Closure

The paint
on the white picket fence
was peeling.

The dried-up,
seed-filled pods
on the spent poppies
drooped.

The grass
was brown
and dusty.

The kitchen window
was mostly
broken.

I picked up a rock
and threw it
hard.

The rest of the glass
shattered
and fell.

No one
lived there
anymore.

It's Snow Simple Matter

You wake up in the morning and

you mozy out of bed.

You stick your feet in your slippers

And maybe scratch your head.

You stretch

and you yawn

and you feel all right

When you take a look outside and...

EVERYTHING IS WHITE!

So now what do you do?

Do you have to go outside

Or is it safer to stay in?

Do you have to go to work?

Or can you climb back in

to that bed that's still so warm

That bed that feels so soft--

Do you have to go to school

or did they call it off?

Can you play all day in that

white fluffy snow?

Is there something truly pressing?

Do you really have to go?

You hate those messy roads!

You hate those sheets of ice!

Is it really that important?

Cuz' your bed is looking nice.

Have a cuppa' hot chocolate!

Build a snowman with your kid.

Stay home.

Take a break.

You'll be oh so glad you did!

Color Me Purple or Orange or Green or...?

My darling husband has informed me that the sheet rock will be going up in the new house within the month. Therefore, it is my clearly defined duty to select the colors for the walls. All of the walls. At once.

If it were just one room or just one wall, perhaps I could manage without too much difficulty. That would be rather like selecting just the right party dress or the color for my hair--simple enough to change should I tire of it. But all of the walls in one blow, dear reader, how is a girl to do that?!

Where do I start? I've perused so many articles on selecting color and I've dabbled with several of those gadgety online room simulators, all of which have rendered me utterly useless and more bewildered than before.

Providencial olive? Why, yes, that's so restful! Tranquil blue? Indeed, yes, please! What about that Kangaroo tan or the beautiful golden lab? How about a nice bird's egg blue with punches of tangerine? Red! Who doesn't love red? Add splashes of black, of course! What room would be complete without black or white?

Do you see my dilema? My quandry? My colorwheel turned quagmire? I love them all! Each color and hue and intensity evokes my imagination and I begin all over again to redesign every room of the house. I simply can not seem to settle.

Well, now, to be honest I have eliminated the crayon box colors "orchid" and "charteuse." I dislike those colors intensely. So, you see, I am making some progress.

If only I could date the colors for a while. You know, take them out dancing or to the movies and see if they laughed when I did or made me blush maddeningly with the slightest glance my way. Then I would know, wouldn't I? Then I would know, just who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with and who I wanted to see across the breakfast table every morning.

If we could spend a year dating I could see how they would react when viewed in a different light or when my mood changed ever so subtly. I would know which color to choose for sure, if only I could spend more time just hanging out with each one before I had to commit. But, I only have a few weeks to decide.

...Only a matter of days to fall in love.

No wonder they call it a "color wheel;" it makes one dizzy to think about them.

The Dishes are Still in the Sink

Today my five-year old son and I finished off almost all the peppermint bark from Christmas.

I unabashedly bribed him to practice his "Twinkles" on his violin. For every squeaky full song he played, I gave him a piece of peppermint and ate one myself with a gleam in my eye. We felt so sneaky and wicked! (Not to worry. We left one piece each for Daddy and his older sister.) He made amazing progress on his "Twinkles."

Yesterday I made him a "Memory Game" out of paper and used pizza boxes. We pasted "sight words" on the back of the old pizza box and cut them out. Then, we played for an hour while his baby brother was napping. He must have hugged me five times during the game telling me he loved me so much.

I left the dishes in the sink tonite. For some reason that song, "There's always tomorrow" keeps coming into my mind whenever I think about the dishes, but it never came into my mind when I was eating peppermint and practicing with my son. Never. Not once.

Signs and Seasons

The first Shasta Daisy bloomed today. It's a sure sign of summer.

Around here I need signs because the weather is no certain indicator. One day it is summer and the next it is not. June 25 today and what did I make for dinner? Soup. Soup, I tell you! That warm, ambient meal often reserved for autumn and winter. I made broccoli / cheese soup with warm sourdough bread to ward off the chill I felt from the dank clouds hanging in the heavens. At least the broccoli was freshly picked from my garden...another sure sign of summer.

The last two days were warmish. At 76 on Wednesday it felt downright blistering. If the mercury ever hits 80 we all go into a tailspin looking for popsicles and running for the beach.

The hydrangeas are starting to bloom so it must be nearing the 4th of July....

Flutter-Bye

Glitter, flitter, princess crowns
Ruby slippers, fancy gowns.

Kisses, giggles, curly hair
Froggy, doggy, teddy bear.

Cuddles, puddles, sleepy time
Swings and slides and trees to climb.

All too soon you're grown and gone
Off to school with blue jeans on.

By: Sarah L. Garriott

All in the Family

I have two biological brothers. I have two adopted sisters. We became a family the day my parents chose to love us and give us a home.

I have an adopted daughter and a biological son. People have asked me if there is a difference in my love for them? Yes. Yes there is a difference. It is the same kind of difference as if you had asked which do you love more your eyes or your hands? Your ears or your feet? The moon or the stars?

Mother, Father, I am your biological offspring, but what did I inherit from you? I don't have your eyes, your nose, or your mouth. Dad's skin, maybe? Yes. I have dad's ultra-white, freckled skin.

But, I have inherited much from you both.

From my mother I inherited the idea that white bread is poison and I should never eat it. It will turn to paste in my intestinal tract and rob me of nutrients. I should always take vitamin supplements--especially if I slip up and eat white bread or, GASP, sugar.

I also inherited my mother's disdain for day-time television and television in general.

I feel serious guilt if I do not get up and get dressed--"ready for the day"-- by 6 AM. And, truly, that's practically lunch time already for my mom. I'm working on passing on my genetic code to my children. I can't help myself; it's part of my being.

My father loves to fill out forms and so do I. We like to fill in all those fabulous blanks and check all the pertinent boxes that apply. It fills us with ethereal satisfaction. We both shrink from making phone calls to people we barely know. We have tele-phobia.

I believe I and all of my siblings inherited the knowledge that even if no one else loves us--our parents do. My children are lucky; they inherited that, too.

Both of my children are in love with my hair. I never loved my parent's hair. I wonder who they got that from? They stroke my hair, smell my hair, entwine their fingers in my hair and run to it when they are frightened or sleepy. No teddy bears or blankets or binkies for them...only Mama's hair. They must have gotten it from their dad; he loves my hair, too. He calls it, "sparkly."

My mother and I pray and expect an answer--even if that answer comes "someday." I'm waiting to see if that gene will blossom in my children or not.

Gardening, planting, nurturing, harvesting and preserving--all of these activities are hard-wired into my genetic code as they were in generation upon generation before me. I must garden or I am not. To see my children digging and harvesting with me reassures me that the legacy of reveling in spring blossoms, summer buds and autumn's harvest will be passed on.

My daughter has my genetic love for words. She is six. My son has inherited my ultra-white, freckled skin. He is three.

Neither of them has my eyes, but even if they did...we'd all see things differently.

Sarah L. Garriott