are great. They have attentive, caring parents. I suspect the parents enjoy getting together to talk and having others of us in the church take over for an hour or two. The older people are wise and open. I realized recently that yes, this is truly a major base. A family in our church has started bringing an adolescent boy they know with them to just everything for his age level. He has a rough home life. As he spends weeks and months coming, participating, and yes, lots of eating, I am watching him slowly smooth out a bit. His home is not a base, but the church is becoming one. I see it happening. I think this is a good thing. He belongs somewhere.

Schools and colleges can be bases for many. I have two degrees from two universities. I have never attended a reunion at either school. I keep up with some of the friends I made, but not the schools. I do read my alumni magazines. But a home base? Not so much. Both of the schools are fairly name brand, so it's not the prestige factor. I'm proud of the degrees. I just don't need to go back there. (I always meant to frame the diplomas, but I never got around to it.)

And of course, the neighborhood bar. I have several friends who have spent every Friday or Saturday night at the same bar for years. They all know each other. They dance. They laugh. They celebrate each others' birthdays. They bring food over when a family member dies.

THAT is a base.

Maybe I am old-fashioned, because all of these require actual physical contact. I am not sure that a chat room can be a base. I love blogging and reading others, but for me it is a fun social activity, not a base.

Still, one of my personal bases is writing, and this blog gives me a chance to touch that. For that, I am thankful.

History Sometimes Rings True

One of my joys currently is spending time with the kids in my church. More specifically, I sometimes teach Bible stories to the kids aged 3-8. A lot of the 7 and 8 year olds are in second grade, as is one of my granddaughters.

Recently, they had a holiday for Martin Luther King Day. Now, this is a small community, primarily Anglo, and I had no idea what the schools taught about this holiday. The kids are all in different classes, so it is not as if they all heard the same teacher. But over the last couple of weeks, they have all talked to me about something they thought was important.

"There used to be a time," they have told me with eyes wide, "when people with brown skins and white skins didn't even go to school together." Another chimed in. "They didn't even drink at the same water fountains." Another said, "If a white person wanted their seat, they had to get up and give it to them and go sit somewhere else."

"But," one said, "Martin Luther King changed that. He brought us together. And it isn't like that anymore."

They were telling me something they learned that was very important to them. They actually valued the man for their holiday from school.

And I smiled and told them, "this was a good thing, wasn't it?" And they nodded, agreeing it was. One of them is very black, from another country. The history was as strange to her as to them.

They are in second grade. And they have learned, through public school, something I think is really important in American history. I never attended a segregated school, nor saw separate water fountains until I was 16. In this part of the country, there were segregated schools and separate water fountains. That I didn't know about it doesn't excuse it. And they will learn some of the deeper lessons of surface prejudice as they grow older.

I was in college in 1963 when King gave his "I have a dream" speech. It moved me then as it moves me still.

To these children, it was ages ago. Probably before my lifetime in their minds, which is why they told me. But it wasn't. No, King didn't end it. But he started a good thing, and I am glad school children today are being taught about why we honor him. We are not finished yet, but he started something good that continues.

Sometimes, it is very good to remember.

Requiem for Robert B. Parker

Heard on the news that Robert B. Parker died today. Heard it was unexpected, that he was found sprawled over his computer. Made me smile. He was 77. The man had a lot of juice left for his age.... This man gave me hours and hours of enterainment. I shamefacedly admit my first reaction was self-centered--I had hoped for a number more books.

Told my younger son, just 30, a while ago. He liked the Spencers, but was really getting into Jessie Stone. He decided he would call his dad. As extended family, we put some dollars and a lot of time into this author.

I always heard a good party is one that ends befoe the guests have had enough. Maybe that goes for a good life, too. A ton of us weren't ready for Robert Parker to be over. I bet he wasn't either. Doesn't get much better. I'll lift a toast to that.

Love with inflexible standards

It has been a busy month. I notice it has been the same with others who are among my favorite sites. For one thing, life keeps changing, and sometimes we would rather live it than write about it. And when so much is going on, and I am noticing so much, it is hard to focus on a single topic. I decided a long time ago not to journal, per se, in my blog. So it has been difficult to write.

And I seem to be in a period of life where I feel hugely, but seldom strongly in opposition or in anger. Is this a natural process of aging? or where I am going in maturity and spirituality? I hope both. That will make aging a more pleasant process, I think.

I was surprised on Sunday to have my family tell me I am anal. How can that be? I'm sloppy, have to work at organizing. Like to work hard in spurts, then loll around reading books and maybe eating sandwiches because I'm too lazy to cook. But when I cook, and increasingly I do again, I mostly like to start from scratch. Today I will make a white sauce for a chicken pot pie, for instance, instead of using canned soup. Which I sometimes do. But this time I want to flavor the white sauce with sage and poultry seasoning for just the right taste... just the right....hmmm. Anal is inflexible, isn't it? Yes, I can be particular. But I don't wear makeup. I have wash and go hair. I buy a few pair of good shoes, then wear them for years.

When my sons popped the A-word, with much laughter, I appealed to my oldest granddaughter. She smiled sweetly and demurely looked down. She might be agreeing, or choosing not to be involved, but still. And then I looked at my youngest granddaughter, who is carefree and often mussed. Sooner or later, when I come in the door, she knows I am going to say, "Brush your hair." It is very fine, thick and beautiful, and tangles easily. Hopefully that will be something she will remember about me someday and smile. Currently, she rolls her eyes. But she does it. Her father once said I told him to tie his shoes more often than I told him I loved him. But he still knows I love him. Maybe I'm anal about that, too. Can anal be another word for steadfast?

Huh. A peek at how others see me, and an unexpected picture. Maybe I really WAS a good bureaucrat.

The Daily Practice of Happiness

I met a woman recently whose family is concerned about her--she's in her late 80s, slipping slowly into Alzheimer's and a little confused, but still with life and personality in her eyes. She really likes people. I had met her before, but didn't thik she would remember me. Her face lit up, and she said,"Oh, I've missed you! Where have you been?"

Her family adores her. We talked for awhile, and it struck me, and it had before, that this was a woman who has been happy all of her life. She looked for the goodness in her life throughout, and she found it. She's had plenty of cares in her world, but she has focused on the good things going on in her life.

And I began to wonder, is happiness a gift or a talent? I think we expect it to be just given to us. We don't expect to work to expand it, to make it grow, to sustain it. Every day, though, our attitudes, our expectations and our focus have a great deal to do with whether that day is happy or sad.

Sometimes, life is just sad. Several decades ago, I was terribly sad for a spell, and I started a habit of waking up in the morning and writing down the good things I expected to happen. I remember one day all I could think of was, "the sun came up." Every evening I would review my list and write down any additional good things that had happened. And there always were some. Every single day. I learned to look hard for those things.

If happiness is a talent, then some are more gifted at it than others, and I believe this to be true. Some just excel at it. I had to practice, because I have a melancholy streak that rises periodically--but as the years have passed, learning to focus on each day's blessings has helped keep maloncholy at bay. No matter what, these days I know with certainty every day will have good things happening in it. No matter what.

I plan to pratice happiness, and keep getting better at it on a daily basis.

This old woman I talked to is fading now, but she is retaining the central essence of her personality, I believe, through long practice. She is happy. She is kind. She is loved.

The Magic of Thanksgiving

Around the holidays, we do get magical. Can't help it. This, for me, is a magic story.

A couple of weeks ago, I visited a longtime friend in East Texas. For you roustabouts who don't know anything about the very large state of Texas,this means a 100 miles or so east of DFW Metroplex.The sweet gum were coloring. So were the oak and maple. The sun was blooming for the first time in a week.
But the weather was so mild the flowers, particularly the roses, were still blooming.
My friend has a beautiful home in 11 acres of gardens, trees, meadows and stock tank. Wow.

Along with the superb coconut creme pie she made from scratch, she showed me her favored china. She opened the door, and asked, " Do you remember this?" She pulled out a blue serving plate rimmed with gold trim, with six matching plates.

My face convulsed. She was alarmed. She said ,"You can have it back if you want to," and I am proud to say only for a moment did I want to.Because when I got all my gandmother's china, when I realized what she had, I realized it was too much. I sold a lot of it. I lost some in storage, and I gave some of it away. Ultimately,
I lost it all. But I gave some of it to persons I loved. Anita was one of them.

When I visited Anita and saw the plates, in a way I had never acknowledged I realized what I had lost, and what I had gained.l saw that I inherited, never owned, my grandmother's china. At the same time I realized by giving these few plates away,I had them forever, in the home I gave them to.

No wonder she had trouble reading my face. I am so proud that once upon a time I don't even remember I gave them to her. I don't even remember it except peripherilly. But at least I knew even then that she was important. I gave the gold-gilded plates to someone I loved 40 years ago. And we still love each other.

Well, she will have her Thanksgiving and so will will I. I don't know what plates will be used in either place. We don't own them, y'all. We simply use them while we are here. I still own the memories of my grandmother, my father, my mother. The plates bring them more to mind. But I don't need them to remember.

That is all. Thanksgiving is hope for the future. I have been blessed. How about you?