Uncategorized

A Special Day for Special People

/ authordianemhow / 5 Comments

To father a child is not the same as to serve the role of a Dad.   My respect for the love, caring and extraordinary effort that it takes to perform the duties of a Dad grows each day.

My own father rose early every morning and labored hard to bring home enough pay to keep food on the table for a large family.  When not at his place of employment, he struggled to keep our car functioning, often with what seemed like bubble gum and bandaids.  In the silence of his mind, he worried about unpaid bills, the rearing of his many offsprings and the health of his aging parents and in-laws.

There was no time to dwell upon unfulfilled dreams.  A few dollars left at the end of a paycheck meant he could buy a bag of apples or watermelon from a produce stand.  Life was not easy for my dad.  He did the best he could.  He taught his children to respect others, to be polite and gracious, to be thankful for every gift and not complain.  For this, I will always be grateful.  I miss my Dad.

My husband also is a Dad, a very good Dad.  He was not priviledged to have a Dad when he was a child.  Yet, somehow, he learned the importance of the role.  For forty years, he has been present and active in his daughter’s life.  I measure the success of his efforts by the person Laura has become.  He taught her to believe in herself and have the confidence to succeed in whatever she chooses to pursue.  They spend many hours a week staying connected and sharing the joys and frustrations of life.

So I take this opportunity to remember my father fondly for the years of caring and guiding me into adulthood.  I thank my husband for the commitment he’s made to being a wonderful Dad.

I extend a round of applause to my brothers, Rob, Larry and Craig, and nephews, Robby, Jeff, David and Kyle.  It makes me proud every day as I watch you shine in this significant and challenging role with your own children.  We are blessed that you have taken your role to heart and make such a difference in our world.  Hope I didn’t forget someone, but remember, I’m over sixty now and there is that senior moment thing 🙂

Do you have a memory or special story to share about your Dad?  I’d love to hear about him.

Brain Power

/ authordianemhow / Leave a comment

The human mind amazes me.  As more gray hair finds it way onto my scalp, my brain continues to function in high gear with few failures and occasionally, almost by accident, I get a little wiser.

Before I retired two years ago, my ability to multi-task surprised even me.  I supervised an office staff of sixteen, prepared reports, served as Safety and Logistics Officer, resolved every personnel issue and equipment malfunction imaginable, and still found time to be a wife, caretaker, and volunteer facilitator.

Now that I am a woman of leisure, I often have to force myself to stifle my need to perform numerous functions at one time.  Take writing, for example.  I have four different projects open on the computer as I draft this blog.  I toggle back and forth frequently as needed.  My upcoming novel, Burning Embers, remains open on my laptop at all times as I work diligently on the rewrites.  At the rate I’m going, it should be completed by 2015.

In the past ten minutes, besides beginning this piece, I emptied the dishwasher, filled it again, prepared the coffee pot for the next brew, went outside and picked up the mail, began preparing lunch and referenced my thesaurus (which resides permanently next to my computer).  Mind you, I realize they are all unimportant, menial tasks, yet, not bad for a sixty-year old mind in a short period of time.

I once challenged myself to see if I could function with a solitary thought for more than five minutes.  The longest attempt neared forty-five seconds

In full disclosure, one of the items is not a writing assignment.  It is a game called FreeCell.  My husband and daughter think I am addicted to it.  I tell them I am trying to keep my brain cells active, which I am.  That appeases them briefly, but does not change their assumption.

This card game challenges the player to unscramble the order of the cards before running out of moves.  I am embarrassed to mention how many of these games I have played, but it has been two years and whenever I am bored or watching television, I am competing to raise my success score, which has been stuck at 65%.

I have proof that this hobby stimulates my brain.

One of the options on the game allows the player to undo the last move and try another.  I recently realized that if I utilize that function and repeat it multiple times, I can win nearly every game.  Once I opened my mind to the possibility, it changed my entire perspective about the game.  Instead of hitting the button that says, start a new game when I get stuck, I challenge myself to stick with each session until I succeed.  I have won all but one of the last twenty-five games.

One of the courses I facilitated for years included a poster that said CYA (check your assumptions).  I assumed that losing was a normal outcome of the game.  I wonder how many times in my life I have limited my success without realizing it.

Have any of you ever found that by changing their belief about something, it opened up new possibilities.  I’d love to hear from you about your challenge or Aha moment.

A Treasured Gift

/ authordianemhow / Leave a comment

 

The Treasured Gift

            I put little value on material things.  I am a terrible shopper and find no enjoyment in browsing the racks of a clothing store.  Other than my wedding and engagement rings and a simple watch, my jewelry collection consists of a few necklaces given to me by my husband and daughter.

Early in my marriage, I began buying a spoon from each state I visited.  They, hang in a shadow box on the wall of our dining room.  I look at them occasionally when I dust the case.  Family and friends have given me other items that are displayed in a curio cabinet in the living room.  The sentiment far outweighs the monetary value of my earthly possessions.

I prefer to give gifts rather than receive them.  For me, it is the thought that counts.  I enjoy watching someone’s eyes light up when they open an unexpected package.  That brings me joy more than anything else.

The office where I worked participated in a secret Santa gift exchange one Christmas.  About three weeks before the holiday party, each person wrote down their name and three inexpensive items he or she desired.  I seldom came prepared with a well-thought out selection.  Often I ended up with a gift card or a pair of gloves.  I will never forget the enjoyment of opening a gift that I knew I would always treasure.

I carefully picked up the eight-by-ten, simply-wrapped package trying to anticipate its contents.  As I peeled the paper back, I saw a plain black plastic case wrapped in cellophane.  I struggled to remove the clear cover, more puzzled than ever.

I could not imagine what would come in such an unusual container.  My eyes widened in delight at the contents.  A professional assortment of writing pens made me grin like a child.  Not only were there six pens, including a fountain pen with cartridges, there were many refills for each.  It was a gift that someone selected with thought and love.  I knew immediately who my secret Santa had been.  My friend and co-worker, Joyce Richard, recognized the perfect gift for a writer.

I spend many hours on my laptop, working on my novel, but there is nothing that can replace a smooth writing pen and a blank piece of paper.  I have written many thoughts on scraps of discarded paper, tissues, on the corners of a newspaper and even the palm of my hand.  I can’t imagine having all these thoughts in my mind and not being able to write them down.

Until recent years, you couldn’t stuff a computer in your pocket or the bottom of your purse, ready to support you whenever the need arises.  Maybe someday I’ll catch up with the progress made in electronics.  Until then (and probably after), I’ll continue to cherish the wonderful selection of pens and the comfort they bring me when I fill my pages with thoughts.

The Good Stuff in the Middle is Important Too

/ authordianemhow / Leave a comment

The late Andy Rooney once said, “I don’t pick subjects as much as they pick me.”  It was easy to relate to this quote because I believe I write best when I am passionate about a subject.  That unexpected flicker of inspiration hits me and my pen takes over the paper.  Often, it is not something with which I am familiar, rather an urge so strong it drives me to research the information needed to create an interesting article.

Mr. Rooney filled the radio waves with his wisdom for many years.  While I don’t proclaim to know him well enough to put words in his mouth, it wouldn’t surprise me if he agreed with my belief that life is like an Oreo Cookie; it’s the stuff that’s in the middle that counts.

An Oreo is inviting to the eye and hard to resist.  I’m sure the manufactuer designed it to entice weak souls like myself.  Yet, people love the center of the Oreo Cookie so much that the company makes a double stuffed version.  The cookie part that was designed to appeal to the eye is good too, but the inside stuff is sweeter and more delectable.  Even my grand dog thinks so.

As a recent retiree, I have meditated upon my foolish waste of valuable days throughout my life, when I planned months ahead for a vacation, counting the days until I would be able to venture off to some remote location to relax and enjoy life to the fullest.  The vacation was enjoyable, but it would come and go so fast, that I would start planning for the next one.

What I have realized is that all the days leading up to the vacation and afterwards were just as important, if not more memorable in many ways.  The rising early to get to work and open the office, the rushing from meeting to meeting, resolving crisis after crisis, those were the times that I really shined and they defined my place in society and my value to my family.

Much like the vacations I planned, the retirement I envisioned was one that included traveling and freedom to accomplish great things.  Reality is quite different.  While I have been able to travel a little and have written two books, I realize there are many days in between that are important, the double stuff filling so to speak.  I don’t want to waste any more time waiting for that special moment to occur.  I’m trying to think of each day as an opportunity to make a difference in some way.  Some days I’m successful and others, well, let’s say there is room for improvement.

I think Mr. Rooney lived as if every day was the most important day of his life.  He listened to his inner voice that spoke to him and urged him to write about a particular subject whenever the notion struck him.  I think he probably enjoyed the special events, the fancy designed cookie, as much as anyone else, but I believe he valued the double stuffed center in a way that made his entire life special.

Which part do you like best?

Humor Wins

/ authordianemhow / 1 Comment

Humor has a way of creeping into my brain at the most inopportune times.  I like to think that I display appropriate behavior most of the time, but on at least one occasion, I embarrassed myself and my daughter with uncontrollable giggling.  In order to understand how a visual memory made me look like a fool, I have to share a story.

My husband and I were visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Georgia.  On a whim, we decided to visit Babyland General Hospital, the birthplace of Cabbage Patch Kids, in Cleveland, Georgia.  Yes, there really is such a place, complete with nurses, doctors and orderlies.

The dolls born in this unique location are hand-made of cloth.  They have fat faces and and wide-opened arms.  Some are born bald and some have curly or wavy heads of hair.  They originate in a large cabbage patch under the Magic Crystal Tree.  When a family decides to adopt one of the kids, a nurse announces “Cabbage dilation; all staff on standby.”

The contractions are timed and when the birth is imminent, a doctor appears and listens to the cabbage with a stethoscope.  He or she then injects it with “Imagicillin”, yanks the nude baby from the patch and cameras flash, recording the remarkable event.  (Really, I’m not making this up.)

The newborn birthed on our visit that day had exaggerated dimples, much like the Pillsbury dough boy, and a full head of bright, red hair that looked as if someone pressed their fingers firmly on the baby’s head to make ripples that were evenly distributed on both sides of the head.  The bizarre and funny experience apparently burned an image in my subconscious only to manifested itself later.

Fast forward a few days after vacation.  My daughter, in the process of selecting a realtor to sell her home, invited me join her when a potential broker made his pitch to her.  I stood in the living room when Laura answered the door to let the agent in.  In walked an adult version of the Cabbage Patch Doll birthed during our visit to Georgia.  The man had plump, peach cheeks with huge dimples and red wavy hair split down the center of his head.

My mind immediately revisited the process of his head being yanked out of the cabbage patch.  I felt the strong urge creep from my stomach and nearly escaped my mouth before I excused myself and rushed to the bathroom.

I turned on the water in hopes that it would drown out the uncontrollable laughter.  I tried to compose myself with little success.  After five or ten minutes, I exited the bathroom and took a seat next to my daughter as she sat listening to the man explain why the company he represented should list her home.

Unable to look directly at the realtor without losing control, I tried to focus on a picture hanging on the wall, sucked in my cheeks and clenched my jaw in hopes that I would not repeat my inappropriate behavior.  The second the interview was over and Laura escorted the man out the door, I fell to the floor in hysteria.  To this day, I cannot think about the face without breaking into unconstrained laughter.

I’d like to think I am not alone in having such an embarrassing moment.  Sometimes humor takes control and can’t be quieted.  I’d love to hear from you if you can relate.

Kids Rule

/ authordianemhow / Leave a comment

Kids rule when it comes to prioritizing life.  A baby that wants to be fed does not understand the need for mom to pay for the groceries first.  The two-year old who has to use the potty wins over the dad’s who desires to wait until the last inning of a baseball game to go to the rest room.  Seldom do the priorities of an adult trump a child’s innocent demands.  The child wins, plain and simple.

I remember when my daughter, Laura, was four years old and she accompanied me on a forty-five minute drive through rush hour traffic to pick up my husband’s pay check from his place of employment.  After many “Are we there yet?” inquiries, we finally made it to our destination.

Since we had been in the car beyond what my daughter considered reasonable, I decided we would stop at the Top Value Stamp store just up the street, so that I could redeem the few books I had accumulated and she could stretch her legs.

For those who do not know, these stamps were small paper coupons given to customers by merchants.  The stamps could be redeemed for toys, personal items, household items and appliances when a book was filled.

With her inseparable companion, a tattered, stuffed dog named Henry, tucked safely under her arm, Laura proceeded to walk around the store looking at the many items.  It took about twenty minute to decide on my selection.  When I finished, we left the store to make the long drive back to our house.

It was nearly dark by the time we arrived in front of the mobile home.  I unhooked the belt from Laura’s car seat and helped her out of the car.

We almost made it to the front door when Laura began whaling at the top of her lungs.

“Henry’s sleeping in the baby bed.” She sobbed uncontrollably as the tears flowed down her cheeks.

There was no need to go any further.  We turned around, got back in the car and drove another forty-five minutes to retrieve the lovable mutt.  We arrived five minutes before the store closed and rushed inside.  Sure enough, as peaceful as a slumbering child, Henry laid in the display baby bed with his head nestled on a pillow and a blanket snuggled up to his brown nose.

Parents know the kid rules when it comes to prioritizing the important things in life.

Easter Gifts

/ authordianemhow / 2 Comments

Easter is a celebration of life, hope and new beginnings.  Christians commemorate the joyful culmination of Holy Week on Sunday.  Churches throughout the world are adorned in white, lavished with lilies, azaleas and tulips all signs of rejoicing.

Much like Christmas, the holiday has prevailed as an opportunity to market goods to those who recognize the spiritual implication of the day and to those who do not participate in the traditional religious observances.

Stores are filled with baskets, colorful plastic eggs and loads of sugary candies.  The Easter bunny is a name nearly every child recognizes and the center of attention on many television commercials.

Does the commercialism of Easter diminish the importance of the season?  When I reminisce about what Easter meant to me as a child, I remember the joy of an Easter egg hunt and baskets filled with plastic grass and goodies.  I also remember the solemnity of Holy Week and the journey of the cross.  Those visions were instilled in me through scripture readings and church services and have not faded over time.

In the fifties, little girls attended church dressed in frilly dresses, tiny white gloves and patent leather shoes.  An adorable bonnet, secured firmly by an elastic band under a chin, adorned a youthful head and a small ivory purse, containing a prayer book and rosary, dangled from her arm.

Little boys wore sharply pressed pants and colorful dress shirts.  Stiff, well-buffed leather shoes were laced tight on their feet.  Many sported fedoras that mimicked their father’s.  Some even wore vests, giving the impression that they soon would be young men, ready to take on the world.

The tradition of dressing your best for church has faded over the years.  Shorts, soccer uniforms and sneakers are acceptable attire in many churches today.  Hats and gloves are nearly obsolete.  It is a reflection of our changing world.  While sometimes I would not be opposed to turning back the clock, I recognize change as necessary, inevitable and occasionally, an unexpected and pleasant surprise.

On Palm Sunday, the church pews were more crowded than usual, something I remember from years past.  It is a cause for jubilation in itself.  It is a sign that those who have drifted away from the church feel a sense of need to return.  It gives me
hope that faith will prevail though all the chaos of our troubled world.

The Catholic Church recently initiated numerous changes to the wording of the Mass. It is challenging to remember to alter responses instilled in me since kindergarten.  I accepted the modifications and try hard to remember to not recite the wrong words.  Change is not easy.

When the priest announced that the vocal reading of the Passion would not take place, I was concerned and confused, fearing another change would somehow diminish the importance of the readings.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

No words were spoken by the handful of young performers as they delivered the significant story in such a manner that caused me to choke back tears.  The silent play gave me a deeper appreciation of the story than a thousand recited words.

The service refreshed my spiritual core and reminded me of the importance of the need to plant seeds of faith in our offspring, to ensure future generations will not lose sight of the meaning of Easter.  It also encouraged me to embrace change.

May each of you have a blessed Easter and may you celebrate life, hope and new beginnings.

.

Man’s Best Friend

/ authordianemhow / 1 Comment

A dog is a man’s best friend.  I’ve heard that said many times over the years.  Recently, someone sent me a photo of a black lab with the following caption:

Put your dog and your spouse in the trunk of a car for an hour.  When you open the trunk, which one is really happy to see you?

The more I thought about it, the harder I laughed.

My fear of dogs kept me from appreciating the love and affection provided by these four-legged companions for many years.  My anxiety was so strong that hearing the chain from a leash approaching behind me would send me into a panic.  Friends and family knew that I would remain sitting in the car until their extended family member was locked securely behind a door.

In full disclosure, I must admit that I even offered up my daughter for protection when a Doberman came charging at me while completing a 10K walk.  What can I say, fear can make a maniac out of a normally protective mother, besides, Laura loved dogs more than people when she was a teenager.

About three years ago, my husband brought home a black lab pup for my daughter.  He was the runt of the litter and cute as any kitten I ever held.  We bonded.  I now have a grand dog who visits on a regular basis, all sixty pounds of him.  He can be playful and affectionate and I am completely comfortable in his presence.  He is definitely a man’s dog, though.  There is an order of precedence, Daniel (Laura’s mate), Wart (my husband), Laura and if no one else offers him the attention, me, but that is ok, because at the end of the day, he is always happy to see one of us even if he has been locked in his cage for an hour or more.

You can read more about Hammie and his playful antics in my book, Peaks and Valleys, which is available on Amazon.com and Kindle.

Diane’s Diversions

/ authordianemhow / 2 Comments

Flowering trees, delightful daffodils, grape hyacinths, these are the joys spring bestows upon me.  My husband, who is an avid gardener, takes pleasure in most colorful blooms that emerge from Mother Nature’s bountiful basket, too.  I say most, but not all.

When small yellow buttons randomly appear in his luscious green lawn, he transforms from cheerful caretaker to the Tasmanian devil.  The moment the first green blade of grass sprouts, he arms himself with a knife in his hip pocket.  At any given time, one can see him charge across the yard, thrust his weapon into the ground, and gouge the persistent intruder until it expires.  With a snarl and pensive grin on his face, he stalks, much like a cat preying on a bird, until he finds his next victim.

It doesn’t help that the neighbor next door does not share the same aversion to what my husband considers a weed.  In fact, the gold perennials camouflage the crab grass quite well in his yard.  My husband, frustrated to the point of taking action one spring, purchased an extra twenty pounds of eradicating compound.  With his trusty spreader in hand, he unfurled the treatment as far as his outstretched arm could reach.

I’ve never quite understood the uncontrollable fury of seeing a dandelion.  To me, there is something quite endearing about the simple floweret.  My heart nearly burst with joy the first time my toddler picked a bouquet and presented it to me with a grin that clearly showed her innocence.  Each spring, the freshly-picked yellow indulgences floated in a bowl of water until they grew limp and were discreetly discarded.  They brought me a delightful diversion as I washed the dishes or cooked dinner.

Are you a lover or hater of dandelions?

Hope in Spring

/ authordianemhow / 2 Comments

My most favorite season of the year is upon us.  Spring symbolizes hope to me.  The drab gray sky that deprived me of the sun’s radiant glow for so many days is now cloaked in azure.  The frigid blasts that kept me prisoner inside a cave of boredom have drifted away leaving occasional gusts of floral bouquets.

The Bradford pears and tulip trees burst with color as the maples and red buds challenge them in a sprint to display their finest apparel.  The robins and cardinals sing merrily as they search for worms to consume.  Crocus and daffodils that had inched their way up through the thawing ground add splashes all around.

There have been enough days into my retirement that such simple images consume my thoughts as I stroll leisurely through the neighborhood.  Pleasant, unrestricted, simple thoughts accompany me under a cloudless sky, warmed by the seventy-something degree temperatures.  Life is good.  I am blessed.

It is only after I return to my house and settle comfortably at my desk, with my laptop and cup of java, and begin to think about my next blog, that the insignificance of my being becomes as clear as the chirp of a nearby bird. 

A dear friend posts a message from her cell phone as she waits in the intensive care unit of a local hospital while her husband balances precariously between life and death, awaiting a new liver.  My heart aches to wave a wand and make things right, yet I have no control, no impact upon the outcome, except to pray.

Another friend directs me to his son’s blog posted from Afghanistan.  A US soldier kills villagers for no apparent reason, escalating the tensions in an already volatile location.  Still fresh on the front burner is the unfortunate burning of Qurans by our country.  No hint of spring surfaced in the words he wrote.  Yet, there was a sign of hope in his son’s stories.  Most significant to me, International Woman’s Day was celebrated in Kandahar.  The concept of this event taking place in a country unaccustomed to affording women rights, gives hope that the influences our country has made will continue to grow like the tulips that thrive during a early spring snow fall.

Like a snow globe shaken vigorously, the perspective of my intentions is clouded by the unsettling emails.  How insignificant my attempt to touch a world that yearns for so much more than I have to offer.  Doubts about my blog stir in my mind as the messages settle into my thoughts.  I hear an old familiar voice call out “Who do you think you are?  You are nobody.  You are nothing.”

Fortunately, I have learned to dispel the words once embedded within me.  It has taken many years to erase the recordings left by others. 

Every person has worth; every person has the opportunity to make a difference.  I may not be able to save a life or defend our country on foreign ground.  I admire and appreciate those who are called to do that.  Each of us has been given a gift.  What we choose to do with it is what counts.  For me, I write; I write from my heart.  It is my responsibility to share it, not keep it to myself.  My hope is that something I publish inspires another person who needs encouragement. 

My words are simple.  Spring is my favorite season of the year because it represents hope.  What does it mean to you?  I’d love to hear about it.