Wednesday, February 16 and all is not well...

It was only a matter of time, really. I had played dodgeball with the flu, the respiratory infections and the stomach viruses making the rounds and I must admit I was getting a little full of myself, nearly feeling invincible and above all that bacterial and viral fray but, alas, I have been felled, like a tree in a forest that no one heard fall, but still fell anyway. And so did I, just last night. Right into bed. Which is where I will be going as soon as I get this update posted. As it stands, I am drinking copious amounts of hot whatever (you take your pick, coffee, tea, more coffee, hot chocolate), drinking juice which just does NOT mix well with all that hot stuff and I'm popping Actifed, doing Robitussin Shots and I know where the jar of Vick's is and I'm getting less afraid to use it, even though when I do I will officially smell like my Grandmother did when I was about 35 years younger.

Speaking of grandmother, it would seem that last weekend, I became one. No, no, no, of course Katie and Justin didn't go there. At least not that I KNOW of and if you know of something that I don't regarding those two, please do us both a favor and keep it to YOURSELF until I feel much much better. Better still, just keep it to yourself. Period.

I was out of town last weekend but whilst I was away, the cats didn't play but the baby finches started jumping out of their egg shells like popcorn. I have pictures of a few of them at 1, 2 and 3 days old which I will post later today. They look NOTHING like a finch and yes, they look like something only a mother could love. And from what I can see looking into the aviary, she and her husband, their father, love them very much. Scrawny as they appear, those babies are never left alone. The parents take shifts and sometimes they just double up and take care of the kids together. Oh, how I wish that humans could adopt that plan.

Finches have it going on. They mate for life and don't even seem to mind. They divide the family duties. There's no bickering unless it's territorial in nature and because another unrelated finch came calling without an invitation. They nurture, protect and feed the babies until, a mere 21 days later, they don their aviator duds, give them a few flight lessons and then push those babies into the air and independence. No empty nest syndrome for these finches. It seems as though before the last kid is out of the nest, Mom and Dad are making new digs and, like the movie "Groundhog Day" it starts all over again without the Bill Murray sarcasm and arrogance. And everyone appears to be just fine with that. It's not broke and I don't see any finches trying to fix it. We humans are so busy trying to figure it all out, complicate it, amend, append, extend and expend until we "tweak" our relationships to the point of being irreparable. We could learn a lot from Finches., if we weren't so busy finding new and more efficient ways of driving ourselves, and those we love the most, completely insane.

Valentine's Day 2005 is H I S T O R Y and I, for one, am glad for that! I must admit that ever since the teachers decided we outgrew the need to decorate little shoe box "mail boxes" and slip in Valentines to our friends and especially that one particular person we felt a special affection for, the one who got the really cool Valentine, the holiday has just never felt the same. I miss jiggly J-E-L-L-O hearts. Heart-shaped chocolate cakes with pink and white frosting, complete with the Cupid's arrow through the heart, and I don't even care for the color pink. I miss heart shaped cookies that homeroom Mom's took great pains to decorate and red and white confetti! Yes, I miss the confetti, even though it's messy and eventually you have to vacuum it all up. While it's there, you know something special happened and people were happy.


OK, so I don't miss roses because I hate them. Much too funereal for my taste. But I do love daisies and I think daisies should be the official flower of Valentine's Day, but whoever is in charge of such decisions has yet to contact me. The great thing about daisies is that they are never unwelcome and always make the usually unsuspecting recipient smile, sometimes even on days they didn't believe it possible. Daisies are such an all-purpose flower - they work for every single situation that visits a person on any given day: Daisies can say "get well soon", "Miss you!", "Thinking of you!", "I'm sorry I was such a jerk", "Thinking of you" and yes, daisies can even say "I love you" without heavy petals and painful thorns that seduce you to want to touch their velvety petals and then make you wish that you had not.

There's nothing a daisy can't do - but most of all, they just make you smile and it must be because a proper white petaled, yellow centered daisy is reminiscent of the sun. Daisies feel just like home to me, exude a dependable brand of warmth and no matter what is going down, by some amazing power, they just make you feel better about things. Even if your dog just died and your cat ran away, you learned that you did not win the "Publisher's Clearing House" Sweepstakes and Ed McMahon will NOT be visiting your doorstep and that Powerball Lottery Ticket you just bought in South Carolina was only off by ONE number.

My daughter had a particularly lovely Valentine's Day and I've only heard about it 20 times in the past two days...not that I'm bitter or anything. She got unexpected flowers. They were roses, but she doesn't have issues with them so that worked out fine. She got two dinner invitations. Some cards from guys testing the availability waters. When she dropped by yesterday she was so positively ebullient, I had to excuse myself from the room to stave off a bout of nausea that I pretended was due to my current viral/bacterial/ebola-like run-of-the-mill illness. I did my best to project how happy I was for her and smile, and then I thought, how strange it is to be jealous of my own daughter! No, I wouldn't want to be 21 again, but she sure made it sound like fun - at least on this past "Heart Holiday".

It must be obvious by now that I am deep into feeling sorry for myself. I blame part of it on feeling like a very old, worn out dish rag that should have been tossed out years ago because it slipped through the drain and got hung on the garbage disposal blades and someone turned the thing on and ripped the cloth to shreds. I blame another part of it on the fact that I haven't seen the sun for a few days and this gray stuff is way too dim. I blame the last part of it on not being able to be in NYC on Valentine's Day, and a chance meeting with Tom Hanks on top of the Empire State Building which means I have watched "Sleepless In Seattle" one too many times. I mean, why do they create movies that both warm our heart and make us feel like the magic train doesn't stop at our station? Is it really too much to ask to meet Tom Hanks in NYC for one simple evening? I guess that perhaps it is. I hope he didn't wait around too long since I was unable to show up.

Daisies be damned!

OK, now that I am off my soap box, I have to tell you about one of my sweetest friends. He's about 16 years younger than me and I'm pretty sure I feel like I could be his surrogate mother, but it would appear that this Valentine malaise isn't something that is gender specific to women. My friend rang me up Sunday Evening and was not feeling too perky. He shared that he had been dealing with a case of the blahs and if you knew what he looked like, you would never suspect the blahs of ever having a reason to visit his doorstep. I knew for certain there was a God when he told me that this past Saturday Night, he found himself in his sweat pants, eating chocolate ice cream with a really big spoon and watching...get this, "Hope Floats" and "One Fine Day". This guy was sitting home in a dark living room chasing a sugar rush and over-dosing on Sandra Bullock and Michelle Pfeiffer. When my mind conjured up that image, I just had to smile, not because I was happy that he had to endure a Saturday Night like that, but because I guess I never realized that we all have those Saturday Nights from time to time.

Monday Evening, I ran into another friend at a meeting and after it was over, we were chatting about nothing in particular and out of nowhere SHE brought up that she had spent HER Saturday Night on the sofa watching sappy movies, only she substituted Krispy Kreme Donuts for the ice cream. Wow, two really attractive people had almost the exact same experience on the same night, just different sofas and high caloric delivery systems, within ten miles of each other. I think these two should definitely get together and compare notes! At the very least have coffee! Two days after that terrible holiday and I'm trying to be Cupid and I've never even shot an arrow.

Sometimes I think Valentine's Day is just a cruel reminder for a bunch of people that they are, in fact, alone and who needs to be reminded of something like that? Like you can be lonely and not be aware of that? Hello? Sure, it's probably great if things are whizzing along and one's love life is in order and steaming with passion, but for what I think might be the majority, the holiday of hearts should simply be deleted from the calendar. Too bad that "Cntrl/Alt/Delete" doesn't work on more than simply rebooting one's CPU. There have been times I'd love to reboot my life and reformat my hard drive. Who wouldn't love to do that from time to time?

I guess some days you just have to play those lonely Shawn Colvin songs, or listen to John Mayer's "Comfortable" or sit in a dark room and realize that the remote control only surfs movie channels that remind you of your present romantic-less status and then brew some hot (or cold) Jasmine tea and drink a toast to better days ahead.

Enough of this happy talk. I do hope everyone had a Happy Valentine's Day but just remember, if you didn't, you're probably in very good company so take heart (pun intended). Should you find yourself in sweats, digging into a container of any flavored ice cream or attacking a dozen donuts and watching movies that might cause you to run searching for the Dramamine, full of all that "happily ever after" dribble, it's a good bet that thousands of people across the US are doing the very same thing and wondering when, and if, their time will come and they'll be pulled off the sofa and invited to play in the heart game, only to be replaced on that sofa by people who played the very same game and got benched.

I think I've spread enough sunshine for one morning. :-) Baby bird photos coming up later today. I'll try and put a lid on the cynicism, but I make no promises until I can actually breathe through my nose again, swallow without feeling as if my throat is lined with razor blades and I've downed about a half gallon of syrupy sweet iced tea with lemons. :-)

Have a better Wednesday than I plan to. I need to wallow just a little more, if you don't mind. Time for me to go push a cat off my bed and pull those covers up.

Single...With Children - February 9, 2005 - My most recent column!

Web-posted Wednesday, February 9, 2005
Single with Children: There's no substitute for school of hard knocks




By Susie Parker
Opinion

Susie Parker ARTICLE TOOLS E-mail This Article Printer-Friendly Format

There have been times in my parenting "career" when I didn't think there were enough hours in the day to accommodate all the tasks, commitments, requests and essential requirements expected of me.

When my daughter was in kindergarten, I cheerfully volunteered to take on the position of Girl Scout leader. At the time, my son was barely 3 years old and in the middle of what I used to refer to as his "Lewis and Clark" phase of development. Nothing escaped his attention, and everything was ripe for exploration. He hadn't caught on to the intended meaning of the word "no."

Every Wednesday afternoon, 18 little girls in the 5 to 6 age group would arrive at our home after school. Most days I would have everything set up and ready for a meeting that included a short lesson, crafts and snacks, all the while keeping my eye on a very curious little boy, who wanted to be in the center ring, and a dog, who found numerous ways to sneak out every time the front door was open. With 18 little girls, that front door saw a lot of action. So did the dog. And so did I.

And then there were all those years serving in the capacity of "Homeroom Mom," "Meet the Masters" coordinator, cafeteria monitor, field trip organizer, car pool designee, holiday party planner, Sunday school teacher and the list goes on. If you're a parent, you learn on the fly to wear many hats that will take you places you have never been.

Later, you will wonder how in the world you juggled it all and survived. When those kids are no longer small and time-consuming, you will look back fondly on those days you were certain you just might pull your hair out because you were so completely overbooked and beyond exhaustion. You really will miss those days.

As kids get older, another kind of energy drain occurs, but it is more of the mental variety and not nearly as pleasant as corralling small children. I am in the middle of one of those growth cycles and, hard as it may be to imagine, I'd trade it for duty on a very crowded bus with 100 kids headed for Orlando and the Magic Kingdom.

Physical exhaustion simply leaves you tired. Mental fatigue and worry leave you completely drained, and it doesn't disappear after a few hours sleep.

My daughter, the one who used to wear the cute little Daisy uniform, is 21 now, and she is still growing up. She lives on her own and is making all manner of choices, some of which I don't quite understand and many of which I am probably unaware.

Of course, one of the ways to learn how to live is through the time-tested method of "trial and error," and it's a very effective way to learn what works and what does not. However, for the parent of the student using this method of instruction, it can be painful.

Twenty-three years separate me from my daughter, and that means I have had a lot of time to make many more mistakes and learn things the hard way. But, as most of us remember, we too were utterly convinced we knew it all. I know I had to learn many lessons through mistakes, miscues and miscalculations. I still do. I'm sure it wasn't easy on my parents to watch me run the maze and bump into things.

There are times when one of the most difficult things to do is absolutely nothing. I can't step in those size 6 shoes of this daughter of mine and take all of my hard-earned knowledge and avoid all the landmines I see her negotiating. I would do it in a heartbeat, but that isn't part of the deal.

I read in a book recently that acceptance was the answer to all of my problems. Learning I can't change people, places, things or situations, and accepting that I can only change me is the only clear path to peace and serenity. After having tested it for a few months, I am coming to believe and rely on this premise a little more each day.

I'm sure (hopeful) that all of this growth is what makes this journey so colorful. I just wish it made the journey a little easier. I guess I'll just have to accept things and do some more work on me.

If you would like to keep up with my progress, you can access my online diary. Feel free to opine.

Readers can e-mail Susie Parker at SusieWrites@gmail.com, write to her c/o Amarillo Globe-News, Features Dept., P.O. Box 2091, Amarillo, TX 79166 or visit her diary at www.susiewrites.blogspot.com.

It really was a very Happy Birthday...

...and if I had to turn one year older, I marked the day in such fine company. If you attack challenging tasks, such as aging, you really should do it among friends, and for however blond I may be, at the very least I had the good sense to understand that adding another digit to my age could actually be fun in the right company. My birthday was spent in the perfect company.

The day was sunny, not too chilly for early February, and if I were to compare the atmosphere of February 6th, 2005 to something, it would just have to be a daisy. What's more friendly and warm than a daisy? Right, I bet you can't think of too many things either. I mean, yes, a warm puppy is perfectly irresistible (unlike a gopher snake), but you don't have to house break a daisy, and it just sits there in a container and, by doing nothing more than standing straight and tall, it elicits heart smiles.

I love daisies.

Interestingly enough, my morning started with a phone call from a local florist. On a Sunday, some local flower shop wanted to know if I was going to be at home for a while. On a Sunday? Of course I was going to be home. I had to shove things under the bed and into closets and make it all look presentable because I was having company in a few short hours. I asked the flower rep who these petals were from, but he played coy and refused to divulge the secret source. "Bring them on!", I said.

Within minutes my doorbell was ringing and the guy was holding a beautiful arrangement of live flowers from someone who obviously knew me well, because it contained all my favorite colors and yes, there were LOTS of daisies. I didn't know for certain, but I suspected these flowers were international in origin...or at least the sender was and I had a hunch these flowers were sent by someone with a killer French accent. A certain person I have known for years and who has seen me through ups, downs and everything in between, who, on my first visit to Paris, way back in May, 1997, while waiting for our food to come, lead me by the hand down a narrow ally and pointed my gaze in the direction of a structure that still takes my breath away - The Eiffle Tower, and, by doing so, imprinted a memory, no make that MANY memories, that will never, ever fade but only grow more precious with age.

I got flowers from my forever friend in France. Who has been not only my friend, but my advisor, my mentor and one of the people I respect most in this world.

Clearly, these flowers were the work of the man who gave me the courage to propose and write my very first newspaper column - and who still cajoles me to write more, even when I'm certain that I can't. For over four years I have written and had published over 100 columns, and not one of them would have happened without his encouragement, his unwavering belief in me even, and most especially. when I had very little confidence. I couldn't possibly list all of the things he has meant to me and how he has made my life so much more wonderful by simply being a part of it, but he's been pivotal in every good thing that has happened to me since our chance meeting in June 1996, during what was a very difficult transition for me. Thank you sounds so plain and inadequate, but it's all I've got right now. Within minutes of receiving Michel's daisies, my cell phone rang as if on cue, and so he was with me on my birthday even if he was physically across the Atlantic.

Thank you my dear and faithful friend, Michel.

In the meantime, back at the ranch, Dan was running around like a crazy man. In a very short period of time, he managed a very long list of things to attend to including, but not limited to, ordering and buying a beautiful birthday cake, picking up a meat tray and fruit platter, all manner of soft drinks, snacks, and when he came back to the house to grab my son for even more errands, he left a large iced tea (with lemon!) and a pot of daisies right outside my door. Talk about attention to detail. This guy had it going on.

Soon, some of my favorite people were milling about my house and hanging out in my office, checking out my aviary and helping me ease into 45 as gently as anyone really can. It didn't help much that a lot of these people were YOUNGER than me and I'm trying not to nurse a resentment over it, but it is what it is.

And this is the place where I'd like to offer some very sincere and heartfelt thank yous. First and foremost, to my parents for making it possible for me to exist and have the task before me of actually aging! It really isn't such a bad problem to have. To my son, Justin, and my daughter, Katie, for showing up which was, apparently, the ultimate sacrifice; It would seem the two of them sacrificed far more interesting social engagements and painfully forced themselves to spend a couple of hours in my oh so boring company.

To a posse of pals that mean the absolute world to me:

So that, my friends, is how you turn 45. You surround yourself with people you respect, enjoy spending time with, and who don't allow you to take yourself TOO seriously. If you are blessed enough to have folks like this in your life, it's all good. It really is.

Thank you.

Happy Birthday to Me! Warning - Fire Risk February 6th - HIGH!!!!!!

"Hear 'em singing Happy Birthday
Better think about the wish I made
This year gone by ain't been a piece of cake
Every day's a revolution
Pull it together and it comes undone
Just one more candle and a trip around the sun

Amazing. Somehow I am turning 45 years old today. I have no idea how this is possible. I have done the math several times, and every single time that I subtract 1960 from 2005, I still come up with 45. It must be true, but I find it hard to believe that 45 years could whiz by so fast.

I used to wonder what people meant when they said time becomes so much more precious as you get older, but I think I know now. It does. I look back over the time I've wasted, savored, the minutes that seem to go on for hours and the hours that felt like minutes. Most of it is like a flash and, with only a few notable exceptions, I'd live it all again in a NY Minute. Even the moments that made me wince, got me to the place I am today. This day. And it is this day that I am celebrating all of the past days. Even the ones I would never wish to do over and aren't so fun to recollect.

I'm just hanging on while this old world keeps spinning
And it's good to know it's out of my control
If there's one thing that I've learned from all this living
Is that it wouldn't change a thing if I let go...

I'm having some friends over today. Most of whom I've grown extremely close to andI have learned to respect immeasurably in the past 13 months. A few folks will be here that I've known longer, and they mean a great deal to me as well. And of course, there will be family. I do hope they behave! :-)

Three hours before my company arrives, I hope for things. I want lots of smiles. Warm, heartfelt embraces, lots of laughter and I'll even take some good-natured hits about turning 45. I can handle it. I'm a lot tougher than I look, and I can give as good as I get.

I'm sitting here imagining who will be in my home, and I can't wait to see every single person who I will have the privilege and honor of sharing this day with; people who have inspired me, given me hope, direction, love, affection, kindness and so many oppportunities to smile and really laugh - the kind of laugh that comes from deep inside and is genuine.

Even at 45, I feel like I've only scratched the surface and what I do know, is that I really know so little. I know that I want to spend more time learning and exploring the things I'm coming to realize matter most in this life. I had a sea change on January 12, 2004 and my course was corrected in a major way. While I hated the action that recalibrated my internal compass, over a year after the fact, I know for certain that it didn't simply save my life; it recreated my life in only the best ways possible.

I really did learn that there are far more things out of my control and that, if I chose the right path and leaned on things that were true, it was finally, for the first time in my life, safe to completely let go. I had to let go, to finally get a handle. It's a good ride.

No, you never see it coming
Always wind up wondering where it went
Only time will tell if it was time well spent
It's another revelation
Celebrating what I should have done
With these souvenirs of my trip around the sun

For as much as I don't look forward to the advent of wrinkles, crinkles and too many sun freckles (I refuse to call them "age spots" - sun freckles just sounds better, don't you think?), I am celebrating the fact that I am alive and kicking and able to celebrate! If the price of admission means another number attached to my age, that's still a pretty fair deal. Today I may be marking my 45th birthday, but I'm still not one single day over 12 years old, in many aspects, and I'll take that as a good sign.

Yes, I'll make a resolution
Then I'll never make another one
Just enjoy this ride on my trip around the sun
Just enjoy this ride ...
Until it's done"

I have so many wishes, that when it comes time to blow out all those candles, I'm not sure I can distill my wishes into just one. I'm willing to give it a try, though. I just hope they have a bucket of water around in case those flames get entirely out of hand.

I am grateful for one more year, my family, many new friends, steadfast older friends, growing pains, challenges, stumbling blocks and more blessings than any one person has a right to count. Come to think of it, I can't think of anything to wish for because it feels as if I have everything I need.

It's a good time to be me.

I'll have a post-party report soon and there may even be a photograph or two.

Have a wonderful day.

"Adventures with aviaries" will continue, but first..."A Canadian Summer Forecast" Update...

Today's Quote:

"Tigger is all right really," said Piglet lazily.
"Of course he is," said Christopher Robin.
"Everybody is really," said Pooh. "That's what I think," said Pooh.
"But I don't suppose I'm right," he said.
"Of course you are," said Christopher Robin."
'The Tao of Pooh' by Benjamin Hoff,

This just in...

To bring you up-to-speed on the burning question of "Just what day does summer occur in Canada?", I have heard from a few sources who seem to be in possession of some credibility? Credibility in the sense that they have never lied to be previously. Of course, I have never corresponded with them before, but that's not really important now, is it?

Kim E. , a self described "knadn_eh" , who is presently residing in the more temperate climes of the US, and fancies herself a "cross-border Ambassador", reports that summer actually comes-a-callin' in Oh Canada! "somewhere around" 22 July which, coincidentally or not, happens to be her mother's birthday. Oh wait, upon further inspection of Kim E.'s post, she is back-peddling just a bit and saying that summer actually hits, slams, gently brushes up against, one could say tickles, the great country of Canada "around" June. Kim, always leaving herself an "out", quickly qualifies this with, "It's been known to snow 2 hours north of Toronto on May 24th weekend" which, according to Kim, is THE BIG weekend in Canada. Probably due to preparations and pre-party meetings for her Mum's birthday which is somewhere "around" July 22nd, is what I'm thinking.

Now, in terms of "Just how long does it last?" and who among us doesn't want to know the answer to that burning question - oh wait, it's Canada we're speaking of just now, Kim informs me that Summer takes up residence until "about" , the 3rd week of August which again, coincidentally (or not?) is the first day of the Ex - or the Royal Canadian Exhibition. I don't know much about Canadian history, but apparently they become exhibitionistic somewhere 'round the 3rd week of August...I'm not sure what the"ex" means that Kim so surreptitiously inserted there...a hint I'm thinking...some kind of clue, but that's HER story and apparently she's sticking to it because she hasn't removed or amended her post from my GUEST BOOK. If that doesn't scream "you can take it to the bank", then I don't know what does.

Canadians are a very reliable and far advanced bunch. I still shake my head in sheer wonder as I contemplate the multi-tasker that is Julianna Banana, and how at such a tender age she is able to maintain and update her website, do a lot of chores both inside and out of the house , fight a rather formidable disease, mingle with all manner of celebrities and still find the time, on those rare moments off, to be a kid. Am I to believe she's an average Canadian? I really must visit this country.

Kim E., was also generous enough to offer information as to the best places to visit "(besides Winnipeg, of course!). Apparently Ms. E has some connections, or maybe gets kickbacks or "referral fees", for providing an "in" with some folk on the Georgian Bay which she goes on to explain to those not in the know, such as yours truly, that this Georgian Bay she speaks of is "way-North for those at the border!)".

Kim, just so you know, I am writing this from south, south, south of the border, but not down Mexico way...though I did at one time in my life reside in four different cities in Texas (not at the same time, of course). I haven't really thought of North Carolina as the "deep south" on second thought - it's all relative, isn't it? To those folk on the Georgian Bay who send you checks for luring unsuspecting blond American citizens (Canada must have heard a few dumb blond jokes, eh?), check out this handy map for a quick American lesson in geography, and the distance I'm going to have to close to visit those folk you speak of; North Carolina - Georgian Bay.

That's a LOT of real estate. Though I actually live in Wilmington, NC, it was just easier to mark the distance from Raleigh to Ontario. Raleigh, as we all know, is a pretty famous place because it's the big city where Deputy Barney Fife (AKA Don Knotts), used to visit when taking some time off from the rigors and madness of keeping things in Mayberry in order. Barney would always stay in the same deluxe accommodation: corner room at the YMCA. You can't say the man didn't have class.

But back to my topic which was "WDDSOIC" or, if you're just joining us, What Day Does Summer Occur in Canada? To further elaborate on this inquiry, just this morning I received a note from, let's call s/he "anonymous which works out perfectly since that's exactly how s/he signed his/her comment submission. According to "anonymous", "generally it's Tuesday, often a Tuesday in July. However, it does tend to move around a little so you might wish to pack up your wool leggings, heavy parka, moon boots, mittens and cap and visit for a week in July hoping, just hoping beyond hope, to hit the day. Does this help?"

As a matter of fact, Ms./Mr. Anonymous, if that's your real name, it does help. It helped me come to the realization that I may never be able to visit the glory that is Oh Canada!, because I don't possess any of those articles of clothing that you mentioned and with the way my budget currently doesn't exist because there's not enough money to actually merit a budget, I will be quite retired and decrepit by the time I may...and I stress "MAY", have enough funds to buy the apparel required to visit any location North of Cleveland. This has been difficult for me to accept and, just to make sure, I again logged onto my bank statement and was met with an error code that said "blank statement". I didn't take this as a good sign. Clearly, I need to get the book I am currently writing published because there may be the off chance that I could possibly visit Oh Canada! on a book tour. Does anyone know how to contact Oprah? Feel free to write on my behalf.

So what does all this really mean? I have no idea, but I did find this site interesting and helpful! Apparently the Canadian summer is a fragile, mercurial and sometimes elusive animal. I do want to visit the great North someday, so perhaps that is what is behind my quest for discovering the days of summer, but now this whole wardrobe thing has me a bit disturbed (more so than my usual state of routine disturbance). I suppose I could start a "Send me to Canada Fund", but again, I'd like to get there while I'm still ambulatory and unaided by a walker. Plus, with folks like the lovely Julianna Banana, Kim E. and this mysterious "anonymous" comment poster, I'm all the more curious.

Back to work for me. I have a book to work on, an aviary update to write, and I'm about to be a grandmother at the tender age of 44, well, I guess by the time I'm a grandmother I will be 45 because Sunday, February 6th, I will be hitting the big 45. I remember not so long ago when I thought that anyone past the age of 40 was ancient. I stopped feeling that way a few days prior to turning 40. I'm slowly beginning to think that 50 is early middle age. I always laugh and feel the urge to punch people who say, "You're turning 45? Of course that's not old! Don't you know that age is just a number?". The people who always say that are usually a good ten to fifteen years younger than me and apparently see the fear in my eyes and the wrinkles that are no doubt forming around them. Oh bother...as Winnie-the-Pooh would say who, I do believe, is Canadian himself?

You gotta ask yourself, are you "Pink Bracelet Worthy" and A Burning Question With Regard to "Oh Canada!"

Being a writer, I guess you could say I'm a little on the curious side. Recently, I asked someone in the great far North a simple question and I got a threat in return! Perhaps, if I ask this simple question in a more public forum, I might get an actual, you know, answer. I have been advised that in the part of the world known as "Oh Canada!", this is "National Why Don't We Live In Florida" Month. I used to live in Ft. Lauderdale/Miami and it's true, I remember the influx of snow birds and I made some pretty cool friends because they were observing this important period of their calendar. OK, so I did see a few Canadians in undersized Speedos and thongs but never anything that resembled the WWII Normandy Beach Landing...not at all. Canadians rock and who among us south of the border, isn't a sucker for the accent, eh?

Well, I USED to think they were an ultra cool lot, until I asked a certain Canadian who lives in an area that I believe is somewhere between Winnipeg (what a cute name!) and the North Pole. This person even has a website and if you're extra curious, and you really should do yourself and check out this site;CaringBridge.org - julianna. Having said that, being the professional writer and adult that I am (I can hear the laughter - don't think I can't - I know who you are...), I will not name any names, I'll simply restate the question that has YET to be answered...

Exactly, WHAT DAY DOES SUMMER OCCUR IN CANADA?

I kind of need to know. Anyone having any information on this question, I would be profoundly grateful if s/he would E-mail and let me in on what I'm starting to wonder is a state secret.

If you do visit Miss Julianna's site, you might want to consider induction into the ultra-exclusive "SPWUBBA WUBBA" AKA Secret Society of Pink Wish Bracelet Wearers, pronounced "spwubba-wubba". There's even a secret handshake, but I can't go any further and I've probably said too much as it is...putting my precious membership in jeopardy.

I don't mean to brag, but I was inducted into this super cool club in August 2004 (it's on my resume). Of course, this includes a formal portrait to be taken, which will be posted on "The Banana Bracelet Pink Wall of Fame" which can be accessed here, Julianna Banana, and let me tell you, I'm not the ONLY celebrity on that wall of fame. A few lesser knowns include Hilary Duff, the "Trading Spaces Gang" including "Designer Doug", Paige, Ty (who I really WISH would redo my house - talk about a challenging project...The fact that he's not called only reconfirms for me that there are some things even the "Trading Spaces" folks are afraid to tackle - what a bunch of lightweights...(I'm not so subtly laying down the gauntlet), and oh yeah...oh, oh, yeah...I have to agree with Julianna Banana's Mom on the wonder that is "Carpenter Carter". If you check out the page, you will also see William, who is the voice of "Bob the Builder" sports his own pink wish bracelet, and those are only a FEW of the glitterati set up for your viewing pleasure.

And folks, there's absolutely no catch. All you have to do is send a SASE

Obviously the vetting process can't be too stringent - After all, they let me in.

I just keep hoping that someone will answer my question. I love to travel and I'd love to see Canada on the day they call summer...any information would be most appreciated.

Don't Make Me Beg...It's So Unattractive

"The Journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step..."

So I guess one could extrapolate from that very wise, Chinese proverb, that a 1000 word newspaper column begins with a single word. Anyone got a word they might be willing to share? Take your time, I've got a whopping four hours until my deadline. No pressure.

You would think with a topic as broad as "Single Parenting", I could come up with more than enough ideas to choose from and, to be honest, thirteen days of every two-week period, I can usually come up with at least five or six, but let it come down to that one day when I actually have to produce, and it's like someone has reformatted my brain and there is no memory.

When this happens, I usually stare out the window of my office for a really long time. Then I notice how dirty the window is. Anyone who knows me at all, can attest to the fact that I am about as domestic as the international terminal in Newark Airport. I've been called a lot of things in my time, but never have I been referred to, even in jest, as Susie Homemaker.

But the strangest thing happens on the day I find myself staring blankly out of the dirty window of my office. I start searching for Windex and I climb up on the window sill and I become a cleaning fool. When I run out of ways to use Windex, I start organizing and, again, this is not one of my strong suits. I clean out my pencil holder, make new file tabs, rearrange the reference books on my desk, sift through thirteen days of mail that has been sitting in the "I'll get to that later" basket and, if I am feeling particularly void of inspiration, I will actually listen to the 55 messages on my voice mail that usually expire before I get around to checking on them, which is always funny because most of them start out with, "Hi Susie, I know you probably won't get this message but...". I have very wonderful, compassionate and long-suffering friends who love me in spite of myself. They probably look upon me as some kind of community service project. I'm fine with that.

Deadlines have a very strange effect on me.

I thought that perhaps this blog would be a wonderful way to elicit (think beg) inspirational, creative, brilliant, thought-provoking, fresh ideas to build my column around. OK, so I couldn't exactly give the person who's idea I choose direct credit, but wouldn't the satisfaction of knowing you made my life just a little less stressful be appreciation enough? You could even call it a random act of kindness, charity, a gift, whatever you want. If I could, I would even make your contribution tax-deductible, but I'm pretty sure that's against some tax law, so for now let's not wake-up the IRS. Unless you are an employee of the IRS and if you are, I think you people are doing a fantastic job and it's amazing the volume of paperwork you must have to deal with and yet somehow you maintain that sunny, efficient and friendly disposition. Makes my little conundrum of column fodder look like a day at the beach...

But it's January and it's a little too chilly to be at the beach right now and this is, quite frankly, all about me. Let's stay on topic, shall we? Speaking of which, have you got one? You can shoot me an E-mail, leave it as a comment or make a guest book entry so other reader's can see how generous and intelligent you really are. The delivery system you choose is of no import to me, just please try and get it to me within the next, oh I don't know, fifteen minutes or so? Throw me a freaking bone, will you?

I just finished rereading for the third time because yes, it was that good, David Sedaris' latest collection of essays, "Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim". Thank God he had a slightly dysfunctional childhood because I can't imagine his work would be nearly as entertaining had he grown up with June Cleaver for a Mom. I grew up with June Cleaver for a Mom but my Dad was definitely more like Robert Young in "Father Knows Best". I would like to say he was like Andy Taylor, but he put in more hours and I can only recall one time he actually took me fishing.

It's because they were such wonderful parents that I don't have a lot of early dysfunction to draw upon and I don't mean to be casting stones here, but I can't even recall over-hearing a single argument between my Mom and Dad and, when you consider they had to somehow agree on raising and dealing with me, that's solid evidence of a miracle right there. They have always been obnoxiously well-adjusted and of even temperament. Just my rotten luck. I can't seem to catch a break.

Clearly, I had the unsolicited burden of bringing in a little dysfunction to mix things up a bit and, if I do say so myself, I have made things a bit more colorful for my family. I've had easy assists from my son and daughter who have provided ample opportunities for me to send them into years of therapy and probably at least two guest appearances when Oprah spotlights adult children who share horror stories of "How My Mother Ruined My Life - Let Me Count The Ways". Good thing I stay away from TV.

But for now, I have no time to discuss dysfunction and my part in it. Let's save that for another time, another post, shall we? I need to talk about gratitude, which is what I will be filled with when someone out there gives me a topic for my next column, allowing me, once again, to defy the clock and hit the "Send" button a good five minutes before my work is due.

Please hurry. I'm starting to see spots on my window and the windex is in my desk and I'm not afraid to use it. Don't make me go there.

More to come...

Up to speed with the Aviary...

No, I am NOT related to David Sedaris. I just have a "colorful" family. And we'll just leave it at that.

It's been a very David Sedaris kind of day with a sprinkling of Fred Rogers - interesting combination, don't you think? Everything I've started has gotten interrupted, tossed by the wayside, kicked to the recycling bin or erased from the hard drive I jokingly refer to as my "mind". I think I need more RAM and apparently my mind is of a brand that just isn't compatible with anything on the shelf of Best Buy or Circuit City. Maybe I'm generic? Oh gosh, I hope not.

Of course, there is a bit of history surrounding the aviary and our propensity for keeping all manner of animals, domestic, exotic or otherwise. Nothing is ever completely simple in my world. Sometimes I wonder if that's by design or dumb luck.

In August 2000, we relocated from Amarillo, Texas to Wilmington, NC. In addition to our two dogs including Cassie, Freeway, four cats (Sylvester, Princess, Felix and Tabitha, we also moved a few additional creatures. In my best Dave Barry voice, I am not making this up. I was there, it happened, here's what I saw at the revolution: We successfully managed to move a pair of veiled chameleons, a 12 inch bearded dragon, a juvenile sulcata tortoise, one ball python, one corn snake, one king (not to be confused with coral) snake, one utterly disgusting gopher snake, one dumpy tree frog, and the requisite crickets and a few feeder mice (but no partridges in any pear trees), because with this motorized noah's ark, we were looking at a 3 day road trip from Amarillo to Wilmington.

Now I don't mean to take exception with the folks at "Mapquest", but I think it was a tad bit further than 1,526 miles and I know for certain that their estimated driving time of 24 hours and 38 minutes did NOT take into consideration a few things; We got lost - several times in many major cities and it almost always involved I-40 and beltways. Also, one Mom and two kids can consume a LOT of iced tea on a cross-country trip in August and when you take in that much liquid well, you know the rest of THAT story. We had to make a few stops along the way. We were either heading for drive-throughs to buy more iced tea or heading for establishments with public rest rooms to get rid of it.

Large dogs also have to stop now and again and stretch their limbs, so we tried to incorporate that into our other non-scheduled stops. As for the cats, my vet was kind enough to supply tranquilizers and I only got bit twice dispensing them. No, to answer the question you must be wondering, I did NOT take the animal tranquilizers...and I only considered it a half-dozen times at most.

Imagine this scene: At the end of everyday, having put in an average of 500 miles, we would choose a hotel along the interstate. We aren't talking four-star Four Seasons, but something decent with a minimum of cockroaches although, come to think of it, we could have just used those for reptile food. Many exotic reptiles love to eat things that are interactive and fresh. It's the same for snakes, and I'm ashamed to admit that I love watching it.

I would park the car in the lot of a potential source of lodging, way out of sight of the desk clerk, walk into the lobby and with my best smile I would ask if they had any rooms available? If I got past that question, I would crank up my smile a little wider and casually inquire if they accepted pets? Sometimes there was a moment or two of hesitation on the part of the innkeeper, but more times than not, I got a "Yes, sure. What is it, a little dog?". Not wanting to outright lie, I would just passively nod my head and smile and sign on the dotted line and get out of the lobby before said innkeeper would wonder why I looked so shell-shocked and change his/her mind.

They had no idea. If they had only known...

Under the cover of darkness, Katie, Justin and I would make several trips to the car, which was by now parked as close to trees and obscured as much as possible, and commence unloading just about everything. The finicky, but beautiful, Veiled Chameleons required a heat source at night for digestion, as did the bearded dragon and a few other things. Of course, the crickets had to come in because the reps were hungry! The dogs happily, exuberantly jumped out of the car and the cats, well, the cats were always last because as soon as we released them in the room, things got a little crazy. Cats get a little high-strung after being cooped up in a kennel for any period longer than, oh, say ten minutes. The feline mood after 10 plus hours in a car? Exponentially worse. If looks could kill, the three of us would have never made it out of Amarillo alive.

In the mornings, usually between 8 and 9 o'clock, the same scene was repeated, only in reverse but with the cats going in first because they are lightning fast and I am sure they spent each night trying to plot a collective escape. Cats are very clever. They also tend to hold a grudge.

One incident that lingers in my mind when I think back to the insanity of moving so many animals so many miles, happened around 8:30 AM in rush hour traffic on the part of I-40 that goes straight through downtown Memphis. We had spent the night in West Memphis, Arkansas, and within minutes we were crossing the Mississippi River. Things were going well and happily my daughter was driving because the combination of traffic, big cities, long bridges and 18 wheelers buzzing by at an incredible rate of speed, usually inspires a panic attack and I just didn't have the time to schedule one. My daughter, however, has no fear when it comes to stressful driving situations and she handles it like a pro.

In fact, there are very few things Katie is afraid of, but that morning, as she (wo)manned the wheel of our Chrysler through downtown Memphis, Tennessee, I remembered one thing she was deathly afraid of and it was a fear that we shared, though my case was of a much milder variety, and it had nothing to do with some ghost of Elvis floating around Graceland.

Gopher Snakes.

Gopher snakes have the uncanny ability to do a "dead-on" impression of a rattle snake. They shake their tales in rapid motion, hiss, and even but their heads against the tank in a coiled up position as if affecting a strike. Couple that with their all-around rather nasty disposition and it's hard to have warm feelings about these cold-blooded critters. I never cared for them, but my son was bent on buying one a few months previously and, as often is the case, against my better judgment, I relented. It wasn't a good move.

As we were motoring down the highway, Katie keenly concentrating on traffic flow and lane changes, I heard something pop and looked back to see that the cage containing the gopher snake had moved a few inches and the lid had been knocked off just enough to allow the evil thing to slither around the car. Realizing the snake was fearless, and taking into consideration that my daughter and I were not, my most primary fear was that Katie would become hysterical and we would wind up with the dubious distinction of becoming the most exotic mix of road kill that Tennessee had ever witnessed. I don't mind being a trailblazer, but even I have limits.

What to do? I wasn't exactly at ease with the situation and in addition to fearing Katie's reaction should the snake come crawling up front toward the driver, I worried that it might decide to pay a visit to one of the cat kennels and, somehow, I just didn't think this would be a very good thing. Even a doped up cat would probably get a little crazy should a snake decide to strike. Cats are just funny that way.

"Katie, do you mind if we take the next exit? I think I need to go...go...get some decent coffee. This stuff is sludge!".

My request was met with a lot of eye rolling.

"Mom, we just got in the car. You can wait. Let's just through Memphis and I'm sure there will be a place to get you a fresh cup of coffee."

"Katie, I really need the coffee bad and I need it now. Please? Could you just take the next exit? I'm not asking for a lot here.", I said, pleading and hoping I wouldn't have to give her more information than she could safely process and still drive a car.

"Fine! Fine. We are NEVER going to get to Wilmington at this rate. WhatEVER!", spoken as only a 17 year old female can.

For a few seconds, I wondered if she and I were extras in some out-take of "Freaky Friday" and had done a role reversal. Was SHE now the Mom and I was the annoying daughter? I was asking my daughter for permission to pull off and get a decent cup of coffee? Hello? Did she NOT know who I was? I'm the MOM! For a couple of minutes I was suddenly annoyed that I had to beg one of my kids for coffee. How many times had I stopped when THEY needed something to drink or eat or they just couldn't hold it one more tenth of a mile? Talk about selective amnesia. Had I denied one of THEIR requests, those kids would have been on THEIR cell phones to DSS so fast I wouldn't have seen them taken away.

But wait, we had a "situation" on our hands with the potential for loss of life and it was my mission to see to it that it wasn't human (Katie: heart attack) OR feline (who knows but it would have been ugly). Reluctantly, she took the next exit and mumbled a little more about how I needed to cut back on the fluids, as she pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's.

As soon as she put the car in "park", I told her to exit the vehicle NOW and, in retrospect, I really wasn't very calm about it. As soon as I made sure we were out and the snake was still in, I told her that the gopher snake was on the loose and was probably in a very bad mood. Shrieks! Screams! More shrieks! A little mild profanity. She sometimes has a bit of a potty mouth. Probably her upbringing.

I then pulled out my cell phone and called my son, who was riding in my parents van a few miles behind us, and told him to tell Pops which exit to take and to get where we were - STAT. I was informed that I had interrupted his Gameboy session, but after filling him in on the emergency, he "got it".

"Is it OK? You didn't kill it did you??"

What about me? What about his sister. What about his cats?

By the time my parents van pulled up, Katie was still pacing around the car saying, "Why didn't you tell me??!! I can't believe you didn't tell me.". Duh. She was shaking. Why did she for one-second think she could handle a moving vehicle with the full knowledge that a very mean reptile was playing hide and seek in the car?

Within minutes, Justin had the snake back in it's cage and securely fastened and no cats were harmed in the process. He just shook his head at Katie's histrionics and my irritation. What was the big deal, he wondered? It's just a non-poisonous snake. It's not like we'd die or anything, even if it had mistaken us for a R.O.U.S. (rodent of unusual size).

Inconceivable!!

Actually, it really did happen that way. I could only shake my head and for a few weeks after we safely arrived at our new home, as my wonderful, new neighbors would ask me how the trip back East was, I thought better of telling them exactly how things went down. I wondered if these new potential friends would think I was eccentric, quirky or just plain, garden variety insane. Realizing that sometimes first impressions do matter, I would simply smile and say, "Oh, it was fine. Great. You know, kind of long, but no problems. " Who would believe it? I lived it and I didn't believe it.

Right about now, you might be asking yourself, "So what does any of that have to do with an aviary?".

It's a legitimate question, but I have a logical answer. It would take a person far more daring than me to try and move about 25 finches 1600 (or 1526 if you choose to believe Mapquest), miles. Every now and then, even I know my limits. We had the whole food chain thing going on as it was. Can you imagine how much chaos a loose finch could unleash (pun intended) in a car loaded down with dogs, cats, reptiles, amphibians, mice and crickets and 3 humans? I just couldn't go there.

Before leaving Amarillo, I gave our finch inventory and all of the accompanying equipment to Texotic Pets.

Aviary Abberations and Finch Fantasies...

But I missed it. I always missed it. There's something fascinating about watching the whole life cycle of a species of bird, from introduction, coupling up, territorial disputes, nest building, egg sitting, more territorial disputes, cooperative, tag-team parenting, flying lessons and watching it start all over again. Finches are amazing parents, both genders, and you can learn a lot about life watching a Finch Family. There are lessons involving so many things that trip many of my species up, such as companionship, devotion, loyalty, shared responsibilities, nurturing, tending the home fires and, perhaps the most challenging issue for me at the present time, the manner in which they prepare their young fledglings to leave home. I have probably struggled with the "letting go" part, the most. I find it's way far more tricky than the being born phase. Of course, that's the big secret they don't share with you in Lamaze Class. They don't even begin to scratch the surface.

Of course, if any of us knew, would we really sign on for this angst?

Probably.

I knew I needed more finch lessons.

Enter Christmas 2004, dateline: Wilmington, NC.

I have a very sweet and wonderful friend named Dan. A few days before Christmas, he and I were hanging out in the open loft area outside the door of my home office. One of the features of this room is a large cut-out area that overlooks the downstairs living room. The opening, measuring approximately 96 inches wide and 40 inches tall, featured wooden bars spaced at 3 inch intervals. It gave the loft a very airy feeling but, otherwise, it wasn't all that much to look at. The downstairs living room didn't look all that different from the second floor and the view would hardly qualify as a kodak photo spot.

I was a little puzzled as I caught my friend measuring and remeasuring the opening. When I asked him what he was doing, he just shrugged and said he wondered how a shade or glass would look in place of the bars. He mentioned that it would cut down on the noise drifting upstairs from the living room and kitchen, where the TV always seems to be turned on, even if no one is in there watching it. I have no idea why that is. I never watch TV. Somehow though, that kitchen TV broadcasts annoying dribble at any given hour of the day. I wonder if it has an "off" switch. Were it up to me, this house wouldn't have a TV and, save for the occasional DVD or hurricane season updates from The Weather Channel, and the daily dose of "The Andy Griffith Show", I'd never miss it. Plus, if anyone is in the kitchen or living room and chatting, forget about anything resembling privacy. With the tile on the floor and the high ceilings, there are scant areas for a private conversation in this house. It echoes. Maybe other people keep the TV on to cover up their super-private talks about things I am probably better off not hearing about in the first place. I have no idea. I only live here.

I didn't really give Dan's (stranger than usual) behavior with regard to his measurement taking any further thought. He's really tall (6'2"), very handsome and extremely patient (he is my friend, after all), and I just figured everyone (yes, even me!) has idiosyncrasies and perhaps taking rogue measurements is one of Dan's. He's got so many nice traits going for him that I have decided to allow him to have a few odd habits. The rest of his strange tics and mannerisms? That's a whole OTHER post.

Christmas Morning, my family, animals and some wonderful friends shared the day with me. My friend, Mitch, dropped by late morning with a very decadent, calorie-laden dessert and, as always, it was wonderful to see him...especially seeing him carrying a really rich confection. I'd still think he's special even if he didn't bake, but it just doesn't hurt anything that he does.

Soon enough it was time for dinner and we were blessed and most pleased to have Dan and his Mom, Peggy, join my family for Christmas Dinner. As usual, my Mom out did herself. She's a great cook but you just do NOT go near any kitchen she happens to be working in because you will be in the way. It doesn't matter where you are standing, what you are holding or the direction you may be looking, even if it's out the window, you will be in her way. Period.

After dinner, it was time for more gift unwrapping and though this wasn't an extravagant Christmas in terms of tangible presents, it was very rich in feeling and I adored every person sitting in my living room and was happy to be sharing this special day with each of them. In fact, this Christmas was so frugal that it provided, as so many things in my life do, fine "Single...With Children" column fodder and I wrote about it, of course. That's what I do.

Everyone seemed pleased and the presents, though sparse, were very well received. And normal. That is, until I opened the gift bag I received from Dan. It was a shiny black gift bag, very UN-Christmasy and the component of an inside joke having to do with me possessing a few Scrooge-like tendencies, which I think is completely overblown but, you know, people will think what they will. However, it got even more weird when I examined the contents of this suspect black bag, but first -

TRUE CONFESSIONS ALERT! I have to admit to something I don't normally reveal. I love all things dental. I'm not sure where this comes from, maybe from spending years of my childhood situated in a dental chair because my teeth were a veritable mess. I had extractions, fillings, crowns, braces, more extractions, 2 retainers because my dog chewed up one of them, and I got to know my family's dentist very well. For years, I was pretty sure he must be a not-so-distant relative that we simply had to pay to spend time with. I never really minded the procedures and I developed this fondness for things like gritty toothpaste, all manner of tooth-whitening solutions, pastes, gels, white strips, and instruments! Oh my gosh, one of the happiest days of my life was when I finally decided to go a little crazy and make the calculated and much anticipated purchase of an ELITE Sonicare. Who could possibly forget a day like that? I've even had a friend give me a portable and electric flosser as a gift, and I couldn't have been more excited. OK, so it's probably not in the middle of the normal spectrum, but what is normal anyway and do we really want to go there? It's normal for me and that's enough.

Back to they mysterious black bag. In it were such items as my favorite, most grittiest toothpaste - very similar to the kind I fell in love with in France, - my favorite color of Listerine, TWO Elite Sonicare heads, Purell (because I love the way it's cold, the scent and the way it evaporates almost instantly), a really unattractive pin that I would never wear in a million years, Benadryl (4 cats, 2 dogs - I have at least six allergies), and last, but not least, GUMMI BEARS. The really good kind made with real fruit juice. Dan went all out and clearly put a lot of thought and consideration into my Christmas present. It was definitely a Walgreens Christmas.

I guess it was kind of weird, at that.

As I was pilfering through my gift bag of eccentric presents, I felt everyone's eyes upon me. I think they were waiting for some kind of negative reaction, but if they were looking to me for a sign of unhappiness, they were completely out of luck. I was the proud owner of two brand new Sonicare heads. Merry Christmas to me!

My Dad suddenly popped up and asked me if I would go look at something with him in another room. How odd. In the middle of company my Dad decides I need to go look at something on a computer with him. I am followed by Peggy and Katie. What exactly were we going to see? The three of them seemed a bit nervous and I wondered why my Dad's usually impeccable manners had taken flight. Turns out he wanted to show me an old photo of the aviary that my son and I had built in Amarillo. OK. And????

About five minutes later my son walked in and said Dan needed to see me out on the patio by the pool. What is up with everyone requiring my attention for basically no sensible reason? I just shook my head and walked toward the back and then...I stopped. When I glanced toward the living room, there it was. I had told Dan about the aviary that Justin and I had built and that it had been the subject of the second newspaper column I had ever written way back in July 2000. I might have mentioned that I missed it, because I did. I missed the life. The soft melodic sounds that finches make. The rustling of feathers. The frenzied preparation when eggs are ready to be laid and the urgent, albeit hushed, tones of babies demanding to be fed.

You can't watch a Finch Family and not be impressed with the focus and single-mindedness they bring to all aspects of taking care of a clutch of fledglings. It makes you smile and if you are the tiniest bit human with a shred of a functioning, metaphorical heart, you feel warmth. You feel a sense of awe. Sometimes, you feel jealous because finches don't file for divorce, as far as I know. They stick it out and it stays. There's no visible bickering and if they disagree, they are admirably discreet. I'm fairly sure the kids are protected and for some reason, I feel safe as well. Watching a Finch Family makes me feel two things; first of all, I feel envy because I always thought my kids would be raised in the familial atmosphere those baby birds enjoy. Secondly, for whatever reason, I feel hope. Somewhere in my heart I can't help but think if these birds have it worked out, maybe, just maybe, there's hope for the rest of us. I can't be sure, but that's what I feel and hope, regardless of the source, is never a thing to be discounted. Come to think of it, wasn't it Emily Dickinson who wrote, so many years ago,

"Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."

I guess for me, it can be said that an aviary gives me hope. Not the false kind (what an oxymoron is that?). I just wish I understood "finch" so I could figure this whole relationship/family thing out. I understand most of the components, and I can identify the players and I'm familiar with most of the dynamics, I just wish I could see what makes the whole thing function. I have heard it said that we (humans - not me personally) are "too smart" to grasp simple concepts. If that's the case, maybe we all need to collectively "dumb down" just a bit and see what happens.

An Attitude of Gratitude...For A Day I Thought Was The End Of The World

"When I think of Robert Frost's poem's, like "The Road Not Taken," I feel the support of someone who is on my side, who understands what life's choices are like, someone who says, "I've been there, and it's okay to go on."

Taken from, "The World According to Mr. Roger's - Important Things To Remember"

Last week I celebrated a very special, albeit personal, anniversary. One year ago, January 12th, 2004, things looked about as bleak as they possibly could. I generally maintain a sunny disposition, but I couldn't see anything resembling light in the mess I found myself in the middle of and I didn't know which direction to turn. I didn't even know if a direction existed. Fortunately, a very good direction was available.

I'll elaborate more on this in a later post or, as the saying goes, always with a delicious hint of mystery, "more will be revealed", but I do have the need to send out some very special thank yous to some very special people. Of course, I will keep the names anonymous, but you know who you are and I know who you are and who you are is so much more than a name.

The one thing I can testify to is that miracles still happen, because the fact that I am sitting here, alive and well and offering thanks, is nothing short of a major miracle and kudos to what must be a team of guardian angels both in heaven and, fortunately for me, here on earth.

Wednesday, January 12th, 2005, marked one year of a journey that I pray will last the rest of my life. I know that if I remain willing to take a few suggestions and focus on doing the "next right thing", there will be many more such anniversaries to celebrate.

The token I received to mark this milestone doesn't really look all that impressive. It's a simple, plastic, blue disc that resembles a poker chip, but I've had my eye on that blue disc for months and last Wednesday, in a room filled with a collection of extra-special friends I've come to know and love along the way, someone very special and precious presented me with, not only that coveted blue plastic disc, but an amazing piece of stained glass featuring my most favorite flower, a daisy, a wonderful cake congratulating me on "one whole damn year!", and a very warm and heartfelt hug.

I would be remiss not to extend my gratitude to all of the special friends I have made this past year and, particularly, to this one anonymous person who has made my life so much easier, enjoyable, crazy, fun, and chaotic. ALTHOUGH sometimes he can be extremely annoying, it's all about progress...not perfection, right? As I said, you know who you are and I want you to know that everything you did meant the world to me. I know I don't express it adequately or often enough, but please know that I am grateful, not simply for the tangible presents, but for the intangible gift of your care and friendship. OK, so I could do with a little less of the annoying aspect but...that's a whole other blog entry. Please don't worry, I won't even mention your curious affection for John Mayer. Really, it will be our little secret.

I am humbled. I am grateful. I am touched by God's unmerited grace.

Now, not wanting to keep anyone in suspense, here is a photo of the cake but don't worry, the calories didn't download with the image so it's safe to take a look: