Chinkapin Oak for Tomorrow

I planted an oak tree this past weekend.  It's a chinkapin.  I got it for free at Trees Louisville Fest a couple of weeks ago.  It's 3 feet high, and its trunk is about as big around as my thumb.  When it is full-grown, it will be 50-60 feet tall, but I will probably not be here to see it in its full glory.  They take about 30 years to reach 50 feet, and in 30 years, I will be almost 89.  Maybe one of my kids will drive me by the old homeplace so I can see it when it's grown.

I remember years ago when we lived on Bellaire.  There were all of these really mature trees around our house but none in our yard.  Kyle, who was 4 at the time, asked if we could plant a tree so he could have a treehouse.  Bless his sweet little heart, he didn't understand the time it would take for a tree to grow big enough to support a treehouse. 

When we moved to our home on Crossgate, it had several large trees already happily living in the yard: two giant maples, three massive white pines, and an oak.  We never built a treehouse in any of them, but they were climbed and played under for years. One of the maples was nicknamed "the dragon" after the 2-headed dragon in Dragon Tales.  The kids across the street still like to rest in its arms.  The others shaded swing sets and playhouses, tea parties and GI Joe battles. 

Claire, age 4, in the arms of The Dragon.

The playground in the backyard, shaded by one of the pines that still stands today.

Sadly, one by one, the trees had to come down.  The oak tree got the blight and began randomly dropping thigh-sized branches out of nowhere. We took it down for safety reasons.  The pine out front, 70 feet if it was an inch, blew over during Hurricane Ike.  We stood in the doorway and watched it sway back and forth, terrified it would fall on our house, until, thankfully, it fell across the street instead. 

The kids watching the removal of the pine after Hurricane Ike.

The maple in the back began losing large limbs several years ago. One lowered to the ground so slowly that it was halfway down before we noticed.  Another branch fell violently across the neighbor's fence during a freak March snowstorm.  The last branch fell into the other neighbor's house after ice weighed it down. We finally decided it, too, had to go.

So we are left with one original maple and two pines. They are healthy but will reach the end of their lives sooner than later, and I wanted to have a younger tree well established before they disappeared. I've been meaning to plant something for a year or so but couldn't make a decision.  With Claire finishing her Master's Degree and thesis (on trees) this month, I was inspired to get planting.  A couple of Saturdays ago, I scored the oak and a spice bush, both for free, and planted both in the yard.

Yesterday, I was putting mulch around the base of the oak when it dawned on me that I probably won't be around to see it grown but how that should not ever stop anyone from planting a tree.  A sapling in the ground shows hope for the future.  It is a promise of beauty to come...of shade for the house, acorns for the squirrels, and, maybe someday, a treehouse for a little boy.  

Tired

Christmas 2024

It was the best of years. It was the worst of years. And because I don’t want to dwell on the worst, I’m just going to list the best of 2024 and then send it on its way… 

Winter 

• Joyce moved to Louisville. She’s at Dominion next to Jean, so they are together and see each other every day. 

Spring 

• Kyle travelled to India for a meditation retreat and then met Macey in Asia (not sure where exactly) for an incredible trip to several countries. They have continued to travel around the world. She even went to Kiev for a couple of days. 

• Emily graduated from NKU Suma Cum Laude with Honors. She did an amazing job and made the most of her time there. We are really proud of her. 

Summer 

• Kirk and I flew to Denver and got Joyce’s house cleaned out and ready to sell. It was like being on the set of Queen’s Gambit. Nothing had changed since 1960. It sold for a nice price to the neighbor behind her. Didn’t even have to put it on the market. 

• I got to see 2 bucket list items: dinosaur tracks (Colorado) and the ruts from the Oregon Trail (Nebraska). Bonus was seeing Chimney Rock (also Nebraska) 

• Kirk and I flew to Minneapolis to get Jean and Milt’s house cleaned out and ready to sell. It was also a challenge. So much stuff. So many trains. It sold also for a nice price by the end of the summer. 

• Claire and I spent a week at Myrtle Beach, just the two of us. It was a really good trip, and I loved the time away with just her. 

• My dollhouse won a blue ribbon at the state fair. 

Fall 

• School has actually been good, and I like the kids and the curriculum. I didn’t miss being retreat director either. I also started watercolor painting. I’m not good, but I enjoy it. 

• Emily got a job with Jimmy Fallon’s Tonightmares in NYC. She had a ball. 

• Kyle and Macey did some more travelling. Kyle got to reconnect with his Laotian “family” from when he was there in 2018. 

• Claire has decided to go back to finish her Master’s degree. She has been working with United Campus Worker’s union for a year, organizing people for better pay and working conditions, but she is so close to the degree and wants to get it completed. 

• But the best news of the year is that Emily and Brendan got engaged! He asked us for our blessing in September, and he proposed with my mom’s engagement ring on November 30. It was perfect. We can’t wait for the spring of 2026! 

 I’m sure there was more, but that’s all I’ve got. Buh-bye 2024.

Christmas Oranges

A few years ago, when Macey first got a Christmas stocking at our house, she was puzzled by the extra large orange in the toe of the stocking.  "An orange?" she asked quizzically.  That got me to thinking about the tradition we have in our family about putting oranges in Christmas stockings, and I wanted to write it down.

When I was a kid, stockings hung on the wrought iron divider between the living room and dining room.  Initially they were the traditional red and white fur ones, our names written on them with glitter glue by Mom so we could tell them apart.  Eventually we each got striped ones.  Mine was red, white, and green.  I still have both.

Stockings were always an afterthought for us kids in our Christmas toy frenzy.  We'd be so busy playing with all the goodies Santa brought that we wouldn't even think about the stockings.  Midway through the morning, one of us would remember: Stockings! and we would sprint towards them, hanging off the wrought iron, stuffed with goodies.  Sometimes I would remember before my sisters, but I wouldn't say anything because having those stuffed stockings hanging there kept Christmas going just a little bit longer.

They were filled with chocolate Santas and foil Christmas bells and candy canes. Hershey Kisses and Rolos. Sometimes small toys like those water games with the rings that you try to get on the little pegs or the Wooly Willy with the metal shavings that you could use to give him hair or a beard.  Sometimes we got Tinker Bell nail polish or Dr. Pepper flavored lip balm.  There was always a handful of nuts in the shell (Almonds were the best. Brazil nuts the worst.  Who can crack those shells anyway???)  At the bottom of the stocking was a giant red apple and a softball sized orange.  Mom told us they were so big because they came from the North Pole.  The fact that apples and oranges don't grow that far north not being an issue because, well, Santa.

We always knew we were at the end of the stocking when we got to the fruit.  It always tasted just a little bit sweeter than usual, and I liked to keep mine in my stocking so I could eat my North Pole fruit on my own time, savoring each delicious bite.

When I became a mom, I continued the North Pole apple and oranges but not the nuts.  I would go to Kroger a day or two before Christmas Eve and look for the biggest most perfect specimens I could find and hide them away until the big night.  I continued the story of how they came from the North Pole with my kids, and they always looked forward to eating fruit from Santa.  Eventually, oranges became the only fruit put in the stockings.  Still big, bright, and blemish-free.  

My mom was born in 1939, so figuring that her family got fruit from Santa, this is nearly a 100-year old tradition.

When I got to thinking about why we put fruit in our stockings, I thought about how Mom didn't have the luxury of year-round oranges when she was a girl.  Citrus was a seasonal fruit back then and also fairly pricey, especially for her mom who was a widow with 7 kids.  It would have been a real treat to get an orange and some nuts and candy in her stocking.  My dad, who grew up in a more well-off family, also got fruit in his stocking.  He loved tangerines, and his sister told me the other day that they always got a tangerine in their stocking.  

So we continue this tradition, whose meaning, like many traditions, may one day be lost to time.  I give my kids oranges because my mom gave us oranges because her mom gave her oranges...I hope this will continue on into the next generation because those North Pole oranges are just so much sweeter than regular ones.

The Year Without a Christmas Letter

Every year, I have copied and pasted our Christmas letter to this blog so I can have a record of what happened in the weeks and months before. I pride myself on my quirky ruminations and tell myself that people enjoy reading what I write. Ha. 

This year was different. This year, I got disgusted with photo cards and other people's good news. I don't care this year. It has been a crappy year, and I didn't have the energy to pretend otherwise. I sent old fashioned Christmas cards and was hard pressed to do that. 

I thought about trying to write a clever letter using the analogy of the flooded campsite on our trip to Virginia Beach in July. It would have been a funny but poignant letter. I would have talked about how all of the signs were there...the marshy ground, the lack of grass, the ruts from tires driving in mud...How we didn't pay attention to any of the signs, and how we were shocked when we came back from the aquarium to find our site in 5 inches of standing water. How we bugged out and went to a hotel and then found a new campsite nowhere near the beach, which was my main objective for camping. How we were put on a hill at the next site, which was fine, but challenging, and how freaking hot it was and how the bugs just ate us up, leaving welts that stayed for days and days. 

I would have figured out a way to work all that into what this year was like. Kirk flying to Minnesota all the time to help with his dad, who was stuck in the basement because he couldn't do the stairs, his mom trying to take care of him but not succeeding. Kirk's work laying people off right and left, the writing on the wall for him but trying to ignore that his job was in jeopardy. Me getting an extra class at the last minute, something I'd never taught before and wasn't interested in teaching at all. 

Then Kirk's dad being dropped at the rehab center, which fractured his neck and spinal vertebrae.  Getting the call at 2 a.m. that if Kirk was hoping to see his dad before he passed, he should come now. Milt's injuries, caused by negligence, killing him a few days later. The trip to Minnesota for the funeral, seeing for myself how Jean should not be alone anymore because she has memory loss and her friends and neighbors are worried about her and wondering why we aren't doing anything. Coming home to begin the search for a place for her. One of the few good things finding a nice place a mile away from our house. Bringing her here on the sly because she wouldn't have come if she had thought she was staying for good. Having her live with us for an entire month. Finding furniture at the consignment stores and pretending we had it in storage so she wouldn't stress about the cost. Finally moving her in to her new place to "try it out for a few weeks" and thankfully, praise God, finding she likes it. 

Then Kirk losing his job like he thought he might. Severance til the end of the year. Me still working, doing back to back senior retreats between Thanksgiving and Christmas that were incredibly stressful. Still trying to have meaningful lessons while being out for two full weeks. Trying to shop and have a good Christmas but worried about money (again). Not being able to do much of what I wanted to prepare for the holidays... 

And all these sound like first world problems as I look back over this, but damn, it was a hard year, and I had no idea how to put this in a Christmas letter, so I just didn't. 

The end.

Thoughts on a Saturday Morning

It's been a while since I've written.  I'm too exhausted most of the time to do much of anything once I'm finished with work and house or yard stuff.  I miss writing, though, so I'm taking time this morning to put some thoughts down.

I haven't written anything about going back to work.  I'm not sure why.  It was a huge change in my life for sure.  That whole time was pretty overwhelming, so maybe I just didn't have the words.  I do now.

When it became clear that I needed to find a job, I wasn't sure where to even look.  I had been out of the workforce for so many years that I was pretty sure I would be stuck with retail or something similar.  I was sitting on the patio checking email one day when I got a blast email from Holy Cross that they were looking for a theology teacher and campus minister.  The thought crossed my mind that I could do that.  I had worked with kids and ministry all my life.  I used to teach.  I thought about it for a hot minute and then moved on.  The next day, I saw the same notice on Holy Cross's Facebook page.  I got that nagging feeling in the back of my mind like I do that this was something I needed to pay attention to, but again, I scrolled on.  Not long after that, I got another notice about it.  I can't remember now if it was an email, or it came up on Facebook again.  This time, I thought, "Okay, God.  I hear you."

I reached out to my high school friend, Susan, who works there and asked about it.  She was so supportive and encouraged me to apply.  Kirk helped me get my CV together, and I emailed it in on a Monday.  That night, the principal called me to see if I would come in for an interview on Wednesday.  I did, and by the following Monday, I had the job.  I would be the senior theology teacher for Catholic Social Teaching, have a class of sophomores for Paschal Mystery/Church History, and shadow to be the next campus minister.  It was so fast, I didn't even have time to think, but when I did, I panicked.  Holy crap!  I hadn't been in a classroom for years!  The last time I taught, I used an overhead projector.  I was so scared of the technology piece I almost shut down.  The curriculum was a breeze, but my tablet sent me into a tizzy. But there I was, going back into the classroom where I knew I belonged.

It was a rough start.  OneNote.  Teams.  Online learning for kids who had Covid.  Masking up every day.  Creating content.  It was a s t r u g g l e.  I was blessed to have a great principal who sat with me and walked me through how to use the gradebook.  How to make a seating chart.  How to do lunch count.  Our IT guy is a SAINT on earth.  He was so patient with me and worked with me without any sighs or eye rolls.  I learned stuff.  I created lessons.  I had success.  I failed a lot.  My brain was exhausted all of the time.  I slept in my room during planning periods.  I loved, loved, loved my students...Well, most of them anyway!  Lol!  

I loved my job, but I felt like an imposter.  How could I possibly be doing this?  I kept waiting for someone to see that I really didn't know what I was doing but I kept getting good reviews on my observations.  I got kuddos from my principal, constant reassurance that I was doing a great job.  Eventually, I began to believe in myself.

Part of me felt really angry that I was back at work, that my life was upended without my consent. I didn't want Kirk to know I was happy at what I was doing.  Part of me felt like this job, if I had to work, was my consolation prize from God.  That if I had to work, then I was going to be able to do something that I loved, and it gave me the chance to be creative and have fun and have time off to nurture my soul. It took me a long time to let go of the anger and just enjoy being at work.

I still feel like an imposter.  I still have some resentment for having to go back to work without my consent.  It's not as strong as it was, and that's good.  I often ask myself if I won the lottery would I still get up at 5:45 every morning and go teach a bunch of teenagers.  I think yeah.  I'm pretty sure God put me here for a reason.  I love what I do, and I'm not done yet.

My Cousin, Jim

It's Derby weekend here in Louisville, and naturally, my thoughts turn to my cousin, Jim.  Jim lived in Kansas City, and for years, no, make that decades, he came home the week before the big race to take in the spectacle that surrounds the First Saturday in May.  Jim was my oldest cousin on my dad's side, a kind of hybrid uncle/cousin/big brother kind of guy.  He was funny and interesting, and he never hung up the phone after a chat without saying, "I love you, Sharron."

Jim loved the horses.  He loved the track.  He loved studying the racing forms and going to the backside and getting a look behind the scenes.  Beyond the track, he loved the Pegasus Parade and the Great Steamboat Race and the hats and the SHOW that was the Derby.  And, he loved the people.  He was the people-ist people person I knew.

Every year he came to Louisville for the races, but he never had a ticket when he left for the track.  He knew he could find someone selling them outside the gate.  Sometimes he ended up in the infield.  Most of the time, he got in the grandstand or in a box.  A few times, he made it to Millionaire's Row.  Regardless, he almost always paid less than everybody else, and, rain or shine, he always had a good time.  I can picture him heading to the track now...sports coat, a colorful tie, a hat on his head, racing form in hand, wearing sensible shoes in case he ended up in the infield.  He'd have a big smile on his face, ready to go. 

He stayed with his dad, my uncle, until he passed away.  Then he stayed with my dad.  After my dad passed, he stayed with me a year or two until he found that he could have a place of his own for a minimal cost in the dorms of the Presbyterian Seminary just up the road.  

He came alone for many years, then he met his wife Patty and introduced her to all things Derby.  She came with him most of the time, but if she had to work, he would come by himself.  We would always get together, sometimes for lunch, usually dinner, and he would regale us with his stories from the track, this year or years past, and he always had a story.

Jim with my sister, Colleen, and me, May 5, 2017

He never met a stranger.  Jim could talk to the hitching post and have a great conversation.  He was interested in people, and when people know you are interested in them, they talk.  It must have been the reporter in him, but he could get anyone to open up, and usually find a connection between himself and whoever he was with.  He was amazing like that.

I always called him each year to see who he was betting on.  He gave me excellent tips, but I am a shy bettor, so I never won much.  Jim was the first person I called when my best friend and her husband won big on the Derby after Maximum Security was disqualified.  He was the first person I called when I learned Bob Baffert had been banned from Churchill Downs.  I'd like to call him today and get his thoughts on the deaths of the horses this week and the suspension of Saffie Joseph.  I'm sure he'd have some things to say. Even though he lived in Kansas City, and I am in Louisville, he always had the scoop.

Jim passed away suddenly in February.  He was on a long vacation in Florida with Patty and their friends, and he and the guys were about to hit the links for a round of golf.  We got the news one day that he was in the ICU and the next day, he was gone.  I still can't believe it.

I'll be thinking of him tomorrow when we sing, "My Old Kentucky Home."  I'll picture him in the grandstand, hat on his head, racing form in hand, shouting, "Go, baby, go!" as the horses round the last turn and head down the homestretch.  This year, I know he will win big.

I love you, Jim

A Bible Story

When we were kids, our parents had a big, grayish-blue Bible with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the front.  It sat on a shelf on the end table in the living room.  My sisters and I loved to look through that Bible. There were colored pages inside, which you never found in a Bible.  Pictures of the Vatican and a priest saying mass.  There was a section of Old Testament stories with a classical painting to match.  Daniel in the lion's den, Sampson, and my sisters' and my favorite: King Solomon and the 2 women claiming the same baby.  The picture was dramatic.  King Solomon sitting on a throne while a large, buff man holds a baby upside down by an ankle, preparing to cut him in half with a sword...I was always fascinated by that picture.  

The New Testament had a section, and I loved the painting of young Jesus at the Temple.  He looked so angelic with the halo behind his head.

 

The Stations of the Cross were also in color, one page ripped in half diagonally.  I don't remember it ever being taped back, just tucked into the place where it went.

We never read the Bible.  There were pages for recording births and deaths, and when I got older, I wanted to put our names in it, but my mom wouldn't let me.  I guess it was more of a decoration than anything, but that Bible was in the living room on the end table shelf for as long as I can remember.

When Dad died in 2011, my sisters and I divided up his belongings, and I didn't end up with the Bible.  We had all loved it, so wherever it went was fine.  I didn't really think about it much after that, and time went on.

Fast forward to 2020.  That summer, I was volunteering with Produce and More, giving out books in the West End of Louisville.  People would donate children's books for me to pass on, and sometimes I'd get a cash donation from someone who wanted to help but didn't have any books to give me.  On those occasions, I'd go to the Goodwill to look in their book section as I could get children's books for .50-$1 each.

One day when I was there looking for books, I saw a Bible that looked exactly like the one we had growing up.  I thought, "Oh wow!  That's just like the one we had!" I thought about buying it, but then thought it would be silly to buy it since it hadn't been ours; it just looked like ours.  Then I thought, "No, if you don't get it, you'll be sorry," so I bought it for $2 and brought it home and put it under the coffee table as an homage to my parents.  

The Bible has sat on the shelf under the coffee table in my living room for almost three years.  Today, I decided to do a little rearranging and deep cleaning.  Instead of dusting around the books on the coffee table shelf (Shhh.  Don't tell anyone I do that!), I took them all out and wiped them down.  

When I pulled out the Bible, I thought about the picture of King Solomon and opened it up to the page to have a look.  Being the historian/genealogist I am, I wondered who had owned this Bible before, so I turned the pages to see if anyones' names were written down.  I thought if there were, I might reach out to see if they would want the Bible back.  The genealogy section was blank.  I looked in the front...nothing but a small, blank piece of paper.  I flipped through the pages, and at the very back of the book, tucked in between two pages, was a yellowed sheet of paper.  "Hmmmm," I thought, "I wonder if this will tell me who this belonged to."

I unfolded the paper and saw that it was a telegram. "Western Union" blazed across the top of the page.  I read on..."WLT LUCKETT FOR FITZPATRICK..." 

Wait.  What?  That's where my grandpa worked.  That's our last name...

"TELEGRAM RECEIVED ONLY TODAY HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS HOPE HENRIETTE BABY FINE WIRING PARENTS LOVE ALBERT...

What the heck???  Henriette was my grandma.  Albert was her brother.  I looked at the date on the telegram...March 5, 1932.  My dad was born in 1932...February 18, 1932...91 years ago TODAY.

I looked at the Bible in disbelief.  Did someone in my family have the same Bible and took it to the Goodwill, and I found it?  Was this ours???  I knew how to check.  I turned to the page in the Stations of the Cross section, and there it was, the torn page, now taped back together, but torn just as I remembered it.  

This was my mom and dad's Bible.

But how had it ended up at the Goodwill???

I called my sisters.  We all thought each other had the Bible.  None of us had seen it for years, but I thought Colleen or Jennifer had it, and they thought I had it.  We have no idea how it left our possession and ended up at the Goodwill.  None of us would have given it away.  The only thing we can think of is that it was put in a box and inadvertently given to the Goodwill.  But then had it sat there on the shelves for nine years before I found it?  Did someone else have it and drop it off?  Where had it been all that time???

We have no idea exactly what happened, but somehow, our family Bible wound up at the Goodwill and NINE YEARS after my dad's death, I found it and decided to buy it not knowing it was ours and put it on the shelf of my coffee table where it sat, unopened, until today.

And then today, on my dad's 91st birthday, I opened it up to see who it might have belonged to and found the telegram congratulating my grandparents on his birth.  I can't make this make sense except to say...

The universe is full of miracles!

Plastic Memories

Spring is here, and I was working in my yard this week. I love yard work. I love the physicality of the shovel in earth, digging down into the dirt and turning over new possibilities. I love seeing perennials poking their green shoots up through last year's mulch, remembering that I'd planted something new there last year and here it is coming back for another season. I love dividing the bounty of hostas and day lilies and black-eyed Susans, moving a plant from the sun to the shade or the shade to the sun so it can thrive in a new spot. And I love the anticipation of what is to come...the flowers and the full leaves, the caterpillars and butterflies, the birds and frogs that visit my yard each summer. 

My backyard especially has undergone massive changes in the last five years. When we moved into our house 20 years ago, there was a huge silver maple smack dab in the middle of the relatively small space off the patio. In one corner of the yard, which was covered in pine needles, we added a playset for the kids, complete with swings, a slide, an elevated "house" and a small bench and table. The big maple always shaded our yard, and with kids playing in it all the time, nothing much grew in the back besides hostas. Even grass struggled. 

The kids were always in the back. The girls played house and store and school. They brought out stuffed and plastic animals and had a zoo or a vet shop. They took their baby dolls and Barbies and backpacks full of plastic food and dishes outside and set up whatever imagination station they could think of that day. Kyle and his friends turned the backyard into a battleground. He had an old, wooden Army supply box full of GI Joes and plastic army men and dinosaurs, and he'd bring the whole box outside and create battle scenes and bomb the enemy with pinecones. When he got older, he and his friends had airsoft gun wars around the house, and the play set was a favorite spot, having the high ground and all.  

I'd sit on the patio, in the shade of the maple, and watch the kids play. I'd sometimes dream of a well-manicured yard and spent time researching colorful shade plants for the day when I wouldn't have to worry about them getting trampled on by little feet. 

About five years ago, since the kids were now in their late teens, we figured it was time to move the play set on. We offered it to our neighbors across the street, who had two little girls. They were thrilled to have it, and I was happy to see it going to a new home. I went to work laying out new hostas and azaleas and rhododendrons in the yard where the play set used to be. I found some grass that did well in shade and rejoiced when it came up and stayed green. I added hellebores, coral bells, hydrangeas, and ferns. I planted impatiens in the summers to add color. Every once in awhile, I'd dig up a green army man or a plastic hamburger or a yellow airsoft pellet. I'd throw them back into the dirt for someone else to find one day. It was a beautiful shade garden, and I loved knowing there were hidden pieces of the past planted alongside the flowers. 

Then we lost the maple. 

Three years ago, it dropped a major branch onto one neighbor's fence. There was a small knot hole that hid the fact that the entire branch had been hollowed out. We cleaned it up and had the tree inspected and was assured that it was fine and healthy. A year and a half later, another branch fell onto a different neighbor's roof, crashing through the attic and into a bedroom closet. That branch had also been hollowed out. A couple of weeks later, we had the tree removed. 

Our yard looked so different. It was bigger, brighter and open. What had been shaded for most of the day was now in full sun. The hydrangeas wilted by early afternoon. The ferns dried up. The hostas got scorched. I began planting and digging and moving things around. Some things adapted. Some things died. I was excited about having more sun. I tried putting in a small garden. It did okay but not great. I had no idea what else to plant, so I planted nothing. 

This week, I finally decided to start reinventing the yard. I edged a bigger space along the fence for more plants. I put in a witch hazel and a deciduous magnolia. I divided the hostas and hellebores and dug up the overgrown black-eyed Susans and cut back the forsythia. 

 Along the way, I found the remains of a plastic army man, some airsoft pellets, and a penguin. 

      

Each one took me back to when my kids were little, playing under the maple tree for hours on summer days. I could see them in my mind; their sweaty, popsicle-streaked faces, their bare feet, the girls' toes painted with bubblegum pink polish, clothes dirty and grass stained. It took my breath away how fast time has gone. One of those kids is getting married in October. Another graduates college next month. The third is finishing her freshman year of college in two weeks. How is this even possible?

 

I left the army man, the pellets, and the penguin in the yard like I do every time I find one of those plastic memories. I know there is a hamburger, part of a toy baby carrier, a plastic play fork, a Barbie shoe out in the yard somewhere. I hope I keep finding them year after year. I'll keep putting them back in the dirt, and I hope when I'm gone from this house, the new owners will know that the backyard was once a playhouse, a zoo, a battlefield, and a store. A place where kids lived and played hard, where imagination ruled, and a mom sat on the patio and took it all in.

How We Met

October 18 was a Wednesday that year, and Wednesdays were Ladies' Night at Horsefeathers.  My cousin's boyfriend had recently broken up with her, and she wanted to go out and drown her sorrows.  She needed a designated driver, so she called me.  

My limited nightclub experience had been confined to the Bardstown Road/Baxter Avenue bars.  I had never been to Horsefeathers, but even with my minimal knowledge of clubs, I didn't have high hopes of having much fun that night.  There were just a handful of people in the bar when we walked in, but even so, my cousin knew several of them.  I got my free soft drink and followed her while she made the rounds.  We finally sat down at a tall table near the dance floor, and I sipped my Coke and kept time to the music while my cousin talked to friends.

People had started coming in, and before I knew it, the dance floor was filling up.  My cousin was still chatting away, and I began people watching, but I really wanted to dance. In a booth against the wall were three guys in their early 20s.  I could tell they were soldiers by their haircuts and black watches.  They were cute, and I watched them spitting ice at a waitress when she wasn't looking.  It wasn't very nice, but it was funny.  One of them caught me laughing at them and smiled at me.  

My cousin was wrapping up her conversations, and since she had work and I had class at UofL early the next morning, I knew we'd be leaving soon.  I saw an older guy making his way to our table.  I thought he was another of my cousin's friends, but he started talking to me.  All of a sudden, he turned around, and one of the soldiers was standing there instead.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"Oh gosh," I said, "we are about to leave."

My cousin looked at me, knowing how much I'd been wanting to get out on the dance floor, and said, "Oh, go ahead.  We can stay awhile."

So the soldier and I walked onto the dance floor and started...talking. He told me his name, Kirk, and asked me mine.  He was from Minnesota and confirmed he was stationed at Ft. Knox at Armor Officer Basic Training.  He said his buddy's wife had just left him, and he was the designated driver that night.  I told him I was an English major, and we talked about books we'd read and who our favorite authors were, all the while barely moving to the music.

After about 15 or 20 minutes, my cousin was tapping on her watch.  I told the soldier I had to go, and he walked me over to the table.  The whole way back, a voice in my head was whispering, 

"Don't let him get away!  You will regret it for the rest of your life!"

So I did something I never did with a guy I had just met in a bar.  I said, "Why don't you give me a call?" and wrote down my number on a napkin.  He wrote down his number for me, and then my cousin and I left.

In the car on the way back to her apartment, I told her, "I have just met the man of my dreams."

She laughed at me, but I said, "I'm serious! I've just met the man of my dreams."

That Friday at dinner, the phone rang, and it was Kirk.  "Hey!  You might not remember me, but we met at the bar the other night..."

We made plans to go to see a movie the next night.  I didn't want him to know where I lived just yet, so I told him I'd meet him at the McDonald's on Bardstown Road by the Showcase Cinemas.  We saw Dead Poets' Society and after we went to Shoney's and sat in the booth until well after midnight drinking coffee and splitting a hot fudge cake.

For our second date, I drove to Ft. Knox, and he took me repelling off the training tower and made me spaghetti.  I knew by December that I wanted to marry him.

That was 1989.  He moved to Ft. Hood, Texas in February, and after his brief trip to Saudi Arabia for the Persian Gulf War, we were married in August 1992.  We lived in Texas, Arizona, and Hawaii before coming home to Kentucky where we have raised three wonderful children, now about the same ages we were when we met.

Sitting here on Valentine's Day thinking about those young kids we were, we had no idea what life would throw at us.  We just knew we loved each other, and that has been enough.

One Down, One to Go

I have been getting a lot of spam calls on my cell phone lately, so when it rang late Thursday afternoon, I almost didn't answer.

"Hello?" I said, expecting to hear, "Don't hang up!  We have been trying to reach you about your credit card..."

Instead, a voice said, "Hi, this is Sydney from the Louisville Health Department.  Is this Sharron?"

Every day that I volunteered last week, I had to put my name down for contact tracing, so I figured I'd learn that someone I worked with had tested positive for Covid.  

"Have you gotten your vaccine yet?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"We have some extra doses, and we're reaching out to all of the people who got their 40 hours. We have a vaccine for you if you can be here by 5:30."

"I'm leaving now!" I replied and hung up the phone.  "Hey Kirk," I shouted downstairs, "guess who's getting her first vaccine!"

I threw on my rain boots and a coat and hopped into my van for the 20 minute ride to Broadbent Arena.  When I got to the volunteer check in entrance, the doors were locked, but a man came to open them for me.  

"I got a call to come get a vaccine," I said.

"Are you a 40?" he asked.

"I got my 40 hours on Wednesday,"I answered.

"She'll take you at the desk," he directed and then yelled, "We've got another 40!"

I looked over to the break area and saw about 30 people in yellow vests waiting for what I assumed were vaccines.  There were always people waiting for the few extra doses at the end of a daily shift.  Usually there were less than ten to give out, but lately, the health department would open another vial if there were exactly 10 more people than the number needed to use up the left over doses.  Today was different.  The people waiting well exceeded the 19 max doses available, and they all looked to be that day's volunteers. 

The lady at the desk waved me up.  I gave her my name, and she looked me up.

"Yep!  There you are!  Here's your paperwork.  Follow Mary.  She'll show you where to go."

Mary took me into Broadbent and showed me an area of chairs full of waiting people. 

"Fill our your paperwork and then one of the nurses will give you your vaccine," she said.

I still wasn't really sure why I had been called or what was going on.  Normally, the volunteers who completed 40 hours got an email on the Monday after the week they finished their hours with a link to schedule their first vaccine dose the following week.  I had just finished my hours the day before, and it wasn't Monday.

"Excuse me," I asked Mary, "what is going on?  Why did I get called today?  I thought I was supposed to get an email."

She explained that they had over 100 doses left over that day and they were calling everyone who had completed 40 hours that week to get a vaccine.  Any extra doses after those volunteers had arrived would go to that day's volunteers according to hours accumulated and age.

I sat in my chair and filled out my paperwork.  Once I was ready, I motioned to the nurse, and she came over with a time card and the shot.  She looked over my paperwork, asked me my arm preference and gave me my first dose of the Moderna vaccine.  Then she sent me into a waiting area for the required 15 minute wait time.  Someone else showed me how to sign up for the daily check-in text questions to see what kind of reaction I was having.

I sat with a big grin on my face and did what everybody else who had gotten the vaccine did...took selfies! 

The only side effect I had was a VERY sore arm at the injection site.  Like wake me up in the middle of the night when I turned over sore.  Like couldn't raise my arm to take off my shirt sore.  But that only lasted a day. Then it was just regular sore for another day and then it didn't hurt anymore.

I go back on March 4 for my second dose.

I've heard the vaccine called "an injection of hope," and that is truly what it is.  Hope that we can move beyond the stress and anxiety of the last 11 months.  Hope that we can hug our friends and families again.  Hope that we can get our kids back in school and go out to eat and go to concerts and ball games and get back to normal. 

I have not felt this much optimism in a long time.  I can't wait for everyone to feel the same.

We Are All in This Together

Honda Odysseys.  Dodge Grand Caravans.  Kia Sorrentos.  Toyota Camrys.  Police cars.  Work vans.  Ford F-150s. Teaching is a Work of Heart.  I'm a Teacher...What's your superpower? "Oh my gosh!  How ARE you?"  30A.  Biden/Harris 2020.  Bernie.  Trump.  Black Lives Matter.  The Thin Blue Line.  "I haven't seen you for months!"  I Love My Dog.  Isle of Palms.  Amelia Island.  "I've missed you so much!"  Stick Dad, Mom, Son, Daughter, Son, Dog, Dog, Cat.  Rainbows.  =.  Choose Life. 45. TYB. Bearcats. Lions. Falcons. Wrestling. Soccer. Football. Army Mom. Semper Fi. Team Kentucky. COEXIST...

They kept coming, the cars.  Each one carrying a person or two who had just gotten the first of two Covid vaccine shots.  Most were teachers and school employees.  Some were first responders.  A few were elderly.  All were excited.  

Windows rolled down. "Hey!!!" they shouted.  Coworkers who hadn't seen each other in months chatted excitedly across a line of cars while they waited the required 15 minutes after getting the first dose of the vaccine.  People took selfies of their bandaided arms or their vaccine cards to post on social media.  They called friends and families with, "I got it!"

I walked the lanes, knocking on windows to get people's attention, pulling them away from their cell phones, telling them to move up to the next spot;  breaking up conversations between friends because the car in front had pulled up, and they had to as well.  Conversations reluctantly ended with, "See you soon, I hope!"

Police cars parked next to cars with BLM stickers on the bumper.  Trump supporters next to Bernie fans.  I started paying attention to the drivers and what I thought their cars and their bumper stickers said about them.  I decided that in this moment, it ultimately didn't matter.  Every single person in line was there for the same reason: protection against a universal threat...the coronavirus.

I wandered through the cars thinking about the moment we were all in.  How we are all desperate to get back to normal yesterday.  How we long for life without masks, where we can see each other's smiles.  How we want our kids back in school complaining about homework.  How we want to go out to eat and to the movies and concerts and have birthday parties and cookouts and go on spring break and to football games.  How we can't wait for everything we've missed these last ten months but how we know it's going to be at least that much longer until we can start to see the tiniest bit of normal back in our lives.  And damn, that seems like forever.

We ARE all in this together. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the scientists working feverishly in faraway labs to come up with a vaccine. For those brave souls who were part of the test groups to see if the vaccines actually worked.  For the people in the factories manufacturing the doses.  The FedEx and UPS workers transporting the vials to their destinations.  The local public health officials organizing distribution sites.  The nurses and doctors administering the shots.  People like me volunteering with the very mundane jobs of moving cars up and up and up in line until they are finally free to go.  

In my mind, it's a big set of gears up in the sky; big cogs connected to smaller cogs, connected to even smaller cogs, all working together to get us back to normal.  I have 20 more hours to volunteer before I can get my own vaccine. My motivation for helping isn't totally altruistic.  But as I stood there on those cold mornings last week watching humanity pass by me, the magnitude of what I was part of was overwhelming.  It is an honor to be even the tiniest little cog in this huge machine of human ingenuity.  I am proud to say that I helped.

For future reference...https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/02/03/multimedia/virus-vaccine-kentucky.html?action=click&module=Top%20Stories&pgtype=Homepage&fbclid=IwAR3FJs4j-kMdXpu0nylhwHWoZn6iLYJ4jXYhRqXSeOQw2UwE8OVkl_hAHSI

Killeen to Louisville to Killeen...A Roadtrip Story

My dad was turning 60, and I was going to miss his birthday. My fiancee was stationed at Ft. Hood, Texas, and I had recently moved there from Louisville, Kentucky where my parents still lived.  Even though it was President's Day weekend, it was too far to drive for a long weekend, and I didn't have the money to fly home. Kirk and I had written and illustrated a book for Dad's big 6-0, an allegory about all the life lessons I'd learned from gardening with my dad each summer, and I longed to be there when he opened it.

I was moping around the house when Kirk came home from work  He could tell I was sad.  "Let's go out to eat," he said, trying to cheer me up.  

"What's the matter?" he asked over dinner.  "Homesick?" 

I had missed my first Christmas, and now I was going to miss my dad's birthday party with the whole family.  My aunt was even flying in from Boston.  "Yeah," I replied dejectedly, 'I just want to go home for Dad's party."

He was quiet for a minute and then said, "Well, then let's go! We can surprise him for his birthday!"

"We can't drive to Kentucky for the weekend!" I protested.

"Why not?" he asked. "If we leave right now and drive all night, we can be there tomorrow afternoon.  Imagine your mom's face when she sees us!"

I couldn't believe he was serious.  Drive to Kentucky overnight?  We'd get there on Saturday afternoon and then have leave right after the party on Sunday afternoon in order to get home in time to work on Tuesday morning. I tried to reason with him that it couldn't be done.

"Why not?" my very persuasive fiancee asked again.  "It'll be fun!"

Thirty minutes later, we were pulling onto Hwy 190E on our way to Louisville.

The miles ticked by.  We passed through Waco, Dallas, Texarkana, plotting our route on the AAA map my dad had given me when I moved to Texas a year earlier.  I-35 turned into I-30 and then I-40.  We sang along with our favorite music, happy to have a CD player in our new Beretta.  They Might Be Giants and Crowded House became our goto travel music from that trip on. We drank cups and cups of bad convenience store coffee and ate a bag or two of sunflower seeds to stay awake.  I tried to sleep when Kirk was driving, but I was half afraid he'd fall asleep at the wheel, so I didn't rest well.  He could sleep standing up in a bowling alley, so he was out as soon as I took over.  We stopped in a rest area at some point in the wee hours and took a cat nap, even though we knew it wasn't really a safe thing to do.

The sun was rising as we closed in on Memphis.  I remember the rays shining from behind the buildings and thinking, "I'm going to be home today!"  We stopped at a Waffle House for pancakes and fresh coffee then continued on our way.  When we crossed the Kentucky state line, my heart soared, but those final 150 miles lasted as long as the first 800.  

We wanted to make sure my parents were home when we pulled in, so we stopped first at our neighbor's house a street over to use their phone.

"Hey, Mom," I said trying to add to the coming surprise, "Kirk and I are heading to an early dinner and then a movie this afternoon.  I wish we could be there tomorrow, but I'll call during the party, okay?"

"We'll miss you, but of course we understand," she replied.  "Have fun at the movies!"

I don't know if it was all the coffee I'd consumed the last 16 hours or if I was just that excited, but my stomach was in knots as we drove the two blocks to their house and knocked on the back door.

Mom's face when she opened the door was one of shock and confusion as if she couldn't get her brain around what she was seeing.

"Well, Sharron," she exclaimed, "I just talked to you!  You said you were going to the movies!"

Then it dawned on her that we were really there, standing on her patio grinning from ear to ear, and she flew down the back steps and swept us up in a crushing hug.

The next 24 hours are mostly a blur, and I'm glad I have photographs to remind me of it.  I took a nap before dinner and slept longer the next day than I'd wanted.  I got to be there when Dad opened his book and watched him wipe a tear or two as I read it aloud to him.  

We had dinner, sang "Happy Birthday," ate some cake and ice cream and headed on our way.

The drive home wasn't quite as fun as the drive there.  We were starting out tired, leaving again at night, but this time in a pouring rain.  I cried for awhile and then dozed off, asleep when we crossed into Tennessee.  Sometime after midnight, somewhere in Arkansas, we just couldn't stay awake any longer.  We pulled into a motel in a town whose name I don't remember and fell into bed.  Exhaustion and sadness bringing blissful, dreamless sleep.

Late Monday afternoon, we pulled into our driveway, and I called home to let my parents know we had made it back safely to Killeen.

"I can't believe you drove all that way!  You shouldn't have!  It was too far," my mom said.  "But I'm so glad we got to see you!"

I couldn't believe it either. We had driven to Louisville and back in just under 72 hours, spending more time on the road than we did with my parents, but I was so glad we had done it and had been there for my dad's big day.  

I'm the same age now as my mom was on that February Saturday 29 years ago and just a few years younger than my dad, and they've been gone many years now.  With age and time, I realize it was too far, and we probably should not have done it.  No cell phones...No GPS...Driving all night...Returning already tired...But I'm so glad we did.  I'm glad I listened to Kirk, threw caution to the wind, and hit the road.

Covid...Day 5

This morning, I got up late, around 8:30.  Our bedroom door was shut, so I thought Kirk might be asleep.  I came downstairs and didn't see the cord he usually has running from the internet to the basement, AND I didn't smell coffee, so I figured he was still in bed.  Then I walked into the kitchen and saw that there WAS a pot brewed.  I went over to smell it, and, surprise!  I didn't smell coffee.  I smelled something, but it wasn't freshly brewed coffee.  I scratched the skin of an orange.  I could smell it, but it seemed far away.  I took the lid off a bottle of cleaner with bleach and could smell the bleach, but, again, far away.  

Uh oh.  

I went ahead and made some oatmeal with blueberries.  I thought a little maple syrup would be tasty in it.  I could taste the sweet, but I couldn't smell the maple.  I brushed my teeth and could feel the "hot" of the peppermint but couldn't really smell it.  I cut up an apple for lunch and could taste the sweet, but again, I couldn't smell the apple.

So, I'm thinking I'm on my way to losing my taste and smell altogether.  It's weird.  Eating the apple was like eating something that is underripe and hasn't gotten its flavor yet.  

My neck aches. and I feel tired.  I'm also cold, but I'm not running a fever.  I don't feel like doing anything but laying around.  I may just do that.

UPDATE:  My Covid test from Saturday just came back negative, so I don't know what the hell is going on.

Covid...Day Three

 Still feeling okay.  I walked to The Little Clinic today for a Covid test.  The NP said my lymph nodes were swollen.  I told her I thought so because my neck is stiff.  I have a tiny bit of drainage and am a little tired.  So far, so good.

Kirk is coughing some.  Can't smell or taste.  We are still separated until I know for sure that I am also infected.

What is scary is not knowing what's coming.  Some of my friends have had no issues.  One friend has been sick for 16 days, another for 2 weeks.  Two friends died.  It's just so scary to wait and not know what to expect.

Claire facetimed me today.  She and Michael were standing in front of a tree.  I thought they were hiking, then she turned the camera, and I could see the Hick's house behind her.  They had brought us vegan "chick'n" (tofu) noodle soup, tomato soup, stuff for grilled cheese sandwiches, vegan cheesecake, orange sherbet, popsicles, an essential oil roller, and a rice sock with lavender from her plants in it.  I've had it on my neck since she left.  It was so sweet of her, and I felt so bad that they drove all that way for nothing.

So, I'll keep my fingers crossed that this is as bad as it gets.

Covid...Day Two

 So I'm pretty sure I have Covid.  I have some congestion and feel pre-achy, like I'm getting the flu and will feel like crap in a few hours.  If Covid wasn't a thing, I'd be sure was getting the flu.  I'm chilled but not having chills, and I just want to snuggle on the couch under a blanket.  I may do that after I finish this.

Last night, I slept in Emily's room, and Kirk stayed in our room.  I slept pretty well and woke up feeling fine.  As the day has progressed, however, that's changing.  

So I'm going to make myself a cup of hot tea and rest.  I'll post more later if anything changes.

Covid...Day One

 So the day I've been planning for since March has arrived...Kirk has COVID-19.

Claire wanted to come home for a few days, so we got tested on Tuesday like we always do before seeing one another.  Kirk has had a little congestion and a bit of a sore throat the past few days, but he blamed it on all the talking he's been doing on the phone while being in the basement.  I felt lethargic on Monday, but I'd worked a 15 hour day on Friday, and I figured I was still catching up after an exhausting day.  Neither one of us thought we were sick.

I got a negative result yesterday.  Kirk thought he would get his yesterday too, but they didn't post.  This morning, he got the call from The Little Clinic that his test was positive.  

So now we quarantine.  

We've been really careful.  We hardly go out.  We wear masks everywhere we do go.  Where did we get it?  No idea.  Kroger?  The physical therapist?  Work?  We will probably never know.

We have everything we need.  I have plenty of food in the freezer and downstairs on the shelves.  I ordered some fresh fruit and vegetables from Click-List today and picked them up contact free.  We shouldn't have to go out again for the next 10 days.  If we need anything, Colleen can drop it off.  I'm not worried about that.

We called the kids.  Kyle and Macey had been here last week, and he had come by on Sunday for a few minutes.  They are now working from home and will get tested on Monday.  We only saw Emily in the driveway when she got home from Florida on Sunday, so she's good (and to think we were worried about her being the one to get Covid!)  We haven't seen Claire since Christmas, so she's good.  They are all concerned.

It's a weird feeling.  Now that I know I've been exposed for real, and living with a person who has tested positive is for real, it feels inevitable.  I wiped down all the appliances, door handles, remote, etc, but I don't think there's any way I won't get it.  Just this morning, I poured myself a cup of coffee.  Kirk hadn't left me a full cup, and I called him out on it.  Instead of putting water in the pot and brewing enough to fill my mug, he poured some of his into my mug to top it off.  Fifteen minutes later, after I'd finished the coffee, we got the call.  

We've slept in the same bed, used the same bathroom, touched the remote, kissed goodnight...

And so I wonder is my throat feeling like it's getting sore?  Is my neck a little achy?  Do my sinuses feel off?  Or is it all psychosomatic?  And if we do have Covid, how bad will it get?  Some people get really sick.  Some end up in the hospital.  Some die. Some just feel a little bad.  Which one will we be?

Stay tuned...

Christmas 2020

 

November 27, 2020

 It's November 27, eight months and a couple of weeks since the lockdown in March.  Thirteen million people have had COVID-19.  Over 268,000 people have died from it.  We are in our second or third, depending on who you ask, spike.  There are nearly 100,000 new cases and between 1,000-1,500 deaths each day.  

Masks are mandated in Kentucky and most states, but many people disregard this or wear them as chin straps with their noses hanging out.

Schools shut down a second time in November if they reopened at all in August.  Some, like JCPS, never went back to in-person instruction.  I have no idea how kids are learning anything.  

Restaurants and bars are also closed again to in-person dining.  We didn't eat out a lot before, but I miss being able to go sit in a restaurant with Kirk or my friends and have a meal and talk.  We ate out some in the summer, when we could sit outside, socially distanced from other diners, but it's too cold now.  Some restaurants put up heaters or these little igloo-like pods, but I don't see how it's going to work in December and January.

Congress has failed to pass another stimulus bill, and the protections from things like evictions and student loan payments ends on December 26.  I think that the elected representatives in Washington are pathetic.  People are going to lose their homes and businesses if Congress doesn't act.  It's all partisan and they need to get their heads out of their asses and work together to find some way to keep people out of the chaos that is going to come if they don't do something.  It's pathetic really.

Supplies are hit and miss depending on the day.  Kroger and Costco were totally out of toilet paper again last week.  Nine days out of 10, you can't find Clorox wipes if your life depended on it.  Pasta is thin some days as is any other odd item on the shelves in the grocery.  I have stash of things in the basement and in the freezer...canned goods, pasta, cereal, cooking oil, salt, chicken breasts, frozen fruit and vegetables, toilet paper, paper towels, and napkins, cleaning supplies...I had been keeping milk and bread frozen too, but I've gotten away from that.  I pick up stuff we might need every time I go to the store, and it's in stock.  I think I have enough toilet paper to last awhile.

Knock on wood, none of us have gotten sick.  I told Anne the other day that I feel like I'm in a game of dodge ball, and so far, the ball has missed me, but the longer the game goes on, the more anxiety I feel about being hit.  There is a vaccine on the way, and I tell myself that we just have to keep holding on for a few months longer.  I still feel like I'm playing Russian roulette, and one day, it will be my turn.

I'll be driving down the road or peeling potatoes, and all of a sudden, I'll think, "I'm living through a pandemic.  A pandemic.  I'm living through a pandemic."  It's crazy to think about.  Like this is a major world event.  It's historical.  It will be a seminal event in history, and I'm living through it.  It's so weird when I contemplate that.  I can't get my head around it. 

We just celebrated Thanksgiving.  We probably had too many people at our house.  We had Kyle, Macey, Claire, Michael, Emily, and Brendan and Kirk and me.  I had to trust that everyone was careful and COVID-free, but I'm anxious now and am waiting on pins and needles to see if anyone gets sick.  I don't think they will, but that's what everybody says.

I miss normal so much.

The Beach

The first time my soles of my feet hit the soft, white sand at the beach, I think, "I'm home!"  I love the feel of it underfoot, how it caresses my toes and warms my skin.  I love how it gives way as I walk across it, making me slow down a little and breathe in the salt air.  I love digging my feet down in it when I'm sitting under my umbrella watching the waves.  I even like how it finds its way into everything from my shoes to my beach bag to the book that I'm reading.  It's so comforting, and I always bring some home with me.

On my last trip to the beach, I spent many hours walking along the shore.  I always look for shells when I walk, hoping to find the perfect specimens.  I rarely do. How often have I rejected a shell that has a hole or a chip in it?  I love the tiny versions of olives and cat's eyes and whelks.  I love ones that are colorful and those without a nick or a scratch, that still shine even when they're not wet.  Sometimes I'm lucky; usually I'm not.

Mostly I find common, ordinary shells, with broken pieces, worn from years of being tumbled by the waves, crashing on other shells, getting stepped on by beach walkers like me, dropped from the sky by the gulls looking for food.  There are whole sections of these kinds of shells on the beach.  They are hard to walk on.  They poke and offend tender feet with their sharp points and breaks.  Kirk tries to avoid them, but I like to stop and look down and see the beauty in the brokenness.  

There is another level of shells that are simply tiny pieces on their way to becoming sand.  They are mostly just a layer of colors.  They don't hurt to walk on, and you can tell that they've been through the ocean mill for a long time.  

As I walked this last trip, I got to know the rhythm of the tides and paid attention to the different layers of the beach.  All these layers make up the beach.  The cycle is never-ending, and those shells that are perfect now, will be sand one day.  We always look for the perfect, the beautiful, the rare find that has no flaws.  They are hard to come by. More often than not, we are, and are surrounded by, those that are broken, that hurt, that are tumbled by life's waves over and over.  The ones we wish were whole, but who are beautiful in their own way.  We encounter those who have been worn by life, tiny pieces of the original, but going with the flow, becoming that soft, warm sand that we all love to feel, finding their way into unexpected places of our lives, reminding us to slow down, relax, and breathe.