One day, when my son was a month shy of 17, I answered a knock on my front door and was greeted with a Sheriff’s Deputy and a good friend of mine.  Both looked very alarmed. I was informed my son had been in a head-on collision, was unconscious and had sustained undetermined injuries.  He was being life-flighted to the Norfolk General Hospital Trauma Unit.  He had been driving the car my friend had lent us, while our other car was in the shop.

My world as I knew it ended that day, and a new one began. The quiet, nerdy kid I had raised, the kid who had never wanted to drive, but whom I “encouraged” to do so, the kid who was painfully shy, was now lying in a coma in a hospital more than an hour away.

The days, weeks and months that were his recovery were lessons in and of themselves. For the person who emerged from the coma, was not the one who had entered. This new person spoke French, rather than English, had absolutely no short term memory, did not know the names of his friends or family, had lost most of the memory of his life, was impulsive and acted immediately upon these impulses, was loud and funny and scary all at once. 

Once out of his coma, his physical injuries appeared to be two black eyes, a bump on his nose, three broken teeth and cuts and abrasions from the safety belt which saved his life. What were not visible to the casual onlooker were the frontal and temporal lobe injuries to his brain.  My heart literally stopped when his neurologist told me,

“Stephen will never be the professor on the college campus, but he could well be the gardener.”

The message I took, the message I had to take for my own sanity, was,

“Stephen will become a productive adult and will be able to support himself.”

We fixed, the broken teeth and he endured the occupational, physical and verbal therapies to help him regain his motor skills, living skills and his native language.  Life went on and we learned all about the new Stephen.

******************************************************************************************

Shortly after my daughter turned 16, I was keeping the stats for her field hockey team as they competed in the first scrimmage of the season.  My eyes were on the book, when I heard someone say,

”Jen’s hurt!”

As I raised my eyes to focus on my daughter, I heard,

“She took a stick to the mouth!”

As I jumped up to go to my daughter, I heard,

“She didn’t have her mouth guard in.”

My daughter appeared fine. The image my eyes saw was in sharp contrast with the image my ears told my brain I should be seeing.  Jen, looked fine as she walked toward me….coach, walking beside her, looked as if she had lost her first-born child.

As we met on the track...as if choreographed, I held out my cupped hands, as my daughter opened her mouth and literally spit her teeth into my hands….then, and only then, did she begin to cry…

“Oh, Mom, I’m going to be the ugliest girl in the world….”

The days, weeks and months that were her recovery were lessons in and of themselves. For the pretty young girl who had ventured fearlessly out on that playing field, was learning some of the hardest lessons of her life.  She learned about horrific, painful, dental work, reconstruction and the resulting damage to teeth not knocked out or askew. She learned about wearing partials and “old people” teeth while her jaw stabilized and her teeth recovered.  She learned that beauty was of the person, not of the person’s appearance.  And she learned that taking the time to prepare for the task at hand, is more likely to lead to a successful execution of that task.

Today, more than seven years later, I am able to look back and see some of the lessons I have learned.

• Whatever hurdle I am presented is just that, a hurdle. 
• I can let it trip me up, and fall flat on my face, thereby proving nothing. 
• Or I can accept it as the obstacle it is, and LEARN how to leap over that hurdle, no matter how high. 
• In so doing, I learn more about myself and my strength and determination.
• And I know I am better prepared to face my next hurdle.

Oh, and I also learned that my children were not supposed to have their front teeth more than 16 years!

May the hurdles you are presented, be ones you can leap. 

Be fearless in your quest and never take for granted what you have today.

When I was in eighth grade I auditioned for and landed the role of Mother Abyss in our school's production of the “Sound of Music.” My solo was, “Climb Every Mountain.”  I thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of the experience. I learned to build sets, and learned my lines. I learned the lines of the actors with whom I was performing as this would allow me to “adlib” should they miss their line. I learned that to wear a costume unflattering to me was not an issue at all as it was the character I was portraying who was wearing that outfit. And I learned that whether the audience enjoyed the performance was based almost completely on the energy we, the cast, projected.  We had to capture their hearts and minds. We had to transform these people who “didn’t like musicals” into people who went away humming those songs that defined the musical.

During high school I performed in several community theatre productions and again, thoroughly enjoyed myself.  Sometimes I was acting on stage. Sometimes I was playing my violin in the pit orchestra. Always, I was helping build sets and making costumes. After college, I returned to Bowie, MD, where, once again, I participated in the Musicomedy Productions.  That is, until I met the man who would be my first husband.

He was not interested in such things as theatre.  And so I did not seek out the community theatre when we moved to Tallahassee, Fl and married.  We lived ten years in Tallahassee, FL, before moving to Gloucester, VA.  About a year after we moved here, I saw an advertisement for auditions for the local community theatre’s production of “Carnival.”  I voiced an interest, and my husband, grudgingly decided it would be alright for me to audition.  The whole family went. 

At least 200 people audition for about 75 roles (including chorus members) and those who auditioned were all ages, shapes and sizes.    My husband had been amazed at the auditions as had my children, then 8 and 6.  I got the call the following day, that I had been selected.

And so it was that my family was suddenly “involved” -- living and breathing the practice, set building, costume making, etc.  They were hooked and for the remainder of my children’s school years we actively took part in every one of the Court House Players’ Productions.  The summer my children were14 and 16, they performed in the Musical “Godspell.”  This cast was comprised completely of youth, and it was a perfect demonstration of the lessons my children had learned through their years in these productions:

Every cast member must work together to allow the star to shine
Every time a costume is donned, the character is lived
Though you may look silly to yourself, your character is but a part of the complete picture which tells the story
Loving what you are doing and caring about those with whom you are doing it, make the experience one that you will always cherish
Your audience will be a reflection of your energy.

They learned through the theatre the same lessons many learn through team sports.  The need to be an individual can never be so powerful that we lose sight of the fact that our cast of supporting characters is necessary for us to shine.  Conversely, our need to “not stand out in the crowd” requires that we play our supporting role to others with care and attention to detail.  For as much as the star who forgets her lines and stands on the stage looking blankly at the audience will adversely impact the audience’s experience, so too will the single chorus member, who misses the turn in the choreographed dance.  We all must be aware of the role we are playing, and play it to the very best of our ability.

And always, always remember:

Climb every mountain

Ford every stream

Follow every byway

'Til you find your dream...

And now, the photos which will embarrass my children for the rest of their lives......

JEN

I did.  My little guy Stephen was a thumb sucking, blanket carrying little guy. I received lots of advice.

• Don’t let him suck his thumb, his teeth will be crooked
• He shouldn’t still be dragging that blanket around at his age

Anyone who has a Linus, knows the drill.

But, everything happens in due time.  I am a firm believer in this and so far, it has been proven true.  The hard part is allowing the due time to arrive!

So it was that at the age of six, having finished Kindergarten and preparing to start First Grade, that Stephen came up to me with his Blanket.  He offered it up to me, with the request to put it away for him.  He wanted to keep it so, when he grew up, his little boy could have it.  I did as I was asked, certain that he would ask me to retrieve it in very short order.  He did not.

At age eight and a half, Stephen declared that he needed to stop sucking his thumb.  He wanted to know if there was a way I could help him do so.  Sure, I told him.  They sell some stuff called nail biter.  Off we went to the store and purchased some.  I supervised while he painted his thumbnail with the stuff. And then we went to the movies.  In less than two minutes he had popped his thumb into his mouth and was gagging.  Off to the water fountain to flush the bad taste out of his mouth he went, and he was good for the rest of the show. 

He painted his thumbnail again that evening before going to bed.  He survived his first night without his thumb in his mouth.  The next day our family was driving to DE for Christmas.  Having carefully painted his nail, he took his place in the back seat, with his safety belt fastened.  We were off.  Before we had even reached the edge of town, I heard Stephen ask,

“Can I roll down the window?” 

I could tell by his tone, he’d popped that thumb in his mouth. “Sure, just don’t..” I was too late, my caution not to spit into the wind was coming out of my mouth as he was already doing just that.  Naturally, it came back and hit him right in the face!

He was, understandably, grossed out!  However, that marked the end of the thumb sucking.

Some time later, when Stephen was just shy of ten, he announced to me that he was never going to start smoking.  Curious as to what had brought this on, I ask,

“why do you say that?” 

“Because I know how hard it is to quit something, once you start. 

I had a really hard time quitting sucking my thumb…I know.”

And so, my little Linus, had indeed, given up his blanket and his thumb sucking.  He grew into a fine young man who, to this day, shies away from things known to be habit forming.  Let’s just say, he has not forgotten!

Luna and Bethel….Killian wants you to see who she met today…

I was working in my office when the racket began.  Killian was beside herself.  I came downstairs to determine the cause of the commotion and what to my wondering eyes did appear but…

the masked face of an intruder!!!

Killian was having no part of it….this guy HAD to go! (She had already endured the meter reader at 7:00 am and this was JUST NOT COOL.

But did I help?  NOOOOO…I went back inside to get the camera.  After the photo op, I did pull Killian in long enough to allow the little guy to make his escape.  Killian is still not happy with me, but, there will be another coon to chase in the not too distant future, I’m sure!

This guy made the cutest little chirping noises while Killian harassed him!

Some days I just seem to feel dull.  I don’t really feel like talking to others and I can’t really seem to get the things done that I want to get done.  Today was one of these days.  Nothing really lousy happened, but I found myself impatient and somewhat at loose ends.  Don’t get me wrong, I did get a lot accomplished.  But, I just keep having this feeling that I am not doing enough or doing it right, or something.

I started thinking about goofy things, as a means of kicking myself out of this dull mood, and a thing I had not thought about in years surfaced.  I pondered it.  I think it bears telling as it is certainly a reflection on perception.

When I was 12 I lived in Cheltenham, England.  My four best friends were my neighbors, Simon Dean, Michael Wilczynski, Anna Gartell and Sarah Lily-White.  We played many games together, but one of our all-time favorites was a sort of, well, odd game.

We would go to the park-like area at the front of our neighborhood where we would climb into the lower branches of the willow tree.  One of us would have a bike and would ride under the tree, pretending not to notice the rest of us in the tree.  At the most opportune moment, any or all of us would leap out of the tree, knocking the bicycle rider off his “ride.”  The next part of the game required a wrestling match of sorts, and the winner of which was afforded the right to ride the bike, under the tree, and to be jumped on by the others.

OK, I’m already hearing the sound of maracas as you shake your heads in dismay, but I tell you, this was something we thought was GRAND!!!

Well, at least I did.  Apparently, Anna and Sarah were not as taken with the game as was I.  One day after successfully knocking Simon and Mike off the bike and wrestling well enough to get my turn at riding the bike, Simon leaped out of the tree and knocked me down.  As we wrestled, Sarah decided she had had enough.  She demanded to know,

“Why do you always jump out of the tree when Judy rides under?”

It was then that I received the compliment, which, at the time, I considered the highest of praise.

“Cuz Judy wrestles like a boy!”

Wow, I was so happy.  I was a tomboy at heart and these two friends of mine had validated my role in the “boy” world!

Today, though I don’t think I’d enjoy the game, and I know I’d rather not fight with anyone, I still find it comforting to know that when their acceptance of me was so important to me, they not only accepted me completely, but were willing and able to express this acceptance to the other girls in a way that made me feel PROUD!!!!

On the mantel over the fireplace in my in-laws’ living room sits an eight day clock. This clock belonged to my husband’s grandmother and she had had it for many years before she died at the age of 97.  For the past twenty or so years since her passing, it has kept time on the mantel in her son’s house.

An eight day clock is just that. It is engineered to keep accurate time for eight days and then it stops.  Unlike the clocks of today, the older clocks required regular winding, and so it was that every Sunday, before going to church, my father-in-law wound the clock.  He took great care to wind it just tight enough, but not to over-wind it, for this would result in breaking the mechanism.  This clock requires the winding of the mechanism which controls the keeping of time and a second mechanism which controls the chiming of the bell.

It was with great love and devotion that Bud wound this clock each week.  He never made a big deal about it, and yet, he never left for church without making sure he had taken the time to tend to this labor of love.

On August 23, 2006, a Wednesday, my father-in-law went into the hospital to have stents implanted, to help with blood flow through his heart.  Upon performing the catheterization, the doctors determined that stents were not an option.  He would have to have open heart surgery and would not be allowed to go home while he awaited the surgery.  The surgery would be performed the following Monday, August 28, 2006. 

Of utmost concern to Bud was the fact that the clock would not be wound.  He worried about that clock. My mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, and my husband all assured him not to worry.  He could wind it again when he returned home after his surgery.  All would be well.  He tried to tell them how to wind it.  He wanted them to wind it in his absence, but they assured him, it could wait.

As those of you who have read my blog entries in the past know, my father-in-law passed away on August 30, 2006 due to complications of the surgery.  He never had the opportunity to wind that clock again.

One of the most moving moments in the aftermath of his passing was the afternoon after his funeral. As we sat in the living room, our attention naturally drifted to the clock.  Its hands had stopped at 9:37.  My husband asked his mother, “Do you want me to wind it?”  She said she would very much appreciate his doing so, and we all set about looking for the key, and the method by which the clock should be wound. My mother-in-law repeated the caution she’d heard Bud mention over the years,

“Don’t wind it too tight.”

In a few minutes, the clock was, once again, keeping accurate time.  Everyone returned to the business of trying to figure out what to do next. 

It is a little thing like this, a seemingly unimportant labor of love, that we suddenly miss when our loved one passes on.  And in this case, each week, as my mother-in-law winds this clock, she carries on her love for her husband and his for his mother, in the simple keeping of time.

The audience filed into the auditorium at the nearby community college. Most were adults, but there were a few children.  Three young sisters sat in front of me, but two rows closer to the stage To my right were a couple and their two year old. Again, not directly next to me, but within earshot.

I worried that this was going to be another event which I wish I could just stand up and scream,

“Don’t you people get it???

Children are not well suited to these things…they will make everyone’s experience an irritating one.”

But, I didn’t and in short order the Virginia Choral Society made their entrance onto the stage.  My mind was immediately taken away from my neighboring audience members and onto the performers.  The first to take her place on stage was my son’s girlfriend, Kristen -- lovely young lady. Row by row they entered until finally my son also joined those on stage.

Introductions were made, as were cautions to silence cell phones, but as would be politically correct, no mention was made regarding silencing children.  And then they began.  It was wonderful.  Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150 voices, this is a fabulous choral society.  Tonight’s offering was a program of show tune medleys.  What a lot of fun.  I was blown away when, in the middle of one of the medley’s my son came down to the front and sang a solo.  His solo?

“Singing in the Rain.” 

It brought back memories…unfortunately, the memories it brought back were of, “The Clockwork Orange” but that’s another tale entirely.
I was pretty impressed that by intermission no serious kid offenses had occurred. I became convinced I had under estimated the power of parental control and supervision on these youngsters.  I was glad I had held my tongue.

Cookies and soda for all....

When we returned to our seats, the three young sisters were literally spinning with energy…the two year old was expressing his fatigue with clearly wide awake lungs. 

The performers took their stage once again and the second half began.  The children competed with the performers while their parents convinced themselves that everyone “understood” and the world revolved around their cherubs.

In the end, the performers received a well deserved standing ovation and I was left to ponder the whole problem of these performances. 

I have determined the problem lies in the fact that we, the audience, are not afforded the same opportunity as the performers.  They have been practicing for weeks and months to prepare their program.  They can deliver flawlessly.  We, the audience, come together only once.  We do not have dress rehearsals to get it right.  We are at a distinct disadvantage because we don’t even know the other members of the audience. 

I think we all must look at this serious problem of ill prepared audiences!  They make the most potentially enjoyable evening one that we are thankful to escape at the earliest opportunity. 

We simply need more practice, I think.

When I was a schoolgirl in my first school in England, I desperately wanted to have friends.  I was American in a school full of British schoolgirls. At age 10, I had studied French for only one year to their four years of French and two years of Latin.  I didn’t know the British monetary system, so I was “behind” in math.  All in all, I felt like a big dummy.

As kids will do, I “proved myself” in other talents. The other girls were in awe of my ability to shimmy up the poles that supported the roof overhang.  (Little did they know we had a pet Capuchin monkey from whom I took shimmying lessons.)

One day, toward the end of the school year, a girl, who until this time had been very “snobby” to me, came up to me with a request.  Her name, I recall to this day, was Deborah Marsted.

“No, Miss Marshall said you could get it,” Deborah replied.

So, up I went.  I retrieved the ball and shimmied back down the pole.  When my feet hit the ground, I looked up and there stood Miss Marshall.  She did not have the look of an adult who was pleased with what she was witnessing.  No, rather, she had the look of a very displeased adult.

I was hauled off to Miss P. (the principal’s) office, where I was informed that, not only were my parents to be notified of my unladylike behavior, but were it not for the fact that the school itself was closing down at year end, I would be expelled.

Two things I learned that day.

• Never want something so badly that you are able to convince yourself you are hearing the truth, even when that little voice in your head is yelling, “wait, wait!!!”

• Never shimmy up poles to retrieve balls for someone who doesn’t have the b---s to do so for themselves!
  

Just a thought before I head to bed.

When I was twelve, I lived in Cheltenham England. I attended Charlton Park Convent school. My schoolmates were all girls.  One day, as I was walking across the gym, another girl, Theresa Davis, to be specific, said to me,

“Do you ride horses much?” in her very British accent.
“No, I’ve never ridden a horse,” I replied.
To which she responded, “Well, you’re awfully bow-legged, aren’t you?”

Well, at 12 I didn’t even know what bow legged was.

So, home I went and asked the official knowledgeable one.

“Mom, what does bow-legged mean?”

She explained the condition that, from that point forward, made me very self conscious about wearing dresses or skirts…anything that showed my legs.

When I was in college, at Florida State University, we loved to go swimming at night in the sink holes around Tallahassee, FL (not a terrible intelligent practice, but we were not terrible intelligent, despite our grades which might indicate to the contrary.)  I remember being embarrassed to go swimming at first, because of the guys that were with us…that is until those morons started their ridiculous “song” which they sang whenever we went swimming. 

“I love to go swimmin’ with bow-legged women.”

And there you have it.  I was bow-legged at 12 and embarrassed. I was still bow-legged at 18 and somehow, it was “special” and I am still bow-legged at 48…and I don’t care at all…well, not much, anyway…

GOOD NIGHT!!!

Today I learned something that really bewilders me.  As some of you know, my father in law passed away on August 30, 2006.  My husband is down in SC and he and my mother in law have been taking care of all the “ends” that remain loose after the death of a loved one.  Today they took the truck to get it titled in my mother in law’s name.  In the process, my husband saw his father’s signature.

When we spoke on the phone tonight, he told me how it made him feel, seeing his father’s signature.  He was taken back to when he was a little boy.  When his father would sign something, John would look on, interested in his father’s every action.  After signing his signature, his father would always say to little Johnny, “want me to draw a picture of a dog?”  Little Johnny would eagerly nod his head, and his father would draw the only picture my husband ever saw him draw.

Tonight he described the dog to me.  I was stunned.  I said, “when I was young, I used to always draw the exact same picture!" I mean, exactly as he described the dog.  I hadn’t thought about it in years and yet, two days ago, I decided to see if I remembered how to draw it.

My husband and mother in law have long felt that my father in law and I were two birds of a feather….

I’m beginning to think they are right…

Here is the picture I drew the other day.

Today I needed a break. I took a walk with my outdoor critters and marveled, as I always do, at their singleness of purpose and complete and total enthusiasm in our walks. I say "they" because, as you know if you have read previous entries, my adopted cat Dracula accompanies us on our walk.

There is something so natural about the way the two of them communicate. Killian, jumps about wildly, like a crazed puppy (although she is 11 years old) and Dracula watches her carefully.  If Killian gets too close to Dracula in her frenzied state, Dracula hisses and swipes at her.  Killian sits right down and behaves.  Then Dracula strolls by, glancing only slightly to her side, as she passes the chastised dog. 

Once a few feet past Killian, Dracula breaks into a run...only a short one, but clearly designed to get Killian riled up, and egg her into attempting to chase Dracula.  But Killian, wisely looks up at me, and refuses the offered bait.  She knows she will hear the words which seem to be her most coveted…”Good Girl.” 

She has been in a bit of a quandary since Dracula came to live with us in July.  The two of them share the back porch, and this means they share sleeping quarters and eating quarters.  When I step out onto the porch, Killian immediately jumps onto her doggie lounger, awaiting her petting and her invitation to eat, once I have put her food in her bowl.  She goes bananas waiting, as I pet Dracula and say those coveted words to her, “Good Girl.”

It is comforting to know these two have a reasonable working relationship.  It is also comforting to know that the two words  most coveted by both, come from my mouth and are a simple recognition of their stellar behavior.

 Dracula keeps an eye on Killian from the safety of the pond edge...she will not venture out onto the pond floor...

Perhaps I lead a sheltered life, but this I had never seen!  I took a walk with my outdoor critters today (Killian and Dracula) and went down to the “pond.” The floor of the pond is really growing lots of grasses and new wildlife has taken advantage of this change of terrain.  Killian and Dracula investigated and I took some pictures.

After we’d had all the fun the three of us deserved for our break from the regular part of our day, we headed back up the path, past the house and all the way to the mailbox.  As we approached the mailbox, I thought I saw a big white garbage bag hanging from it.  Curious, I picked up the pace a little.  When I arrived at the mailbox I found the bag was property of the USPS.  Apparently, it takes too much time for them to drive the 400 feet down my driveway to place my packages on the front porch!  Now they just leave me my very own MAIL SACK!!
 

Today, I sent an email to a very dear friend. We had been inseparable when we were very young (17-21) but parted ways, as young people do.  We each went our separate ways and twenty years later, “found” each other again. We re-met on-line. We shared our escapades, loves, family et al, with each other, but only on-line.

A couple of years ago I had to face an extremely troubling situation with a family member.  I went through what I can only describe as a living Hell.  I reached out to this friend, only to discover, he was going through exactly the same thing with a family member.  We supported each other over the days weeks and months, as the situations seemed to be moving slowly toward a positive resolution.

On September 17, 2006, my family member took a giant step backward. My world was rocked, once again, and, once the dust had settled a little, I reached out to my friend, telling him the latest, and looking, in honesty, for his support – just words – just knowing there was someone out there who understands the issues. I never heard back from him. A week or two ago, I sent him another email, worried that he had fallen on troubling times.  Again, no word.

Today, fearing I had inadvertently offended him, I sent him an email, letting him know that I had meant no offense, but respected his right not to correspond with me further, if indeed I had offended him.  Within a matter of minutes, my mailbox popped up his response.

His life has taken a similarly awful turn.  He has been so depressed by his own life’s issues that he felt incapable of responding to my horrible news, which, in his words, “reflects my own life.”  He said he will contact me again soon…as soon as he gets a little better grip on his own issues…he apologized for not being there for me, “in my time of need.”

His short note left me so sad. Here we are, two people who shared a past, who separately created lives with which we were very happy, but who have also encountered exactly the same issue in a loved one.  My heart just hurts.  The on-line support we share lacks that personal touch – that ability to simply reach out and give that hug needed.

Still, I am happy to at least correspond through email.  Twenty years ago, this would not have been an option.

I buy a lot of my clothes from sellers on eBay.  Just this week, I received a BIG BOX of wonderful clothes from ASWEGROW2.  I spied a pair of MUDD jeans in the box that looked “just right.”  They were a “children’s size” 16, but I thought they might fit. I tried them on and sure, enough, they were a winner.  Loose and comfy to the max!

I started thinking about who had worn these jeans before I put my legs into them.  I know, it could have been a movie star, or a great musician.  Perhaps it was a famous artist or writer.  But I am guessing that the legs which these jeans protected from the elements before finding their way to me, belonged to a much more “real” person.

I suppose these jeans were purchased by a loving parent, looking on with admiration and apprehension as her daughter (a personal favorite of hers among all children) selected the pair of jeans she “had to have,” while Mom knew the budget was already stretched thin.

Mom, knowing that this lovely budding somebody (for she might yet be a famous artist, author, musician, or actor) was going to outgrow these jeans before the credit card used to purchase them had been paid off, still understood the need for her daughter to have “just this one pair.” It is clear these jeans saw very little wear.  It cannot be because they were uncomfortable, because they are incredibly comfy.  I suspect Mother Nature just decided the previous owner’s legs were due to grow another inch or two.

And so, as I enjoy the fact that I helped support a charity, and saved some perfectly great clothes from the local dumpster, I also get to enjoy the imaginings of “who's been in my pants!”

I hope those who purchase gently worn items from Judy’s Corner feel the same way I do about celebrities…they are all around us, clothed in normal attire.  They are going to school and to work just as we do. And they make themselves the star in their family and friends’ worlds simply be being themselves.

A CELEBRITY HAS BEEN IN MY PANTS!!! I’M SURE OF IT!!!

A few days ago I posted a drawing my daughter had done of her brother.  She was about 15 when she did the drawing, and she drew it from a photo of her older brother, taken when he was eight.  I found the photo from which she did her drawing and thought I’d repost the drawing, with the photo.  She had taken no art classes at this point.  She is now quite a wonderful artist (at least Mom thinks so!)

What do you thnk?

I had one pair of sunglasses when I was a child.  Only one.  I was born with what was known as “crossed eyes.” Now, polite speak is “lazy eye.” But let’s just call it what it was.  My parents worked hard to give me the gift of sight, which was not mine at birth. I underwent surgery on both eyes at the age of eight months and started wearing glasses at ten months.

When I lived in England I attended school at a Convent -- Charlton Park Convent, in Cheltenham England, to be specific (not that you cared, I understand.) If there is one thing the British school system excelled at, it was RULES.  We had them for EVERYTHING.

• Uniform must always be worn neatly.
• Hat must be positioned on head, with elastic under chin
• Gloves must be on hands.
• Outdoor shoes must be tied and polished.
• Blazer of Coat (depending on season of year) must be buttoned neatly.
• Socks must be held up in place just below knee by garters.
• Tie must be tied neatly and snuggly.
• You must WALK while wearing your uniform outside of school grounds
• No eating in uniform outside school grounds.
• Satchel (similar to back pack, but made of heavy leather) must be sitting on back squarely, with shoulder straps in place.
• Students must say, “Good Morning Sister,” whenever passing one of the nuns who were our teachers.
• Outdoor shoes must be removed and replaced with indoor shoes upon arrive to school.
• Plimsoles (sneakers) were to be worn in the gym.

The list goes on, but you get the picture.

“Hairy Mary had a canary
Up the leg of her drawers
She pulled a string to make it sing
And down came Santa Claus.
It really was Father Mike riding on a motorbike
Hairy Mary had a canary
Up the legs of her drawers
When she farted, it departed
With a round of applause.”

The boys roared.  We were SO PROUD!!!  We were so happy.
That is until the next day at school.  Detention is not the word for what we had to endure for our lack of respect of

THE RULES!!!

Today was a day of making Judy into something she is not.  It all began when I agreed to be the matron of honor at my best friend’s wedding.  She decided to book the two of us at a nearby Day Spa, in preparation for the big event.

About me:

I am a basically fashion challenged person who achieves contentment by practicing “mirror avoidance.”
Every day I:

• Shower
• Comb my hair
• Dress.

That’s it.

• No makeup
• No blow dryers,
• No hairstyles
• No lotions and creams
• No nail polish.

About me TODAY.

This morning, I picked my best friend up at 8:00. We arrived at the spa at 8:45.

• A massage
• A makeover
• Our hair styled
• A manicure.

It was lovely being pampered.  I am a very practical person and never do this type of thing.

First was the massage.

The massage was perfect.  I did as I was told and she mushed my muscles and generally got me to relax a little (no easy task, I might add.)

Next was the makeover:
“What kind of makeup do you wear?” asked the expert.
“none.”
“What brand of makeup do you like?” asked the expert.
“I don’t know…I never wear makeup.”
“Do you want light or heavy makeup?” asked the expert.
“um…light I guess…but, whatever you think best.”
“What color is your dress?” asked the expert.
“Burgundy”

And so it went…and when I was done, I looked a little scary to myself…no worry…practice mirror avoidance.

Next stop was the hair styling.
“How do you want your hair?” asked the expert.
“Umm, I don’t know, I guess however you think best.”
“Do you want it all up, or some down in the back and some up?” asked the expert.
“Umm, I don’t know, I guess however you think best.”

And so it went. At the end I had somewhere in the vicinity of 30 bobby pins strategically holding my styled tresses in order, while an intentionally left loose lock was draped across my forehead and sprayed like the dickens to make the whole thing look “natural.”  When I was done, I looked even scarier to myself…deep breath…mirror avoidance.

Our final stop was the manicure.
“How do you want your nails?” asked the expert.
“Umm, I don’t know, I guess however you think best.”
“Do you like rounded or squared off??” asked the expert.
“Umm, Rounded!” (or whatever is behind door number two)
“Have you ever had a paraffin dip?” asked the expert.
“Umm, no…I don’t think so.” (what the heck did I get myself into now???)

And so it went. In the end I had a French manicure and instructions not to touch my nails to ANYTHING for an hour.  What???? How can I drive, eat, change into my dress…

Well, out to the car we went, all gussied up in our new do’s and don’ts (still in our jeans and tank tops) and headed for Smithfield.  We stopped on the way to get “lunch”…two Happy Meals from McDonalds…hold the toys.

We arrived at the church and I helped the bride dress and then dressed myself. In short order, the ceremony began. It was beautiful. Very small and very intimate. Our circle of close friends, most from the choir, and their families made up the guests, and most of these were providing the music!

I was so happy for Lori and Chip. They are so right for each other -- old enough and have been together long enough to be sure of their decision. 

After the ceremony, when all the hugs and kisses had been shared and the tears of joy wiped from all faces, we mingled and laughed. Everyone had to comment on my dress and how beautiful I looked…blah, blah, blah.  OK, I thought the dress came out well, and this morning, at  4:30, in a sudden thought bonanza, it occurred to me I might be chilly in this sleeveless dress.  So I whipped up a totally cool shawl type thing that I fastened in front with elastic.  I can’t actually describe it well, but it really made a neat look.  BUT, When I looked in the mirror…I STILL SCARED MYSELF.

For Hallowe’en I will dress in my lovely burgundy dress and make myself up as I was today. 

I think I will do well as the Matron of Honor to the Bride of Dracula!

When I was ten we moved to England. I had just completed fourth grade in the US and was excited and nervous about starting school in a new country.  Upon arrival, I was tested and did poorly on the math, French and Latin portions of the entrance test. What??? I was great at math…how could this be?  Well, back in 1968 the British monetary system was still base 12, rather than base 10 (decimal) used in the US.  So, I needed to learn how to count monetarily in base 12.

The long and short of it was that I was put back in the British equivalent of fourth grade.  I was embarrassed but it was what it was.  Our “forms” as they called grade levels in England, all had the names of ships.  I started out in HMS Valiant.  The form COLOR was yellow. (Not that any of this matters, but it is ingrained in my brain.)

Within about six weeks, I had successfully demonstrated my mastery of the British monetary system and I was promoted to the British equivalent of fifth grade.  In my school, this form was known as HMS Courageous. Our form COLOR was light blue.

Another month or so went by, and I, being the stellar student that I was, was promoted again, this time to the British equivalent of sixth grade. In my school, this form was known as HMS Vanguard. The form COLOR was dark purple/blue.  But the interesting point here is that this was my older sister’s form.  She was NOT happy to see her twit sister in the same grade as she!

One day we were given an assignment to write an essay on “Night Noises”.  We had the weekend to write it, turning in our literary offering Monday morning. There was never a threat of our cheating by sharing even an idea.  We belonged staunchly to the opposite ends of the spectrum and cordial communication was not part of our repertoire!

On Monday morning we each turned in our assigned essays, and went about the business of everyday class schedules.  Later in the week, our papers graded and returned, the teacher began calling students to the front of the room to share their essay with the class.  My sister, always a great writer, was one who was called to share.  She read her essay aloud, and it was beautiful…she wrote of owls and crickets, wind and rain and all with such creativity, I was struck with the beauty of her words….I was also struck with the realization that I had misunderstood the assignment.  Now, let me mention, the teacher did not write our grade on our paper, so we had no idea how well we had scored, only the grammar errors and the teachers “comments.”

I was about the fifth student called to read my essay. All who went before me had understood the assignment…I was SOOO embarrassed.  If I could have stood up there and just made up my essay on the spot, I would have, but the teacher had already read and graded mine.  She KNEW what I had written and was now clearly relishing the fact that I was going to have share with the WORLD (OK 20 students)  my failure to understand the assignment.

While I don’t recall the exact words, I can tell you the “night noises” I wrote of had to do with baths running, toilets flushing, brothers talking, parents telling brothers to be quiet, dog snoring, cat purring, monkey rattling his cage….basically all the noises I heard in my house after the lights went out.

I got through my essay and rushed back to my seat.  I took a quick peek at my sister to see how mad she was, because I was ALWAYS a source of embarrassment to her.  She looked ready to DIE.  Other students read their essays and then the teacher addressed the class.  She told us our grades. All had scored pretty well, except me.  I had scored 100%.  She explained to the class that the difference between my essay and the others was that I THOUGHT like a writer. I LISTENED like a writer, and I WROTE with honesty.  She explained the benefit of looking at assignments from a different perspective.  She said that it was this perspective that made the reader INTERESTED in the essay.

Well, of course I couldn’t win.  This made my sister mad too!

I was glad when, the following year, we each went to different schools.  I am certain she was pleased with that choice as well!

Softly the warm breeze,
Murmurs through the trees.
Bringing on its journey,
Smells of flowers and honey.

Images come to mind
Of a summer hard to find
Just once again.

Of carefree days, so long
And of the night bird’s song
The moon’s refrain.

Bleak nights constant crying
The wind mourns by sighing
That old love lost.

Lost one August day
In the dawn so grey.

Never more he returns
Love has been lost he mourns.

But I am here and free
His hurting Pride

How can he love to true
One with someone new to hold and love?
God make him realize
More birds fly the skies
Than this young dove.

Of carefree days, so long
And of the night bird’s song
The moon’s refrain.

Written by my sister Jeannie at age 17.

I set her words music some 30 years ago. It is still one of my favorite songs.