Autumn Splendor

"The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on."

---Emily Dickinson

Fall has always held a sort of magical quality for me. I almost experience sensory overload from the intensity of the colors. I can be walking along, and suddenly my eyes will be accosted by a mound of chrysanthemums so yellow they take my breath away. Paired with the homespun orange of pumpkins, the bold beauty of these flashy flowers simply stuns me.

The same can be said of fall foliage. I recently paid a visit to Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, where the trees teem with color. It is difficult to drive because the trees crowd the sides of the roads competing for attention with a gaudy spectacle of orange, yellow, and scarlet. It was almost too much to take in. On the other hand, here on the western Oklahoma prairie, fall puts on a more modest, though no less beautiful, show. Here trees hover along creek banks, and out of a tangle of vegetation, a fiery yellow cottonwood will erupt. Somehow those sporadic, unexpected flashes of beauty are more intense than a whole forest of autumn hues.

Hopeful Things

Recently I was traversing the family farm in our ATV. The drought-stricken terrain was a rough ocean of native grasses, yellow and parched. The view was broken by the occasional renegade mesquite that had somehow avoided the whining blade of my husband's predatory chain saw. In the distance stately cottonwood trees stood like leafy sentinels, shimmering in the breeze. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a clump of majestic purple flowers rose out of the prairie and took me by surprise. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dry, colorless land, and the bold, lavish color of the flowers made me stop and marvel. As I gazed over the land, I noticed splashes of purple grew like beacons in a sea of mediocrity. The farm had not seen significant rainfall in over a year; yet flowers as beautiful as any sold in a garden center greenhouse dotted the earth.

Suddenly I could imagine myself in another place and time. I could have been a pioneer woman crossing the prairie, following the dreams of a husband with wanderlust. Having left the comforts of home and family in the east, what could have given me the courage to continue the journey to an unknown, uncertain future? Hope would be the motivator, hope in the form of a clump of purple flowers punctuating the prairie with unprecedented beauty.

Four Fabulous Reads

Prayers for Sale by Sandra Dallas: After reading the first three pages of this book, I was emailing others to tell them that they had to read this book. Rarely do I read a book that hooks me so completely in the first chapter. The story is set in a tiny gold-mining settlement in the Colorado Rocky Mountains during the Great Depression. It tells the story of an elderly woman who befriends a young woman who is a somewhat naive newcomer to the area. Their friendship begins with the love of quilting and solidifies through stories of their personal lives. There is even a bit of mystery involved. If you love historical fiction or quilting, give this one a try.

The Sweet By and By by Todd Johnson: One of the marks of a good book is the pearls of wisdom or quotable lines that you can keep with you long after you have finished the book. This book has both. The book focuses on a diverse set of women of different ages, races, and backgrounds. The main character is a Black woman named Lorraine. Lorraine is a single mother who is an LPN at a nursing home. She is the source of strength and sometimes substitute family for two of her elderly patients. Once when her daughter asks how she can work in a nursing home and remain sane, Lorraine says, "Honey, if all I saw was what's right on top, they would all look the same to me. All of em old and can't do nothin, some can't even talk. No, you got to look harder than that." What sound advice for us all! Readers of this book may just start to look at not only the elderly but also everyone who is a little different in a more accepting and empathetic way.

Angelina's Bachelors by Brian O'Reilly: If you love to cook and like a good story, then this book should appeal to you. It tells the story of a widow searching for a way to combine a lifelong dream with making a living. When Angelina is widowed in her thirties, she also loses her job. Alone and broke, she uses her love of cooking to start a new life. She finds bachelors willing to pay for home-cooked meals six days a week. Each meal is described in detail followed by the recipes. The food is Italian and not for the novice cook. The story develops further with more conflict and of course a happy ending.

Nothing Daunted, The Unexpected Education of Two Society Girls in the West by Dorothy Wickenden: Using her grandmother's journal and other sources, the author recreates the adventures of two upper class young women from Connecticut who go to the wilds of Colorado in 1916 to teach school. Dorothy Woodruff and Rosamund Underwood lived a life of privilege. They were well educated and well traveled, but expectations for woman of their time were low. Marriage, children, and social obligations were their predetermined future until they answered an ad for teachers in rural Colorado. Neither of them had ever taught school. In fact, no woman in their social set had ever earned a living. Yearning for something different and meaningful, they set off for a poor settlement in Colorado where they became the sole teachers for a new school. Living with a local family and riding horses to school each day, the young women encountered a culture completely different from their own. While dealing with poverty-stricken children and learning self sufficiency, they succeeded in acquiring lifelong friends and in making a lasting difference in the lives of the children they taught. Full of the history of the time, the book chronicles a presidential election and comments on women's rights. This book is a must for history buffs and an inspiring story for anyone.

A Weighty Issue

I have been gaining and losing the same 20 pounds for years now. Every time I shed the excess weight, I vow to never let those hated pounds adhere to my body again. But of course, about two years later, they are back in all their hefty glory. The persistence of that obstinate weight to cling to my 5'4" frame like a magnet has made me reconsider this weighty conundrum.

I readily admit that I am part of the problem, maybe even the majority of the problem. I love to cook and eat, and I am what one might even consider an emotional eater. Celebrations require celebratory meals, and I have never encountered a problem that could not be made better, at least temporarily, by a Hershey Bar. So I take responsibility for my indiscretions. However, (and I know I sound like a whiner here) genetics does play a part in people's body sizes. If that is not true, tell me why almost every woman I know looks like her mother. Show me a fat woman, and you can almost always guarantee a fat daughter is lurking in her future. Don't get me wrong. I am not saying blame our mothers. Heaven knows they probably inherited the queen-sized handicap themselves.

Family traits aside, experts and weight-loss gurus always have a new solution to the body-mass issue. Body fat is big business, no pun intended. Many, many doctors, dietitians, ans self-proclaimed diet experts are literally living off the fat of the land. Did you ever stop to think that if all of us fat-afflicted people were to be cured of the obesity bug, those diet peddlers would be out of business? The truth is that most of those pills, potions, and commercial diets do work, temporarily. But none of them can guarantee permanent solutions, and they are expensive. A couple of years ago, I tried Weight Watchers. The weight did melt away, but one day it dawned on me that I could starve for free. So I quit the club and lost the weight on my own.

Another thing that bothers me is society's obsession with weight. Certain companies and individuals are absolutely predatory in their "mission" to help the obese. A prime example of this fat baiting for profit is the TV show The Biggest Loser. Now I know the show is wildly popular, and I have many friends who love it. But I cannot bear to watch it. Dressing obese people up in skimpy gym clothes and having them bear their souls on national TV seems sadistic to me. I know people say they watch the show for inspiration, but when I see a skinny little diet coach yell at some unfortunate fatty stumbling along on a treadmill, I am embarrassed and appalled! Nevertheless, long lines of fat people wait for hours to audition for the show. Go figure.

I am currently at the top of my twenty-pound problem. I am down to to a handful of outfits that I can comfortably wear, and I am even beginning to have fat dreams. So it is time to pull out the diet plans again. Should I count carbs, calories, or fat grams? Maybe I will give Weight Watchers another try. One thing is for sure: if I don't do something, you may soon see me sporting spandex on Tuesday nights on NBC.

Mid-Summer Musings

The Oven Bird


by Robert Frost



There is a singer everyone has heard,

Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,

Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

He says that leaves are old and that for flowers

Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

He says the early petal-fall is past

When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers

On sunny days a moment overcast;

And comes that other fall we name the fall.

He says the highway dust is over all.

The bird would cease and be as other birds

But that he knows in singing not to sing.

The question that he frames in all but words

Is what to make of a diminished thing.



At this time of year, embroiled in the unrelenting and hopeless heat of mid-summer, I always think of Frost's poem. Indeed the flowers have grown old but still bravely put up a faded front on leggy stems while dust from the July drought tarnishes the earth. What do we "make of a diminished thing" when the promise of spring has passed? Those optimists among us will look upon this time of persecuting heat as a step toward the mellowness of autumn when colors are burnished and the sunlight is soft. Literalists will probably take this pre-fall season to clean out those diminished things and sell them in a garage sale; after all, one person's diminished thing is another person's bargain, so to speak.

I, on the other hand, see Frost's poem as a question about life. What do you do when you have more years behind you than ahead of you? What can you make of the mid-summer of life? My solution to these dilemmas is grandchildren. I had this epiphany recently while watching my little grandson play in the water sprinkler in the midst of an oppressive heat wave. To him I am not diminished at all; I am just Granny, someone who loves him unconditionally and who will patiently watch him cavort through this early spring of his life. He is not even in bloom yet; in fact, he is still a bud, full of hope and promise. As I watched him dance in the shimmering spray, I glimpsed the man he will become, a tall, handsome fellow waiting in the autumn of my life.


A good poem will do that for you--give you new ways of looking at the world!

Another Glorious Wedding

Gentle summer breezes, a lush garden, and a touch of nostalgia combined on a glorious summer evening to create the magical setting of my son and daughter-in-law's wedding. The beautiful bride, elegant in ivory lace, and the handsome groom, clad in a dark tuxedo, exchanged vows just as the sun was setting, juxtaposing the ending of an early June day with the beginning of their new life together. Childhood sweethearts, they had been inseparable throughout high school and college. Now they were ready to take on the adult world hand-in-hand, promising to love, cherish, and support each other through all of life's joys and sorrows. Hundreds of friends and family came to bear witness to the event; after all, everyone felt a vested interest in these two young people, having watched them grow up and mature into capable adults.

Attended by several of their best friends as bridesmaids and groomsmen, the couple pledged their love in the beautiful garden in front of a backdrop draped in lavender. Following a traditional yet very personal ceremony, came a celebration under the stars including music, dancing, hors d'oeuvres, and toasts to the bride and groom. Tables were laden with fresh flowers in antique vases and adorned with antique collectibles such as vintage jewelry and dishes. Each lady received a vintage handkerchief to wipe away tears of joy. The music included an eclectic mix from classics to modern pop. Guests visited and danced the night away until shortly before midnight when the bride tossed her bouquet and the couple departed for their honeymoon in a car festooned with streamers and messages of good will.

This beautiful wedding, filled with items from the past and hopes for the future, was perfect for a modern couple grounded in tradition. They will forge a life together anchored by family and by faith in good times to come.

Cruising the Canyon

A few years ago, my daughter gave me a book called 1,000 Places to See Before You Die. Being an avid traveler, I decided that visiting those destinations was a worthy if impossible goal. So far, I have visited only 30 of the 1,000 places; however, I have discovered a few places in my travels that really should be included on anyone's bucket list even though they are not included in the book. One such place is Chaco Canyon. Recently my husband, our son, and I journeyed to Northwestern New Mexico to view the ancient ruins at Chaco Canyon. We were awestruck!
The ruins are part of ancient Puebloan culture and are located on the Navajo Reservation near Farmington, New Mexico. The site is maintained by the National Park Service, and according to the web site, the roads to the National Historical Park are just barely passable. In fact the web site warns visitors not to rely on GPS devices. After traversing miles and miles of unpaved, bone-rattling roads, we decided that the National Park Service's description of the route was vastly understated. After creeping over washboard quality trails at a maximum of 20 mph, we began to have doubts about our quest to see the ruins. But I am so glad we persevered.
The ruins comprise several Great Houses, which are multi-story stone buildings consisting of hundreds of rooms. The Great Houses date back 1,000 years, and judging from the different styles of masonry in each building, they were constructed over hundreds of years. Even more amazing were the huge circular kivas. They look like modern-day stadiums. No one is exactly sure what took place in the kivas, but experts believe they were possibly used for religious ceremonies.
Walking where those ancient people lived, worked, and celebrated was an experience unequaled in my lifetime. I can't help but speculate on the lives that took place there and admire a culture so advanced that they could build such imposing structures without the aid of modern machinery. If the author of 1,000 Places to See Before You Die ever visits Chaco Canyon, I think she will surely have to revise her book.

Me and My Piano

I am pursuing a life-long dream. No, I am not taking a round-the-world cruise or running the Boston Marathon. I am learning to play the piano. I know that when many people read this, the old adage about old dogs and new tricks will come to mind. In fact, my piano teacher told me before I embarked on this adventure that adults with no prior music training find learning to play the piano very difficult. Well, I never thought it would be easy, but I figured it was now or never. While my youth has faded, I still have a semi-functioning brain, and it could use the exercise.

Speaking of age, the majority of piano players learned during childhood. They can hardly remember a time when they did not know how to play. I was not so fortunate. As a child, I remember longing to take piano lessons, but I was never allowed to do so. The reasons were never very clear to me. Maybe it was religious reasons, maybe it was money, or maybe it was the fact that I am the youngest of eight children, and my parents were reluctant to do for me what they did not do for my older siblings. Probably one reason was that my mother did not drive and had no way to get me to lessons. I would have gladly ridden my bike. Whatever the reason, I grew up feeling like I had missed out on something very basic. So when I had my own children, I made sure that they took piano lessons. Two of my children looked upon the lessons as the gift that I intended it to be, but my other child had a somewhat lower opinion of the whole thing. I still contend that sometime in the future years he will thank me.

When the children grew up and moved away, the piano sat forlornly in my living room collecting dust and knicknacks. Then one day I heard a colleague who is my age talking about taking piano lessons, and I thought, "Why not me?" So I dusted off the piano and called the teacher. This was right before Christmas, and I thought, "Next year, maybe I will be able to play Christmas songs." The following January I started my piano-playing odyssey. And it has been quite a journey.

First, I had to learn to read music, which consists of notes and symbols. Then what was in my brain had to be transferred to my hands. This is where it became tricky. I have two hands, but apparently my left hand had been added to my body only for symmetry because it was totally useless. Nevertheless, my left hand had to be called into action and made to perform independently from my right hand. I needed either to have two brains or to be able to split the one I have. To add to the confusion are all the little symbols that I have to remember. For instance, there are rests. A rest says stop playing for a number of beats. The rests look like panama hats and ink splotches. The length of the rest depends on the size of the splotch or whether the hat is upside down or right side up, which is a lot to translate in the middle of a song.

Interpreting the written music aside, probably the most perplexing thing about playing the piano is the rhythms. I have always been clumsy and nonathletic,so I appear to have no rhythm. However, I have discovered that I do have rhythm living deep inside me. It just takes a monumental effort to get it out. For instance, a couple of weeks ago, I was learning a new song called "Just Struttin' Along." It has a tricky, bluesy kind of rhythm, and as I played the song, I could feel the rhythm inside me, and sometimes during the course of the song, it almost surfaced. Both hands began to fall into the swing of things, at least enough to give me hope.

As for playing Christmas songs--I have played beautiful holiday music the last two Christmases. I may not have always played the music correctly, but my joy and sense of accomplishment were right on key.

Wind Woes

The wind blew here in Western Oklahoma last week. Actually that is an understatement; it was an all-out atmospheric assault. The wind screeched around corners, rattled doors and windows, uprooted trees, and yanked shingles from roofs. Children and small animals were in serious danger of being swept away. The opening scenes in The Wizard of Oz appeared like gentle breezes in comparison to the pounding gusts we endured.

One would think that such a day would necessitate a cessation of activity since semi-trucks were being toppled like Tonka toys. Incredibly we hardy Western Oklahomans just soldiered on. Of course we exclaimed and complained over the wind, but staying home and calling off scheduled events never occurred to us. This is the Great Plains, after all. We just drove down the highways with a death grip on the steering wheel and lowerd our heads and leaned into the wind. A little piece of nasty weather is just the price we pay for wide-open spaces and sparkling-clean air. We will take those blustery days over claustophobia-inducing mountains or lung-polluting smog any day.

Prairie Spring

Landscapes scarred by

Predatory flames,

Tender plants

Withered on windy plains,

Dust and desolation.

Hopes rise on cloud banks.

For liquid life

we offer thanks.

Rain.

Aches and Pains

When I was younger, I remember being impatient with slow-moving older people. I bore them no ill will; it's just that I had places to go and things to accomplish. There was no time in my life for dawdling. I even recall noting with interest the sort-of lopsided walk of the elderly. While that slow, favor-one-side shuffle looked painful, I never took the time to truly empathize.

One of the English textbooks I used to teach from had a story about a journalist who tried to live the life of an elderly woman so she could experience first hand the travails of having an aging body that no longer worked the way it once had. She bound her knees to simulate stiff joints, making it almost impossible do things like step off of curbs with any agility. I remember admiring the journalist for her tenacity in getting the story right, but the hardships the elderly she was writing about did not really register with me.

Well, the tables have turned. Although I am not elderly, I can see senior citizenry on the not-so-distant horizon. And as everyone of a certain age knows, a body that has functioned for decades without a major glitch can suddenly turn on its owner. In short, I have sciatica, and believe me, it is more than a hitch in my get-along. As someone who has born babies without the benefit of anesthesia, I know pain when I feel it. Sciatica qualifies as genuine, take-your-breath-away pain. Fortunately, according to WebMD and the neurosurgeon I saw a couple of years ago, it is not particularly serious. Apparently serious pain does not always equal a serious problem. In fact, the problem goes away eventually with some very benign intervention. But here's the catch; it sometimes returns when you least expect it. That is what happened to me. I am now suffering with my second bout of this plague.

So as I lounge on my ice pack, I know more pain-free days are on the way. I just fear to contemplate what other age-related inconveniences lie in wait for me down the road. One thing is for sure though: I have greater respect for all sufferers of pain and disability. I can now say, "I have been there, done that, and I feel their pain."

Chasing Happiness

On my way to work this morning, I was feeling down. The tenuous grasp we humans have on peace and security was weighing on me. We can spend years securing whatever our idea of a good life is, and just like a Jenga tower, if one piece is misplaced, the whole thing topples. If our well-being is a slave to fate, then we are literally just one illness, one job, one relationship failure, or one misfortune of any kind away from disaster. There has to be a better answer. Happiness has to be more than having all our ducks in a row, so to speak.

I decided to explore the subject of happiness with my 9:30 class. I often give my students famous quotes to write about in their journals, so I Googled happiness quotes looking for something to inspire them and to give me some insight into the elusive nature of happiness. It seems that everybody who is anybody has something to say about happiness; however, two quotes in particular caught my attention. Abraham Lincoln said, "Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be," and Anne Frank said, "Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy." Both of these quotes say that happiness is up to the individual. In other words, we, not fate, are the masters of our own happiness!

We humans spend a great deal of time contemplating and seeking happiness. Here in the United States, our Declaration of Independence even says that the pursuit of happiness is an inalienable right, not happiness itself, but the pursuit of it. And pursue it we do. In fact, the subject of happiness is ubiquitous in the media. Everything from song lyrics to advertising slogans capitalize on our desire for happiness. Just this evening, I encountered two unusual perspectives on happiness. First I was watching a TV show where a character was asked if she was happy. Her reply was that now that she was on antidepressants and anxiety medication happiness was a possibility. The second reference came from the book The Alchemist. The main character was given a spoon with two drops of oil in it. He could explore and enjoy himself as long as he did not spill the oil. Of course, he spilled the oil. A wise man said to him, "The secret of happiness is to see the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon." It seems to me that both examples are saying that happiness is possible but rare.

In contemplating the idea of the rarity of happiness, I decided to make a list of things that bring me happiness. It turned out to be a lengthy list. Of course, first would have to be family togetherness. When my husband and I have all our adult children, their spouses, and the grandchildren together, I experience a deep sense of well-being and satisfaction. At those moments, I have not only pursued but also captured happiness.

However, the connection between children and happiness is a complicated one. If love equals happiness, then children definitely make us happy. The paradox here is that the same fierce all-encompassing love we feel for our children can also be painful. Having children is like having an open wound. Every pain our children experience causes the wound to bleed and us to suffer. Happiness, ironically, is not always happy.

My job also makes me happy. Sometimes when I am teaching English or literature and interacting with my students, I am truly in the happiness zone. Happiness also resides in my piano. Although I cannot play very well, the music I do make brings me joy. Making beautiful items such as greeting cards and quilts fills me with happiness. Good books and flowers are also at the top of my happiness list. A few years ago, I went on a mission trip to Mexico and experienced a happiness high from giving to others. Truly when I think about it, happiness does abound. As Anne Frank said, we just have to notice it.

Happiness does not have to be some elusive, abstract quality that is always just beyond our grasp. Like Abraham Lincoln advised, we can make up our minds to be happy. How empowering is that!

Stuff and Nonsense

I hate housework. That said, I love a clean house; therefore, I regularly engage in that onerous activity. All cleaning chores from the benign and practically effortless act of dusting to the disgusting and arduous task of bathroom scrubbing are equally repugnant to me. I'm not sure, but probably the transitory results are why I shun housework. Mop a floor, and one spill later, it's ready to be mopped again.
When my children were small, I would attempt to clean the whole house in one fell swoop once a week. By the time I finished the last chore, the first room I had cleaned would be strewn with toys and food and all manner of childhood detritus. I naively thought that when my children grew up my house while certainly lonelier would be cleaner. However, I have discovered an inverse relationship between childhood clutter and adult junk. As my children's clutter decreased, my and my husband's junk increased. You see, we have become afflicted with that most dreaded of all household maladies, hoarding. Yes, we have become hoarders.
Drawers, cabinets, closets, and the attic all bulge with stuff. And since all built-in storage in our house is full to overflowing, we have resorted to boxes and plastic storage bins. Soon we may have to rent space to accommodate our obsession.
In my saner and more inspired moments, I know there are practical solutions: garage sales, charities, and even a trash dumpster in the alley. In fact, we have set aside about 50 books for the library book sale, pulled from the kitchen cupboard at least 20 florist vases for the local thrift shop, and even vowed to trash the gift bags from Christmas 1985. It's follow-through that we lack. After we haul out a few loads of superfluous possessions, our interest flags, and we start filling in the empty spaces again.
I guess I could philosophically justify our actions by saying our acquisition of things is a metaphor for the longing we feel for the days when our children and their activities filled our house. On the other hand, we probably are just lazy and a tad compulsive.

Spring Musings

March has arrived, so spring can't be far behind. Goodbye snow and ice. Goodbye naked trees and depressing brown grass. The earth and I are ready to shake off the winter doldrums and dwell in living color. The promise and miracle of spring have been written about so much that it almost seems trite to mention them again, and I promised myself I would not do it. But two weeks ago, the snow in my front yard melted, and lo and behold daffodils shoots were hiding beneath a snowdrift. And I was struck all over again by the tenacity of spring.

The buds on the trees in my yard bulge with promise while the TV meterologists are gearing up for spring thunderstorms. Before we know it, the mockingbirds will be back to claim their territory in my front yard and begin their annual assault on my poor old tom cat. The days are longer now, and with those extra hours of daylight and almost balmy breezes, my thoughts turn to spring planting. I peruse the nursery catalogs and twirl the seed racks at local stores. In my mind my bare and bereft flower beds burgeon with lush vegetation and a veritable kalaidescoe of flowers. So I buy the seeds and order the plants. My enthusiasm is only slightly dulled when the seed packet contains tiny, almost microscopic husks, and dormant sticks arrive from the mail-order nursery. In my mind's eye I still see a potential paradise.

I know that in a few months, weeds and reality will have set in. But for now I dwell in possibility. That is what spring does for us. We see hope in a daffodil shoot, and that hope transfers to other parts of life. If a fragile flower can fight its way through a shroud of snow, we can persevere.

Wedding Bells Ring in Georgia

My family just attended the storybook wedding of my daughter. She and her wonderful fiance got married in a tiny white chapel in rural Georgia in front of close friends and family. The elegant long dresses and tuxedos and red roses contrasted with the small, rustic sanctuary. Afterward, the wedding party and guests enjoyed a glorious meal at a former cotton plantation built in 1852. The nights before and after the wedding, family and members of the wedding lodged at a huge log cabin in the woods complete with a running stream a few yards outside the back door. We felt as if we were on a movie set or in a romantic novel.
When we arrived home, my husband apprehensively asked for the total bill for the wedding extravaganza. When I told him, he half jokingly said, "I didn't know I had that much money!" To which I replied, "Well, you don't anymore." Upon further consideration, he said, "You know, that would have made a nice down payment on a house for them." Men can be so maddeningly practical and literal minded! Generous father that he is, he had no qualms about spending money on his daughter; it's just that he has very little use for formals and flowers.
I, on the other hand, see the wedding celebration as a beautiful gift not only to our daughter and her husband but also to our entire family. For one thing, we were all together for one unique and fabulous weekend. We will always have the memories of this beautiful time together.
I am a firm believer in celebrations. Life is hard. Day-to-day problems wear away at us all. People usually can't avoid life's travails, but they can choose to savor the good parts of life and celebrate the bonds that make life precious. Even the Bible tells us that Jesus celebrated at a wedding. That is where He performed His first recorded miracle. Indeed, there is something miraculous about a wedding!

Gum Story

I recently went to the dentist. Unlike most people, I truly do not mind a dentist appointment. The hygienist lays me back in a cozy chair, and I practically fall asleep while she tinkers around in my mouth. In contrast to visits to other medical professionals who insist that I lower this number and take that pill, a visit to the dentist is a life-affirming, ego-boosting experience. I always receive a "Good job; keep up the good work," because you see, I have good gums. Granted, I do not have picket-fence straight teeth or a dazzling white smile. Far from it, but because of the superlative quality of my gums, my teeth will be in my mouth for the duration. If only the rest of my life could be so positive.

I am at the age where I am just on the cusp of senior citizenry, where within a decade Social Security will be more than just an annoying deduction from my paycheck. I have reached the point in life where I am aggressively courted by the likes of AARP and where the teenage cashier at the movie theater looks me up and down and tentatively asks, "Senior citizen discount?" Although ten percent off of regular prices is okay, other aspects of the aging process are not so cheery. It seems that when people reach a certain age, there are a barrage of preventive medical tests that must be endured and passed. When I was younger, I thought the indecent exposure involved in pregnancy and childbirth were the ultimate humiliations. Well, I was wrong. Some of the procedures we people of a mature age must undergo would make an airport TSA agent blush.

Medical tests aside, the world offers plenty more for me to fret about. Turn on any newscast or pick up any newspaper, and we find that the polar ice caps are melting, the rainforests are disappearing, and that we must reduce our carbon footprint (whatever that is) before catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions befalls us. Add to that all the political strife with Democrats and Republicans locked in a perpetual battle over how to spend or mispend our tax dollars while talking political heads crowd the airways pontificating on more doom and gloom. And on and on...

By the way, did I mention that I have excellent gums?