Welcome to the World Jillian Mae!

JILLIAN MAE ROWLEY

J is for Jillian with the beautiful dark hair.
I is for Imagination with boldness to dare.
L is for all of the Love that you'll bring.
L is for all of the Lullabies we'll sing.
I is for Inspriring everyone that you'll meet.
A is for all the Adventures you'll seek.
N is for No one else is the same.

M is for Mae, Aunt B's middle name.
A is for Always a smile on your face.
E is for Everything good in God's grace.

R is for all of the Rainbows you'll see.
O is for Oceans of endless opportunities.
W is for all the Wishing you'll do.
L is for Life made especially for you.
E is for Eternal happiness and good fate.
Y is for all the Yesterdays of memories you'll make.

Counting Down

The Many Faces of Halloween

Don't ask me why, but Halloween is one of my favorite times of the year. The weather is breaking, it's a fun holiday, and I look forward to the little trick-or-treaters who come toting an assortment of make-shift candy-collecting bags in their equally creative costumes. The day started with a visit from what I'll call the Halloween Moth. It was snoozing on our screen door and stayed most of the day. Mid-morning, I held a Halloween parade for about 100 toddlers at B&N. They were simply adorable as they ambled around the store as super heroes, angels, tater-tots (yup, complete with catsup and mustard), ballerinas and pumpkins.

The afternoon was spent in the garden with Bebe.

We generally don't put out a lot of decorations, but, there's usually a pumpkin or two. By far, however, the most outstanding pumpkin of all was this one:

This is Jayne's sister, Gen, who is due on Jayne's birthday, Nov 30th. Wonder if the baby will be born a red-head!

Waiting On the World to Change

I've always been fascinated with language. By the time I graduated high school, I could easily communicate in American Sign Language (ASL), English and Spanish on a fluent level, and I had a conversational understanding of Greek, German and Italian. I started teaching American Sign Language in 1976 and continue to do so, today.

I am constantly amazed by the relationship between culture and language and how fluid language is in relationship to how the world changes. Funny how language seems to adapt and change easily regardless of the fact that its people may take a longer time to accept change. Without language, there is no culture, without culture, life itself would flat-line. Language is based on culture as evidenced by even the newest edition of the Oxford American Dictionary where the words "blog" and "ginormous" have been added. Pretty soon even Rachael Ray's "yummo" and "EVOO" will be added.

Each semester, I share with my students my intimate knowledge of the structure of ASL as it relates to the Deaf community. After thirty-years of teaching the same course, I am thankful that language is as fluid as it is or else my classes would flat-line. There are always new signs to teach as the Deaf world adds new vernacular to its ever-growing vocabulary base. You may be thinking that there must be a sign for every word in English, but indeed, there are some concepts in English that are still fingerspelled in ASL until an applicable and structurally sound sign surfaces. For example, the sign for BEACH used to be fingerspelled, now it's a compound. iconic sign for the shore with waves splashing against it. Even with the new sign, some Deaf people still fingerspell the word B-E-A-C-H. The sign for EPIDEMIC used to be fingerspelled and now the sign is a combination of the signs SICK + SPREAD. The cycle of a new sign is complex. Often, sign language instructors learn the new vernacular and pass it on to their interpreting students who pass it on to the Deaf community. Where does the sign language instructor get the new sign? From someone in the Deaf community!

I've always said, "to teach is to learn twice". It's a motto I found on a refrigerator magnet once. So, every semester, I give my students a class where they can teach each other what they have learned about American Sign Language and Deaf culture. This semester, one of my students found the video (click the play button above) on YouTube which sums up Deaf history, culture, identity, pride and wisdom. Each signer represents a small aspect of the diversity within the Deaf Community. All of the signers are Deaf. For me, it's the sum of over thirty years of teaching these concepts all in one piece of music. Funny how the Deaf community can use music to bring home a universal message. Hopefully, this will message will not fall on deaf ears.

"Waiting On The World To Change" by John Mayer

Me and all my friends
We're all misunderstood
They say we stand for nothing and
There's no way we ever could

Now we see everything that's going wrong
With the world and those who lead it
We just feel like we don't have the means
To rise above and beat it

So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change
We keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

It's hard to beat the system
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change

Now if we had the power
To bring our neighbors home from war
They would have never missed a Christmas
No more ribbons on their door
And when you trust your television
What you get is what you got
Cause when they own the information, oh
They can bend it all they want

That's why we're waiting
Waiting on the world to change
We keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

It's not that we don't care,
We just know that the fight ain't fair
So we keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

And we're still waiting
Waiting on the world to change
We keep on waiting waiting on the world to change
One day our generation
Is gonna rule the population
So we keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

We keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

Coloring Outside the Lines

I remember rainy days while growing up on the Jersey Shore. I loved the familiar smell that arose from cool water hitting the steamy, salty cement, and the sound of the quarter-sized droplets playing percussion on the green awning protecting our porch. There was a time each Spring when I looked forward to walking home from school and suddenly seeing the bare rafters that once hung winter's icicles now sporting summer's shade. Every few years, we'd get a new awning. Some were deep green with fringes, some had broad stripes, and the last one, was rain-slicker yellow. That awning signaled summer was about to begin and that we had three months off from school to play. We'd spend sunny days on the beach, and after dinner, ride our bikes until our mothers rang the porch bells for us to come home. On rainy days, we'd lay on our bellies under the protection of the awing and listen to my mother tell fantastically hysterical stories while we colored, covered black velvet clowns, kitty-cats and horses with oil from paint-by-number kits, and played with paper dolls and Color Forms. I can still muster up the smell of the oil paints and the feel of the Color Forms under my fingers.

My mother was an artist. She could draw anything from memory and sketched like lightning across the paper. She loved to color and had a sleek box of charcoals she treasured. She was talented and frustrated, and like a lot of artists, she had her dark side, deep, deep inside. Her depression led to illness and her illness led to her early departure. After she died, the porch was silenced. The rafters were torn down and the bright yellow awning was put to rest with my mother. My father extended the dinning room onto the porch with a new roof since my mother always wanted a bigger eating area. The new enclosure seemed lifeless to me and I never got used to it. When other houses put up their new awnings each spring, I'd pine for the times when summer's memories were contained under the safety of our giant yellow umbrella.

There are precious few possessions I have left of my mother. One, however odd, is a cookbook. It's called "The Calculating Cook: a gourmet cookbook for diabetics and dieters", by Jeanne Jones. I don't know why I decided to take this one of my mother's; I guess I liked the cover. Several years ago, when I moved, I was going through my cookbooks and started thumbing through this one and discovered both elaborate and simple drawings accenting the recipes. The book was full of pencil sketches the author used to make the dull task of dieting and counting calories more enticing. My mother, in her boredom, and perhaps depression, had colored many of these drawings in vibrant colors; her medicine. She never stayed inside the lines, and meshed light with dark colors, like her moods.

Having just recently moved again, I found myself going through my cookbooks, and once again stumbled upon my mother's colors of depression. A dismal scenario comes to mind: it's the middle of the night, a lonely woman is seated at the kitchen table, her colored pencils and crayons displayed like a fan in front of her, replacing her usual game of Solitaire. She opens a cookbook and starts to color her world a better place.

I am happy to have her cookbook, and I'm happy she's now in a better place.

Does Your Pit Bull Bite?

Almost everyday when I'm with Bebe, someone asks, "What kind of dog is that?" And, my reply is always the same, (except for the time when I told someone Bebe was a baby lion)....I say, "She's a long-hair Chihuahua", and their reply is always the same, "Lady, that IS NOT a long-hair Chihuahua. It's gotta be a Rat Terrier, or a Chihuahua mixed with Papillon or something else, but not a Chihuahua." So, I'm used to people debating me on the pedigree of Bebe, but, today was way beyond the ordinary conversation.

This morning, I was having a garage sale. Bebe was tethered on a 50-foot rope in the front yard and spent most of her morning sunning on a rug for sale. She's great for attracting attention and she greeted every customer with her chipper smile, and a wagging-fan of a tail. At some point, a woman got out of her car and started to walk up the driveway. She stopped dead in her tracks and yelled to me..."Does your Pit Bull bite?" Caught off-guard, I said..."Uh..ma'am, it's a Chihuahua, and no, it doesn't bite." I have to admit, this is the first time anyone has ventured a guess of a breed bigger than a Cocker Spaniel, and I was amused, if not a little confused. This woman insisted.."Don't tell me that's a Chihuahua, I know a Pit Bull when I see one." I said.."Really, she's a Chihuahua and she won't bite you." Then, I noticed the exasperated woman was pointing behind me when she said for the third and final time.."That's a Pit Bull." Sure enough, sprawled out in the garage, as if he owned the place, was a Pit Bull nuzzled up to Bebe's water bowl; cool as a cucumber, calm as a monk, and contented as a cow. No one was more shocked than I was to see him laying there, and next to him, a puppy Dachshund. The two, obviously bosom buddies, had wandered into the garage unbeknown to both Bebe and me. They seemingly belonged to no one and had no intention of giving up the shade and comfort of the garage, let alone the fresh water.

Needless to say, seeing a Pit Bull, I gathered up Bebe, shoved her in the house while shielding her little body from the potential grips of this Pit Bull. I could not have been more wrong about the disposition of this imposing canine. He was sweet, gentle and obeyed my every command. The two wayward hounds spend most of the day lounging in the garage. The Pit Bull had a tag on his collar, so I called the county who gave me the number to his vet, who gave me the number to his owner, who was not home. By mid-afternoon, with thunder clouds gathering, I packed up for the day wondering what to do with my guest pooches. Just as I was about to fence them in the yard, the mail carrier showed up. He whistled for the dogs ..."Hey, boys, jump in!!" "You know these two?", I asked. He told me he finds them several times a week in different parts of the neighborhood and brings them home to their owner in his mail truck. Seems the little one digs out of the yard and the big one jumps the fence. Apparently, today's escape yielded an almost 2-mile venture from home. I thought to myself, "What a nice guy, this mailman is!" We loaded the two in the back of the truck and closed the door. The Dachshund made a mad-dash for the driver's side and scooted out the door. We loaded him in again, and sure enough he ran out again. Now I know why they're called "dash hounds! With the Pit Bull about to follow suit, the mail carrier finally blocked them both in with some boxes, quickly closed his door and drove off. The three-ring circus ended just as the rain began.

Talk about a dog-day afternoon!

A Tribute to Patriotism

Jayne and I attended our friend Hazel's Naturalization ceremony this morning. There, at the Tampa Convention Center, 311 individuals representing over 70 countries took an oath to uphold our country's honor. Here we were literally seated in a melting pot of diversity amongst people from Portugal, Bosnia, Australia, Africa, Peru, India, Mexico, Canada, the UK (where Hazel is from), Togo, Haiti, Honduras, Cuba (which had the largest representation there with over 40 people becoming citizens), Columbia, and Iran, just to name a few. As each country was named, their peoples stood and the audience applauded their journey from their land to our land.

When the Master of Ceremonies asked for people to stand who had ever served their country, Jayne proudly stood, as she had served in the Navy. I felt very proud of her and an unusually un-tapped feeling of patriotism swelled my heart. I know it's there, it just doesn't surface very often. When we sang the National Anthem with people of all different accents, the same feeling pumped though my veins.

While everyone was standing, they were asked to repeat an Oath of Allegiance:

"I hearby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation of purpose of evasion; so help me God."

More than 6,000 people become U.S. citizens every year in Tampa, sworn in one day a month at the Tampa Convention Center. Surrounded by loved ones, they watch a video on the history of citizenship, another with The President welcoming them to our country, and they clutch little flags and wave them to the country tune God Bless the USA (Proud to Be an American). That song, along with the National Anthem, has been playing non-stop in my head all morning.

Once the ceremony was over, each new citizen was given a certificate and there was a palpable feeling of relief and glee, and a feeling of, well...patriotism which simply means a love for one's country.

Being an American citizen is my birthright and I think we underestimate the meaningfulness of such a privilege. Today, along with Hazel and the 310 other new citizens, I felt a kind of re-birth and a new appreciation for our freedom.

Congratulations Hazel!

Lucy

Having grown up in Margate, New Jersey, the sight of a 65-foot high wooden elephant on the beach is old news. Natives don't even take a second glance at her. After all, there used to be diving horses just a few miles up the seaside in Atlantic City, and seals lounging on the beach a stone's throw away in Longport. An elephant just completes the circus, uh, I mean, circle.

Lucy, the Margate Elephant is now an National Historical Landmark and the town's water tower even sports her image. Once a motel, Lucy now hosts curious tourists and the occasional marriage ceremony. I snapped this picture in September on a recent trip back to New Jersey for my nephew Evan's wedding.

Go here to check out Lucy's history: The Official Site of Lucy the Elephant, Margate, NJ

Sixty Little Milestones

No, I'm not celebrating my 60th birthday; my 50th is not until November. But, I am celebrating the loss of 60 pounds!! Speaking of birthdays though, I was contemplating how people tend to commemorate a birthday's importance by its number, and how those numbers compare to weight loss milestones.

A baby's first birthday is always a big deal: balloons, gifts galore and a huge candle on an over-sized cake. When I lost my first pound, there was no cake, obviously, but standing there in my bathroom in my birthday suit, I did emit a barely audible "yes", that I had finally started my journey down the scale. After the first birthday, the ages 2, 3 and 4 seem to get some attention, but not as much as the next big number, five. For the fifth birthday, invitations go out, gifts are more extravagant, a clown is hired and the cake is even bigger. After I lost my first pound, the second, third and fourth were nice, but, I couldn't wait to see my fifth pound disappear into thin air. No clowns in attendance at this shin-dig, except for me getting on and off the scale a few times. Once again, "yes" escaped my lips. Now on to number ten.

The tenth birthday is probably more important to the child than anyone else. Fifth-graders feel more mature than fourth-graders, and the passage from being a 9-year old to a 10-year is a giant leap for kids' self-esteem. My scale took a leap from 5-10 pounds in a week, and there was little maturity on my part when I hit that 10th pound and squealed my "yes" loud enough to scare my cat. On to fifteen. But, dare I skip thirteen? According to Jewish Law, when Jewish children reach their age of maturity, the big number is thirteen. This is when B'nai Mitzvah is celebrated, and the former 12-year olds, now become responsible for their actions. A Mitzvah is a blessing, and when I lost 13 pounds, it was indeed a blessing worthy of a resounding "yes"! Still, the number 15 was looming in the not-too-far distance.

In Spanish-speaking cultures, young girls celebrate Quniceanera at the age of 15. In American culture, girls celebrate Sweet Sixteen. Quinceanera is not just a big birthday party. It's more like a debutante ball. There are rituals and traditions. The Quinceanera enters the room in an extravagant gown walking arm-in-arm with her father, or she goes down a set of stairs and meets her father at the bottom and they dance the first dance together, usually a waltz. The party can go from sunset to sunrise, and at the end, the Quinceanera herself, tosses one of her baby dolls to eagerly awaiting girls, as a sign that her childhood is over. When I lost my 15th pound, I tossed out an old pair of pants to an eagerly awaiting dumpster shouting "yes, yes, yes!"

Important birthdays after 16 tend to be 18 and 21. More importantly, my scale seemed to skip those numbers and went right to 25 in a short amount of time. This was a major milestone for me not because of the number, but because people finally began to notice something different about me. Most commented on my new hair (not), or my new glasses (not) or my tan. Someone said I looked more like a rectangle than a circle. I think that was a compliment. YES!

Speaking of circles, birthday milestones are all about the zero as in 30, 40, 50 and 60, and I can attest to that when it comes to the scale. Losing thirty pounds was fabulous, the dress sizes were coming down. Having lost 40 pounds was an amazing feeling; the equivalent of losing 160 sticks of butter! If my 50th birthday gives me the same thrill as when I lost 50 pounds, then, I'll be a happy camper.

Now that sixty pounds have disappeared from my body, I sometimes look at my hand and wonder whose it is! Those skinny fingers are mine? Yes! That thinner ankle is mine? Yes! Wait! Those are my thighs? Yes! I'm not thin by any stretch mark, but I am thinner. I guess the next milestone will be 70 pounds, and then on to 83 pounds. Eighty-three? In Jewish tradition, a second B'nai Mitzvah can be celebrated thirteen years after one reaches 70-years old. The logic being that a "normal" lifespan is 70 years, so that an 83-year old can be considered 13 in a second lifetime. If I can lose 83 pounds, I may as well go for the granddaddy of all milestones and reach 100. That would be pounds and birthdays, I hope. YES!

A Nest Egg..or Two.

This mama Muscovy duck has chosen the drive-through of my credit union as its place to nest. Last week she was sitting on seven eggs. This week there seemed to be too many to count. Patrons and employees of the credit union are making sure she has enough water and food.

Originating from Brazil, Muscovies are the only domestic ducks not derived from mallard stock. The males can grow to be quite large, weighing 10-15 lbs. Most of the females are 5-7 pounds, but can reach up to 9 and sometimes 10 lbs. Their feet have strong sharp claws for grabbing tree branches and roosting. Muscovies are unique because of their bright red crest around their eyes and above the beak. They do not swim much because their oil glands are underdeveloped compared to most ducks. Muscovy hens can set three times a year, and the egg clutches can vary from 8 to 21 eggs. The egg are incubated for 35 days.

An unlikely deposit at a bank..don't you think?

Michigan Blues

It's blueberry season in Michigan again. Since we visited Michigan early this year, we not only missed the yearly raspberry picking, but the blueberry frenzy as well. That would be the picking, the cleaning, the canning and freezing and baking of everything blueberry. Oh, and let's not forget the eating of everything blueberry, too! Here's a Haibun* I wrote last year about the blueberry pickin' season in Michigan.

Michigan Blues

This Michigan morning is bone-chilling. Blueberries shiver to shake off their jackets of dew drops and puff their purple bellies toward the sun. For some, this will be their last tanning session before the pickers come. Errant blackberry bushes push their way between blueberries, tempting the bees. If the sun hits the patch just right, it's like looking through a kaleidoscope of dripping purple, pulsing blue and nipple-hard red orbs.

rows of braided arms

offer sun-sweet blue droplets

tempting teased taste buds

From behind the bushes, straw hats form a conga-line bobbing up and down like horses on a merry-go-round. As if the blueberry bushes were barbers, conversation flows sweet as creek water. Grandmothers exchange pie and jam recipes, swap stories about their grandchildren and complain about the crops while popping one berry after another off the bushes. Before the pies rise and bubble, and before the jams are canned, the berries hear an earful. While grannies pick handfuls for their buckets strung by rope around their ever-expanding waistlines, a few land on their salivating palates, just for good measure.

weighing blueberries

farmers grin at the grannies'

purple stained smiles

This Michigan morning, the sun has won its battle with the moon. The grannies go home to their kitchens where their straw hats are replaced by recipe-stained aprons. No measuring cups are needed in these kitchens. A pinch of cinnamon by frail, translucent fingers. A dash of salt by trembling, age-speckled hands. A bi-focaled eye knows exactly how much sugar, and strong loose-skinned arms knead the dough. Blueberry pie that only a grandmother can bake will bring a family together tonight. Oh, sure, there are recipe cards in the cupboard, and they all have the same ingredients: equal parts of love.

hair white as flour

her apron spans a lifetime -

her heart, a harvest moon

*Haibun:

A Haibun is a combination of prose and haiku poems. Its focus is often on everyday experiences, but sometimes it focuses on a journey, keeping in the the style of the originator of haibun, a Japanese monk named Basho, who kept travel journals.

Silence in a Still Life

Having lived in New York City, I'm used to homeless people. There, subway stations, church steps, and apartment vestibules are peppered with lost souls. You need to visit the bowels of Underground Manhattan to understand the complex living system homeless people have established. I've seen it once and it brought me to tears. Multiply what you see above ground by ten-thousand, and that's what's living below ground in utter silence.

When commuting, I made it a habit to fill one pocket with what I called "mercy money" and the other pocket with my daily spending money. By the end of the day, my mercy money was usually gone, and what was left of my spending money, I'd turn into mercy money for the next day. I favored certain homeless people; they were usually the ones with dogs or the women who fed the pigeons in park. Once a month, I'd go through my pantry and fill plastic Path Mark grocery bags with canned foods and cereal, and leave them at the cardboard entrances homeless people called home. On Sundays, the local fire company would hand out bars of soap and turn on their hoses for homeless folks to bathe. One year, my friend Wendy and I even made "Squeaky Clean Hygiene" kits. They were baggies with travel size soap, shampoo, safety razors, shaving cream, mouthwash, tooth paste, tooth brushes, tampons, condoms and diaper wipes. We'd give them out instead of money sometimes and the look of appreciation on their tired, sun-worn faces was priceless. There's a lot to be said in the silent thank you of someone who is truly thankful.

There was a drunken homeless man who took up residence in my apartment's foyer. He figured out if you ring the bell, someone would inevitably buzz you in without asking your identity. There, he was safe from the rain and cold and was so happy, he would sing himself to sleep in his cheap-whisky-laden, delirious voice. Mostly, he was benign, but he wasn't the doorman we all wished for, either. After months of his serenading us into the building, I decided to play a cruel trick on him. Once I got safely inside my apartment, I pushed the intercom and had my roommate bellow in the deepest voice he could muster..."This is GOD! You must stop drinking NOW! I command you go to to a shelter NOW!.." We peeked out the window and saw the poor fellow frantically staggering away from our apartment building while scrambling for his few precious belongings; awestruck in all his drunkenness that God had actually spoken to him. He never returned to our building, and our foyer rang with silence.

When I moved to Florida, the homeless population, although apparent, wasn't everywhere; street corners mostly, and downtown. On my way to a craft convention with Wendy, we saw a homeless family: a young pregnant woman, two small children and a man. They were panhandling from corner to corner. Convention Center security had moved them away several times from the front of the building. Their faces, filthy, their shoes were lace-less and all hope had been drained from their souls. We approached the family and told them to wait on that corner, and that we'd be back in under an hour. Our request was met with mistrust, but a lingering thread of hope. Wendy and I went to the nearest supermarket and bought everything we could find that could be made with water including powdered milk, oatmeal, pasta, and Ovaltine. We bought canned goods and a can opener, bread, Pop Tarts, Hi-C, some socks, a ball and Frisbee, and filled up ten grocery bags with portable food. When we returned to the corner, our family was gone. We drove for two hours around and around downtown until we finally found our family on the green of the public library. We parked illegally and waved to the family. They were wary of us and kept their distance. We unloaded the van with the brown paper sacks filled to the brim with food and left it on the sidewalk. As they approached, the little boy squealed... "Oatmeal!!!.." They each took some bags and walked across the grass, where in a storybook ending, it would look like they were going on a family picnic. The mother turned to us and gave us the slightest nod of her head, and with glistening eyes, she turned to catch up with her family. We drove home in a grateful silence.

Later that year, Wendy and I invited a group of students and friends to dinner who didn't have a place to go for Thanksgiving. We cooked enough food for an army, but knowing college students, they'd relish a home-cooked meal. Plus, they'd all take home doggie-bags. Having re-filled our plates several times and stuffed ourselves past our waistlines' limits, we passed around paper plates for them to take home leftovers. We told them to fill their plates high. We then topped their plates with plastic knives and forks and bounded them tight in plastic wrap. Then, we took the students on an unexpected field trip. Nine of us loaded ourselves into Wendy's van, each with a plate on our laps. We drove a short distance to a corner where there's always a group of homeless people. With no explanation needed, one by one, we got out of the van and offered our Thanksgiving feast to empty eyes with empty bellies and shaking thankful hands. We drove home in a powerful silence.

Yesterday, while mailing a package at a convenience store, a homeless man held the door for me as I entered. Although it was already ninety degrees out, he was wearing several shirts and a jacket. His brown hair was wild and tangled. His beard was long and densely matted, but he stood tall and nodded to me when I passed him. He made eye-contact with me and his eyes were intelligent. When I left the store, he was curbside organizing his sleeping bag, clothing and plastic bags. He had everything perfectly folded and balanced. His sleeping bag and clothes were in a multi-layered rectangle. Four plastic shopping bags hung heavily from each corner. He had made a cardboard backing to keep it sturdy and it was all wrapped tightly with odds and ends of rope. As he hoisted his life across his back, I thought about how hot he must be. I had just been grocery shopping and had an 8-pack of water in my back seat that I could easily give him. When I approached him offering the water, I felt silly. Why give him more to carry? So, I apologized for adding more to his load, but since it was so hot, I really wanted him to have the water. He smiled and said thank you. I counted five teeth; two on top and three on the bottom. I only had five dollars in my pocket, so I gave him that, too. He told me he was going to walk to the U-Save and buy apples, that he really wanted some apples. How ironic. What I really wanted was to take him to the barber for a shampoo and shave, but I knew no barber would take him no matter how much I paid. I looked at him for a moment wishing I could do more. He said, in the nicest voice, "You know, ma'am, you are very kind. Thank you." Then he turned and left in silence.

I sat outside and had an apple and a glass of water for lunch that day, wondering what his life is like.

Eight-Thirty-Nine

I'm all about road trips. No set agenda; just get in the car and drive. You can get out at a yard sale, or a ratty old bodega or take a dirt road while following a sign that says Raw Honey. You never know what bizarre things you'll find, and you get to meet the most interesting people. Plus, you get to buy things you wouldn't normally find in your grocer's freezer.

Going to different places brings up unexpected conversation as well. While we were in Michigan, we passed a yard that had llamas in it. Granny said.."Hmmm, I wonder what llama meat tastes like?" That lead to a conversation about all the different delicacies Granny has dined on, from turtle soup to venison to wild boar. She looks forward to a special night once a year called "Wild Game Night" where people bring dishes of food the Flintstones would eat. When she originally said she was going to game night, I assumed she was playing Euchre (pronounced yuker). I had no idea she was dishing out turtle soup with a side of rabbit! While she was talking about what llamas might taste like, I said something stupid like.."I wonder if they raise those llamas for their eggs?" There was an odd silence in the car followed by an outburst of laughter. "Llamas don't lay eggs", someone pointed out. In my mind, I got them confused with ostriches, thus eggs came to mind, and I blurted it out without thinking. The laughter was a bandage for my embarrassment, but people are used to me making these kinds of musings.

When we visit Michigan, Jayne's dad invites us on what he calls his "Cholesterol Tour". It's a road trip that I look forward to because we get to drive through a dozen different Main Streets and go to flea markets. The Cholesterol Tour generally starts with a bacon-laden breakfast, but we skipped that this time. It then heads to a flea market in Armada, which leads to another flea market in a big red barn, but this time, the red barn took a back seat to a road-trip-in-a-road-trip, when we headed off to Cousin Johnny's to buy delicious cookies. One goal of this trip was to buy Italian Sausage. The place where Dad goes is supposedly the place to get sausage. When we got there, I got out of the car to see how they make them, only to find a store-front office that could have doubled for grease-monkey's waiting room room. The next stop is every one's favorite. We head over to Utica to visit Erma's Original Frozen Custard stand to get homemade custard that is absolutely to die for. Jayne's Dad has been going there since it opened in 1942. Having lingered over the most delicious vanilla/chocolate twist, it was time to find some treasures in the big red barn. I saw a bird house I wanted, but it was already sold. Finally, we stopped and had Coney Dogs at a little Greek diner. Stuffed like little cabbages, we drove home and and could truly attest that this was indeed, a cholesterol tour.

The day before the Cholesterol Tour, I asked Jayne what time we'd be leaving in the morning. I wanted to make sure to get my 2-mile walk under my belt before I loaded it up with cholesterol. She said "8:39" and "don't be late because Dad has it planned out so we get to the flea market by 10:00." So, I started planning my morning, thinking I'd get up to walk around 7:00, have my oatmeal by 8:00 (to help move along the cholesterol) and be showered and ready by 8:39. I figured he wanted us out the door by 8:40 so we'd get to Armada by 10:00. I actually pondered the relevance of 8:39 and was thinking..wow, he really has this down to the minute! One of my many endearing habits is to ask the same question several times..just to make sure. So, I asked Jayne again, this time, in front of several family members. "What time, again, in the morning?" And again, she said "8:39". So..without thinking, and in front of everyone, I innocently asked, "what's the significance of 8:39?" Gen, Jayne's sister, who had obviously heard me ask this before, very calmly, as if explaining the concept to one who's entirely developmentally delayed, slowly said..."Nancy, EIGHT-THIRTY, NINE, as in between 8:30 and 9 o'clock. Get it? 8:30, 9:00?" Five us us roared with uncontrollable laughter, worthy of a dozen Depends. All knowing full-well, that I really, really thought I had to be ready at 8:39 on the dot. And, in fact, I did, and was.

So..What's in Your Mail Box?

I've been home sick for a few days with a "summer cold", as my mother used to say. My legs feel like lead tree-trunks and my head feels like a bouncing balloon ready to explode. My scalp hurts, I've completely lost my sense of smell, and my hearing wavers from one ear to the other; opening and closing like solid oak doors. I've tried laying down, but if I lay on my left side, I can only breathe through my right nostril; likewise, if I lay on my right side, only my left nostril opens up. Laying on my back offers me a double whammy in that both nostrils close up and I have to breathe through my mouth. Go figure. Having used up all my Kleenex, I've resorted to using my t-shirt as a hankie. Don't say "ewwww"...I know you've done the same thing yourself. I may just become a fan of hankies after this illness passes. Tissues are so fickle, whereas I can now see monogrammed hankies have more nose-appeal.

I decided to make chicken soup in hopes that the Jewish Penicillin would help bring me out of my misery. I smashed 10 cloves of garlic and chopped an entire Vidalia onion and could smell neither. When the soup came to a boil, I used my imagination to muster up the memory of its rich aroma, and frankly, when I tasted it, I couldn't tell if there was one clove or 10 cloves of garlic in it. Obviously, my taste buds are vacationing with my sniffer. With Felix at my heels, I paced from my bedroom to my office and back, each time adjusting my thermostat to accommodate my temperature, and since I've taken my temperature about 19 times today, the air conditioner must feel like its owner is bi-polar (no pun intended). Felix flexes his ears straight back as he has no idea what to think when I sneeze horrifically loud, but he is a great foot-warmer and a loyal companion.

Having run out of websites to chase link-after-link, and adding unnecessary plastic and electronic objects to my multitudes of wish lists, I decided to make my weekly visit to my mail box. For some reason, collecting my mail everyday has never been important to me, except for when it's my birthday or when I'm expecting something important, like money. This has been my habit for decades: to retrieve it maybe once a week when it occurred to me, or when I think I've annoyed the postal carrier long enough. I did this in college, too, where the kind folks in the mail room would have stored my mail in a box on the floor and then send me nasty-grams via the Resident Assistant pleading with me to either collect the week-old cookies my Nana had sent me or they'd enjoy the biscotti treats themselves. When I lived in an apartment, I did the same thing. You'd think visiting the mail kiosk would be a social event, but to me, it was just another chore on my mental list to be scratched off. Now that I have my very own mail box in my front yard, I still ignore it. At the college where I teach, I get email reminding me to collect my "very important" mail from my box as it's overflowing. And at work, I have several mail boxes, which get my attention about once a week as well. I much prefer electronic mail. I'd never think of letting my email box overflow.

Now I know why I only go once a week. Today, I collected a coupon for free Gas-X tablets, an AARP magazine and anti-aging soap and eye-cream samples from Dove. Those three combined offered me the best medicine money can't buy: Laughter. There I stood curb-side, bra-less, in my snot-covered t-shirt, in bedroom slippers akin to the kind old ladies wear while shuffling around K-Mart, laughing my stuffy head off.

So, what's in your mail box?

Fifty Pounds Of......

Losing weight is an expensive venture. One reason, is you find yourself spending more money on better nutrition; fresh veggies and fruit, leaner cuts of meat, whole grain breads and cereals. Do you remember the last time you saw a coupon for .50 cents off a head of broccoli, or a whole melon or a bag of apples? Have you seen any coupons lately for fresh salmon or tilapia? If you look at the weekly coupons in the Sunday paper, you'll notice they're mostly for food like .75 cents off a 5 pound bag of sugar, and that you won't find on the shopping list of someone who has committed to a lifestyle of healthier eating.

Buying new clothing is also an expense, unless I decide have my old clothing altered, but, there's no fun in celebrating a new body with old clothes. Besides, who gets their underware altered? I still have about 45 more pounds to lose, so why bother buying new clothing when they'll look like I'm wearing sacks of potatoes by then, anyway.

Speaking of sacks, today, I reached my fifty-pound goal. Imagine lifting a 50 lb sack of potatoes, or a 50 lb sack of sugar or flour. How about a 50 lb bag of dog food, or a 50 lb container of kitty litter. That's how much I've lost. If I were to carry those sacks up my steps, I'd be winded. Come to think of it, I used to carry those sacks up my steps, only in the form of fat on my body. That 50 pounds is the equivalent of 200 sticks of butter, and at $4.99 a pound, I've lost $250 worth of butter!

If that were a 50 lb sack of Hawaiian coffee, at $30 a pound, I've lost $1500 in coffee beans!

There are approximately 454 dollar bills to a pound! That means I've lost $22,700!


The cost of weight loss is well worth its value. Don't you think?

Some Place Else and Back

Routine is comforting. We get up at the same time because our internal clock goes off; shop at the same grocery store because we know what's on the shelf in every aisle; see the same people in our neighborhoods watering their lawn at the same time everyday, or think something must be wrong; eat the same breakfast because it's just easy; watch the same shows on television because those characters belong in our living rooms like house-guests who ring the doorbell at the same time every night; dine at the same restaurants because we like the servers and not necessarily the food; wear the same style clothing year after year because it's comfortable, albeit out of style, and don't realize we haven't "colored outside the lines" in what seems like forever. We're bored and we don't even know it, and we're probably boring because of it. But, there is comfort in the same-old, same-old, until it changes.

Recently, we went on a road-trip to Michigan. Twenty-four hours up (not including the 8 hour hotel break), nineteen hours back (no hotel break). On the way, we saw goats grazing, donkeys dining, lightning bugs flickering about the forests, corn fields aiming high, farms shaven and shorn, and a sunset in Georgia reflective of the peaches they grow. While rounding a bend, the setting crimson sun rose between two purple mountain peaks and was our beacon for miles until it nestled into the horizon. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

We stopped and bought Vidalia onions in Georgia, and in Tennessee we passed an old truck with wooden rails bursting at the sides with ripe green orbs of watermelon just waiting for a Sunday picnic. As we traveled north, the humidity dropped with the temperature and the winds picked up in Ohio, so much so, an American flag blew straight as a starched sheet; not a wrinkled stripe or star. At a gas station in Ohio, I challenged the wind to blow me over by putting my back against the prickling rain and defiantly leaning in to her blows. With arms outstretched as if I were making butterflies in the snow, I noticed a man at another pump doing the same thing, and we both laughed like children. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

Michigan was rolling and green, unlike Florida's parched flat lands. Family members welcomed us with a Thanksgiving feast, and before we retired in unfamiliar beds and were lulled to sleep by the sounds of unfamiliar birds and unfamiliar trains, we watched moon flowers unfold their buttercup yellow petals. At dusk, deer graze and the sun leaves the sky alight until ten at night and retires only until five or so in the morning, which gives new meaning to day-break. Dawn brings temperatures in the fifties, sun on a glass lake and birds' beaks peaking out of their wood houses. Granny and I walked the lake in mornings to the tune of nature and stories of her ninety years. Turtles, rabbits, annoying flies, and a stray dog joined our journey which I looked forward to every morning. Birdhouses, the white Victorian five-story variety, and paint-worn wood boxes anchor every property. Neighbors and strangers alike waved hello. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

The longer days, cooler nights, brighter mornings, friendlier folk became part of my routine. I found my way around Michigan grocery stores and knew every aisle; woke up earlier looking forward to walking Elk Lake, and went to bed earlier to the trains' roar, now familiar. I checked the moon flowers when they opened at night and closed in the morning. I now waved to the neighbors, no longer strangers and even know the stray dog's name, Rough. Leaving this place was not part of my routine and was not comforting.

The drive home started in the early evening and went through the dark mountains of Kentucky overnight. There were deer sightings, lightning bugs and the corn was a little higher. The old watermelon truck was replaced by a cantaloupe toting Toyota. Soon, the hills came to a rolling stop outside of Gainesville, but the goats reappeared. The smell of humidity brought sweat to my forehead and a sign for Publix reminded me of my routine. I went right for the roses once we got home, pruning their dried blooms and watering their thirsty thorny stems. Ironically, the rhubarb shriveled like the Wicked Witch of the West for lack of water. I shopped at my familiar neighborhood store and the same butcher sold me the same cut of meat I always get. I took Bebe on our same walk and we visited the same couple who always give her a treat. They had missed us and looked for us the same time every night. I retired at the same time I did in Michigan, only it was darker. In the morning, I looked out my bedroom window at the same time I usually do, to see the same aging Asian man shuffling in his pajamas up the street, cane in hand, hat cocked slightly to the side. It started to rain and I was worried about him. When I looked out the window for him again, this time I saw he was walking with his wife, who was worried about him too, and had brought him an umbrella which they shared on the walk back. That was not part of his routine, but the change was comforting, to both of us.

Michigan's Beauty

If you look closely, you'll see a bunny sitting in the morning dew.

This female Tree Swallow is protecting her nest. She resides in Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Bob's backyard.


These three bird houses are at the beginning of Elk Lake Road where I walked every morning.

Pictured below, is Elk Lake where Granny and I walked in the mornings.

This painted turtle wandered across the road on one of my walks.

Growing Like a Weed

Summer growth spurts are popping up all over. Bebe is about 10 pounds now (so much for a 5 lb Chihuahua), and is still growing like a weed. Her hair is getting longer in the oddest places like across her rump, under her belly and in little fan-like patches down her back like golden sea shells. Take a look at that tail! In this picture, she's ready to play fetch; one of her favorite pastimes.

Some folks say you can't grow rhubarb in Florida. Pictured above is my attempt at growing rhubarb. I'll never catch up to the incredible rhubarb that Granny grows, but, I'm trying. So far, so good and it's growing like a weed! Pretty soon, we'll be making rhubarb pie and strawberry rhubarb jam!

The roses are all growing beautifully, including the root roses we added (Marilyn Monroe and Joan Fontaine). The red bed, (a portion of which is pictured above) is just stunning. The pink and white rose above is really big, and it's not even finished blooming.

What is also growing like a weed, is of course, the weeds. If I had a nickle for every weed I plucked everyday, I'd be as rich as the dirt they grow in. I guess that's why they call it filthy dirty rich! For now, I'm just filthy dirty watching the summer growth spurt unfold before me.

After The Rain

painted grasshopper
sips dripping dew drops
drinking red rose petal tea

A Sunset Treat

Tonight was one of those Florida nights when the breeze had a bit of coolness to it and the humidity was almost absent. It's when you wish every night was just as like this one. As the sun was setting, casting a pinkish glow, and the moon was settling in for a watchful night, a bat scurried across the sky and an owl decided to visit my yard. If you listen carefully in my neighborhood, you can hear the "who-who-who" bantering calls of owls. While chatting with my friend and neighbor, Karen, who has experienced lots of owl-sightings in her yard, one landed on my phone wire above my bedroom window. She just happened to have her camera handy and snapped a few shots of one of our neighborhood owls.

Barred Owls I think this is probably a Barred Owl. If you click on the link, you can hear who was calling at my bedroom window on a glorious summer night at sunset.

Hitting the Trail

Recently, walking has been my zen. At first, I walked to a DVD (Walk Away the Pounds with Leslie Sansone). One mile one day, then two, then three, until I could do 8-9 miles a week. I'd barely be awake, and barely be dressed, but I'd cross the finish-line sweating along with the super-fit models on the screen, and with the encouraging lilt to Leslie's voice. With one month under my belt and twelve pounds no longer under my belt, I decided to get fully dressed and hit the streets.

With Bebe wagging her tail like a metronome to the beat of my steps, we'd walk up to the corner, back home and then up to the other corner. Not quite a mile, but a milestone nonetheless. Soon, we ventured further with a goal in mind (well, I had one goal, and she had another). My goal was to walk to the newspaper stand and get the Sunday paper. Her goal was to sniff out any and all cat droppings along the way. What a duo; me marching, still to the encouraging tone of guru Sansone, while tugging on Bebe's harness to get her nose out of the dung. Eventually, we ventured to the Post Office, then to a store and now, we have several neighborhood routes which total a little over a mile each outing. More miles under my belt, less inches around my belt-line. Forty-two pounds later, we've discovered a different walking experience: The Upper Tampa Bay Trail.

When I first discovered the Trail, it was a good seven miles away and the path, although pretty, was short and unpaved. It did lead to a lovely and peaceful body of water (Tampa Bay), but we had to walk it twice to work up any kind of sense of having walked at all. It actually took longer to drive there than it did to walk the path. And, to top it off, the path was lonely and dry. Recently, I discovered a longer paved path, which I'll try the next time, and, at this particular leg of the park, a huge field where people were letting their dogs off-leash to run themselves silly. I made a mental note of buying a 50-foot rope to tether to Bebe for such an adventure. Knowing her, she'd smell some horse manure and take off into the depths of the trail and I'd never find her.

The Upper Tampa Bay Trail has many trail-heads, though, and I discovered one much closer and much nicer. Now, we've become regulars and I recognize a lot of other regulars, too. It's like a community in a way; an anonymous community, one similar to a group of smokers standing outside in their designated smokers' gazebo. Strangers sharing a similar addiction. Although smoking and trailing seem antithetical, I did see an old geezer on a beach-cruiser yesterday, huffing and puffing along while puffing on a huge Stogie.

The trail attracts more than characters chomping on Cuban cigars. There's the elderly man who rides a bicycle with a basket much like that of the Wicked Witch of the West, and in it, a white bedroom-slipper-of-a-dog sits like a princess on a pea with her tongue hanging out like a red wash-cloth. The Sunday sunrise brings out the Hispanic couple who appear to be empty-nesters. They walk just past the first quarter-mile, find a green metal picnic bench along the canal, break out their thermos of cafe con leche and share their aromatic brew with the new sun's reflection on the water. He talks to Bebe in Spanish and calls her a "he". She calls Bebe "muy linda", so I know she knows she's a she.

The sunrise also brings the horses out of their stables. Their massive muscular bodies send Bebe's tail tautly between her legs. She plants herself still, her hair stands on end like a bristle brush and she refuses to go forward. As if to tease her, a horse whinnies and Bebe lets out a little cry in return. Then, a bike will pass, and Bebe snaps out of her trance and gallops in the wake of the racer.

Joggers with iPods pound the paved path with a passion I'll never understand. I tried jogging and it wasn't pretty, nor was it passionate. Then there's the Asian couple on roller blades who swing their arms like pendulums on a grandfather's clock; she always follows him. While Bebe chases the squirrels as far as her 16-foot lead will let her, speed-cyclists shout "to your left!!", which causes Bebe to chase their skinny bodies on their skinny bikes with their skinny shoes clamped into pedals propelling skinny tires. There are families with tots on training wheels, and Sunday husbands pushing elaborate baby strollers made specifically for jogging parents.

There are casual sunset strollers like the two gay men who walk easily with each other. From behind, they both have the same balding spot, the same size dry-cleaned and creased khaki shorts, the same mid-shin white socks and the same affection for each other. They stop at the same time, point to the same bird and start on their stroll again at the same time. The African American woman with the toothpick legs and big buttocks and even bigger uni-bosom, wears a blue t-shirt which was probably too tight five sizes ago and now slips off her shoulders showing a booster-shot scar like a sunburst tattoo. There are women who speed-walk and talk at the same time three abreast; whose spandex shimmy and shine as they twist their size-2 hips.

Then there's me and Bebe. She's now the official trail greeter. She smiles at every walker, biker, blader and jogger no matter how fast they pass. Her tongue flying in the wind like a big red sail, she'll lick anyone who will stop to admire her unusual coloring, her fluffy ears, her black orbital eyes and her contagious enthusiasm. Solitary walkers lost in a deep mood are momentarily lifted, speed-walkers slow down, old men smile that "isn't she cute" smile even though they'd never say it aloud, the Asian woman cracks a grin breaking her pace, and I, well, I am happy walker. Another milestone under my diminishing belt.

Signs of Roses

Everything is coming up roses! Literally. On the last night of my ASL II class, my students marched into class one-by-one in a parade of roses; each carrying a rose bush in their arms. I was stunned and could barely see through the tears in my eyes. In my 30 years of teaching, I have never had such a wonderful community of students in one classroom. As I expressed in a letter of gratitude to my students, "If you are the last class I ever teach, I am totally satisfied..."

So, here's thanks to:

Lisa and Jeryme for the gift of the Geraldine Ferraro rose last week, and especially to Lisa for signing my poem; Laura for coming up with the rose bush idea; Christina & Jessica for being my computer geek tech-heads; Bruna and Theressa for being "my girls" who sign like the wind and will one day make a great interpreting team; Debbie and Charlene for being the best cooks, best room-moms, best sisters, ever;

Isabelle for her humor, her accent and her lovely way of being; Pat for always being there for me in the front row cheering me and everyone else on regardless of what's going on in her life; Lynsey for putting up with the "teacher who taught her teacher" and for making us roar and hoot with her final; Nelson and Kari for adding just a little sensuality to sign language; Lisa for being my ASL 1 TA and for sharing her children with us; all the newbies: Tara, Cristin, Margo and Karen, for putting up with an unconventional classroom and especially to Karen who shared with us her passion for life and the love of her life, her son, David; Jessica B who is always willing to take notes for us; "the other Lindsey" for her constant smile and enthusiasm for signing; Sarah for sharing her family with us and her willingness to always help someone and participate; Ray for just putting up with us; Kristina for her perseverance and her stunning final poem; and Susan for supporting my obsession with weight loss and, who could not be with us in person, but, who through the tech-heads in class, got to see our finals virtually. Lastly, our TAs, Michelle and Kirsten for sharing their time and expertise with us.

I'll be busy digging up a new rose bed for Chrysler Imperial (red), Hedge Rose (red), John F. Kennedy (white), Shrub Rose (red), Color Me Pink (pink), Goldilocks (yellow), Honey Perfume (yellow), and my favorite last three names, Sheer Bliss (pink), Knock-Out (red) and Simply Marvelous (purple). Here's to you, my simply marvelous class, I'll think of you with every bloomin' rose.