Valentine’s Day

To my Valentine, my husband, my partner in crime. I love you! (I know this is a bit long for a blog post, but if you are married, or have been, you just might enjoy the ride :) )  

Valentine’s Day

I placed a hesitant hand on the smooth metal door handle of the Hallmark store and pulled it open to the sound of tinkling bells. Ruby hearts hanging from the door jamb brushed the top of my head as I stepped inside and headed for the Valentine section, an explosion of pinks and reds.  Crowded with last minute lovers like myself, we had to jockey for position as we searched for the perfect card.  Studying people’s expressions with secretive sideways glances, I longed to hear the running commentary inside their heads. I have always been a last minute Valentine shopper because I dread it.  I can only bring myself to buy something simple that says “I love you’.  All of the other cards in the store are stupid.  With every card I read, I have to add one more sarcastic sentence in my mind.  Or at the very least, a clarifier. I can’t leave it alone.  It’s very stressful. After a quarter of a century of marriage few of them ring true.  Can we all please admit that many of these sentiments are, at the very least, stretching the imagination? I have long considered designing a line of Valentine cards the are grouped according to the number of years you have been married. I long for little ditties like this: Loving each other has been a long, hard road, but I still think you are cute. Or: Can’t wait to celebrate our love at Donovan’s Steak house because we got a $150.00 coupon from your client. Or: Let’s stay up past 9:00 PM and make out for eight minutes straight. Love is damn tricky.  An enigma.  So much has been written about it that I dare not add to the rubble.  But if I had to, if Cupid put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t waste time composing an essay as it would never capture the layers, the nuances. I would take a thousand noble words and nestle them in pairs with their less than noble opposites. Then I would shake them in my cupped hands like dice and toss the whole collection off of Juliet’s balcony and watch them scatter and bounce on the cobblestone streets of Verona until they landed in a mish-mash mural of the language of love. Maybe I would even take a photo of it and sell it to Hallmark for next year’s selection. “Excuse me,” I said to a young woman with a sparkly diamond ring. She smelled of lavender and caressed a card like it held the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.  “Just reaching for this one.” I grabbed one depicting a romantic table set for two. It unearthed a memory. My husband and I became engaged at Papa Pirozki’s in Atlanta on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.  Who chooses to propose to his bride in a Russian restaurant on December 7^th?  Looking back, I think he had a subconscious yearning to personalize the Cold War, to plant it as a seed in our relationship.  Though the rest of the world was evolving beyond such ideology, it was apparent that he was some sort of fan. I hadn’t expected it to be a night unlike all other nights as we were rekindling a relationship that had been on a long hiatus. Neither of us expected the marriage proposal to play out the way it did.  But maybe that was a good thing.  Perhaps it’s the couples who do everything according to the Prince and Princess Handbook who don’t survive when the magic wears thin.  In retrospect, I think it was better to start this union with our gloves on, in a boxer’s stance. One needs to understand strategy and battle maneuvers. It is vital to appreciate humor and build camaraderie in the unexpected foxhole. These are the necessary skills that keep a marriage alive.  Flowers and chocolate are useless. I remember sitting alone enjoying the candlelight and crystal that adorned our table for two as I held a thumb-sized glass of fruited vodka, icy and thick with raspberries. I loved the way the color matched my fingernails, the stark contrast of them against the white linens reminded me of the raspberry and cream popsicles I ate as a child. Feeling relaxed and elegant I took tiny sips as I gazed around, nodding to other couples nearby who were beginning to notice that my date had disappeared.  I wondered what was taking him so long as he had excused himself to go chat up the chef, whom he said was an acquaintance. A black door to the kitchen swung open and Tim burst back into the room, all smiles.  At 6’8” he wasn’t known for quiet entrances. “Ivan’s going to send out a few freebies.  Said he’d take care of us.” Tim plopped into his chair and smoothed his blonde hair into place.  He downed his fruity vodka like it was Kool-aide and motioned for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. “Great,” I said picturing all sorts of exotic Russian delights appearing on plates that were once served to the Romanovs.  “So how do you know this guy?” “Met him at a radio event.  He’s from uhm,” Tim snapped his long fingers as he recalled the information, “Moscow.  Yea, that’s it.  Moscow.” “What was the event?” “Does it matter?” “No.” “So what’s with all the questions?” “It was only one question. Why are you getting agitated?” “I’m not agitated.” He picked up the second fruity vodka and downed it. “Would you finish your first drink already?” “Fine.”  I threw it back like a pro.  Then I picked up the second one and saluted him.  “Let’s just relax and enjoy this. We only have two days before I fly back. I missed you.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils.  I put my hand over his drumming fingers.  Something was up. “Are you okay?” I asked. A young waiter with Ricky Riccardo hair swooped over, handed us menus and then gave a run-down of the night’s specials.  We each chose an entrée and Tim asked for another round of drinks. “Tim. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks.” “No.” “Fine.”  What was wrong with him ?  It seemed as if he had left his usual joking demeanor in the kitchen with Ivan. I threw back my second drink in one gulp and choked daintily into my napkin.  We could take a cab home. “So how are things at the airline?” Tim asked as he took a piece of bread from a silver bowl.  Thrilled to have some normal conversation, I started into an elaborate story about a new dad who tried to change his baby’s diaper on a fold down, jump seat. As I got to the part where the dad laid the baby on her back while he held the jump seat down with his knee, Ricky Riccardo came back and placed a small salad in front of me. “Zees is from Ivan,” he announced as he stood back from the table. I nodded to him and smiled.  “Thank you.” “No problem.”  He beamed as he retreated to the water station. It was ugliest, driest looking salad I had ever seen so I pushed it to the side as I continued my story.  Tim stared at the salad and then back at me.  “That’s your salad,” he said. “There’s no dressing. And what is this stuff?  It’s not even lettuce.  It’s cabbage or who knows what?” “Have some salad.”  His voice held an edge. “I don’t want the salad.”  I calmly stated, the words evenly spaced and heavy on my tongue. “Eat the salad,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I gave him my most powerful defiant stare. “Eat - the - damned - salad.” “Fine.” I pulled the salad over and started to pick at it with my fork suddenly feeling other people’s eyes upon me.  I looked around and noticed them, whispering in hushed tones. “What is up with you?” I could barely conceal by growing rage. “I thought we were going to have fun.”  Blood was pumping through my veins, banging in my ears.  I took a bite of one of the bitter greens and held up my fork as I chewed it. “This is disgusting. I thought Ivan was your friend.” Then I saw it.  A velvet box of midnight blue half hidden under shreds of carrot and radicchio.  Panic gripped me like a giant hand and squeezed tight. No, no, no.  I did not want this to happen here. This was not what I had choreographed in my ten-year-old heart as I picked at my chenille bedspread on sleepless nights.  I could see our waiter going from table to table alerting the others to our impending moment. “Honey,”   Tim leaned on his elbows and bore into me with blinking eyes, "Stop blinking your eyes like that. Take the box out of the salad." “I don’t want to.” “Open the box, Susan.” “People are staring.”  I attempted another defiant stare but it was difficult to pull off with tears plopping onto the table. “Open - the - damn - box.” Though I don’t remember willing them to do so, my shaking fingers pushed away the vegetables and picked up the small velvet cube.  All eyes in the restaurant were on us.  I opened the box and a diamond solitaire caught the candlelight.  I looked up at Tim and stared as his lips moved without sound.  I glanced at the staring eyes to the left and then I glanced at the staring eyes to the right, distorted faces like funhouse mirrors. “Well?” Tim asked with a face so vulnerable and earnest that I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without him. “Will you marry me?” “Yes.” The room ruptured into cheers as Tim handed me a third vodka and held up his.  And we burst into laughter, toasted each other and cheered along with them. The whole experience did not play out the way either of us had imagined.  It was not the traditional down on one knee sort of proposal on the beach at sunset, nor was the ring magically unveiled on a covered silver dish as he had hoped.  It was clumsy, unexpected, and filled with nervous emotion on both sides. It was real and heartfelt and awkwardly expressed the way marriage often looks on a daily basis. In retrospect it was the perfect engagement. “Must be a funny card,” Ms. I Smell Like Lavender commented as I giggled to myself. “Just brought back some memories,” I sighed as I put the card back in its place, “But it’s not the one I’m going to buy.” “I think I’m going to get this one,” she confided as she held up a photo of a sunrise on which was printed ‘Every sunrise means another day of loving you’. I forced myself not to add a sardonic comment and ruin her choice. She opened the card and pointed to a wall of poetry five inches long. “This poem says it all for me.” “How many years?” “One.  Well almost,” she said with a shy smile.  “You?” “Twenty-four.” “Wow.  So, what’s the secret?  What have you learned?” I plucked a simple white card with a simple red heart and opened it for her to see. “This is the card I get for him every year.  Because after awhile, you learn that these are the only three words that matter.”

Moments in Montclair 4

Sr. Kenneth

Part 2

Sr. Kenneth Mary lived in the convent across the street from the school on the corner of Munn St. and Cottage Pl.  When I passed it, I would walk quickly. It may have been a plain brick building, but it held mystery.  It made my palms sweat. We had all seen Sr. Kenneth and the other Sisters of Charity go in and come out from to time, but for the life of us, we could not figure out what went on in there.  Rumor had it that the sisters were on lockdown between the hours of 4:00 PM and 7:00 AM.  They weren’t allowed to leave, and they never ate. Maybe they were allowed to sleep but they wore their full habits. Just trying to picture Sr. Kenneth in a flannel nightgown made us queasy. Not once did I ever see one of the Sisters around town, and believe me, I looked for them. Besides teaching us perfect penmanship, Sr. Kenneth loved tests. Not just spelling and math, though you could tell she thought they were thrilling by the way her voice went up an octave when she gave directions. She loved to trick us with tests of courage and moral rectitude, and we wouldn’t know she was doing it until someone was busted. The first time she pulled it on us was after a morning recess. She sat quietly behind her desk with a stenographer's notebook and a Bic pen. The rule was that we were to come in and fold our arms on our desk and put our heads down until the class was calm. Then she would give us the next direction. On this seemingly regular Thursday morning, we came in and put our heads down, but she didn’t say a word.  The silence dragged on to an alarming extent, at least five minutes. Though no one was bold enough to raise his/her head to see what was amiss, I could see frantic eyeballs rolling in every direction. What was going on here? Kathy, a sweet girl with brown pigtails to my left, began to whisper to those of us within earshot that she had a few of those chocolate “Ice Cube” candies left over from her snack.  She swore that they tasted really cold. The more she whispered the more I wanted to taste one to see if it really was as frosty as something that comes from a freezer. As Sr. Kenneth sat staring opaquely from her chair, Kathy began to slip them to her friends. My mother never bought such frivolous things for our lunch bags, so I slipped my hand across the aisle in a stealth-like fashion making sure that the rest of my body and head did not move. Kathy placed the Ice Cube, wrapped in shiny gold foil, in my hand. Continuing my stealth move to my lap, I promptly unwrapped the candy and slipped into my mouth as I fake coughed the way I had seen my brother Timmy do when he would sneak ribbon candy from a bowl at my grandmother’s house. Just as I silently declared that there was nothing even remotely cold about this chocolate, Sr. Kenneth announced, “If I call your name please stand.” “Kathy.” “Maureen.” “John.” “MIchael” “Susan.” One by one we stood, shaking and swallowing. Then she went on to deliver a lengthy sermon about the importance of trust and rule following and the reality of evil and its whispers all around us. Kathy and I exchanged shocked looks. Evil? The only whisper I had heard was Kathy’s. Then later that afternoon, Sr. Kenneth entered after lunch in an even more morose mood, if that was even possible.  When an hour of The Palmer Method ceased to enliven her, she asked us to sit with our hands folded at our desks.  There was nothing odd about that as this was our “go to” posture between subjects.  After this morning’s humiliation I sat up straight and placed my palms together in the holiest way possible, lining up my fingers perfectly with those on the other hand the way she showed us.  I didn’t move a muscle and refused to listen to any evil whispers that might be swirling about. After a few long, silent minutes she asked, “Is there anyone in the class that can tell time?”  I had no idea how to read a clock, but when a dozen other hands shot up I joined them.  Heck, I wanted to be seen as savvy and advanced. I wanted to redeem myself. There was no clock on our wall, and it wasn’t like she was asking anyone to prove it. She looked around the room slowly, searching the faces of the proud few of us time-tellers and said, “Susan, why don’t you go out to the hallway, see what time it is, and come back in and tell us.” “Okay,” I whispered.  I stood up, gulped, smoothed my blue plaid jumper, pulled up my navy knee socks and started up the aisle.  Faces of classmates loomed and smiled, growing distorted like those in a funhouse mirror. I was screwed, again.  There was nothing I could do but leave the classroom and figure it out. I slipped out the door and leaned against the wall, afraid to move.  I had never been in the hallway alone, and, suddenly it was the biggest space I had ever seen.  Pale green walls the color of mucous punctuated here and there by varnished wood doors.  Only a few steps to my left was THE OFFICE. I’d never been in there either, and I hoped I never would. My brother Todd had told me all sorts of scary tales about the principal, Sr. Maria Michael. She had something he called “a hairy eyeball” that she was always giving him. Todd spent a fair share of time in this hallway ‘gathering’ himself before Mrs. Docken would let him come back into their second grade classroom.  As a matter of fact I knew he was sitting behind the last door on the left right now. The clock was a huge white orb that clung to the wall near the ceiling, its thin black arms like those of a traffic cop when he signals the lanes in front of him to stop. I looked around in a panic.  Though I knew that time was ticking away, I had no idea how to name it.  The whole class was waiting for me to come back and enlighten them. If I said the wrong thing, I would be doomed forever.  I searched the hall for help. Nothing, not a soul.  My heart pounded in my ears, I stepped toward the wall clock as if closer proximity would reveal the answer.  I watched the second hand travel.  I bent my head back and looked to the ceiling so the tears in my eyes could pool at the corners rather than roll down my cheeks. Things were not going well for me in First Grade either. I had such high hopes when I started. And then, just as I was about to pull the classroom door open in shame, an angel appeared. An honest to goodness eighth grader on her way to THE OFFICE with a note. “Excuse me,” I asked timidly, my voice but a squeak in the vast emptiness.  “Can you tell me what time it is?”  She stopped, her kindness like a welcome mist in the desert, and said, “Why, it’s twelve past one.” “Thank you,” I replied as I watched her sashay past me and disappear in a blonde swish into THE OFFICE.  Obviously, my holy hands had not been for naught.  I dried my tears with the hem of my jumper and opened the classroom door. Then I stepped before the class and announced, “Twelve past one.” Sr. Kenneth looked at me over her spectacles, checked her watch and said, “Thirteen past. But close enough. Fine work.” “Thank you.”  These were the moments that made God real to a six year old.  I walked back down the row, careful not to appear too proud, and resumed my seated position. Left hand against the right, lining up the fingers in the holiest way possible.     ************************************************************************************************************************* Dear Readers:  After this post I will be posting all Moments in Montclair pieces on my other WP blog called Moments that Matter.  Please come over and join my mailing list if you'd like to continue receiving them.  I am composing them for fun, nostalgia, and as a way to force myself to create memoir pieces that my children will both treasure and, as one of my present students said to me last week, read back to me at the end of my life when I may not be able to remember the rich and blessed life I have lead.   (Her statement stopped our whole class in our tracks. In a good way.) The stories of our lives are important to share. In this busy world, it is a priceless gift to carve out the time to record them. This blog gives me a deadline.  One tale every two weeks.  Anyone can do that.  I hope to inspire all of you to do the same. Please feel free to share your nostalgia with us as well! Susan~

The Dragonflies

        I just returned from four glorious days nestled deep in the evergreen woodlands of Northern Arizona.  Rim country they called it, referring to the Mogollon Rim. Two hundred miles of dramatic rock formations, deep canyons and more sky than you have ever seen at one time.  Three of my treasured writing pals and I gathered at a mountain cabin in Christopher Creek. Call it retreating, recharging, the rebirth of the muse, call it the long exhale.  Okay, call it heaven if you must. I am well into a job transition, deciding to leave the classroom and develop a writing based business that encompasses all of my loves: writing, teaching, speaking, traveling, and more writing.  It has not been an easy road.  And though I knew, as I stepped in that direction, that few writers can make a living this way, I felt a pull toward it. A call. And if I have learned anything from writing Halfway to Each Other, it is to follow that call, no matter how absurd it may sound to you or those around you.  It is the call of your creative soul, the dwelling place of sanity, of peace. It will only call you, and if you don’t answer it...who will? These past two months, particularly, I have been working furiously on a new book.  It has taken awhile to get started on it, but now I am in the thick of process, shaping and rewording and spilling blood. Recently the pieces were more difficult to birth. The muse was stingy, my well of words running dry.  Pulling the proper ones into place became arduous like lining up pebbles on a steep slant. They kept rolling, shifting, falling over edges. I didn’t realize that I was entering extreme fatigue, not the kind that sends you in search of a pillow, but the kind that sends you in search of a glass of wine hoping your muse is swimming in it. When I was invited to join these writers, I left my computer at home. I found an old notebook and pen and off I went without expectation. I awoke the first morning, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, grabbed a mug of steaming coffee and ventured onto a wraparound deck that stood fifty feet from a creek, the border of the Tonto National Forest.  Surrounded by greens of every shade and texture, I felt immediately calmed. The sort of calm that comes from a mother’s hand on your shoulder. I could stand and stare into that green forever, watch the tall grasses gently bending with drops of dew, count and recount the species of trees and bushes and wildflowers that poked their heads up to greet the sun. All of a sudden a large dragonfly with bulging iridescent blue green eyes stopped about twenty feet from me and hovered as if he was surprised that a human had appeared.  I stood still and held his gaze to see what he might do. He continued to hover, did not go about his merry dragonfly way.  Then he slowly advanced toward me, inch by steady inch, until I could hear the beating of his wings. “Hello there, my friend,” I whispered thinking my words would scare him off. “Good morning to you, too!”  The sound did not scare him at all, he only moved closer.  And when it became uncomfortable I waved him off until he buzzed above my head and over the roof of the cabin. I was intrigued by our greeting of each other and chewed on it all day as I went for a hike through the forest and then sat with my friends as we shared meals and writing prompts and picked apart shorts stories written by the masters of our time.  The memory of him perched on my shoulder as I fixed an early afternoon gin and tonic, that we all agreed was medicinal, for one of us who had received a deflating rejection letter that very noon. And he haunted my dreams, in a good way, as I slept the deep restorative sleep that comes when you find the courage to break open the shell of your heart and share your fears with like minded comrades around a campfire that sends red sparks to meet the full moon. The next day, he returned, but it was not for a morning greeting and it was not alone.  The four of us were seated in folding chairs, in the shade of the bordering forest, working silently on the art of imagery. We were, if I may speak for all of us, happily lost in creative wonderfulness. The way it feels when your words are pulsing upwards like geysers and soothing hot springs. As we painted metaphors and placed poetic phrases in our notebooks and wrapped these images around our hearts, the dragonflies appeared. As we answered the knocking doors of our souls, walked toward that voice that has called us, quietly and persistently, all of our lives, to write and claim our places as true artists, they swarmed in gentle circles over our heads. We looked up from our notebooks and remarked about the magic of that particular moment. Indeed it was. The dragonflies never landed, never bothered us in any way. They did, however, perform a dragonfly ballet to the music that only a writer can hear as he/she creates. Their dance, a visual response to our collective song of joy. Upon my return home, yesterday, I looked up the meaning of the dragonfly and was not surprised at what I found.  A powerful symbol in many cultures it represents a number of things.  It stands for renewal, positive force and the power of life.  Because it has wings sensitive to even the slightest breezes, it represents change. Also a creature of water, it is symbolic of the subconscious, the dreaming mind, a reminder to pay attention to our deeper thoughts and desires. Lastly, because it has such a short life it reminds us of the value of living in the moment. Living life to the fullest by heeding the call of our souls and making choices to connect and give birth to that which we are called to create, whatever that means and however that looks. Those moments with the dragonflies will inspire me the rest of my life. Those four days were vital ones that have restored me on many levels.  I share this story, this moment in my writer’s journey, as encouragement to others who may feel stuck or unsure. For those who have written themselves dry, or have piled manuscripts into a drawer afraid to share them with the light of day. Seek renewal from those who share your creative journey. Find the courage to stand before the dragonfly and bid him a fine morning then welcome him to begin his pirouettes as you let your soul free.

More Moments in Montclair

 

More Moments in Montclair

My older brother, Todd, wrote a book one year and gave it to the family for Christmas.  It is a treasure.  A small, unassuming book titled Moments in Montclair, it lists various memories of our childhood in random order. I can’t read it without laughing myself to tears or crying myself into a fit of giggles. I don’t assume that our childhood was any better or more magical than anyone else’s but I do know that the mere fact that I grew up with five brothers and no sisters provided much entertainment, physical activity, and subterfuge. In honor of my family, whom I continue to adore beyond words, I am feeling pulled to those years more than ever.  Perhaps it is because my own children are now off on their own, or perhaps I am feeling that summertime nostalgia that hits me this time of year. And part of me would like to do put my reminiscing down on paper so that when I am moved into a nursing home, hopefully some time far in the future, I can whip it out and read it to the kindly nurses and candy stripers who feign interest or, in the dim light of evening they can read it to me. My childhood spanned the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Our family of eight shared a modest four bedroom house in Montclair, NJ. It was pre-computer, pre-cell phone, pre-everything digital.  Looking back, I would argue that this “Pre Era” had a power all its own. A magic that surpassed anything one can purchase at Best Buy or the Apple Store.  It was an era that demanded creativity and initiative, when kids had to work issues out on their own and parents rarely stormed the principal’s office except to agree that their kid was a schmuck. As an experiment I am going to write a short memory every other Monday. Please feel free to share this backward journey with me as it just may stir up wonderful memories of your own. Comments and personal sharing are encouraged and welcomed!  Let the trip begin~

Our House Looked Like a Yellow Version of This

Let me introduce you to my family: My dad’s name is Harry. Back then, we referred to him amongst ourselves as H-Bomb since he was a force to be reckoned with.  The quintessential Wonder Years Dad, he left every morning in a slate grey suit carrying a briefcase and drove to a place called Kearfott.  We had no idea where that was or what happened there, but it was important.  He returned precisely at 6:00 PM.  The air in the house changed when he walked through the door. Our steps became lighter, our words more carefully chosen. Six PM was the time to straighten up, set the table, and get washed up for dinner. He’s the one who taught us all to “have a little class for God’s sakes.” Lois, our mother, won a Shirley Temple contest when she was five years old for two reasons: she looked like Shirly Temple and she sang Red Sails in the Sunset on the radio. None of us could get over this.  Who else had a mother who sang on the radio?  In our eyes she had experience with fame. She also was voted Homecoming Queen in High School and went on to become a nurse in a white hat.  Luckily none of this went to her head. First and foremost she was our MOM.  A whirling dervish of cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, nursing, and confidant when we needed one.  For one half hour a day she sat and read The Star Ledger with an open-faced PB&J. No one was allowed to to talk to her during that time unless there was blood involved. David was the oldest.  The only one of us too cool to have a nickname, unless you regard  ‘Dave’ as a nickname.  He was the Greg Brady of the family only more mysterious. He wore his hair down over his eyes to the horror of my father, had his own pool cue in a narrow faux leather protective case that zipped, and dated an older women who had a driver’s license.  My parents cleaned out the attic so he could have his own space. I can still feel the delight of parting the hippie beads that hung in the doorway to enter his groovy pad. A bit of an artist, he hammered numerous nails into the paneled wall and created a mural of string art that remains to this day. Timothy, Timmy, Timbo, Tim was the opposite of Dave. He was the all-American kid who loved sports and girls. He played football, hockey, and baseball during various seasons but boxed and wrestled with David all year long.  Sometimes my dad would order them into the backyard to “figure things out”. Once I had to disturb my mother during her half-hour break because blood was involved.  I think this all had something to do with David getting his own space. Todd, Toddio, Toddio Potatio, Odd Todd Half Turtle and Half Frog, was a year older than me.  He was our Eddie Haskell with wiry blond hair and an innocent face. If there was something amiss, if we could smell smoke, hear firecrackers, or hear a friendly game ending in an explosion of “not fair’s!” Todd was usually involved.  After he got in trouble he would always invite us into his bedroom to tell us about it and then laugh as hard as he could. Susan, Susan Boosan, Sue, is me.  I was the only girl and thus the only one with my own room.  No one thought this was fair except for me. The only thing that I thought was NOT fair was that I was not allowed to put a lock on the door. My parents assured us that we needed to learn to respect other’s property and privacy by exercising self control.  That never happened.  I was the perfect follower.  When you are surrounded by brothers who are ready at any moment to give you red ears, a dead arm, a charlie horse, an indian rub, a purple nurple, or pin you down so they can drip saliva over your face, you learn to do what you are told and not to tattle under any circumstances.  The only place I could exert any power was during board games when the rules were written on plain white paper so no one could take over by making up his/her own rules on the spot.  We went through three Trouble games one year because we wore out the pop-o-matic dice popper. Eventually we had to move to Hand’s Down. Kevin, Kev, Kevvy Baby, Devon, Devonport Chesterfield, was two years behind me. He was the brother who always (and still does) make us all laugh.  He was emotional, funny, and the constant brunt of Todd’s mischief. He had the misfortune of being born with a huge freckle on his cheek that we all claimed was a beauty mark. The teasing was relentless and that premature dead front tooth the color of a stormy sky didn’t help matters for him. Joseph, Joe, Hobart, Hoey, Hoey Joey Come and Mow My Lawn, was born when I was seven.  Cute and docile, he was our real life doll that we loved and stuffed into various costumes.  He was especially useful at Christmas that first year when we put on a play about the Nativity in our basement.  For the first five years of his life he probably thought he had two mothers.  He was the first one I was able to boss around. But I did it with love.  With five older siblings, Joe grew to be good natured, creative and wise beyond his years with the diplomatic savvy of the leader of the UN. Outside of Todd and Kevin’s salamanders,  geckos,  gerbils, guinea pigs, fish and rabbits, we had two dogs and cat at various times... but we’ll get to them later.

A Mother’s Silhouette

To all of our mothers.  Thank you for your love~

A Mother's Silhouette

I awoke for a moment in late afternoon, the hospital room spare and efficient.   I looked over and saw my mother sitting with a rosary in her hand, a cool dark silhouette before a window fiercely illuminated by the hot desert sun. “You don’t have to talk,” she said noticing I was stirring. “I’m just going to sit here.” Thank you.  It’s exactly what I needed.  An immense, familiar peace filled me, her profile eliciting early memories as I continued to drift in and out of sleep, my body ridding itself of the anesthesia from an early morning surgery. I dreamed of sitting tall beside her as she drove the white station wagon with two sure hands on the wheel down bright summer streets, and squinting up from my canvas raft to see that she still sat in the striped beach chair in case I needed her to rescue me from the crashing waves.   Then I was suddenly spinning on the old brown naugahyde covered stool in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her black wavy hair in sharp contrast to the fading glare of a snowy afternoon through windows over the kitchen sink.  I felt the weight of her as she perched on the edge of my bed saying prayers with me, the hall light streaming behind her into my room cloaked in night. Her slight frame in the living room window as I pulled up to the house in an old blue Ford with my first boyfriend. All of these memories, backlit, glowing.  A mother’s silhouette.  Anchoring, soothing, solid.  As an adult, going about the daily routines, I had forgotten about the calming, restorative effect of having my mother simply sit in my presence.  I looked to her as I always have.  My mirror, my friend, my ever present reminder-er that my hair cut is all wrong and my weight is too low.  All these years she has been the constant in my life.  Now sneaking around the edges of my heart is the knowledge that she will someday be gone.  It is an unbearable knowing. Where will she be when I need her?  Who will be backlit for me then? The ability to have children may end, but mothering endures.  It is a singular and beautiful calling to become the silhouette to God’s light here on this earth.   In this room, helpless and still, I saw clearly that my position in the chain of motherhood would remain unchanged.  A child doesn’t stop needing his or her mother simply because he or she is turning fifty, and a mother’s instinct to love her children never ends. My thoughts turned to my son and daughter, young adults trying to find their way and make sense of their circumstances.  I wonder if my silhouette holds the same power. If I was there when they needed to peer from their own darkness and look toward the light. If I understood when they were young that love shines brightest during the simple moments of mothering that become so routine that we perform them without thought.  I look forward with a new understanding to the many years I have left  with them.  Even if that means just sitting in a chair in a shadowy room by a sunny window, a chance to remind them of the immense, familiar peace of a mother’s love in this often harsh world. I awakened again, my head pounding.  She was there in a second with ice chips and a cool cloth. “Do you want me to turn off the ceiling light?” she asked as she leaned over me. “No, leave it on,” I replied adding one more image to my my treasure box of silhouettes. Sheets smoothed, pillows adjusted she stood searching for some other detail to attend. “Thanks, Mom.” I said as I felt the tug of sleep once more. “I’ll just sit over here,” she whispered. “You don’t have to talk.”

Ben’s Bells and the Power of Kindness

~Deliberately seek opportunities for kindness, sympathy, and patience. Evelyn Underhill This morning I had the priviledge of participating in the "belling" of Phoenix.  All over the valley, volunteers hung Ben's Bells to spread the message of kindness and remind us of its power to soothe broken lives, create hope, and affect positive change. My friend, Diane, and I were entrusted with twenty hand-made bells, twenty pieces of wire, and a rough hewn map on a blue index card. As we walked to the car, I carried this bundle with reverence for it wasn't just an old grocery bag crammed with ceramic  flowers and bells, this was a bag filled with hope. And hope is the most powerful force on the the planet. We drove carefully to our designated area and began to choose unlikely spots: a tree in a parking lot, a vacant playground, a bench along a bike path.  We understood that our role was to deliver the kindness, and it would be someone else's to receive it.  With each bell that we tied to a random location, we knew that it would become a bridge to hope to the person meant to find it.  Each bell would become a chapter in a story of healing. When I returned home, I began to check the Ben's Bells webpage where people will often post their story about finding a bell, or how a bell found them in a dark moment of their day.  A few of the stories were about bells Diane and I had placed. The circle of kindess complete. Here are a few of the stories:  

Xanax For Sale

A few weeks ago I was sent an email informing me that Halfway to Each Other Xanax For Sale, was chosen as one of the books that would be added to the Learning Ally library during Phoenix's  annual Record-a-Thon.  I was honored and excited at the opportunity, Xanax trusted pharmacy reviews. Xanax coupon, I have been aware of Learning Ally (formerly Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic) for many years through my teaching profession.  It is a godsend for students and their families, buy Xanax online cod. Xanax reviews,  This national non-profit, offers an online catalog of the best audiobook and audio learning opportunities on the internet, online buying Xanax.  I have referred them to families of struggling students and have watched these children take charge of their learning and glow with the pride of achievement, Xanax For Sale. Purchase Xanax for sale,

Here's a blurb about them from their webpage:

"Founded in 1948 as Recording for the Blind, Learning Ally serves more than 300, my Xanax experience, Where can i buy cheapest Xanax online, 000 K-12, college and graduate students, herbal Xanax, Buy Xanax without a prescription, veterans and lifelong learners – all of whom cannot read standard print due to blindness, visual impairment, order Xanax from mexican pharmacy, Buy Xanax no prescription, dyslexia, or other learning disabilities, cheap Xanax. Xanax maximum dosage, Learning Ally’s collection of more than 70,000 digitally recorded textbooks and literature titles – downloadable and accessible on mainstream as well as specialized assistive technology devices – is the largest of its kind in the world, Xanax brand name. Taking Xanax, More than 6,000 volunteers across the U.S, Xanax use. Xanax from canada, help to record and process the educational materials, which students rely on to achieve academic and professional success."

Though headquartered in Princeton, Xanax for sale, Xanax schedule, NJ, they have recording studios and offices all over the country, Xanax gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release. Xanax For Sale,  Pam Bork runs the studio here in Phoenix with a staff of generous volunteers. Effects of Xanax,  Dorothy Burns and I had a lot of fun recording Halfway to Each Other together, or at the very least I had fun and she was tearing her hair out with all of our re-do's whenever I would flub a word or phrase, order Xanax no prescription. Japan, craiglist, ebay, overseas, paypal, [caption id="attachment_846" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Dorothy and I after our recording session."][/caption]

If your family has a need for this organization, don't hesitate, generic Xanax. Xanax recreational,  If you can't find the title of the book or textbook you need, they will record it for you, order Xanax from United States pharmacy. Xanax cost, If you would like to voluteer to read/record books,  all it takes is a short demo in the recording booth and you'll be on your way to helping people of all ages enjoy reading and experience the wealth that printed material provides, Xanax from mexico. About Xanax, Click here to browse the titles in their catalog.

 

 

 , Xanax online cod. Xanax wiki. Buy Xanax online no prescription. Buy generic Xanax. Xanax dangers.

Similar posts: Buy Niravam Without Prescription. Zithromax For Sale. Imigran For Sale. Buy Imovane Without Prescription. Buy Xenical Without Prescription. Sildenafil Citrate duration. Comprar en línea Dalmane, comprar Dalmane baratos. Paxipam maximum dosage. Generic Modalert. Generic Lormetazepam.
Trackbacks from: Xanax For Sale. Xanax For Sale. Xanax For Sale. Xanax For Sale. Xanax For Sale. Xanax street price. Xanax maximum dosage. Effects of Xanax. Xanax no prescription. Xanax price.

Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription

Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, Lately, I have been sifting though some of my old "mom-oir" pieces.  This one sent me into a nostalgic giggle, Lorazepam canada, mexico, india. Purchase Lorazepam, My son, Matthew, Lorazepam no prescription, Online Lorazepam without a prescription, didn’t go through the terrible two’s until he was four.  During that tumultuous year, I learned more about the inability of men and women to communicate effectively than I did from the previous ten years of marriage.  Every conversation was about power and control, Lorazepam without a prescription, Buy cheap Lorazepam, but I didn’t realize it until it was over.  I fell for it every time, like a child that is continually surprised to see the Jack in the Box explode from the can after five cranks of the handle.  A perfect example was a cloudy day in March when we went to Safeway for a few groceries.., ordering Lorazepam online. Lorazepam no rx,  

 Mother of the Year

After circling the block three times in my navy blue mini-van, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Matthew had finally calmed himself, Lorazepam class. Buy Lorazepam without prescription, He gazed at the tree-lined street, one pudgy index finger tracing circles on the window as the other twirled a chunk of sweaty blonde hair into a knot.  I exhaled with relief knowing that the dreaded Phase One of Every Car Trip was complete, buy Lorazepam from canada. Weeks earlier I had resigned myself to the reality that every excursion would begin with a wrestling match that would result in my pushing against his rigid little body of steel with all of my might to get him to bend to a point that I could buckle his car seat, Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam forum, Without fail, it would leave us both out of sorts and screaming, Lorazepam mg. Lorazepam steet value, Heading toward the grocery store I put in his favorite tape, the one where his name had been electronically inserted into every song.  Both of our moods lifted as we sang together about Matthew going to the moon on a magic rocket ship, rx free Lorazepam, Cheap Lorazepam no rx, and Matthew sailing the high seas with pirates.

The third song was about to begin when he called my name, purchase Lorazepam online no prescription. Get Lorazepam, “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Is stupid a bad word?”

I turned and gave him the exaggerated head nod and wide eyed stern look, “Yes!  Stupid is a terrible word, Lorazepam pics. You should never call someone that.”

“What about shut up?”

“Shut up Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription,  is awful!  An insult to the person you are talking to.  Never, ever say shut up.”  I saw him pondering my words, his blue eyes shifting left and right as he thought about what I was saying.  It felt so good being able to impart manners and social skills to my little guy.  Mother of the Year, that’s who I was. Buy no prescription Lorazepam online, “What about jerk?”

My jaw dropped with another dramatic expression of horror as I looked back at him again. “That could be one of the worst words of all time.”

“Hmmm.”

“Where are you getting these words?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re all bad, real brand Lorazepam online. Where can i cheapest Lorazepam online, They hurt people’s feelings, and  we don’t use them in this family.” I turned off the music for the remainder of the trip so my motherly wisdom could sink in.  Finally, Lorazepam overnight, Canada, mexico, india, he was listening to me.  I hadn’t connected with him on such a level in days.  We were forming his conscience together.  He would grow to be a fine man, where to buy Lorazepam. A priest, or the president, Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam long term, We pulled into the Safeway parking lot and he climbed into the cart without incident, an event so rare it made me grab the handle with sure hands and whistle while I pushed him up and down the aisles, low dose Lorazepam. Lorazepam treatment, I even took my time for a change, scanning the shelves for new products and the usual staples, Lorazepam australia, uk, us, usa. Lorazepam samples, When I rolled the cart down the cereal aisle, I could sense a mood shift, Lorazepam without prescription. Lorazepam from canadian pharmacy, “Can we get Captain Crunch?”

“You know the doctor said no sugar cereals.”

His hands tightened around the cart’s handle until his knuckles and fingernails turned white.  “I want Captain Crunch.”

“We’re getting Crispix.”

His heels pounded a slow, tribal rhythm against the cart, online buying Lorazepam hcl. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, “I-hate-Crispix.”

“You love Crispix.”

His kicking picked up speed and the sound of the vibrating metal turned heads toward us. Lorazepam pharmacy, Our empty aisle was now crowded with carts. Where did these other shoppers come from, is Lorazepam safe.

“I want Captain Crunch!  Captain Crunch. CAPTAIN CRUNCH!”

“WE’RE GETTING CRISPIX.”

“I WAANNT CAPTAINNN CRUUNNCH!”

Like a freeze frame in an action movie, time stood still as I looked up and down the aisle. Staring eyes to the left.  Staring eyes to the right.  Everyone was unabashedly waiting to see how Mother of the Year was going to handle this.

I took a deep breath to regroup, flashed my best fake smile to my growing audience, and dropped my voice to a gravelly whisper, “With that attitude we are not getting Captain Crunch or anything else today, Mister.  We are going home right now.”

Matthew looked me straight in the eye, and at the top of his little lungs he screamed with the utmost confidence, “SHUT UP, YOU STUPID JERK!”

My mouth dropped in unison with all of the other mothers in the aisle.  Shocked that he would string together all of the worst words he knew against me, I pulled his rigid, screaming body from the cart, and carried him over my shoulder, like a writhing sack of potatoes, toward the door.

Humiliated that all of the other mothers saw me as a failure, I gave them a final glance.  Imagine my relief when I saw them clapping with looks of sympathy and understanding as Matthew screamed unintelligible sounds and pounded his fists into my back.

“Go Mom!” were the last two words I heard as I stepped outside, thankful that my cheering section wasn’t coming with me to witness the upcoming wrestling match at the car seat.

Similar posts: Lorazepam For Sale. Buy Renova Without Prescription. Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription. Phentermine For Sale. Buy Alprazolam Without Prescription. Phentermine brand name. No prescription Terbinafine online. Ordering Phentermine online. Retin-A overnight. Buying Zoloft online over the counter.
Trackbacks from: Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam treatment. Lorazepam price. Comprar en línea Lorazepam, comprar Lorazepam baratos. Lorazepam results. Purchase Lorazepam.

Buy Ambien Without Prescription

Buy Ambien Without Prescription, I took a break from my morning chores and walked to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Where can i buy Ambien online, Glancing absentmindedly out the window toward a solitary orange tree that sits against our garden wall, I was caught off guard by a majestic yellow and brown Monarch, Ambien over the counter. Ambien images, Its wing span was at least four inches and it fluttered, almost frantically from branch to branch, what is Ambien, After Ambien, a butterfly ballet in the hot September sun.

I turned, Ambien mg, Ambien used for, instinctively, to call to the kids, canada, mexico, india, Buy Ambien from canada,  Hey guys, come see the butterfly!  But the physical turning of my head pulled me to the present.  Katie was twenty-three years old and two states away teaching fourth graders, Ambien dose, Real brand Ambien online, and Matthew was sitting in a college classroom in Ohio. I don’t think either one could hear me, comprar en línea Ambien, comprar Ambien baratos.

There was a time when such a sighting would incite a frenzy of motion.  Two sets of feet would come running from the playroom and the three of us would note, in whispered tones, the butterfly’s every move, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Online buy Ambien without a prescription, Matt would point and try to bang on the window and Katie would scold him like the big sister she was, imparting wisdom like she was the expert of How to watch a butterfly without scaring it away, Ambien dangers. Ambien pictures, And there we’d stand, noses pressed against glass, Ambien use. Ambien overnight, “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Duh, Katie, buy no prescription Ambien online, Ambien alternatives, it doesn’t have any babies with it. It’s a boy.”

“Look, Ambien treatment, Ambien maximum dosage, it’s sitting on the top branch!”

“What if it falls?”

“Can we catch it?”

“Where does it live?”

Then off it would flutter, its magic along with it, Ambien class, Ambien online cod, though the moment would live on though rudimentary etchings of crayon on white printer paper and countless remember whens before bedtime. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, I miss sharing those moments of innocence.  My heart still calls out to my two babies when these everyday delights are revealed to me at odd hours. I have a feeling it always will, purchase Ambien. Order Ambien no prescription, It catches me off guard, this new stillness, after Ambien. Where can i cheapest Ambien online, This empty house of mine, the now quiet car rides, get Ambien, Ambien wiki, the lazy almost reckless way I can saunter through the market.   I am realizing that emptiness is not always solitary, where can i buy Ambien online. I am startled to discover that these quiet spaces are inhabited by ghosts, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Ambien results, This strange new phenomenon is putting me on edge. I am being visited by my children at their various ages.  They haunt me, purchase Ambien for sale, Buy Ambien online no prescription, these younger versions, like they are trapped in time and I am separated from them by a clear glass wall.  A blond head with a coloring book at church, order Ambien from United States pharmacy, Ambien forum, a giggle of silliness that erupts from a toddler at the mall, tanned skin and baggy swim trunks digging a hole to China at the water’s edge, and a pre-teen with gleaming braces and a long pony tail.  Katie and Matthew’s faces are everywhere, their voices fill my head.

I know I am grieving the end of an era. Grief always involves mysteries of one sort or another. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, Our two children have grown up.  And these little sightings I can handle, explain away as the musings of a mom who’s moving on.  But there is a presence of two other beings that I can’t explain.  Two blurred faces who have recently begun to roam the halls of my house and sit on the edge of my bed.

After almost sixteen years, long past the days when I accepted that two of our babies had not made it to term, I am wondering, once again, who they would have been. How their lives would have blessed us and the world.  They would be in high school with boyfriends and girlfriends and displays of acne that would curse their days.

This shocks me.  To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed it.  Miscarriages happen all the time.  A natural process, the doctor had assured me, making perfect sense. Of course it was a disappointment, but I was young.  I’d have more babies, she promised.

But she was wrong, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. We didn’t.  Years passed and we didn’t have a number three; no number four.  I cried my tears and then, one balmy Spring day, I surrendered.  We accepted and stopped trying. That was that, or so I had thought.

It can’t be coincidence that the door has sprung open to these memories at the same time I am grieving the empty nest.  There are four spirits wandering in this house, not two.  How can it be that I am just now considering that?  Of course it impacts a universe when a pregnancy ends in miscarriage.  There are souls involved, and the souls of children claim their mothers with a bond stronger than time or distance. This thought comforts me, two little ones who will always remain.

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and fold it just so, knowing that it will not end up in a heap on the floor or secretly used to wipe peanut butter crumbs off the corners of a teen aged mouth. The Monarch flutters past the window again, and then a second one joins it.  I study them as they hop from leaf to leaf, unaware of me and the two little noses pressed to the glass.

Similar posts: Ambien For Sale. Buy Modalert Without Prescription. Buy Aleram Without Prescription. Zyban For Sale. Buy Lamisil Without Prescription. Zyban maximum dosage. Buy generic Imovane. Buy Zopiclone from canada. Bromazepam class. Nimetazepam pharmacy.
Trackbacks from: Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Where can i order Ambien without prescription. Ambien steet value. Ambien mg. Kjøpe Ambien på nett, köpa Ambien online. Generic Ambien.

Buy Phentermine Without Prescription

Buy Phentermine Without Prescription, Christmas cards hold a magic I find impossible to resist. Like most holiday traditions, the process is sacred, Phentermine canada, mexico, india, and, Purchase Phentermine online, thus, it must unfold the same way each year.  In late November I will buy boxes of cards, stamps, ordering Phentermine online, and order prints of our children, Phentermine no rx, sometimes of the four of us if I am feeling visually acceptable.  Next I’ll stack it all on the kitchen counter, a jagged heap of paper that will irritate my husband for days or even weeks.

Soon there will be a conversation that will resemble this:

 

“I noticed you have a new stack growing on the kitchen counter.”

“Christmas cards.”

“I see that.”

“Aren’t they cute?”

“How long are they going to sit here?” he will gently inquire knowing I won’t have a definite answer, effects of Phentermine.

“Oh, Phentermine australia, uk, us, usa, they’ll be gone before Christmas, Honey.  I can promise you that.”

 

Then, on an ordinary December evening, Phentermine from canadian pharmacy, I will get the inner nod.  This will be the night.  Perhaps Matt will have a volleyball practice, Phentermine recreational, or Tim detained by a client dinner.  Whatever the happenstance, I will be presented with an evening alone.

I’ll light a fire in the fireplace, buying Phentermine online over the counter, a few candles to add to the glow, Online buying Phentermine, and pour a glass of pinot noir. I’ll pull out the old George Winston December CD and pop it in the stereo, Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. As the piano fills the room I’ll move the jagged paper stack from the kitchen counter to the floor by the hearth and lean my back against a worn leather ottoman.

Then it will begin, low dose Phentermine, a journey through time that only I can claim.  I’ll open a ragged address book that today’s internet savvy people would scoff at.  But I love to see friends’ names, Where can i order Phentermine without prescription, scratched out as they have moved from place to place, putting their family thumbprints upon communities here and there.  A well worn address book tells a story.  It reveals that life is a trail of smiles and tears.

I’ll start at “A” and work my way through a vast list of entries.  And each precious name holds a life story that will capture me for a long moment.  As I write a note, Phentermine no prescription, I will fear that it feels trite, Herbal Phentermine, like I have written it a thousand times already…but it is a wish, pure and powerful to all of those whom I have loved.

 

God’s peace to you, Phentermine blogs. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription,  

Peace:

 

...to the girl I met at seven.  The deck of cards we kept handy in back pockets along with the chalk for hopscotch in the street. I can still hear your laugh and count the freckles on your nose. Is Phentermine safe, God’s peace to you as you search for meaning in a city of lights and trolley cars upon great hills.

 

...to the teen that slammed her locker shut next to mine for four years in high school. Your  infectious smile and energy live on in my memory, Phentermine from mexico. I loved the way your blonde pony tail was always perfect, smooth against your head and tied with a bow.  I wonder if it is perfect now during the long hours you spend by the bedside of your beautiful mother.  God’s peace to lift your heavy heart, Buy Phentermine Without Prescription.

 

...to my college roommates. Phentermine without prescription, You have held my secrets close for a quarter century.  What would I do without you?  Who would I have become with your laughter. God’s peace to you as we wonder how those carefree girls became women with lives of challenge.

 

...to my parents, Phentermine dosage. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription, You have raised six children to love and cherish their families. Your example is the compass by which I direct my life.  God’s peace to you as you continue to seize each day and squeeze joy from it. Phentermine gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release,  

...to my brothers so brave and wondrous.  The life stories we could tell and often do. You are the husbands and fathers I knew you would be. God’s peace to you in your homes as you mold a generation, buy Phentermine without prescription.

 

...to my husband’s family.  I arrived one day, a city girl to your country home, Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. I have never felt such warmth. Phentermine samples, God’s peace to thank you for years of love and acceptance.

 

...to the neighbor that welcomed me to my first house, to the mom I met at the park when my daughter was five, taking Phentermine, to the women that taught me the meaning of community and support.  God’s peace to your families as you lead them, Phentermine interactions, strong and powerful.

 

...to each and every relative that brings depth to the puzzle that is my heritage. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription, God’s peace as you continue to reveal our American story.

 

...to the boss that believed in me, japan, craiglist, ebay, overseas, paypal, the usher at church who can’t help but smile, Phentermine description, the friends along the way.  All those friends along the way.

 

Before I know it, I will have spent time with each of you, Phentermine pics, the lovely and inspiring human beings that have graced my life.  I will have held you in my heart, Generic Phentermine, remembered the angle of your smile, the color of your eyes, the unexpected joys and heart wrenching sorrows that have knocked upon our doors, Phentermine price, coupon.

By the evening’s end I will be reminded that, Phentermine natural, regardless of whatever the future holds, I have already lived a life of meaning.  I have loved and been loved.  I have laughed more than my share, and cried the tears needed to water the gardens of friendship, Phentermine brand name.

At evening’s end, Phentermine photos, my will husband arrive, rumpled from a day’s work, my son will enter loud and hungry, my Phentermine experience, and the phone will ring with a daughter’s need to share a giggle.  So I will lay down my pen, Buy Phentermine from mexico, knowing I will have a few more cards to write before the Holiday is over.

And so I will wait, until I get that inner nod  to complete them, order Phentermine from mexican pharmacy. It is never planned. But I will know when it is time to finish the Christmas cards, share a memory, and wish God’s peace to you….

Similar posts: Buy Propecia Without Prescription. Buy Topamax Without Prescription. Lormetazepam For Sale. Imovane For Sale. Buy Mogadon Without Prescription. Lamisil maximum dosage. Xanax photos. Purchase Valium online. Buy Renova online no prescription. Propecia reviews.
Trackbacks from: Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription. Phentermine alternatives. Is Phentermine safe. Taking Phentermine. Order Phentermine from mexican pharmacy. Ordering Phentermine online.