Home...

The cliche

home is where the heart is

does not begin to really explain what the word home means.

My mother used to say that anyone with money can buy a fancy house or buy expensive furniture, but  not everyone can make a home.  I always think of that when I go to some homes that seem to be so lacking in a feeling of home even as they are filled with all the "trappings" of home.  There might be just the right selection of furniture, family photos smile down from the walls, and it is obvious to the observer or guest to the "home" that great care was taken to make a pleasant impression when one walks through the door, yet I come away cold not sensing that I have not been in a home, a real home where one can actually live, be oneself, be peaceful and content.  Sometimes these homes seem full of striving for something more grand in appearance, or perhaps things seems just a bit too stilted for my own comfort zone of what I need to feel when I am home.

What makes a home? 

Should one search for the perfect house, or should one find home in the house where one lives?  

Does the house create the home?  

We all long for home, but sometimes home is elusive.

We aren't quite sure what turns a house into a home.

Is the cliche correct?  

If so, how does a place become a place where a heart lives?

When Jim and I married, I moved into his home.  That was one of the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life.  I knew very early in the marriage that I would never be able to be at home in the house he had lived in prior to our marriage no matter how much I tried.  His home was a lovely home, and it had been carefully decorated and well cared for, but it was not my home.  It was not the home he and I had created together.  

Thankfully, a few years after our marriage, we were able to find a home that would become our home.  I looked and looked for the perfect house for us to buy before we bought it.  I wanted it to be a grandparent  house where we would build memories for our grandchildren.  It needed to be big enough so we could have multiple families spend the night.  I even told Jim we could have weddings for daughters in the backyard if we found the right house.  

I knew I had found the right house the minute I stepped on this front porch. As I walked through the door, I was already saying to myself, "This is it."

Jim & Sally celebrating Jim's surprise 60th birthday party on our front porch

We bought the house and turned it into our home.  We even hosted two beautiful weddings for two of our daughters in the back yard.  It was a wonderful experience turning this house into a home.  We remodeled by tearing out old bathrooms and putting in new ones.  We put in new windows.  We tore down old paneling.  We updated it from a dark 70's style house into a more bright and modern decor.  We put in a new sprinkling system, built a new patio, added a second patio, added a shed, and built flower beds where I could dig in the dirt to my heart's content.  We had many Thanksgiving, Christmas,  and Easter celebrations with the family here.  Cousins had sleepovers.  The kids jumped on the trampoline.  We watched our children and grandchildren grow up in this home.  We had much joy and the deepest of sorrows while we lived in this house.  It was to be our retirement home.  We fixed it just like we wanted it so we could sit on our front porch and grow old together in the home we built together.  It was our dearly loved home.  

Then, one day, the home we loved did not seem to fit us anymore.  Jim had a heart attack.  I fell down our basement stairs and had a head injury.  The kids all lived far away from us.  Our doctors were mostly in the town forty miles north of us.  The yard seemed to be too big to care for, and I could not keep up with the weeds, the dead-heading.  The laundry room was two flights of stairs from the bedrooms.  The bedrooms were all upstairs.  Like it or not, we were not getting any younger.  We began to talk about buying a patio home that would require less upkeep.  We wanted one level living.  Once we really were retired, we realized our vision of the home we would live in for retirement had changed.  

We decided to sell our home and make a drastic (for us) move to a town where Jim had never lived that was actually my hometown.  This town was where our doctors were.  Two of Jim's daughters lived there.  We were closer to my daughter and Jim's other daughter.  We were closer to the airport for the children living out of state.  

All of this process was begun three years ago this summer.  Jim surprised me by being so upbeat about moving away from a town where he had lived since he was a young child.  Once the decision was made to sell the house, I became the one unable to let go of my home.  Even today, my heart still lives in that house.  I see photos of the many gatherings in the house and my heart always breaks just a little for the place.

It is no secret that we both have had a hard time adjusting to our new home.  Jim had a hard time adjusting to living in a new town, but he made it an adventure.  He even ventured out and started a new career by working at the Apple store.  I stepped right back into the church home where I made so many friends years ago before I married Jim.  I loved being close to my cousins again.  I loved being home in my hometown.  We both loved the location of our home and still marvel how fortunate we are to live where we do.

I have had the harder time making this house my home.  I have found one can't make the old dearly loved home fit into the new home.  I'm slowly adjusting to making this house the space that brings comfort to me.  I miss the study I had in the old house.  I miss the family room.  I miss that front porch.  I miss my shed.  I miss the flowers.  I miss the roses the most.  I've not had an easy time adjusting to living in a patio home community.  I have issues with the HOA rules.  The wildlife eat my flowers and plantings and frustrate me.  Let's just say, I've had a tough time letting go of the home I loved no matter how much I love this new place, and I do love it.

Every once in a while, I call Mary Jo, my long suffering realtor.  Sometimes she meets Jim and me for lunch.  Sometimes, she meets me for coffee, and we have the best talks.  She is one of the great things that came with this house: a new friendship.  I've called her and asked if she can show me a house that I've seen advertised.  Her first question is always, "What does Jim say?"  "He tells me he will miss me if I move."  

Last week Jim and I drove way out east of town to buy flowers for the yard.  I decided to try again with beating the wildlife by growing a few things in my small flower gardens.  On our way to the nursery, Jim started exploring and took a detour.  Before we knew it, we were looking at new homes. They were patio homes that had all the features we suddenly wished we had in our home.  Of course, we hadn't known we'd wanted them until we saw them in the new homes.  Jim said, "Call Mary Jo tomorrow and see what she can get for our house."  I told him that I was telling her that it was Jim's idea to call.  He was the one that started this house hunt that we had not intended to make.

Then, we got real.  We hated where the houses were located.  We didn't really need all that room.  We knew we would never survive another move.  We knew our kids would think we had really lost it if we even mentioned we were moving.  We knew our hearts were firmly planted where we now live. We came and went for a walk.  "I can't ever leave this area," I said to Jim.  

 We love this place.  We love our location.  We love our home.  Yes, it is not perfect.  Yes, I get frustrated with not being able to grow much because of the wildlife.  The bottom line is:  we would never be able to leave this place.  We have the most awesome places to walk.  We live in a quiet valley at the foothills of the mountains.  We have wonderful neighbors.  It is peaceful and quiet here.  We don't have to mow or water the lawn.  We live in a perfect retirement home.

Today, after church and nice brunch downtown, we went to our favorite ice cream shop not far from our home.  Then we went for a walk where we again marveled at our views.  We asked ourselves how we could ever even think of leaving this place.  

Tonight I sat on our back deck and read while Jim went to a meeting at work.  The cool breezes coming down from the mountains soothed my heart and mind.  As I glanced up from my book, I saw the clouds in the sky were turning a light pink with touches of gray here and there.  The sky, a light baby blue, provided the perfect softened effect for the background of my view.  I heard birds in the distance as the wind softly rustled the aspen leaves on the trees that framed the deck where I was sitting.  I felt as if I had taken a short mountain vacation without ever leaving my home.  The city is fewer than ten minutes away, yet I live in a place that feels like a mountain retreat.

Yes,

I am blessed beyond measure.

I live in this place with the man I love.

My heart lives here.

I am home.

Memorial Day ~ A Time of Remembrance

Memorial Day,

a

day of remembrance,

was first set aside in 1866 as a day to remember those soldiers whose lives were lost in the Civil War.

It was celebrated on May 30 each year.

I remember as a child that we sometimes called this day Decoration Day.

Over the years, I think the meaning of the day has evolved.

Some see the day as a day to honor those killed in the service of their country.

Others see the day as a day to remember those whom they have lost to death.

They remember them by visiting their graves and leaving flowers.

Others see it as the beginning of summer and celebrate it by having a barbecue.

Memorial Day Evergreen Cemetery

In 1971, Memorial Day became a federal holiday designated to be celebrated each year

 on the fourth Monday of May.

I found a short video about the history of Memorial Day that you might find interesting.

For me, and for many of my family members, Memorial Day Weekend is fraught with sad memories.

Five years ago, my daughter's life ended in the early morning hours of Saturday, May 29, 2010.
This day fell on the beginning of Memorial Day Weekend.

It seems we always have two anniversary reminders of her death.

The actual date, and the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend.

This year, I found myself alone on Memorial Day.

Jim had to work.

Family did not gather as we sometimes do because of busy schedules and bad weather.

I chose to spend the day remembering those no longer with us by visiting the cemetery alone.

My mother asked me to leave some flowers on her mother's grave.

I was so touched when she told me how she wished
 she could take some flowers to her mother's grave.

I never knew my grandmother, Lulu Castle Townsley.  

She died from breast cancer at the age of sixty-seven in 1941,
 four years before I was born.
An independent woman, she homesteaded by herself in Northern Colorado before she married my grandfather at the age of 35.
Throughout her life she worked very hard to support herself and her family.
As a child, she made bread for the family while her own mother worked when her father died when she was nine years old.  Mother told me her mother had to stand on a chair to reach a counter where she would knead the bread.
Lulu Castle Townsley had to fend for herself as a homesteader.
She drove a horse and buggy across the plains to town, Pine Bluffs, Wyoming,  with a hoe beside her in the wagon which she used to kill the rattle snakes that would get entangled in her wagon wheels.

She was forty-two years old when my mother, her only child, was born.
She worked throughout my mother's childhood as
a milliner,
a cook,
a caretaker and cook for sanatoriums for TB patients,
and
as a seamstress.

Even though I never met my grandmother, she has always been a strong role model for me.
My grandmother was born 141 years ago and has been gone for 74 years.

It makes me so sad to think that my mother only had her mother for 25 years.

I have been blessed at age 70 to still have my mother with me.

As I stood at my grandmother's gravesite, I told her that her daughter, 

my mother, is still here with us in the land of the living.

She will turn 99 years old at the end of the week.

I told my grandmother not to expect her to join her anytime soon.

My mother comes from pioneer stock,
yet she is a very modern woman with old fashioned values
 who always stays up to date in all that is going on in the world.
She is an amazing woman.
I think her mother would be very proud of her.
I know I am.

Albert, Lulu, and Alberta Townsley Woodland Park, Colorado 1924

My mother Alberta Townsley French December 2014 age 98

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

Today, I left flowers on the graves of my maternal grandmother, my maternal great-grandmother and her son, my great-uncle.
All are buried in Evergreen Cemetery in Colorado Springs, Colorado

My father and my daughter are buried not far from the other family grave sites.

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

I didn't get over to the other part of the cemetery where my paternal grandparents, aunts and uncles are buried.
I explored the older area of the cemetery because of its historical significance.

General William Jackson Palmer,
who served in the Civil War,
and then founded the city of Colorado Springs, Colorado, is buried in this cemetery.

I love all of the old structures on the grounds of the cemetery.
This is the old chapel that located just to the north of where General Palmer is buried.

As I got out to take a photo of the chapel, I saw a blue bird sitting on top of the  commemorative plaque in front of the building.
He flew away before I could get a better photo of him.
Can you see him?
At first I thought he was a small robin.
Then I saw his blue feathers and wings as he flew off.

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

Nearby, is this interesting sculpture.
The inscription reads,
Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support them after.

~ William Shakespeare

from "Timon of Athens" (act 1, scene 1)

Today, as I spent the day remembering those no longer with us,
I also was reminded of those whom have supported me throughout the past five years.

One of Julie's dear friends ran the Boulder Boulder.
When she finished the race, she posted how Julie was with her during the race.
Her post was a reminder of how many dear friends Julie had in her lifetime.
Those friends will never know how much their love and support has meant to me and to her family.

I also think and remember so many of my dear friends and family members whom have been there for me during these past five years.
Many of you are blogging friends whom I have never met in person.
You have walked with me through many dark days.
You have spoken words of encouragement and love.
You have helped me find healing.
You have listened to me far more than I have listened to you.
You have supported me.
You have not left me to flounder through dark days alone.
Thank you.
I love you all.
It is good to have a day of remembrance.

Springtime in the Rockies

When I think of spring in Colorado, I think of nouns like

vicissitude,
or adjectives like
unpredictable, capricious, and fickle.

I consider myself an authentic Colorado mountain girl.

I was born at the foot of Pikes Peak,

and graduated from high school at the foot of Mount Massive.

I know I should not be surprised if it snows in April, or in May, or even in June.
I've seen it snow on the Fourth of July in the mountains.

Today, I live at 6,659 feet above sea level.

The air in the morning is a bit nippy and brings back memories of spring days in the mountains when I was a young girl and living at 10, 152 feet above sea level.

I wish I had words to describe how that cool breeze coming down my valley from the mountain feels.

All I can tell you is that it whispers to me that it is 

springtime in the Rockies.

That is code for:  Expect anything from cold, to rain, to sunshine, to hail, to snow all in one day, or even all in one hour.

I have never planted annuals before Mother's Day.

In fact, I usually don't plant  much of anything until we are at least half way through May.
Several weeks ago, my daughter asked me what to do about aphids on her rose bush.
She sent me a photo of the plant.
She lives in Utah.
She'd already trimmed the rose back and it had a few buds.
I never cut back my roses in Colorado until mid May.

*********

Gardens are a form of autobiography. ~ Sydney Edison

When I lived in Pueblo, Colorado at 4,692 feet, I planted sooner than I do where I now live.
To be honest with you, I wasn't even sure I would plant anything this year.  

The deer, the rabbits, and the climate have caused me to
rethink everything I ever knew about gardening.

If card carrying members of the Colorado Master Gardeners came by my house right now,
they'd make me turn in my certificate that says I am a master gardener.

Let's just say that gardening where I now live is a big challenge for me.

Venturing out into the yard last week, when we finally had a break in the rain, I went looking to see how the perennials I had planted last year were doing.

I could see that my neighbor's peonies were up several inches as I looked out my window, so I was anxious to see what mine were doing.
I'm always so excited when I see peonies peeking out of the ground in early spring.
The peony I planted last year did not come up.

Nada.

Nothing.

The poppies have not come up.
The larkspur did not come up. 

I don't even have blue flax coming back.

It looks like the hyssop didn't make it either,

nor did the lavender plants.
I tried just planting a few things last year as I get to know my new gardening space.

The deer had eaten huge chunks out of the dwarf Alberta spruce I'd planted.

It is all so disheartening.

At least the clematis was coming back to life and growing like crazy.

Also, I was thrilled to see that some of the lily of the valley I transplanted from my mother's yard last spring are coming up.

The original beginning lily of the valley plants that I dug from my mother's yard had come from my grandmother's yard in Colorado Springs over forty years ago.

As I dug up the plants,

transported them over 300 miles,

and planted them again,

I felt like I was bringing those much love plants home and reestablishing my roots in my hometown.

Lily of the valley bouquet for my mom. Flowers from her yard. May 2014

Thank goodness those plants at least made it.

Even with all the vicissitudes of spring weather,

and with my feelings of defeat when it comes to establishing a new garden in what sometimes feels like a hostile  gardening environment,

spring conjures up dreams of gardens yet to be.

On the first day that I felt like driving and being out and about after my recent pacemaker implant,

I headed off to the garden shop.

It is spring.

I had to dig in the dirt.

I'm going to try again this year to get something established around here that looks somewhat like
a semblance of a thought and care went into the landscaping around my home.

I loaded up potting mix for planters even though I don't particularly like to plant in planters.

At least the hanging baskets and such can't be reached by the deer and rabbits.

I then bought some feather meal.

They say that is good for discouraging the deer from nibbling while also giving plants some nitrogen.

I couldn't find Deer Scram that Kathy at Kathy's Peace told me to buy,

so I bought the highly recommended Bobbex Deer Repellent.
By the time, I had some garden soil, fertilizers, and deer repellent, I had already just about broken the bank when it comes to my "flower money."
It is still early, so I didn't want to plant much yet, but I did get some creeping phlox and candy tuft to plant along the stone wall next to the house.
I also bought some peony bulbs.
I haven't given up on those yet.
Everyone else around me is growing peonies, and the deer leave them alone.

As I head into spring, I will be writing a new chapter in my gardening biography.
Let's hope it is not a short chapter full of disappointment and discouragement.

***********
A Spring in My Step

I feeling so much better now that I am a bit over three weeks out from getting a pacemaker.
Today, I did my first exercise class.
I went to a Zumba Gold class.
It was so much fun!
I'm still not allowed to wave my left arm in the air over my head, but I was moving my feet as fast as I could while I tried to do the steps.
My heart behaved and my recovery after the exercise was excellent.
I felt great.
The goal of Zumba Gold is to build cardiovascular fitness, coordination, flexibility, and balance.
I need all of that!
My hips and thighs told me I had not exercised recently,
but my mind told me it is good to have fun moving to the music.
Have you ever tried Zumba?
Do you enjoy it?

What do you do for exercise?
I love to walk.
I also like group exercise better than working out on machines.
I like to do Pilates and really enjoy doing Pilates on the reformer.
Have you ever done Pilates?
I've done it for years.
You'd think I'd be better at it by now.
I'm not much of a yoga fan, but I do enjoy restorative yoga.
I hope to go to that class tomorrow.
I can hardly wait until I'm released to get in the pool again.
In three more weeks I can get in the pool.
I love to do water Pilates.
Have you ever tried that?
It is really fun.
At my exercise club, they even have water Zumba.
I think I'll try that soon.

*********

As I write, the rain is steadily hitting my roof overhead.
We are supposed to have rain for the next few days.
That is ok.
In Colorado, we are also prone to drought.
I am thankful for the rain.
Soon, I hope to be out there digging in the dirt again and starting another year of learning how to deal with new environmental challenges in the place that I now call home.

My Life As An Educator ~ Part I ~ Project Head Start

*Fifty years ago this year, I first embarked on my journey to become an educator.  I'm looking back on some of the memories I made along the way. 

1965

Project Head Start

Leadville, Colorado

A clipping rom the Leadville Herald Democrat  Summer 1965 I am the "Trained Aide" in the photo

 1965, the year I turned twenty, I was just beginning the upper level courses that would lead to a degree in elementary education at what was then Colorado State College. (Now University of Northern Colorado in Greeley, Colorado)  That summer, between my sophomore and junior year, I had the very unique opportunity of working as a "trained aide"  for Project Head Start in Leadville, Colorado.  A young, idealistic preservice teacher I jumped at the opportunity to work in this program as a summer job.

I saw the philosophy behind Head Start as one that aligned with my own belief system about the value of education and the role it played in economic opportunity.  While I had never articulated my beliefs at the time in this manner, a believer in social justice, I firmly believed that it was only through education that those living in poverty would be able overcome the social and economic inequities that were found in our country at during the early sixties.

Head Start Students Summer 1965 Leadville, Colorado

Some of you may not know much about Head Start.  1965, the U. S. Office of Economic Opportunity began the eight-week summer program that would launch Project Head Start.  I was one of many tutors, aides, and teachers that were hired that summer to serve over 560, 000 children throughout the country in this newly created program.

 As a refresher, I want to briefly outline the reasons why Head Start was created.  It grew out of Lyndon B. Johnson's War on Poverty, and I think it is interesting to note that it was created by the Office of Economic Opportunity.  The basic premise for this program was established on the belief that education was the solution to breaking the "cycle of poverty."    It was a time when the civil-rights movement was greatly influencing education.  It was thought that "government was obligated to help disadvantaged groups in order to compensate for inequality in social and economic conditions."  Head Start was to be a comprehensible program for preschool children that would meet their "emotional, social, health, nutritional and psychological needs."

I wish I had kept a journal of those days because now, nearly 50 years later, my mind is a bit fuzzy about it all.  I do remember that in my youth I was idealistic about education and social reform.  I had great dreams about the kind of educator I would become.   As a young woman coming of age during the 60's,  I embraced the Civil Rights Movement and the "new" ideas about education, but I also respected and looked up to my mentors for their wisdom, leadership, and advice.  

My mentor for the summer of 1965 had also been my younger sister's kindergarten teacher the year or two before.  As a family, we already embraced Idelia B. Riggs as a gifted teacher.  As I reflect back on her now, I still consider her as the consummate educator, and as one the best with whom I have had the privilege to know throughout my entire lifetime.  She must have been in her sixties when I worked with her.  She had taught everything from kindergarten to college.  She had been the principal of a one-room schoolhouse at one point in her career.

She knew what children needed to grow and to prosper educationally, emotionally and socially.  She embraced the ideals behind Project Head Start and imparted them to me along with all of the reasons why she believed the program could be successful.  She said that the children of poverty in the area where we lived were beginning school without the skills that other children brought to school.  Sometimes, they didn't even know how to use indoor plumbing.  Yes, in 1965, in our program in Leadville, Colorado, some of the children did not have indoor plumbing.  We had to teach them how to use the bathroom facilities.  Some did not receive proper nutrition at home and many were undernourished.  They lagged behind their peers in knowing how to grasp a pencil or how to turn the pages of a book. Many did not know the alphabet.   They did not know how to write their names.  Many did not know colors or shapes.  They did not have group or personal social skills.  All of these needs would be met, as best they could be, by our summer program.  The program was comprehensive.  School readiness was achieved by giving the children equal portions of playtime, story time, art activities, and basic academic preparation such as learning how to recognize and form letters through reading and writing.

I have a vivid memory of the lunches that these children received.  The government's philosophy was that this program should have "maximum feasible participation" for success.  Therefore, those who would benefit from the program, the low income population, should help plan and run their own programs.  Many of the women who planned and cooked the meals were the mothers of the children.  Everyday, they prepared wonderful meals.  I loved the Spanish rice we had nearly everyday.  Believe me,  in those days the meals fed these children were good.  They are nothing like the terrible meals that are put together in an off-site place and served to low-income kids these days.  In the 60's, at the Leadville Head Start, meals included not only wonderful rice, they also included great main dishes like fried chicken, and vegetables. The best part might have been fresh home baked dinner rolls or cinnamon rolls we were served daily!  Oh the agony of waiting for lunch while smelling those fresh rolls bake. 

Our lead teacher, Mrs. Riggs was a very practical woman who put up with no nonsense from anyone.  Her character was stellar.  She saw her role as an educator as one as a public servant.  She was not interested in feathering her own nest or building her career.  She was there for the children she taught and for the families she served.  In my mind's eye, I see her now.  She is wearing the apron with plenty of pockets so she would have "a place for those tissues to wipe a child's nose or tears," or as a place to keep stray crayons, pencils or rubber bands that she might need while she was teaching.  She believed in expecting the best behavior and performance from all kids.  Patient, kind and loving, she was also demanding when it came to giving something your best efforts.  We ALL learned from her.   As I said, I could never have had a better mentor.  Mrs. Riggs, and the ideals of Head Start, greatly influenced my philosophy of my own role as an educator.

I am including a treasured letter that Mrs. Riggs wrote to me in August, 1965.  It reads:

 Dear Sally,

May I again express my appreciation for your top quality contribution to our Head Start program and staff.  You are a genuine and capable and very personable young woman, Sally, - a credit to your fine family and the best of our American Youth.  And besides, you're just plain sweet. 

Fondly yours,

Idelia B. Riggs

Hello to all your family, too.

********

I will always be grateful for the time I had working by Mrs. Riggs side.  I also am grateful for the time I had working with  groundbreaking Project Head Start during the first year of its inception.  Even though I spent the majority of my career as an educator at the secondary level, children of preschool age continue to have a soft place in my heart when it comes to education.  I am also grateful that I held fast to those idealistic views I held for education during the years when I first began on my journey as an educator.

 I often wish I could discuss today's state of education with Mrs. Riggs.  I know she would have some very strong ideas on what must happen if we are to achieve the lofty ideals that we had in the 60's.  

*  I originally wrote parts this post in 2009.  Parts of it were publish in the Fall 2010 issue of  "The Colorado Communicator," a newsletter for the Colorado Council International Reading Associate.  Serving as co-editor for this newsletter was one of my "retirement jobs."

A Change of Heart

I’ve had a change of heart.

The beating of my heart had become more and more erratic.

Now, I have a 

pacemaker

 to keep things a bit more 

steady.

I’m learning to align

my mind and emotions 

with my body 

while it acclimates to a new and different heart rhythm pattern,

one more orderly,

one not yet understood.

The medical notes from the recent X-ray read:

A left subclavian transvenous bipolar pacemaker has been inserted. 

Leads project over the region of the right atrium and right ventricle.

 The notes go on to say I have a new bipolar pacemaker.

It all seems a bit surreal.

I wonder at times how those notations became a part of my medical record.

The time had come when I knew things had to change.

I simply could not go on the way things were.

Some hearts found in my study: A pink heart from blogging friends Sandi & Deb, A big heart from Vashon Island, A colorful heart made by my granddaughter Hannah,  a heart from Deb from Catbirdscout, a found heart.

On March 24, after years of irregular heart beats that never seemed to get better, a loop recorder was implanted in a very simple procedure performed by my cardiologist.  Just before the procedure, I was told that this device gave the doctors very good results very quickly.  Basically, the tiny little device, implanted just under the skin over the heart, is set to record those irregular heart beats that occur throughout the day in my heart.  Every night, at midnight, the day’s recording was wirelessly sent from the implanted device to a receiver that situated near my bed.  I felt nothing.  I did nothing.  The device in my body just talked to the device by my bedside.  Amazing.

At 8:00 the next morning, these reports were read by my doctor’s office.  If there were any events that were life threatening, I would be notified.  Of course, if I felt any of these events, I would have notified them!

For some reason, from the end of March until Easter Sunday, my symptoms just kept getting worse and worse.  I had two reactions to allergy shots that caused my heart to go a bit crazy.  In the evening of the day day of the second allergic reaction, thinking I was going to black out, I took my blood pressure.  My heart rate was listed as 48 beats a minute.  “Surely, this is a mistake,” I thought.  I am the girl with the overly fast beating heart.  I don’t have slow beats.  As the night wore one, I became more and more faint and had readings of beats in the 30’s.  My husband insisted I get to the doctor the next day.

On Good Friday, I saw my doctor.  He said the reports were showing that I was having a lot of events, “a lot” he emphasized.  “You have beats in the 30’s,” he said.  Thats a relief, thought I.  I was just sure that suddenly my blood pressure machine was not working, or I was crazy.  “You are showing us that you now have Tachy-brady syndrome.  How do you feel?”    “I feel terrible,” was my response.  I can’t function. I feel faint. I am exhausted.  I’m afraid to drive.”  

He thought we should treat the symptoms systemically for a little while to see if we got positive results.  If not, I was told I’d need a pacemaker.   I was on the low-normal range on potassium.  Knowing the potassium might help sounded reasonable.  I’d try that.  I’m not one to jump to surgery, but to be honest, I’ve heard the pacemaker suggested for too many years, and I was beginning to think it was time.

On Easter Sunday, after going to church, and then to a lovely brunch with my dear husband at the fanciest place in town, The Broadmoor Hotel, I again was faint and nearly blacked out.  My blood pressure was very low.  The exertion of the day had done me in.  At 7:00 that evening, at the insistence of my doctor’s office, I was in the emergency room.  I had a total melt down.  Sobbing to the nurse, I said, “I can’t do this anymore.  I am done.  This has to stop.”  She then told me I must calm down because in that one minute my heart had skipped 30 beats!  I calmed down. I also made a decision.  I decided that I was having surgery for a pacemaker as soon as it could be scheduled.

On Friday, April 10, my good Dr. L., my cardiologist for the past ten years, the one to whom I trust the intricacies of my heart, implanted a pacemaker.  The procedure went well.  It seemed to go quickly.  I awoke to find my kind and supportive husband by my side.  I sent him to eat breakfast while I rested.   Soon, my dear high school girlfriend, KM, was holding my hand and kissing my check while she spoke encouraging words to my heart and prayed for me.  

I came home from the hospital the next day.  I thought I would walk into the hospital, get the pacemaker, walk out, and go on with life without a bit of interruption.  It hasn’t been quite that easy.  True to form, I overdid yesterday.  I attended a tension filled meeting for my HOA.  I’m the secretary.  I thought I HAD to be there.  Wrong.  I then visited for two hours at a friend’s house.  By the time I was home my anxiety levels and stress levels were off the charts.  

The nurse calls everyday.  She says the first week is a rough one for many.  Yesterday, she said a meeting might be good.  It would keep my mind occupied.  The meeting was too stressful.  I should have stayed home.  I’m not handling stress well right now.

I go to get a device check tomorrow.  I took today off.  I have done nothing all day.  I will do the same until I am feeling stronger.

Reflections

The heart is a sensitive organ, and mine appears to be especially sensitive.

Both doctors who have done invasive procedures have said my heart was particularly sensitive to the medical instruments used, more so than the normal patient.

I wonder if the doctors saw the broken part of my heart?

The part that keeps on beating through all the sorrow.

Does a broken heart become more sensitive?

Did they see my strong heart?

The part that is resilient, full of hope, that looks forward to the future.

Did they see that I have a survivor’s heart, one that wants to overcome the hurts of the past while remembering and holding on to the love that remains for the one who is no longer here?

Did they see my loving heart?

The one that is full of so much love for my husband and my children and grandchildren.

The one that is so full of love that I want it to beat strongly so I can fill my days with their joys and sorrows and accomplishments and laughter.

The one that wants to live as fully as possible.

Modern medicine is a miracle.

I now have a computer inside my body that regulates the beats of my heart.

I hope this does not make my heart mechanical.

I’m sure that will never happen.

That little computer will just help smooth things out for me and my heart.

It is hard to wrap one’s head around it all.

I still feel the skipped beats, and the new rhythm pattern is one I don’t quite understand.

Sometimes that makes me very anxious.

I must learn to trust

the device within my heart.

I must learn to trust more fully

 the One who made my heart.

Ultimately, He controls the span of my days.  

Each day I learn anew that I must trust.

Living life fully makes trust easier to come by.

My heart has been subject to an invasive procedure.

I know from experience that this means that I will suffer some emotional side effects.

My husband, my children, my friends have been so supportive as I have prepared for and gone through this procedure that I honestly don’t know what I would do with out them.

Healing is not a liner process.

Some days are better than others.

One must learn to listen the rhythms of the body and the heart and let them work together.

Healing takes time.

I am reminded of the lesson I learned with a head injury in 2012.

Adopt the pace of nature:

Her secret is patience.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

A rose from my rose garden:  Pope John Paul II

A lesson from Proverbs:

A joyful heart is good medicine…

Proverbs 17:22

A life verse written out that has been on my reading table for many years:

Be of good courage, and He will strengthen your heart, all you who hope in the Lord.

Psalm 31:24

I borrow a line from a poem by Emily Jane Bronte,

not because I feel that sadness of the poem, but because I think her advice speaks wisdom to me:

Me thinks this heart should rest awhile…

I will not push through life as I am prone to do.

I will give myself time to heal.

Soon,

I’ll be walking much faster and farther,

Soon,

I’ll be able to go over 8,000 feet in elevation again.

Soon,

I will be feeling better than I have for years.

I’ve needed a change of heart.

I think this this change will be wonderful.

I never was good at keeping a beat.

My rhythm has always been a bit off.

That has been changed.

The beat goes on.

The Gift of Friendship

Birthdays and gifts go hand in hand.  I've been questioning how one should celebrate the birthday of one no longer with us as my daughter Julie's birthday has approached.  Julie had a gift when it came to making friends.  After her death, one of the most wonderful gifts that she left me was the gift of friendship with her many friends.  Tomorrow, April 8,  Julie would have been 39 years old.  Today, I will celebrate the gift of friendship that was found in one very close to her:  Scott.

When Jim and I were in Florida in February, I received a text from  Julie's high school boyfriend Scott Roberts asking if we would be able to connect while we were in the area since he lived an hour or so away.  I was thrilled when he contacted me, and we made a visit with Scott one of our highest priorities.

The Story of Two April Babies Born in 1976:

Scott and Julie

My daughter Julie met Scott not long after she moved to Pueblo Colorado, when I married Julie's step-father Jim.  I always admired the way Julie jumped right into the challenge of moving to a new town when she was in high school.  I know this was no easy task.  It wasn't long before she made a bevy of wonderful friends.  Scott was one of them.  After Julie's death Scott sent me note he had written to Julie on nineteenth anniversary of the first day they met.  He wrote: you were so cute, so happy, so full of life.  I loved you instantly...  This will be the first year I don't get to call you and tell you how long we've known each other.  We always made jokes on how we could have tolerated each other so long... There was always something special about you, I couldn't tell you the day I met anyone else...that's how much you've always stood out.  

The relationship between these two lasted as long as Julie lived.  They had some pretty rocky teenage times when much to my dismay they would have their spats.  I would hear the telephone ring all hours of the night when Scott would call Julie.  (Probably because she called him first.)  More than once, I heard the little tiny pebbles hit Julie's bedroom window.  I knew Scott was trying to get her attention either late at night or early in the morning when he was delivering his newspapers.  I would go to the bedroom next to Julie's, open the window and holler down to the young man standing below her second story window, "Go home Scott.  Julie is sleeping.  Leave her alone."  We laugh about it now.  

Scott and Julie attend their junior prom together.  They continued to date off and on during their freshman year in college. Scott was born three days before Julie on April 5, so every year, even the year Julie died in 2010, they always made sure they talked to each other on their birthdays.

When Julie and Scott were in their first year of college, they took a road trip to Utah with my son Jon to visit Julie and Jon's father, sister, and brother in Utah.  I think it must have been over Spring Break.
I recently ran across photos taken just before that trip.  Scott reminded me that he lost his job because he went on that trip with Julie.  I guess he'd just been hired on a new job at the newspaper, but decided to take a vacation anyway.  When he got back, he didn't have a job.

They all look so young and cute in these photos.  I think Julie must have the face to her tape recorder in her hand in the photo on the right.  I think she has a police detector radar device in her hand in the center photo.  I guess they must have had dinner at our home just before they departed for the trip.  I'm thankful for these fun memories.  I wonder if they were celebrating their 19th birthdays with this trip.  The trip was taken twenty years ago in 1995.  It seems impossible that many years have passes since these kids were teenagers.

I used to tease Scott whenever I saw him over the years by asking, "When are you finally going to marry my daughter?"  All those years ago, when these two teenagers were making each other and their parents crazy, I recognized the positive character traits of loyalty, faithfulness to friends and family, hard work, and belief in his religion in Scott.  I saw a young man I would have felt proud to have as a family member.  Scott has remained a dear "adopted" part of our family.

Upon hearing of Julie's death in May of 2010, Scott flew to Colorado from Florida to be with us and all of her dear friends for her funeral.  His presence meant so much to us.  Later that same year, he came to visit us and spent some time with Jim and me on our back deck.  I always remember him asking me as we walked through the house towards the deck, "Is the trampoline still there?"  Of course it was.  He said he hoped to see the trampoline where he and Julie had had so much fun when they were younger.  He sent a beautiful letter to be read at her memorial service that was held a year after her death when we buried her cremated remains at the cemetery.

The way Scott has honored Julie's memory has always touched me more than he will ever know.  This past summer Scott made a very quick trip to Colorado from Florida for his 20th class reunion.  It also would have also been Julie's 20th class reunion.  He was in Colorado for fewer than 24 hours, yet he made sure he found out where Julie was buried so he could visit her grave and leave some flowers.  After he visited her burial site, before he headed forty miles south for the reunion, he sent me a message saying her stone was beautiful.  His thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes.  I know Julie would have been greatly touched by his gesture of remembrance.  How many of us have a friend like Scott?  I've said it many times that Julie had a gift for making great friends.  Scott was one them.

Our Visit

We had arranged to meet Scott and his wife and daughter early in the afternoon on Valentine's Day for a late lunch on Daytona Beach.  This was not a day to spend a lot of time on the beach because the weather was quite cool.  Blistery winds whipped the waves of the ocean as Scott, Jim, I caught up on our lives.  Scott had brought his beautiful wife and daughter with him.  His two year old daughter, full of personality and spunk wanted to be outside running on the beach while we stayed inside the great spot Scott had picked for lunch, Racing's North Turn Beach Bar and Grille.

Scott 2015

While Scott was attending the University of Colorado working on his engineering degree, he took up skydiving.  He has been involved in competitive canopy piloting since 2002.  His passion for skydiving has led him to create his company called Fluid Wings.  (Click to read about his company.)  He makes parachutes for a living.  He also does contract work in engineering.

Scott and I recounted what a crazy small world this is as we talked about my blogging friend and fellow Vashonista, Djan Stewart of DJan-ity and Eye on the Edge.  Scott had seen Djan's name on one of my blog posts.  Scott knew that there is only one Djan.  And of course he is right.

Djan was the person that certified Scott as a sky jumper while he was still a student at CU in Boulder, Colorado.  Isn't that just crazy?  He spoke of how much he learned about skydiving from Djan.  Then, he told me about Djan's husband, "Smart Guy."  He had great admiration for both of these people whom influence him so much in his younger years.  He said, "I learned to skydive from Djan, but I'm still alive because of "Smart Guy."  I asked why, and he told me that Djan's husband taught him about being wise and not so crazy as a youth.  He taught him not to take stupid risks.  He made him think.

Scott then told me that Djan had met Julie, "She just doesn't remember it." He said Julie was dating a friend of Scott's when Scott was skydiving and they went skydiving together and Djan was there when they all took their jumps.  That really warmed my heart to see the connection that I made with Djan after Julie died.  Djan, Scott's mentor, helped me in so many ways to cope with Julie's death through blogging.  Yes, it is a very small world.

Our time together was too short, but I left the lunch we had together feeling so blessed.  I loved talking to Scott again and was so pleased to observe what a wonderful human being he remains.  I was especially blessed to get to know his wife.  She was delightful and so very interesting.  I also was thrilled to finally meet Scott's daughter.  Words can't describe this child's bright, lively, and intelligent personality.  I think she will keep Scott on her toes when she becomes a teenager.

Scott and Family Daytona Beach 2015

My life has truly been blessed by knowing and spending time with Julie's friends.  She truly had a gift for making friends.  She made good life long friends.  Her friends are among my great gifts now.

This year, as I celebrate the birth of Julie, I am also celebrating that other April baby born just days before Julie was born: Scott Roberts. Memories of Julie's teen years and beyond will always be intertwined with memories of Scott.  Scott, you will never know how much it has meant to me that you made a great sacrifice to be with us when Julie died.  You will never know how much it meant to me that you made sure you left flowers for Julie on her gravesite when you came back for your class reunion. You two were friends with a friendship that spanned the years.  Now, it is my great joy to see you happily married, the father of a beautiful daughter, and involved in a career that represents your passion.  Julie would be so happy for you.  I am so very proud to count you among the gifts that Julie's life bestowed upon me.

Scott & Sally Daytona Beach 2015

Rebirth

After Christmas, the two red amaryllis blossoms that had sprung forth from a bulb planted in just stones and water, died back.

Those brilliant red blossoms that brought brilliant color to the drab days of winter eventually faded and began to die.

If I had known nothing about bulbs,

or if I had known nothing about amaryllis,

I would have assumed the spent looking appearance of what was left of blossoms meant the the plant’s day had come to an end,   

I then would have tossed the plant out.

Instead,

I cut the flower stalk back to about three inches above the bulb.

I then took it downstairs to a cool dark closet that seldom gets opened.

I thought I’d check on it again in the fall.

Mid-March, I was looking for something in that dark, unused closet.

Not wanting to knock over the glass container containing the rocks and the bulb, I looked to see exactly where it was hiding in the closet.

Imagine my surprise when I saw a new green stalk shooting out of the bulb.

On the end of stalk was a bud.

I brought it upstairs, 

gave it a big drink of water

 and 

waited to see what time and light

 would do for it.

Thankfully, I had not read the fact sheet stating that amaryllis planted in rocks and water without soil
would not re-bloom.
The photo below proves they will re-bloom.
There was a rebirth.

Now the Christmas plant has bloomed for Easter.

Last week, my daughter sent me a text with a photo of daffodils attached.

Daffodils are my favorite flower.

They are a beautiful symbol of hope and rebirth.

She had made an arrangement with the flowers that combined springtime objects that gave her sweet memories.

One item in the arrangement were the salt and pepper shakers that once belonged to our dear Julie.

This next week will be a hard one for us.

Easter is a mixed occasion of joy and grief for me.

The last time I saw Julie was on Easter of 2010.

On April 8, Julie would have turned 39 years old.

Julie Easter 2010

If I knew nothing about life, and death, and about faith in a God in Whom I can trust,

I would have completely been undone when my daughter died.

Many, many years ago I came to faith in Jesus Christ.

I went down paths that led away from my belief,

But I did not remain on those misleading paths.

I returned to faith.

When I needed that faith in the most,

My need was met by Jesus, the one trusted as a young girl, with grace and continued healing.

Easter brings me joy and hope.

Tomorrow, I will raise my voice in joyful Hallelujahs of praise for the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I will join others around the world when it is announced 

He is Risen

By saying,

He is Risen Indeed.

A few day later, on what would have been Julie’s birthday,

I will remember Julie with these words penned by C.S. Lewis as an epitaph for his beloved Joy:

“Here the whole world (stars, water, air,

And field, and forest, as they were

Reflected in a single mind)

Like cast off clothes was left behind

In ashes, yet with hopes that she,

Re-born from holy poverty,

In lenten lands, hereafter may

Resume them on her Easter Day."

Have a blessed Easter.

A Remembrance ~ Reflections on the Passing of a Great Woman of Faith - Kara Tippetts

Last night, incredibly sad and unsettled after hearing of the death of Kara Tippets I picked up my journal to write through my jumbled thoughts and jarred emotions.  As I wrote, some clarity came to me about what I was feeling.  I'm sharing them here with you.

A Response to Feelings of Grief

At first, I felt I was just incredibly sad when I heard of Kara’s passing.  After all, I didn’t really know her; I’d only met her once.  I only knew her through her writing.  Despite this fact, I doubt if I’ve ever been as deeply moved by one’s writing as I have been by the words that flowed from Kara’s heart and soul onto the medium she first used which was her blog Mundane Faithfulness.  I bought her book, The Hardest Peace, and knew immediately I was reading the work of a dear saint, one born the same year as my daughter, one whom could speak to her generation and to mine with an authentic voice like one we seldom hear today.  Her voice, though representative a young woman from her generation, was also timeless.  When she “went home to be with Jesus after a long battle with breast cancer,” I was not shocked by her passing.  I knew it could come at any time.  Reading on Facebook that she had left us, I wanted to sit and feel the feelings and think the thoughts that I knew I would feel at her death, but I pressed on with my evening.  I read posts about her on Facebook.  I looked at her beautiful face on a picture that was posted.  I tried to read, then I finally picked up my journal and wrote.  

I know grief must be experienced for one to heal, but quite frankly, I didn’t want to grieve.  I didn’t want to go there.  I wrote in my journal, I have not completely allowed myself to feel the sorrow welling up inside because grief just doesn’t seem to be something I want to experience right now.  Grieving is hard work and it drains.  I’m already drained, so I’ll compose myself while my heart skips beats and bottle up my sorrow.  I’ll cry tomorrow - when I’m not so tired, so drained, when I can work grieving into that schedule that I don’t even have.  

Sometimes, grief is too hard, and sometimes we fear going to that place of feeling grief.  It can be very overwhelming.  Let’s face it.  I just didn’t want to go there.  Yet, I knew I need to feel a sense of acceptance about the passing of one I loved dearly and allow grief to do its work of healing in my heart and soul.

Why Was Kara So Loved by So Many?

She Was A Prodigal Saved by Grace

I, like thousands of others, loved Kara Tippetts.  She lived just blocks from my home, was a part of my church denomination, and I almost attended the church she and her husband were planting.  She was a very close friend of one of my dearest nieces.  When I wrote a blog post (Click to read the post) about Kara in January, I had over 11, 800 hits to my blog post in one day.  I was astounded by the numbers.  She literally had thousands of followers on her blog.

Kara & Cristy Kara & Cristy at Kara's home, recent photo of Kara & Cristy, Cristy ministering to Kara by rubbing her feet with essential oils during chemotherapy to help prevent nausea.

I think that her readers loved Kara because her authenticity.  There was nothing opaque about Kara.  She was transparent in her brokenness, her struggle to find grace in the midst of her “hard.”  Her most cynical reader was wooed by her genuine acknowledgement that she endeavored to love the life she had with a grace that came from some source beyond Kara herself.  She drew the unbeliever in Christ or the one disappointed by life to her own dear heart which was owned by Jesus because she never preached or judged.  Instead, she pointed to the One that gave her the Grace to tell her story to whomever would read it.

I think Kara drew us because she was, like the rest of us, a prodigal.  She had once been very far from God.  She had been the flippant young teenager whom liked to party.  She drank, she used pot, she was rebellious.  She stood out in a crowd because of her stunning looks and personality.  I think there was always an authenticity to her even as a young rebellious teenager, and as a young believer in Christ.    When she heard about Jesus, she saw herself as she was: a sinner.  She turned and walked a new walk; one with Jesus pointing the way. She didn’t try to fit herself into some mold.  

She was humble.  She never tried to use good works to get to God.  No, not her.  She saw her sin and accepted God’s grace for it.  From then on, she sought grace with an expectant heart.  She was by her own words messy, broken, and in need of love and acceptance.  She found that in Jesus.  She never forgot her daily need for grace.

She Loved Life and Didn’t Want to Leave Her Loves

I can only imagine how Kara must have grieved over leaving Jason and her children and the work she and Jason had been called to do.  I think that is one reason I am so sad.  She wrote of how she loved just touching her feet against her husband’s feet while she was in bed.  She was young.  She should have had many more years of marital pleasure and companionship.  She was her husband’s perfect helpmate.  Why should he lose his vibrant, beautiful wife?

Then there is the matter of her littles - her loves, her four young children.  As I wrote this, I could not stop the tears.  My heart breaks for them.  As I thought about their loss, I want to shout the question, “Really, God?" 

We Are Not People of Despair

We Are People of Hope

As a Christian, I have questioned God before.  He can handle my questions, my doubts, my unbelief.  When my head has questions, I am grateful to know that deep in my soul, in my heart, in that place where God’s spirit speaks to mine, I have never doubted God and His Word.  I know beyond any shadow of doubt that my God is Sovereign. That belief has always given me comfort.  It has sustained me through everything I have experienced in my life.  My faith rests in a Sovereign God and His will for my life and for the lives of those I love.  

We, as Christians, are not a despairing people even as we look at the realities of life in this broken world in which we live, even when we lose a daughter to suicide, even when we lose a young mother to cancer.  We do not despair.  We are a people of hope.  We hope in the promises of God which were fulfilled in the Messiah, Jesus our Savior.  He is our Hope.  He is our Salvation.  When we come to Him knowing we are totally undone and lost without Him, He forgives our human failings and gives us love and acceptance.

Yesterday, in church, our pastor preached on the “grace of prayer.”  He said that most of us live our lives as practical atheists.  Sadly, he is right.  He made his point by saying, As Christians, many of us go through life as if we believed “Apart from God we can do most things,” rather than living a life that gives witness to our expressed belief that “Apart from God we can do nothing.”  

Kara, a prodigal saved by grace, lived her life fully demonstrating her belief in a Sovereign God upon Whom she was utterly dependent.  We loved her because she was faithful to trust in Jesus for the mundane.  Because of her faith, He in turn trusted her to do a mighty work in the lives of others. 

He broke her body and fed the multitudes with her words of praise for Jesus, the one that gave her grace in her brokenness.  Many were hungry for this message of hope, of grace, of peace, of trusting Jesus even in the hardest places of life.  Many tasted of the goodness of God while reading of the hard God was taking her through.  She wrote words that conveyed her life’s message:  Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good! Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him! (Psalm 34:8 ESV)

Yesterday, on March 22, 2015, this dear one, Kara Tippetts, stepped out of this world and entered heaven.  I can just see her taking heaven by storm.  Her tears have already been wiped away by Jesus.  Her purpose on this life is complete, but she leaves such a great legacy of faith.  She has been claimed, her life redeemed, and she has been healed.  May it be so for all who loved her and took her words to heart.  May they also come to know the Jesus she loved.
Below, is a documentary trailer about her journey of faith. 

On Seventy ~ Reflections on Becoming a Septuagenarian

Last year about this time, a dear friend and I met to write.  We spoke of our upcoming seventieth birthdays.  We thought we should take the year to reflect on the milestone event that would soon be upon us.  What lessons would we learn as we approached the eighth decade of our lives?  What, if anything, could we learn about life before we became septuagenarians?

Having read many of May Sarton's journals over the years, I went in search of her book At Seventy: A Journal.  I knew I had read it before, but found I had gotten rid of it when we moved.  So, off to the library I went to find it for a re-reading.  Interestingly, I found little insight in this particular journal.  She did determine that during her seventieth year, she would journal for one entire year.  I thought I might try to do better than that.  I toyed with the idea of writing fifteen minutes a day for one year.  

We are now twenty-one days since my seventieth birthday.  Needless to say, I have not written everyday.  I have however had some reflections on reaching this milestone in life.

In At Seventy: A Journal,Sarton wrote, 

How is seventy different from sixty-five?  I don't see much difference, except that time accelerates.  The days go past with frightening rapidity, and so do the years.  It is plain that I am not ready for old age!  But then time does not stand still for old age I fear.  On the contrary, from all reports, it simply flies away, and that is what I am beginning to notice.  

Did her words ring true?

Is seventy different than sixty-five?

I thought I might take a look back.

What was my sixtieth birthday like?

Wow, talk about time accelerating.

My grandchildren were not teenagers when I was sixty.

Time simply flies away...

Mason was six and Hannah and Atticus were two.

I could hold the two younger ones in my arms.  Now they are all taller than I am.

I ventured up on the trampoline the day I turned sixty, just to see if I could still jump.

I could.

It is plain that I am not ready for old age! 

60th birthday

I was excited to turn sixty-five.

Having officially retired at age sixty-one, I was still working until sixty-five for insurance benefits.

At sixty-five, my medicare coverage kicked in and I was thrilled.

I felt good.

I was healthy.

True retirement was something I was looking forward to with great anticipation.

I had much I wanted to accomplish.

On the day of my sixty-fifth birthday, my high school girl friends gathered at my home.

It was a planned gathering that happened to occur on my birthday.

Here are some photos from that day.

The group photo, my photo at age sixty-five, and a few of the girls.

One cannot reflect upon reaching the eighth decade of life without remembering that dear ones have been lost along the way.

On that day of my sixty-fifth birthday, we could not know that

before the year was out, my girlfriends and I would lose Judy, our dearly loved classmate.

She had been fighting cancer, but she was well and looked so good that day.

In the photos above, she is sitting in the place of honor, the gold chair. 

Sadly, she did not reach the milestone the rest of reach this year of becoming

septuagenarians.

I also lost my dear daughter during my sixty-fith year.

She died three months after my birthday.

For half a decade, I have learned the meaning of bereavement.

At seventy, I am much different than I was at sixty-five. 

Mark Twain shared his wisdom at seventy:

I have achieved my seventy years in the usual way, by sticking strictly to a scheme of life which would kill anybody else....I will offer here, as a sound maxim, this: That we can't reach old age by another man's road.
Mark Twain

My life was pretty simple in many ways until I hit sixty-five.

It was filled with some sorrow and disappointments, but mostly, I was quite pleased with the path my life had taken.

My children were grown and it seemed they had launched successfully.

I had just retired from a profession for which I still held great passion.

I thought I would continue to teach some, write some, travel some, and garden a lot.

Grief took away many of those plans.

In the past five years, I think I have come to think more deeply about what is most important in my life.

Also, I refuse to believe that just because I am seventy, I am old.

I prefer the following quote over Mark Twain's.

The first forty years of our life give the text, the next thirty furnish the commentary upon it, which enables us rightly to understand the true meaning and connection of the text with its moral and its beauties. 
Schopenhauer

The commentary on my first forty years won't be recorded here. 

(Let out a sigh of relief for that!)

At forty, would I ever believe I would be where I am today?

No, never in my wildest dreams would I have known what was in my future.

That is a good thing.

Along with the loss that I have suffered, I've know great joy.

I have been richly blessed.

As I reach seventy, I've learned I have treasures I always longed for when I was younger.

Today, I will touch on several treasures that only get better with age.

The Treasure of Friendship

There is great beauty in sharing the lives of those I knew before I knew much about life.

I made wonderful friends when I was a young, very naive teenager.

Now, the great gift of life is that I get to enter the eighth decade of my life with these dear women.

They gathered at my home last weekend.

Every time we get together, we hug on each other like long lost friends.

We laugh.

We share our stories.

We poke fun.

We encourage.

We know what we have is precious and rare.

We celebrate each other and the group.

This time we had several with us whom either have never joined us before, or live far away.

We have 50 years to catch up on with these few.

Kathy and Elaine, seen over the ham I cooked,

came early to sweep my doorway, 

set up tables,

keep me calm and focused,

and show me they are there to remember what I forgot.

We held a planning meeting so we could plan our big

Seventieth Birthday Party

that will be held in September.

We will go to Glenwood Springs, Colorado for three days of celebration.

I call our trip that we are planning 

Our Senior Trip.

The ladies heard of room rates, things to do, and dinner plans as we held our

Senior Meeting

in my living room.

Did I hear someone is bringing a case of white wine?

Someone else is bringing a case of red wine?

Goodness.

Watch out.

The true golden girls are getting ready to celebrate.

The Treasure of a Loving Husband

When my milestone birthday was drawing near, I knew I wanted to celebrate it in a special way.

I didn't want a party.

Who wants to clean the house?

My birthday falls on February 28, so it is not a good time for the children to come from out of state.

They have jobs and kids that keep them busy in February.

The weather is unpredictable.

Instead of a party, we decided we would go to Florida to celebrate my birthday.

I've known my husband as long as I've known the girlfriends whom I just wrote about.

Just like the laughter and the memories that I share with them, I share such wonderful memories of days gone by with my husband.

He has been that one that has always been there for me.

Even when I was a young woman, I knew the young man I first dated fifty-four years ago this week would make me laugh.

I knew he would always show me respect.

I knew he was one I could easily honor and respect.

I knew he would be a gentle, kind, understanding companion.

I knew he would give me a good life.

I just didn't marry this dear man until I was forty-seven years old.

Sometimes, youth makes one stupid.

Sometimes we get wiser with age.

At least, this man, the one I love, and I got together in the end.

Never would I have believed back in those days that at 70 Jim would be at my side.

Never in my wildest dreams did I believe that.

Thankfully, he is here with me.

At sixty-five, when my life turned upside down, he was there.

At seventy, we acted like a couple of kids at Disney's Magic Kingdom.

We walked around wide eyed and forgot that our bodies were aging.

We laughed ourselves silly on rides that we maybe shouldn't have ridden.

Thankfully, neither of us had a heart attack.

Jim took a selfie of us just before we went for one of those crazy rides.

On Valentine's Day, two weeks before I turned seventy, my love and I walked on Daytona Beach. 

Now here's something to celebrate:

We both are septuagenarians,

but we still love to have those romantic moments on the beach.

We met as teenagers, and we get to enter the last years of our lives together.

Life doesn't get any better than this.

A Valentine's Day Kiss 2015

I'm learning this at seventy:

The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.
Irish Saying

Amy ~ Beloved

Amy,

my third child,

second daughter,

born right smack in the middle of my five children,

was,

is,

and forever will be,

my 

beloved.

Amy's name means

beloved,

dearly loved.

The name is derived from the Latin amatus which means loved.

Amy was born five days after my twenty-ninth birthday.  She arrived via a frank breech birth three weeks after her expected birthdate which was February 14.  She recently said that I must not have enjoyed that twenty-ninth birthday much since I was long past my expected due date when her birth finally took place.  I don't remember not enjoying that birthday.  I only remember the joy I felt with the gift I was given five days later:  a beautiful baby girl.  That is why I chose the name for her that I did.

Amy, the one in the middle, had a hard role to play as a child. Born five and half years after her older brother, and four years after her older sister Keicha, she spent much of her younger years striving to be a part of the established sibling relationship between her two older siblings.  

She was the oldest of the three youngest.  There is less than a five year span between the three younger siblings.  Much of the time, Amy did not want to be in this group.  She wanted to be in the older group.  Since Amy, Julie and Jonathan were born in that span of a bit less than five years, Amy didn't get to be the baby very long.  She was the middle child from her earliest days.  

This dynamic in the birth order helped to create the woman that is Amy.  

She is a people person.

People love her.

That thousand watt smile of her's lights up every room she enters.

She is able to bring people together.

As I went through family photos, I was surprised to find how few photos I have of just Amy.

That is because she is always in the midst of her siblings, her cousins, her children.

(Well that, and she won't let me take her picture.)

Amy is easy to love.

She laughs easily.

I love this photo I snapped years ago when her daughter Hannah was just a baby because it captures Amy's love of whimsy, her easy laugh, and her joy at being a mom.

She cries just as easily as she laughs when things touch her heart.

Her heart is easily touched.

She can be tough,

but she also has the tenderest of hearts.

I'll be honest, it is not easy for me to write about Amy.

Too many people have called her my mini me.

She isn't really like me in many, many ways, but people say we look alike.  (I don't see it.)

Amy in the coat I wore when she was a baby. Believe me, I never looked this good!

We have the same mannerisms, and she hates it.  

We sometimes see mirror images of ourselves in the other in the way we speak our body language.

That drives her crazy!

It makes me laugh with joy.

It is never a good thing to remind people of your mom.

That is a hard burden to put on any woman.

It is hard for me to write about Amy because of the deep bond we share.

We've had our share of very difficult mother/daughter conflicts.

Amy knows her own mind.

I know my own mind.

Amy is strong willed.

I am strong willed.

That combination made the teenage years difficult.

Just as I knew she would,

Amy successfully launched herself by supporting herself since she was just a teenager.

She married her high school sweetheart in her early twenties.

Together, they launched a successful restaurant.

Amy worked hard during those years waiting tables, keeping the books, and lending great insight into creating a restaurant that was was a success.

I hope Amy never forgets the key role she paid in the successes this couple had together before their marriage ended a few years ago.

Amy is a private person.

I respect that in her so much.

She is not one to display her trials and griefs for others to see.

There was a time, it doesn't really seem like that long ago, when our birthdays,

Amy and mine, were celebrated with Julie in our midst.

Celebrating our birthdays 2006 Denver, Colorado

Amy and Julie were as close as any two sisters could be.

I can't imagine the heartache that Amy has suffered since Julie has been gone.

As I write a tribute to Amy on her birthday, I want to leave out the part that speaks of pain and loss.

I want us to all go to dinner again and celebrate our birthdays.

A tribute to Amy would be missing a key element if I did not acknowledge what a 

wonderful

sister

she was to Julie.

She took care of Julie during her hard times more than I will ever know.

Thank you Amy for being there for Julie.

I know she was there for you too.

Together, you two made an awesome sister team.

In many ways, Amy was born to be a mom.

She loves Mason her sixteen year old son as deeply as any mom can love a son.

She has supported him in all of his endeavors and has been that mom cheering in stands for him since his earliest days when he began playing hockey.

Amy & Mason with Buster

Where did those early childhood days go?

It seems Hannah was learning to read with her mom's help just a few years ago.

Now, Hannah at age twelve is taller than her mother and into make-up and making sure her mascara is applied just right.

Amy now gets to experience the trials of being a mom to teenagers.

Warning to her children:

She knows about the teenage years.

Amy, now a single mom, works hard to provide for herself and her children.

I worry and pray as she drive to her job in downtown Denver over icy roads in winter.

I try not to bug her about checking in when she gets home so I won't worry.

She is a valued employee in the human resources department of the company for which she works.

She is again working on her running after an ACL injury.

She bought herself a bike and is biking when she can.
Amy is an overcomer.
Her toughness comes through when it has to.

***********

Amy, I hope you will always be my sounding board.
I know that isn't always fair to you to be in that position, but honestly, some the best advice I've ever gotten in my life, I gotten from you.

I guess many times I am also your sounding board.

As I wrote in your card this year,

You are much loved.

Together, we have been down roads we never wished we had to go down.

You have been by my side through much that life has thrown at me.

I've been at your side also.

I don't remember the sad and hard times when I think of you.

I remember that smile of yours.

I remember how it brightens my days and lightens my load.

I remember the gift that you have always been to me.

Did you know what your name is in the Urban Dictionary?

It means:

To take, hold, or steal your heart.

You did that on the day you were born.

You stole my heart.

The Urban Dictionary would say,

She pulled an amy on my heart.

or,

My heart was amyied.

If you have the opportunity to meet my daughter,

watch out,

she will amy your heart. 

(Urban Dictionary phrase)

Amy, my beloved,

thank you for being my daughter.

My life is richly blessed because you are in it.

I love you dearly.

I hope you have a happy birthday.

XO

Love,

MOM