All My Children................or, "The Times, They Are A-Changing"

I heard the news about All My Children's cancellation with the same horrid feeling I get when I hear about  misfortunes of someone I know.  In this case, it is many people I "know" dearly who will be leaving our lives, as my favorite soap opera is eliminated.

Thirty-five years ago, or so, when I moved with my still-relatively-new husband to begin our lives away from my hometown, I had no job, no friends, and no money to spend the day shopping.  Voila!  Soap operas filled the void. I could literally watch soaps, I figured out one day, from 11:30 AM until 4 PM.............and the time flew because of them. I learned to keep one eye and both ears on the TV while I cleaned, did laundry and cooked.

All My Children soon became my favorite "soap," and I was caught up in the life and loves of Erica Kane, Tad Martin, Palmer, Opal, Adam, Dixie, Haley,  Greg and Jenny..........(I actually wrote a letter to the show about the frustration over Greg and Jenny's never-ending engagement).............(That's a secret.)

 I "attended" weddings dressed in my best clothing, cried at funerals of characters who had met their demise, laughed aloud more times than I could say at the over-the-top antics of Opal, my all-time favorite character........(she wore her mittens with those little clips on the ends of her sleeves, for God's sake).........she talked with a twang that was more deep South than the map could go, had mile-high red hair, killed a husband in the throngs of passion, and was risque' enough to let a bored young housewife get caught up in her craziness and be diverted from routine.

I even named one of my children after a character, although it was just the NAME I fell in love with............remember Philip Brent?  The name Philip "stuck" in my head, and when delivery time came for my first baby,  I used that name. (I also borrowed Stephen Foster's first name, for another, lest you think I was addicted to soap operas..........)

When my kids were little, I nursed them during All My Children, then later fed them lunch at 1:00.  They could eat while Erica and her latest love interest conversed.  In the summers, we would leave for the swim club at 1:30 and I'd leave a small tape player in front of the TV, set for thirty minutes, so I  could listen to the rest of the show while I cooked dinner.

These people were "family" to MY family, which had few true blood relatives nearby.  We conversed  about the characters as if they were just ordinary people we knew well, and sometimes folks would ask  "Who is Tad?" or "Where does Erica live, and why haven't we met her?"

My son, Philip, continued this connection by watching AMC  when cable TV made the Soap Network available.  It took me awhile to figure out how he knew so much about events in our "other family," when we were all working.  He was watching in the night!  (He always did appreciate the value of "family!")

I confess that I have not watched AMC faithfully for the past decade or so, since I went back to teaching.  I defend myself, however, by telling you that on summer break I watched it, hit-or-miss, and was able to pick right up a story-line without any problem.  I noticed that Tad got a little grayer, however.................. he was always a heartthrob..............(sigh)

I never felt that I had divorced these characters, though! They were "family," or stand-ins for vacancies, and added volume to our real numbers.  I knew their innermost secrets as well as what motivated their actions. If it were only so easy to understand REAL people, huh????

I am not going into mourning over All My Children, but I do feel a pang of "another loss" at its passing.  I keep noticing that life seems to be full of "passings," and these get replaced by things that I either do not understand, don't "get," or don't have the technological skills to use. 

In my guest bedroom is a blanket with the map of Pine Valley, the setting for All My Children, on it.  It was a gift from Philip, his last Christmas.  It's blue, pink and yellow, and has "All My Children," and "Pine Valley" written on it..........and shows where Pine Valley exists in relation to the rest of the world.  Ironically, it shows Pine Valley as the center of the entire country.............and the rest of us sort of revolve around it.   That seems to say it all, doesn't it?    Great gift, by the way.

They may do away with All My Children, and take Pine Valley off the soap opera "map, " but there are those of us who will always live there in our hearts, will never forget the joy, tension or agony we experienced as we sat, glued to the set every day at 1:00.  The theme music is in our heads on "replay" at our mental recalls. 

No, I am not leading a letter-writing campaign to save AMC, as I am sure that the TV Powers That Be have done their financial homework before axing a well-loved old program.

But I WOULD write a letter if there WERE a campaign.  I'd sign a petition...........wear a sandwich board........and possibly stand on a street corner waving a sign that reads "SAVE ALL MY CHILDREN!"

I'd do the same for any endangered family member ...............................





copyright:  KP Gillenwater

Gifts.............or, "From Me to You"

We just gave a friend a bar of delicious-smelling soap for her birthday.  I felt sort of guilty, in that it wasn't something "lasting."  Once she has used it up, it will wash away down the drain and be GONE. (Oh my God........gone!) Then I realized that THAT was part of the gift!.............it will be GONE. (Down the drain, no need to store it.........!)

THERE WILL BE NOTHING LEFT of the gift!  No monument.  Nothing for my friend to look at twelve years from now and say, "What the hell am I hanging on to THIS for??? Oh. Yes. It was a gift from X and Z, and I can't toss it out."

While I was standing in the shower tonight, I suddenly had that horrific feeling of, "What if she doesn't LIKE soap???? What if she'd rather have a trophy with her name engraved on it, saying what a good neighbor she's been!!!??  The thought lasted only a moment. (I was, after all, in the shower, watching my own soap go down the drain to Neverland.)

I think of gifts I've given to my best loved people: The fake parrot on a perch that I gave to Pop when I was fourteen.....it hangs over my computer desk, reminding  me of the chuckle that I heard from him when he saw it. I never look at it without remembering that chuckle, but it takes up space in my home, as well as my heart.

There was the white scarf  I knitted, laboriously, when I was ten, also for my beloved father. I ran out of yarn somewhere in the midst of the knitting, so when I gave it to him for Christmas it only JUST made it around his neck. It was so wide and tightly-knit that it was inflexible.  He wore that wretched piece of knitting, tightly pulled around his neck, to work every cold day for the rest of his working life, as if it were a crown jewel............and every time I pull it out of my hope chest and hold it to my heart, I love that man more for HIS loving me, and IT, than I can tell.

I sent a college friend, who had lost both of her parents within forty days of each other, a figurine of a red cardinal. She had seen a cardinal after their deaths, and knew that it was their "sign" to her. She "got it," and knew that I had sent her LOVE, not just a statue.

I sent a roll of toilet paper with Nancy Pelosi's face on every single square, to another friend...........one "outside of the box" friend.  She laughed until she cried.  I LOVED that she laughed.  She hates Nancy Pelosi.  She used the toilet paper, gleefully,  I KNOW. (It, too, is gone, I'd bet.)

My favorite "gifts" these days  are what I call "experiences:" Lunch out, dinner, a play, a movie, a trip to somewhere together.

I gave my son,  Philip, a summer day at the Motown Museum in Detroit, where he sang "My Girl," in the very studio where "all  the music" was made, at Hitsville. The smile on his face while he sang and danced there, that moment, will be with ME forever. He was happy!

My son and daughter only want  checks for their birthdays or Christmas, now. It takes the fun out of giving, for me.  One declares himself a "minimalist," and the other says she doesn't want any "clutter."  I get it.  (Just write the check, Mom, and don't clutter our lives.)

On the other side of the coin, I've received some wonderful gifts in my lifetime: a rabbit coat that was totally unexpected,when I was in college (quite in style, then,)  a trip to Europe to celebrate my college degree, (accompanied by the giver, of course,) an old used Ford Falcon so I could get to my first job, and a sewing basket on legs that I have filled with any number of things other than sewing equipment over the years.

Randy has caught the "experience" bug, and he gives me wonderful surprises: a ride during which I was blindfolded, to a theatre for a play, a trip to a Virginia resort for a birthday, a weekend in a state park for another event.  Great gifts, great memories: No "stuff" to fill up the corners of our rooms. Just memories.

Everyone's home is full of "stuff." Enough, already............. I want to give gifts that make a difference!  If only it were so easy to give the gifts I'd really like to give to the people I love: The ones that I see while Magically Thinking.  Oh, that I were so powerful! 

My friend's daughter,  another's husband, and one's mother would regain their health instantly!  Unemployed would find dream jobs. Unrequited love would suddenly be reciprocated.  None of those "gifts" would take up any space, but would be everything to the recipients.

 These gifts just cannot be given by lowly mortals such as I, try though I may.

Imagine the JOY and happiness I would feel, to be able, willing, and happy to deliver to loved ones their hearts' desires, instead of a check or a gift card.

It's just not gonna happen, folks.

All I can do right now is give you a bar of good soap, a ticket to a decent play, a short trip to a "happening," or a memento to remind you of something or someone you love.

Just know that if I could, I would, without a moment's hesitation make everything all right in your world. (And I know, that if you could have given me what I wished for most in my life, you would have, too.)

But the "want to" is there, the wishful Magical Thinking goes on.......... and that's partly what love is about, isn't it?






Copyright:  KP Gillenwater

Goodbye, Oprah, or, "I'll Be On My Way"

I've decided to give up my subscription to "O Magazine," Oprah's publication.  I've been a loyal subscriber for about five years now, but I am about to let my subscription lapse. Even those last chance offers I am getting in the mail are not able to lure me back. It has become more of an "assignment" than a joy, for me.

Why?  Well, let me tell you.  I SHOULD be telling Oprah herself, but I guess I  don't think she would "get it." She'd never get my email, either, I don't think.

It has to do with the "billowing shirt" that sells for only $350 and the "ruched dress" for $550 that appear in one recent edition. It's not just this one time. It's month after month that I've been reading price tags of the pictured clothes, so don't accuse me of "walking" because of a one-time happening. Oh sure, there is a cheap dress in that same article for only $18 at Walmart, to try to make me and others on a budget feel as if we belong in the clothing market promoted in "O," but I am not buyin' it!

I don't mean I am not buying the clothes.  I am not buying the whole thing.  Oprah Winfrey came from humble beginnings, and is, in fact, one of my favorite famous people.  I admire her more than I can say. Her photo hangs on my classroom wall, along with a quote about doing her best to be successful.  I watch her program religiously, and will truly miss coming home to her, once her last show is broadcast.

I know Oprah doesn't write the magazine, okay?  I know she has people who do this for her.  I guess I just feel that those people don't realize that readers are not going to rush out and spend the heat and water money on a "ruched dress" any time soon.  I am sure that there is a woman somewhere who WOULD, of course, so I will eat my words here and now, but MOST of us are not going to do so.

Reality is what this magazine needs a dose of, I think.  Those writers and clothing-selectors need to find out a little more about the subscribers. ASK us if we have a skirt that cost over $900..........(there was one in there recently.) 

My husband tells me that these pricey clothes are in there so that "O" can have advertisers, and that is what pays for publishing the magazine.  He's probably right.  I just don't care, frankly.

I am going to receive my final issue of "O" in June.  I will miss Dr. Oz's articles and the questions and answers to Dr. Phil.  I will miss the uplifting messages telling me that I can achieve and succeed if I only believe in myself. I will miss finding out what Oprah "Knows for Sure." Maybe I've read enough of those messages, though, and I know some things for sure, myself.

I HAVE achieved and succeeded. I love myself.  I am a work in progress, getting better each and every day! I know, for sure, that a hugely expensive dress is not necessary to make me who I am. Oprah knows that, too, I think.

................and even if I COULD spend $900 on a skirt, I WOULDN'T.  I'd spend it on food, electricity, water, housing, transportation, books, travel, gifts for my family and friends, and still be able to donate something to benefit people who have NO clothes or food. (Besides, I can spill a cup of coffee just as easily on a $50 skirt as on a $900 one, thank you very much.)

I am not waiting for Oprah to call me, by the way.  I know she won't even know I've left "O."  But now YOU do, and you know WHY.






copyright: KP Gillenwater

I Mean,You Know, Uhhh......, or," Over and Over"

 I am going to express an opinion to try to persuade my readers to fix something that might make it easier for them to communicate.  It may help them to do well in a job interview.  It certainly will make them seem to be better conversationalists, and to come across to listeners as educated and intelligent.

"YOU KNOW, I MEAN, UH,  LIKE."

For some reason, vocalizations are filled with these phrases!

We listeners are TRYING to know what people mean, but they keep saying, "You know," and "I mean," in every sentence they utter!  Sometimes people even say, "You know, I mean," all in ONE sentence!!!!  Then they will throw in, "Like," for absolutely no reason whatsoever!  Like WHAT????

We'd like to believe that they think we DO know what they mean without having to hear it constantly.

I have heard conversations interrupted with, "You know," so many times that I have taken to sitting silently and counting the speech pauses to find out how many times a human being can interrupt himself with this meaningless phrase.  In one conversation that lasted no more than ten minutes, I counted thirty "You knows,"  and fifteen "I means!"  The rest of the conversation was lost, as all the speech pauses directed my mind away from the gusto of that conversation.

"You know, I mean, like, it's sunny outside today."  Duh.  Cut to the chase:  "It's sunny outside today!"

"Uhhhhh."  Hillary Clinton manages to squeeze this voice-pause, repeatedly, into every speech she delivers. It ruins her delivery, makes her seem less than the brilliant woman she is, and detracts from what she is telling the entire world, (and the world is listening.)  I wonder if she hears those long "Uhs" when she sees herself on TV after the fact, and if so, why doesn't she repair this?  It is an annoying habit. No one tells her?????  

"Uh, you know, Uh, you know, like, Uh......."

Have you heard the super sports stars being interviewed?  "Ya know, ya know??? I mean, I mean, uh, uh."  If there is anything intelligent inserted within those trite fill-ins, it is hard to figure them out. I am not belittling those sports stars, as they may not be famed for brilliance except on the field or in an arena, but perhaps they shouldn't be interviewed at all.  It would spare the fans from realizing that they cannot communicate, except athletically.  The announcer could simply yell, "Great game!" and the athlete could yell back, "Thanks!" and leave the screen looking fairly smart, instead of this scenario:  "Great game!" says the interviewer. "You know, thanks, I mean, like it was like good, like I mean, you know, like, uh, you know, we like won, you know, " replies the athlete.  Huh? One moment before this, he was a hero, and now he becomes illiterate.

If I have insulted you by this, just stop reading. It is not aimed at any one person in particular. As I said before, IT IS AN ANNOYING HABIT, but unfortunately there are many people who have it these days. Habits can be changed, but first one has to be aware that it is being done habitually. As Dr. Phil says,   "You cannot fix something that you do not first acknowledge."

Advice?  Yes, (of course.)  Listen to yourself when you speak.  If you catch yourself saying these phrases, STOP IT! 

 I feel certain that we are all guilty of "speech-pauses," but, you know, I mean, can we just, like, fix them?





copyright: K P Gillenwater

Vanity Plates, or, Loco-Motion

I have become somewhat mildly obsessed with reading license plates on cars.  The plates are generally referred to as "vanity plates," in that the driver wants attention from the rest of us, and is willing to pay for it.  I used to just read all the plates, numbers and letters, but now the stories that these vanity plates may tell are far more interesting!

I've driven around for several weeks, pen over my ear, notebook on the suicide seat, writing down these plates as soon as I get to a stoplight or pause behind a turning car. I found out that I forget the ones I think are cute or funny by the time I get home, so there are six wrinkly pages of writing filled with license plate titles next to me right now.

My psychological study of these drivers and what they are telling the world entertains me, and the why these drivers want us to know these tidbits about themselves keeps me wondering, behind the wheel. (I do listen to audio books, also.......and think truly deep thoughts............I am not just driving around reading license plates, lest you think so, for God's sake!)

 I've divided these people into several groups and subgroups, and analyzed what they are REALLY saying to us............

There are those who want us to take note of their automobiles:

Every new Lexus in our city apparently leaves the dealership with a plate that says LEX on the front of it. ("Look at me! I've spent more for my car than the rest of you guys!") I liked a truck that said BD MACK on it ("I'm tough!"), and one car that said HOT ROD, ("Wanta race?) Then a cute little Volkswagen said GRRR to me!

 There are the religious ones:

 HEAR HIM, and  ISAYA 61,( which I had to go home and look up. Isaiah 61 is also a ministry that heals the brokenhearted.  If I see that one again, I may have to stop the driver and get more information.) Another plate told me NO EVL........(as in hear no, see no, speak no.....)

The most common (oops! I didn't mean to insult anyone who spent so much by calling him "common!") are the ones that proclaim who or what the driver perceives himself to be:

 KING TUT (This was a big Cadillac with Texas plates....woo-hoo!), NUBBINS ("I'm small, but cute.")  WOW PHIL ("Excited to see me?") ,THE KING (Yes, someone is actually driving around with this on his car.....) LDY POET, ("I write") MUZISHAN ("I am a creative one...."), NUTMAN (This has too many connotations to even go there..........),  3 DE FAN (This was at a movie theatre. Surprised?) CRAZY WID (a new widow, apparently, telling us, "I got the insurance money, and bought this car"), M N M NUT the candy guru,  CHEEZ 4 U (This was on a van that was delivering cheese, but I liked that the driver let me know it!) FROG  (??),  DIVA D  ("I sing") , I MISS EV (This might be other woman in Crazy Wid's life.....) D CUP (a total braggart!) 19 FT 9 IN  (Whatever..........!) LV 2 REIN (might be married to The King?) FAB HATS  (an entrepreneur), and then the two physical specimens: FOUR PAC and AGILE.

My favorites are the ones that seem to show a sense of humor:

STOP DIS (a dare for the cops?), GOT Z (I sleep well, thanks) GT SET GO (" Get out of my way.......") and my very favorite one:  C KAYAK.  I sat behind the car bearing this, puzzling, then realized that the top of the car had a rack where a kayak probably perches in fair weather, and the guy wanted to be sure we saw it.

So what would I put on MY license plate, if I were inclined to spend $40 extra to tell the world about myself?  Trying not to give away information, or to brag, I thought of:  MRSG  (But my students would then know which car to key....), I TEECH ( which lets you know that I teach reading.........), BKWRM (my personal favorite, but not everyone can translate this...), GTOFFTAIL (nothing bothers me more than someone riding my rear bumper......but those are nonreaders, I believe),  4EVRDIET (but who wants to know this about me?).  Then there are Randy's suggestions: CHEAP, THRIFTY, GSALER....but I don't want to advertise that stuff.

The other day I was behind a city bus with a huge sign on the rear that read ONE IN FIVE ADULTS HAS A DIAGNOSABLE MENTAL ILLNESS. It appeared to be a huge plate behind that bus.  I loved it, but it won't fit on my license plate, alas. A plate can only have a few letters. 

I might be able to settle for IM THE 1.



copyright:  KP Gillenwater

The Wine Group, or, "We Are Family"

Randy and I belong to a wine group. Have I mentioned this?  It's a collection of seven couples who have gotten together every single month for the past ten years to "taste" wine.  I say "collection" because our getting together in the first place was all happenstance.

In the late summer of 2000, Randy and I signed up for a college course called "From Vines to Wines" at our local university. We had drunk some wines and wanted to know how to pair them with foods. For six Saturdays we went to a nearby winery for a two-hour class. The vineyard owner told us how wine was made, types of wines, hosted a tasting event, and taught us the vocabulary that goes along with wines. We sat, each Saturday, with the same group of people of varied ages, but never actually spoke with them, as the "wine guy" did most of the talking.

At the last lesson, when some of the classmates brought their mates, the wine guy suggested that we might want to form a group, get together occasionally, and taste some wines. Right then, one of the women in the class passed around paper and had us write our contact information, so that we might taste wine with people who were as knowledgeable as we now thought that we had become. I suspect that we envisioned ourselves as potential "wine snobs," at that point.

A few weeks later, we went to the home of the organized woman, each bearing a bottle of wine of the same type and an h'ors d'oeuvre.  We tasted, took notes, wrote down our tasting results, swirled the wine in our glasses, and began to talk with each other as we did so.  All we'd had were our first impressions of each other from sitting quietly in the same room for twelve hours.  I am sure we were all curious about each other, and we'd been given an opportunity to investigate!

The collection included eleven people ranging from middle twenties to mid-fifties. We interacted well, got to know each others' names and basic information, and someone said they would host the group the following month, which meant that we were going to get to know each other a little better.

I will not go into detail of the next ten years, 120 months, 120 tastings with this group which we named The Wineos. Nor will I mention the hundreds of bottles of wine that we have drunk.  I will, however, tell you that we have tasted just about every flavor of the grape that exists, and we've only poured one or two bottles onto a bush. (Hence came the term, "Bush Wines") We even had Fortified Wine Night one time...........terrible stuff.............We have also eaten some delicious foods to accompany the wines, and shared recipes with each other.

I will tell you some of the things that have transpired over these ten years, during which these people have become our "family."

We have had four new marriages. Along with Randy and I getting married the next July, one couple got a divorce, and then each got remarried within a few years.  The wineos all danced at one of those weddings, and we were happy for both new couples.  Both of these newlywed couples have remained in the Wineos, remarkably, and everyone gets along beautifully. Our group had grown to thirteen people, with this. Wedding showers accompanied the wine group events!  One cold December, we sat as a group at the wedding of our youngest member when she married a former Marine: member number 14. We celebrated with wine made by the bride's mother!

One young couple adopted twin Russian orphans, and we have watched these two boys grow up. Two of the couples have delivered new baby boys,  and we have had baby showers along with our wine.

Two of us have suffered the death of beloved sons by accident and health issues.  The wine group sat together in a synagogue for one, and drove sixty miles to pay condolences for the other.  The Wineos were there for both grieving families.

Two members have lost  fathers, and one a mother, as well.  We attended the only funeral that was local, but hurt during the others for the grieving son.

There has been the death of pets, celebrations of degrees and passing of the Bar, job changes, health threats, thousands of  jokes, and anything and everything that a normal "family" goes through over the course of ten years. One couple has recently moved out of state, and we are tossing around ideas for a field trip to visit them, as leaving town does not mean leaving the family.

Do we still take notes on what we are "tasting?"  No.  We are too busy sharing our lives with each other, catching up on what has happened since the previous month, caring for each other, and being "family" for one another.

Each December we have a gift exchange game..........same game........and even some of the same gifts are exchanged each year, since it's a white elephant gift game. At Halloween, we've had marvelous costume parties.  We contribute to a fund throughout the year to finance one really big Anniversary of the Wineos event, when we buy finer wines than we normally taste to accompany a lovely dinner. The hosting couple each month usually invites a guest or two to add to the conversational mix. No two wine events are the same. We've visited a winery together for one, a wine bar for another, and know our way around each others' homes and kitchens pretty well by now.

The Wineos "met" at our house last night.  We had a table covered with appetizers and six bottles of wine.  We ate, we drank, we laughed, and a few of us shed a tear or two.  Last night we had "Cabin Fever Night," and each of us brought a poem to read aloud.  Just like our group, the poems were diverse: limericks, Beatles lyrics, light fare and dark, all delivered around our fireplace by and to the people in this patchwork quilt of a "family" that we have put together so lovingly for these past ten years. We truly are family.

L'chaim!




copyright: KP Gillenwater

Starting at the Starting Line Again, or, I'm a Loser

I did NOT make any resolutions, however one thing I really love about the New Year, January, an upbeat calendar, and a magazine page that says "IT'S A NEW DAY!"  hanging over my bathroom sink, is it's truly a FRESH START.

It's sort of like a starting line.  Here I am today.  Twelve months from now I get another fresh new start, (although the sign tells me I get one EACH day).............but I am taking this January to try to get myself back into my clothing that I have "outgrown."

I have been on some kind of weight program ever since I was fourteen years old, I am sad to say. Then,  Twiggy made me feel fat, and I gained many pounds during a summer in Alabama where I ate grits, fried chicken, hush puppies, gravy, butter beans with real butter.......(Oh, God, it was glorious.........), on a regular basis.  I returned thirty pounds heavier, and my mother said she didn't recognize me. Neither did I.

In high school, I ate the same bowl of chili and tuna sandwich every single day of my life until I had lost 38 pounds and my father told me I looked like a survivor of Auschwitz.  I was elated.  I was also too thin, and looked like a large head on a tiny body.  (I cut my hair like Twiggy, though.)


Having delivered three children and learned how to cook,  I developed a passion for Weight Watcher cookbooks, and that is how I cooked for my growing family. I also walked four miles every night, so for a number of years there was no problem other than losing "baby weight" after my children were born. I had a hypnotist who "suggested" three meals and nothing in between for the baby weight.  It worked.

My children were raised on chicken to the point that we all clucked at the dinner table. 365 chicken recipes are in my file!  We ate Oprah's cook's oven-fried French fries and loved them. I cooked healthy food, and my children left my home trim and slim and full of wheat bread and yogurt.

BUT, for me.................over the past ten years, in a new marriage and no children to feed........it has been a struggle.  Randy brings me chocolate, and he hides pastry in the cupboards.  We belong to a wine group, and we imbibe freely. There are chocolate bars in hiding places that only I know about. Good 'n Plenty boxes turn up as surprises.  He knows what I like!

Five recent years of attending Weight Watchers like a religious fanatic kept the problem at bay, until earlier this year when I decided I was HUNGRY, dammit.  I wanted some cheese sauce, gravy, REAL French fries, a hamburger made with MEAT, and some Mexican tortillas holding gooey stuff.  I went hog-wild.  No kidding.  HOG WILD, like a wild hog......  I have eaten every delectable thing that my eyes encountered for the better part of the last half of 2010.

I was down to one pair of slacks that I could actually button and zip.

It's not a huge number of pounds, when I take into consideration how much I've eaten, but I knew it was there. My unused closets knew it was there, and I knew that Randy knew it was there, too.

I have to tell you that my cookbook collection probably contains a hundred low-fat cookbooks, so it was not lack of knowledge. It was lack of impetus.  I actually remember thinking, "Oh well, most of America is overweight. What's the difference if I let myself go a bit, too?!" 

The difference is:  I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT. 

Then came this New Year, the gift of the fresh starting line, and I discovered a web site that I had played around with a few months ago. I log in, and I can track my meals and snacks EASILY on it.  It tells me how much I've lost, gained, and even how I'm consuming nutrients, fat, sodium, and so forth.  It also measures any exercise that I might do.  Pretty good stuff!  I still love Weight Watchers.  It's all good there.  I just am tired of counting points.  I needed to shift gears.

This web site doesn't yell at me or make me feel bad if I go over the caloric intake I have chosen as "ideal."  It just turns the numbers RED to let me know it, like a little hint.   I've been using this website  for two weeks, now.  (Did I mention that it's FREE?  No membership, no costs, just free help.)  I am not going to advertise for them right here,  but I can tell you that there are several out there in Cyberspace, and I found another one that was nearly as good.  I chose this one based on how many foods are in their database.

I have lost 4 pounds.  I really don't want to lose too much more, but anyone who has ever been on a diet, (or a "live-it," because it's a life-long process,) KNOWS that those last few pounds are the most stubborn.

Randy and I are devout Biggest Losers fans.  We cheer for our favorites, feel amazement for those people who go through all of that grueling, torturous exercise, and then get voted off the show.  We have pulled our own treadmill out in front of the TV, set up the rowing machine, and have made some half-hearted attempts at working out a bit.  Not my thing, but I will try.

My cookbooks are ready, and I am motivated once again!  I WANT to keep up the positive eating that I've been doing for these past two weeks.  Food is delicious, and I am back to savoring it, since I am not piling it into my mouth on huge forkloads lately.  I sort of wonder if the last half of  2010 was a mini-vacation of sorts for me...........I think I let myself see how it felt to JUST EAT for the first time in many years without carrying the mental burden around of what it would do to my body.  Alas, it DID do exactly what the magazines and my Weight Watcher leader had told me that it would do. Living in this era, how could I be surprised by this? There is no excuse, at this time, to be ignorant of nutrient or calorie content. We are saturated with information.

This has been a life-long battle for me.  People have told me I didn't look as if I needed to lose any weight, but they had no clue that my slacks button was cutting into my skin, or that my pedometer, small as it is, made wearing pants difficult.  They didn't see me undressed! (or WANT to, either..........)

This was not written to lecture. It is sharing one of my life's issues with you.  I am working on this particular issue right now, and I suppose that I always will be.  My cyber coach is helping me.

 I just wish that website would make some really loud cheering noises when I log in a weight loss!




copyright:  KP Gillenwater

New Year 2011, or, "Oh Promise Me"

  The New Year is here! 


No written resolutions this year!

 I have found all of the tear-stained, wrinkled lists with notes of promises I have made over the last few New Years.  Almost none of them were accomplished, so why disappoint myself again?

 I do not weigh 115 pounds,  have not given up wine, do not feel appreciation for the folks I told myself I would "try to love," and I still have negative thoughts when my alarm goes off, so, apparently, I am not waking on a positive note each day, as I had said I would do. Case closed.

HOWEVER:  If I were to make some New Years resolutions this year, this is what I would write:

1.  Love my job:  I will get up and smile as I drive to my workplace, enjoy every productive moment of each and every day, and know that I am contributing to the betterment of civilization by doing my job.

2.  Love my coworkers:  Even if some walk past me and do not speak, I will say "Good  morning!" with a cheery smile on my face.  I will gladly chip in to any fund for which one of them is collecting. If they volunteer to do more work, I will jump right in there, too, and use up my lunch or planning time to be sure I give my fair share of "extra," also.

3. Lose those extra pounds:  I will give up wine, butter, cookies, cake, ice cream, cheesy Mexican food, all things delicious and chewy,  pizza, The Macaroni Grill, and the Food Network.  I will not watch the Barefoot Contessa make something yummy and then rush out and buy the ingredients.  I will forego reading recipes in magazines, and no longer leave drool marks on those pages.

4. Exercise:  (Oh yeah........)  I will spend an hour a day doing some form of exhausting physical thing to pump up my heart rate, burn calories and get my metabolism up "there," wherever that is.  I will actually SWEAT............but just a bit.  I will not only WEAR the pedometer, I will keep on walking if it has not hit the magic 10,000 steps per day, instead of just sighing and saying, "Gee, I only went 4,000 steps today. It seemed like more."

5. Forgive people.  I will wear the badge of acceptance of others, and if one offends me in any way, I will hold myself to a higher standard and LET IT GO. I will not allow myself to become ill by carrying a grudge around. 

6. Become organized:  Every desktop, home or work, will have no piles of unfinished clutter.  All paperwork  will be filed immediately instead of laying in stacks awaiting "the right time."  Dead pens will be tossed out.  I will not keep that old pencil with the dried-up eraser just because it has  sentimental value. Clutter, begone!

7. No more shopping for extra stuff that I don't need.  135 purses is enough and I will NOT bring home another one, no matter how cute or roomy it is or if it matches that odd-colored outfit and I will never see another one like it, or it's on sale even...........

Those are sounds of muffled laughter that you just heard. Guffaw, guffaw...........

THANK GOD  I am not about to write this stuff down, making myself miserably guilty for another year! If I did accomplish those resolutions, a halo should appear over my frizzy head!

Alas !  I am dreading going back to work at the end of vacation.  I do not adore all of my coworkers. (And, I dare say, they don't all love ME, either.)  My desks, both at work AND at home, have mounds of lumpy piles,  and I am NOT givin' up that old pencil from Mount Vernon!  And as for my purse collection: It is what it is: a thing of joy and beauty, giving me pleasure.  If homeless purses call my name, SO BE IT, they may join the crowd!

That one about being cheerful in the morning, though.............I might be able to TRY.  But don't quote me.






copyright: KP Gillenwater

Memory-Keepers of the Past, or Sisters , Sisters

My friend lost her sister last week.  It was sudden and totally unexpected, from a brain aneurysm.  I haven't talked with my friend yet, because I am afraid I will cry when I do.  So far we've exchanged several emails and a sympathy card, and I will have to try again to reach her by phone.  I know I will cry.

I wrote to her today that I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to lose my sister.  My own sister is older by almost five years than I, but she takes far better care of her health than I have in recent years, and she hasn't had to tend classes of children who try to subdue her spirit.  I believe she will far outlive me on this planet. That is my expectation, anyway.  I'd bet that was the expectation of my friend who buried her younger sister last week, also.

I remember one time telling my three children, as they argued and exchanged swats with each other in the back seat, to "Stop right this minute, and take a good look at your brothers and sister!  This very minute, LOOK WELL!"

I remember telling them that some day I would be gone, their dad would be gone, and there would be only themselves to be "family" for each other. They were going to NEED each other to save the memories of our family and their childhoods.

They became very silent, stared at each other with new eyes, then turned back to me as if I might be leaving them soon.     (?)

Nobody else will remember you at the swim club in the summer, I went on.  Nobody will remember Kelly, Daisy, or Sunny.  Nobody will remember your being a real live angel in the Christmas pageant, or hooking up fifteen electric cords to get that TV to work inside the tent.  No one will remember the day you broke your chin open on the pool table, the broken femur and the month in traction, the magical Underoos that might have let you fly, the nutso neighbor kid who stole Mr. Weaver's Playboy Magazines, the day we let the water monkeys "go free" in Yellow Creek, or that miserable teacher two of you had in elementary school. (Or the fact that your mother spared the third of you from a year of torture.)

Now that their brother is gone, I think they hold each other more dearly because the two left only have each other.  They have lost their brother, and he will not be there to call them "Sissy" and "Stubbo."

The spat subsided, but I knew I had hit a nerve.  I had actually read an article about this subject not long before this event, and it drove home this reality:  The friends we make throughout our lives truly do not know all of the nitty gritty "stuff "that went into making us into who we are.  Even our spouses only get the finished product after we've matured from our growing-up years.

My sister and I are four plus years apart.  We are very very different people.  We did not go to the same schools, and we were raised by two entirely different sets of parents, even though those parents had the same names and faces.  My parents were far more liberal than hers.  They had already had practice with raising HER.  Now that our parents are both gone, we are the keepers of the past.

There is not a person on this earth, except for me,  who can envision my sister climbing down from the rafters of an unfinished addition or swinging from a grapevine over a rocky ravine. No one else remembers her walking around on the top of the roof. She is the only one who recalls the night my toe got cut and I thought I would bleed to death. She alone remembers the slinky pink nighties and the jammies with feet and bottom drops.  She has our dog somewhere in her heart, along with a stream of goldfish and a bird named Percy.

Who but she remembers riding dusty roads on bicycles named Buttermilk and Trigger,  getting stuck in "quicksand" which was really deep mud, cowgirl suits, plastic snap guns, Sky King and Penny with Cheerios, the longest camping trip in the world, sewing buttons onto our toes, crinoline petticoats, mismatched clothes that didn't fit, coats with sleeves to our knees, our grandmama's fall off the back steps, or the neighbor's great dane attacking our little mutt, Copper?  No one.

My friend must be wondering why I have not called her back since her machine answered once and I left a brief message. How do I say how sad I am for her?  I hope she knows that I know she has lost someone who held her in her mind as she was when she was a child, and I know that not only is her sister lost to her, but somehow there is a very part of her that is lost also.......... a keeper of her past is gone.

I love my friend.  I love my sister, also.  They are so different, yet both are so very dear to me in many ways.  I cry for my friend's loss, and for my children who have lost their brother.  It is not easy getting older, is it?  It's a sure thing we will bury our parents, fifty-fifty with our spouses. Siblings are a toss-up.........or a toss-down.

If my sister reads this:    I love you.     I love your screaming, "I will always wear crinoline petticoats!"  I love your being the maid in the school play, making sure I got on the right bus when I was in the first grade, roasting  marshmallows and hot dogs on the gas stove top (no parent in sight), trying to memorize "Friends, Romans, countrymen........." and letting me do it better than you did, for not deserting me in the "quicksand" but leaving my ugly yellow boots behind in it, and for being my big sister all these years.  I want to be sure that you know that I love you............. just in case.

For my friend:  I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am about the death of your wonderful sister.  But I am going to try to pick up the phone sometime today, and try to tell you.




copyright:  K P Gillenwater

How It Was, or, I'll Be Home for Christmas

The box with our Christmas tree in it was waiting for me when I arrived home today.  Taped up, the size of a football player, it is my assignment for tomorrow to do what "Only God"  can do, which is to "make a tree."

I remember when I was little and we would go into the woods and find one that looked as if nobody wanted it, cut it down, and drag it back down the hill.  We'd let it sit outside a day or so because Pop always said it "needed to settle," or some such thing.  I never could understand that. It looked the same to me when it finally got stuck into the metal tree holder, had one of our white sheets wrapped around the holder, bubble lights in place, and we stood and threw tinsel at it.

We had one little plastic angel we called "Angie the Christmas Tree Angel," from a song back then. The angel was about four inches tall and we poked a hole in the bottom of it so it would stay on the top branch.  I had a small plastic snowman ornament that had come with two suckers sticking out of a hole in its side. Suckers long-gone, it hung on the tree with just its hole.  I also had a Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer ornament the year that song came out.  I still have these three precious ornaments, and they hang every year on my Christmas tree, right along with the blue paper bird with net and sequined wings that I made in the second grade.  I thought that bird was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and even though it's a bit tattered and worn, each time I hang it on the tree I remember how it felt to be seven and proud of my creation.

One year my mother decided to "go modern," and she went out into the woods and dragged home a dead tree that was not even an evergreen. She spray-painted it white, stuck it into a pot, and hung only blue balls all over it.  All four of us sat and looked at it for a couple of weeks, and then right before December 25th, we went back up into the woods, and brought home a little pine tree to hang Rudolph, Angie, and my blue bird on,  so we could be "normal." 

We had other ornaments and decorations back then.  Every year Pop and I would go outside together and hang up Santa's Face somewhere in the front of the house.  This is a large brilliantly RED face of Santa that I thought was magnificent.  It's in its box in my basement right now.  I haven't hung it up since my own kids were little, but I could never part with it.

It's odd to see the evolution of Christmas, now that I am old enough to look back over lots of them.  Of course I cannot ever see it again as I did when I was little, but I did try to make my own childrens' Christmases as exciting as I remembered. I loved the whole idea of gifts, both giving and getting.

One year Mom got the idea that we would make marzipan candy gifts for everyone.  She set up the ping pong table in the basement, bought a ton of marzipan (almond paste) and food coloring. Then she got cute little leaves that we could use as stems for the marzipan strawberries, apples, pears, and other fruits that we rolled in our hands, and dyed with the food colorings.  We must have rolled apples and berries through  hundreds of pounds of marzipan before we realized that there was NO WAY we were going to be able to use up all the almond paste that Mom had bought.  The house smelled like nuts, and we could hardly stand to lick our fingers, we were so sick of the taste of it.

Then Mom got "creative," with  aluminum TV dinner plates! We had a life-time supply of those three-sectioned tins. Instead of strawberries, we produced marzipan Salisbury steaks, marzipan mashed potatoes (with marzipan yellow pats of butter on top), and bright green marzipan peas.  A complete meal of marzipan!  God only knows to whom we presented these gifts, and today I laugh at the memory, but back then I thought we were giving away priceless pieces of artwork. (You can imagine the discussions of the recipients, I presume.)

I loved to wrap presents when I was a child.  One year I bought Mom a very large "crystal" salad bowl and wrapped the bowl, added a helium-filled balloon with four strands of yarn to the top, and presented my gift in the form of a hot-air balloon. The bowl itself was anticlimactic once unwrapped.

Prior to this creative wrapping era, I just WRAPPED everything. We had lots and lots of cheap wrapping paper, and some that I had even made by myself by doing potato printing on shelf paper.  I got the notion, very young, that things that were wrapped up were better than things that weren't.  So I wrapped anything and everything I could. 

Mom's scissors disappeared one year.  We heard about it every day for several months. Since she needed them to cut out the fabric to make our clothes, it was a huge loss and inconvenience. On Christmas morning she opened all her "presents" under the tree, and lo' and behold, there were her missing scissors!  By then I had forgotten I'd wrapped them.

Our gifts were wonderful.  Apparently I had not inherited my love of wrapping from my parents, since NOTHING from Santa was wrapped. When we got up on Christmas morning and ran to the tree, we saw it ALL at once!  A display of gifts! Dolls were my favorite, and I would get one every year.  Most of them have fallen apart or disappeared, but Poor Pitiful Pearl is still in her original box right under my guest bed, and occasionally I open the box and become a little girl again for a few minutes. In the attic is the metal doll buggy in case I want to take her for a walk.  We didn't have a zillion toys like kids do today.

My Aunt Angie, in South Dakota, was a librarian.  Every year she would send us a book with an inscription inside.  We'd open her book on Christmas Eve and read it.  Those books were some of my favorite presents. Why The Chimes Rang will be on my coffee table for readers to enjoy one more time in a day or two.  I thank Aunt Angie for the gift of the love of reading that came hidden, unseen, inside those little volumes.

My mother gave me a child-sized fork and spoon that she remembered were her sole Christmas gifts one year when she was a very little girl in Colorado.  The spoon has tooth marks all over it, and the fork is worn.  She told about her dad putting a piece of paper over his face. It had holes cut out for his eyes, and he chortled, "Ho Ho Ho!" as he presented her with Santa's gifts.  Of course she knew it was her daddy, and she was happy with her gift, although a bit unnerved.

Christmases of my past have tender places in my heart:  My daughter with a big red bow atop her head.......... my son dressed as a shepherd for a church play..........  admitting under cover of a bed tent one Christmas night to my tearful oldest child that yes, indeed, he was correct about Santa........  "Silent Night" in the snow at midnight with our entire church family.............. an Advent calendar with little chocolates behind each date's window........ cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer........ candy canes and Festivus for the Restofus ice cream. Love.

Draped over one antique clock will be my son's faded red crepe paper hat from his kindergarten elf performance, a glittery halo of my youngest angel, once worn over his impish face, and a paper crown with a gold star from my daughter's angel debut:  Tender memories of Christmas with my children.

Tomorrow I will make a tree and hang up Rudolph, my snowman, Angie the angel, and my paper blue bird. I might even hang up the beaming Santa face. Randy has already lit the yard and lamp post.  I hope there's still enough little girl left in me to wrap like a crazy person,  load the tree with gifts, and feel the joy of Christmas.  I will pass on the marzipan.



copyright: K P Gillenwater

Pop's Hankies, or , Whole Lotta Love

I have a drawer full of mens' handkerchiefs that belonged to my father, whom I lovingly called "Pop."  He died when I was twenty-four, and I was not ready for him to leave my life.  I had only discovered, really, how wonderfully marvelous he was, with his quiet yet humorous demeanor, so unlike that of my mother.  He had made an art-form of peaceful resistance, and I had just realized the power that he held. I lost him to heart failure on a cold February day, a sunny day, the first snowfall of the season.  That was the day I began to learn about loss.

When I was little, my "chore," was ironing.  For some unknown reason, I was good at it. I imagine I got this job because nobody else wanted it. I had burns on my hands and wrists, but I didn't mind. The ironing board, which Pop installed in our family room wall was close to the TV, so I was not bored.

 I got paid to do this work: ten cents for a shirt or blouse, twenty cents for a bed sheet, and a whopping nickel for every two of Pop's handkerchiefs ironed.  That's two-and-a-half-cents per handkerchief, for those of us non-math majors.

I loved to iron the handkerchiefs.  They were smaller than a bed sheet, by a long shot, and the fabric was thin enough that a steam iron could whip those little hankies into flat squares in no time.  I'd iron the whole thing, then fold them over once, iron, then fold once more, and VOILA!  Ready to use, done! And I was half a nickel richer with each hot little square that topped the pile.

 I'd stack them up and "see my work, " which is a really good thing to be able to do when you are working and want to see what you've done. Then I'd count how many I had ironed, write it down on my "bill," and carry the load of cleanly washed, ironed, and lovingly folded hankies to Pop's bedroom.

I was being a "contributing member of the household."  I also had enough money to go to Woolworth's for a bagful of sugar-babies.

On that very cold February morning, when I was twenty-four and Pop left this earth, I held on to his silver and turquoise bolo tie. He had worn it almost daily.  I wrapped the leather strands of his tie around my fingers, held on to it, as I wanted to hold on to him, and realized that I could not.

The things I have today that were my father's are this bolo tie, which I wear as a pendant, his ring, which I hope will someday be a treasure for my son, a cereal bowl that is broken past use, his feet, his laugh, his facial structure, and that drawer full of handkerchiefs which I refused to allow to be donated or given to "needy folks."

 Pop has been with me every day of my life, whispering in my ear the right things to do.  I cannot count the number of times I've turned to my right shoulder and said, aloud and clearly, "I hear you, Pop," when he counseled me, led me, or especially when I have heard his very words come out of my own mouth. I hear his phraseology, his Iowa verbiage or quips:"Purd n'ear," or, "Tend to your own knittin'!"   (And when I know I have done a wrong thing, I've heard him whisper,"I am ashamed of you, Kimmy.") "I hear you, Pop,"  I say to him, no matter what I've heard him say.

 I also know he is near when he comforts me.  He left me his handkerchiefs, just for that purpose, after all.

Most of the hankies are white, some stained, some plaid, some have the letter P or N embroidered in a corner, and some are just thinly worn-out.  The pile probably counts to twenty, and during sieges of flu or colds, that pile has shown up in its entirety in my laundry room.

I have a special drawer for Pop's hankies, and when the wash comes up all clean and shiny, those hankies are placed, "rotating stock," back into that drawer.  They have to last me for a lifetime, you see.

Yesterday  Randy and I took a hike in our Metro Parks.  As we were a fourth of the way into our one-mile walk, I reached into my coat pocket for Pop's hankie, and it was missing.  Without skipping a beat, I did an about-face and walked at break-neck speed, retracing our steps, back to the car where the missing hankie turned up.  All the while I was saying "I cannot lose Pop's hankie."  I continued my breathless trot with poor Randy following along, redoing his hiking challenge steps to appease his idiosyncratic wife. 

The value of the handkerchief, sentimentally, became obvious to my husband, and also worth mentioning, and here you are, now, knowing this!

How alone I would have felt, without Pop's handkerchiefs!  As I raised my children and worried over them, the hankies wiped fevers and tied back my hair on truly overwrought days. Soaked in cold water and tied to my wrists on summer days in a home with no air conditioning, they cooled my blood and let me keep on with housework.  They dried my nose for a thousand cold and allergy attacks. Stuffed under my pillow or in my bathrobe pocket,  they were the most dependable comfort, and the best dryer-of- tears I had.

Over the past four and a half years since my much-loved son, only thirty, died, those handkerchiefs have been well-used, well-washed, reused, returned to the drawer, "rotated stock," recycled, rewashed, reused, and re-rotated-stock many times over.  I have felt them to represent the caring, very present, comforting "hands" of my much-loved father, wiping my tears and guiding me through this hideous path of grief. 

"Thanks, Pop," I 've said, too many times to count, as the hankies have been  dropped down the laundry chute or stuffed back into a pocket.

Love never dies, I've learned.  Neither, really, do the loved ones. Sometimes the love comes as a thought in my head, or a fragrance in the air.  Sometimes it's in the patient listening of a friend. Sometimes love shows up in the form of an old worn handkerchief.




copyright: KP Gillenwater

Houseplants are Family, or, Only the Strong Survive

My first plant was a rubber tree that was five feet tall. My mother threw it out of her house not long after I had also left home. I took it to my single-girl apartment, wiped the leaves with milk, watered it, and named it Goodrich.

I was also plant-hooked. The thought that a plant could give me oxygen, keep me healthy, and remove pollutants from the air I was breathing amazed me. Besides, I needed something to cheaply fill the vacant spaces in that apartment.

Plant stores seemed to dominate street corners during the seventies, (probably because none of us could afford to fill the empty spaces in our first apartments,) and I was ripe for supporting them. Since then, plants have "come to me," as gifts, party favors, garage sale finds, rescue efforts (meaning that someone was going to dump one!) or by my walking through the aisles at places like Lowe's and having love at first sight experiences.

 Several hundred plants have tried to cohabitate with me. (This sounds far more exciting than it truly was. ) Some actually survived the cohabitation.  I've moved plants to and from the nine homes of my life since that first.  I don't remember what happened to Goodrich, but I think he got left outside too long, one autumn. Thankfully, I do not recall the details.

On a walk one night, in my next life, I rescued a very nice plant that a frustrated homeowner had put on the curb. I lugged that sucker home,  named it Annie (as in Orphan,) and it has been with me for twenty-five years.  Not all good years.  It is a schefflera plant, and it grew to a huge height and breadth.  Two summers ago I failed to move it from underneath a gutter that over-ran, and  flooded it.  She died. I literally wept, and moved Annie to the far corner of the back yard to await her total demise and burial.

 I went out and bought another one, (a replacement puppy)  feeling  hideous guilt.  I named the new shefflera "Mrs. Grenville," (after a Dominick Dunne book which had two women by that name, this being the second one...) Then, after several months of looking at poor dead Annie's dried-up stems rotting in her pot, I moved her into some sunshine, gave her a small drink, (instead of the flood she had already had,) and lo' and behold, greenery reappeared!  We changed her name to Lazarus, (apparently she had a sex-change operation, of sorts, also,) and little by little Annie Lazarus is coming back to beauty!

I tell you about this to explain that my plants, being living beings, are family members with names, in our home. Old Faithful is a large philodendron who has been with me for nearly twenty years, and spreads itself all across the living room coffee table, where there is no room for coffee, much less the comfort that the table should offer to guests. If you visit, you had better be prepared to hold your cup and saucer.  Old Faithful emerges from his round pot like a volcanic eruption, and then spreads over and down from the tabletop.

Pedro is a very tall prickly cactus who bites if I get too close. We do not get along well, but I did invite Pedro into my home, and I have taken care of him for a number of years,  so I feel the need to be hospitable. I think he reminds me of a former relative, not my favorite, so when I water Pedro, I whisper closely into his spiky skin, "You only get a little bit of water, you see?"

Shylock is my Wandering Jew who does well outside in the summertime, and then gets nasty during the winter.  I do not talk back to Shylock, knowing that he KNOWS when he is happy and when he is not, and I can't do anything for his mood but pick up his lost brown leaves. His summer purple is much more lush than his winter dull.

A spider plant named Charlotte takes over a little stool by our picture window, and refuses to reproduce those "babies" that my friends' spider plants have.  I think Charlotte needs to see a reproductive specialist, as I seem to have the only barren spider plant in town. Hope springs eternal.

 Spot is a huge variegated thing near the fireplace, obviously named for its spots. I do not know his/her gender, and I do not ask. I just water, smile, love, and hope for the best.

What fun to give names to living things!  I talk to them when I water them, and tell them I knew they thought they weren't going to get any water, but LOOK, here I am, pitcher in hand !

In my plant-kingdom, there are also some which are too simple, such as Fern (duh), a fern, or Noel, my mother's Christmas cactus.  There is also Paddy, the Shamrock, and Gustav, the Norwegian Pine tree. On the mantle sits Yoko Ono, an oriental orchid, who has lost her bloom.

The Lounge Lizard is a giant aloe plant who has leaned so far over that he drapes himself across the window sill as if he is relaxing there.  If only I could be so content and relaxed!  I cannot move this plant for fear of his falling off his perch and breaking. He will have to eventually be sold with the house.

A pot with several mixed plants is called The Witness, a gift sent to the funeral home where it stood as sentinel by my loved one during the hardest hours of my life. It will always be with me.

Tom, Dick, and Harry are a threesome, all different, and they share a three-pot holder, which makes them a "set." They do everything together. If one were to die, I would then have an empty pot, and would have to go find them another buddy.

My neighbor, Jean With the Green Hands, has presented me, recently, with two huge pots of aloes.  They are spiky and sort of threatening-looking just now.  We've decided to call them The Medusa Twins. I am awaiting a relationship to bloom. (So far I cover my face for fear of turning to stone, but I feel positive enough to think that we might be able to work this out during the winter.) Randy objected to my taking Medusa in, actually. But I told him if he needed aloe for a cut, we could now cover his entire body with it. I am sure that was the convincing argument. It was either that or the tears.

Randy says I have too many plants.  I remind him of the oxygen.  He says he'd rather be without it.  I show him magazine homes that have NO plants, and tell him how sad I am for "those people" without greenery in their lives. He actually wanted me to get a bunch of FAKE PLANTS once, when we were first married.  He said they'd be easier to care for, and I said I wouldn't let them in the house, because a fake plant LOOKS fake! (If you're a fake plant lover, just hide them when I visit.) I won. (Except for the fake plant you read about in the previous post, of course, which pretends to exist on our screened porch, and does not count.) I suppose this is called plant-prejudice of some kind.

My mother had a plant that died, once.  It died nameless.  I do remember the event, however, as I was there when the presumed declaration of death was pronounced.  Mom said that the plant was dead, she thought. Then she said that perhaps she should take it out into the woods, "like a Greek baby," and leave it there until she was sure that it was "not only merely dead, but most sincerely dead."  Which we did. It was.

Annie, the Orphan, now Lazarus, is the Poster Child for the Greek Baby!  Pedro stands, breathing oxygen into unnourished air, and Charlotte tries to send spidery vines to show life moving into areas where none existed before.  Old Faithful IS faithful, when others may not have been,  the Lounge Lizard will forever relaxingly rest along the window sill (asking for a martini, someday, I suppose,)  and The Witness will always be with me, as will the Loved One it guarded. If Charlotte ever does reproduce, can you imagine the fun I will have, naming all those little spider-babies?



copyright: K P Gillenwater

Sleepin' on the Porch, or, Strangers in the Night

Randy and I have been sleeping outside for months, now.  We are not homeless.

 It's not as scary as it sounds, as we sleep on a futon on our screened-in porch which sits on the upper level of our raised ranch home. The futon was one of our first purchases when we moved here, and it was with the intent of becoming "outside sleepers," right off the bat.

You need to know that our home butts up against a metropolitan park which is all woods. While in our upper level, we live among the treetops.  At this time of the year, the daytime fall colors of the gloriously-colored leaves give way at night to the rustling of those leaves in the dark wind, and the sounds of the parades of woodsy animals who pass through our yard from dusk to dawn.

There's a bit of a wuss in both of us that requires an electric blanket on this futon, lest you think we are ruggedly withstanding the forces of nature out there. (Randy wants me to interject that HIS side of the futon, if there is such a place, is NOT warmed by said blanket.  He is of Hungarian descent, and takes pride that he is already "hot.") (I, however, have reminded HIM that his side has been warmed by a type of osmosis.)  Some years we have the foresight and good sense to put the electric blanket on a timer, so it warms up automatically by bedtime.  This year we've been too lazy to plug it in, so far. 

Our porch has the ambiance of a trailer-trash-pirate's den,  as well as being the nightly abode of two fresh air fiends.  Hanging glass "witches' balls," a flying fake pelican, and strings of lighted colored balls and chili peppers surround the ceiling of this haven. (It recalls to us a pirate-themed place in the Outer Banks called "Goombas,"  the most glorious Christmas trees of our childhoods, and a trailer  park where we enjoyed a fun weekend with Randy's family members some years ago.) The porch has a personality of its own, though, with wicker chairs, a bistro table, a three-foot-tall standing stuffed flamingo (named "Flo"), and the only fake plant in our home, a large fern in a huge ceramic pot.

One year we managed to sleep out there until December 4th.  My nose had frostbite when we finally undid the bed and covered it for the winter that had already begun in earnest. Snow had been blowing onto my frozen face for several nights by then.

The NEXT year, we stayed out there until December the FIFTH.............as a sort of challenge, and just to be able to SAY that we had added a day that year.. (You are hearing it now.)  That time my cheeks were also frozen, along with my nose, toes, and fingers, but we stuck it out just for the fun of it.  The electric blanket was not keeping up with the bitter cold and the billowing winds. (Not to mention the layer of snow we had to brush off, just to get out of futon....)

We've lived in this house for eight years, and when the realtor revealed this porch, that was when, "We'll take it," escaped both of our mouths.  The former owners had left two large Victorian wicker chairs out there, until the deal was sealed.  We envisioned, as they had planned, peace and tranquility as we overlooked the forested valley.  SOLD!

The back of our home has two large picture windows that take up most of the wall space, allowing us to see the forest most of the time.  Our bedroom has the same view, so the porch is not the only location from which to enjoy the scenery: our home decor IS the forest.

But the porch is where "it's happening," especially during the autumn months.

Now, fall leaves carpet the ground, so everything that moves out there is HEARD, even though it may not be SEEN.

After the sun goes down, and we get snuggled down under the warmed-up layers of heavy quilts and blankets, the rustling begins beneath "down under."  Below the porch, on a patio, where we served summertime picnic dinners, a raccoon comes and sniffs for any leftovers, and apparently, from the sounds, jumps onto the chairs and table to be sure there's nothing missed.

Deer parade through the yard, or run.  Sometimes we sit up and catch a look at antlers in the moonlight. Mostly, they amble through, brushing up against things, shouldering past bushes, pawing the ground, snorting.  They SOUND big.

It took awhile to get used to the animal sounds in the leaves, but now I can read a book under the covers, listening to my forest friends making their way across our shared land.  There's really nothing to fear, but we have caught a daytime glimpse of a bobcat, and one night a coyote left a very large paw print frozen into the ice on our deck.

The first year outside, we thought that someone had been killed in our back yard, from the hideous screaming we heard.  Too afraid to move, we listened until the murderous yells abated.  In the light of day we went to the top of the ridge and looked over, searching for "the body," only to see WOODS.  This went on for several nights (a serial killer?) until we were informed by another forest-dweller that those screams were made by a fox, to make his prey scurry from its hiding place, to be caught. I suppose some of the screams WERE the prey.........

The other night I awoke at about three A.M. to listen to the sounds of coyotes howling across the valley behind our house.  They continued until a neighborhood dog chimed in, destroying the acapella concert which told of hunger, loneliness, and garbage cans shut tightly.  Shortly, however, a hoot owl continued the song, from another direction.. a virtual light, night opera.

I always jab Randy in the ribs when there's a new sound out there.  Usually he replies with, "I hear it."  It makes me wonder if we are really SLEEPING out there, or just enjoying the outdoors with our eyes closed.

A rainy night is THE BEST.  I can hardly wait for nightfall to get under the dampish blankets and listen to the leaves and the raindrops!  A good storm in the middle of the night can be downright THRILLING.

When I was a little girl, our parents took us to Bridgton, Maine, where we rented a small pine cabin from Foster's Cabins, right on a long lake.  We went there for several years, and those were probably the most peaceful times of my childhood. My sleeping spot was a screened-in porch at the side of the cabin, beneath huge pine trees. I would spend quiet afternoons lying on my bed there, coloring, or playing solitaire on a rainy afternoon, smelling the bed of pine needles that covered the entire ground. Listening to the lake noises, smelling an occasional skunk, I was in childhood Heaven.

Small wonder that I sleep on a lumpy futon in the cold night air, listening to the wind and creatures who share this time and space with me now, savoring every moment of it.  The good news is that I have a husband who goes along with this crazy nocturnal adventure of sorts, loves the fresh air and sounds, and "gets it."




copyright: KP Gillenwater

Signs, Signs, or : Who's Stopping?

The sign says, "STOP."  It does NOT say, "PAUSE," or "BLINK AND GO," or "GUN IT!"  But I am beginning to think that the STOP sign ought to be changed to read, "GOOD LUCK!"  The disregard of stop signs is a daily nightmare in my neighborhood, and I recently realized that it is a fear for the entire city, and more than likely is a nationwide threat.

I teach reading. One of the first words that children learn to read is STOP. Unfortunately, they must have all forgotten what it means!  Websters says that its definition is, "to cease to go on."  That means coming to a complete halt. No more moving. Dead still.

Every day I leave my home and drive in peril, fearing that each red octogonal sign is being obeyed by only one driver: ME.  I have had to come to screeching halts, dodge to the left or right, or come to a complete stop WITHOUT A STOP SIGN, as some idiot darts out in front of me,  disobeying the sign that told HIM/HER to "cease to go on." 

I look at these people as they put themselves ahead of my life's safety, and for the most part they look like normal individuals.  Their tongues are not hanging out at the sides of their mouths, their eyeballs are not rolling around in circles, yet they put their one-second-ahead-of-when-they-get-there ahead of the safety of every other living being around them.  (Specifically, ME.)

Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, I personally paid for three stop signs. By that I mean I was arrested, had to go to traffic courts, and paid fines.  Three times.  Two of those were at a neighborhood STOP sign that I coasted through, driving a stick-shift Falcon, trying to save the motion of having to downshift.  At that time, the traffic cost was "only" forty dollars a shot.  I might add that this was the SAME stop sign, two times, where a vigilant policeman had sat in his patrol car waiting for me.

The third offense was in a university city where I was racing to get to my class on time, cup of coffee lodged between my knees, music blaring on the car radio, and BINGO............this time it was sixty dollars. That policeman was loud and offended that I could break a law in HIS city, and he didn't hesitate to tell me so.

Guess what? For the rest of my life (no kidding), I have STOPPED at any sign that says STOP.  I have mentally counted to three until it has become second nature to do so. And I have never paid for another STOP sign, either. (Knock on wood.)

I have been late to work, late to events, rolled in at the last possible moment for meetings, but I have never put anybody else's LIFE ahead of my need for speed because of a red sign that asked me to STOP. (I also don't crash red lights, but that's another post.)

I have, however, mentally ripped the heads off of STOP sign crashers. I have bashed them over their brainless heads, in my mind, with the very STOP sign that they so cavalierly disregarded as they put my life in jeopardy.  I have called them every conceivable viscious name that they deserve as I continue on my way, knees knocking, (coffee spilling.)  I have prayed for their safety and forgiveness, even, and hoped that they are not responsible for small children whose welfare depends upon them.  And I have feared them enough to slow down whenever I see a car approach a STOP sign that is perpendicular to the road I am travelling.

I have learned not to trust the drivers on these roads, even though they (supposedly) passed the same driver's test that I did. (Did they have No Driver Left Behind testing?  Did EVERYONE get the license, even though the basic requirements.........like READING AND COMPREHENSION.........were supposed to be in force?) Did they CHEAT on their driving tests?  Know someone "in the business?" Buy a fake driver's license at some corner gas station, from a guy who mass-produces them in his basement? Makes ya wonder, doesn't it?

If I am preachy today, it's because my very life was threatened twice this morning alone.  I might not BE here to warn you,  had I not swerved to avoid Leadfoot, and stopped to let Fast Eddie go ahead of me.  ( Those are NOT the names I called them in real life............but this is a public blog.)  No, I did not wave hands or fingers at them, either. I figure that anybody stupid enough to crash STOP signs probably has an automatic weapon in his car and also isn't afraid to use IT either.  He just tried to kill me with his car, after all.

We have daily "threat level" readings for our country's worry over terrorist activity. I guarantee you that the "terrorists" are already here, and they're driving on our roads and city streets, posing as average "citizens," with driver's licenses (real or not) in their wallets.  We have to counteract their terrorist threats by watching out for THEM, because they apparently cannot READ, and do NOT care about the rest of us.

Many years ago I paid money I could not afford to pay fines for my STOP sign violations.  I wonder, frequently, where is that "cop" who waited for me in the early morning hours, and the "university patroller" who gave me the tongue-lashing as my coffee cup shivered between my knees?  Why are THEY not lingering in the dark, arresting "Leadfoot" and "Fast Eddie" when THEY crash through those STOP signs, and DON'T? 

I promise you that if it were not for that "cop" and that "patroller,"  I might not be here and driving, safely, stopping at STOP signs, as I am today.  "Thank you!"  to those law officers, who I may have referred to in a nonflattering way back then, wherever they are today.   They may have saved my entire life. I wish they'd save some more.

copyright: KP Gillenwater

Time Passages: or, How Many Watches Do I Really Need?

     I never do anything half-way.  If I set a table for guests,  I go overboard to the point that there is little space left for the actual food. Visitors have to move extra candles, gold-sprayed acorns, pine cones, or statuary, or starve.  I want to make a "presentation" out of a "company meal."

    Same with my purses...........they hang on a hall tree type thing, and are changed seasonally. The "out of season" bags are in storage, and the "in season" ones stand, somewhat resembling a bulk the size of Smokey the Bear, in a corner of my spare guest room, like a giant purse-tree, with limbs of multiple bags peeking out from underneath each other, waiting their turn to go out. If they get to go out. (But this is another post.......)

      My watch collection, which has sort of evolved over the past few years, is the one that actually PUZZLES me.  Sure, I have to wear a watch to work. I would never hang a working clock on a classroom wall!  My students would be perched on  their seats, knowing the time, EXPECTING a ringing bell.  I like to keep them guessing.  MY watch is the only one in the room that is set perfectly, right to the second for dismissal. Last week I accidentally wore a watch that had a dead battery to work, and ALL of us, students AND teacher, were on edge.

     WHICH watch to wear is the puzzle.  I have sixteen that I actually use.  That's alottawatches.  They are displayed in a square box on my dresser, sorted by color and size and type.  I have two reds, three browns, two blacks, one that has brightly colored beads for the bracelet, two pinks, a denim, a multi-colored one, two golds, and four silvers. (If that didn't add up to sixteen, oh well......) I have Braggers rights.

      Every morning I choose one of these time-pieces to accompany me on my thrilling experiences of the day.  I do have my favorite watches, and those are the ones that just snap right onto my wrist instead of having to be buckled.  I like to move fast.  But I keep those others, anyway.  Ticking.

      Ever since I discovered that I can buy twelve watch batteries for a dollar  (A DOLLAR!) at a certain bargain store, the watch collecting has escalated.  No longer is a watch a liability, when for a mere eight cents, I can refresh the battery for almost a full year for any of these beauties.  Such a deal!

     Why do I enjoy hearing them tick away my time, even those that rarely get worn out of the house,  I ask myself.  Can it be a psychological disorder? Watchomyalgia?

     Let me blame this on my mother. Yeah.  That's a good excuse!  It's a defective gene or an inherited weakness.  Mom was a collector of antique clocks, and at the time of her death, her house bulged with twenty-six clocks (not to mention several million other items.)  I inherited thirteen, and my sister has the other thirteen.  At one time, at the height of the glory of her collecting spree, Mom had all twenty-six clocks ticking at once.  My poor father nearly lost his mind, as they all had chimes and gongs and bings and bangs that would simulataneously "go off" to announce the hour, the half-hour, or the quarter-hour.  Sometimes the hourly celebration went on for a full minute, or more, with one or two REALLY elaborate clocks. (Thank God the cuckoo clock had given up its whacko voice by this time.)

     Pop finally negotiated that the clocks had to be set so that he could at least snooze through a short nap before the next "clock event,"  and Mom then set each of them five minutes apart, all around the house.  Picture this, if you will:  Now, every five minutes, there was a ding, bong, or chime, somewhere, announcing that yet another five miniscule minutes had passed!  Oh joy!   No peace for the wicked or unwicked. 

     Keep in mind that each of these pieces of antiquity had to be wound on a fairly regular basis, using chains and weights and keys: A virtual round-the-clock winding!

     The good news is that the novelty eventually wore off for Mom, and some of the less favorite gongers wore down, and were forgotten long enough to move into obscurity and then into blessed silence.  As the years went by, a few choice clocks continued their dinging, but most of them sat or hung, muted.  In my home today, thirteen antique clocks remain stifled, albeit lovely in their ageless beauty.  (Except for one which I never really liked. It, hidden behind a sofa,  has a pillow over it, muffling its cries for help.)

    But back to the watch collection!  Remember that song about the "grandfather clock that stopped, short, never to ring again when the old man died?"  Could it be that I have all of these ticking items to remind me that I AM ALIVE?  (And would they all stop, never to tick again, if this semi-old chick died?) Or could it be that I just like to see a decoration on my left arm, as jewelry ? 

    How much time do I have, anyway?  My students all hear the speech about "Each of us has the same twenty-four hours every day, and how you choose to spend YOURS is your decision, but never forget that the kid with the A used the SAME twenty-four hours that YOU did, he just used it WISELY," (and that's why YOU have an F.)

    I don't have any more time than the person with only ONE watch. Or NO watch.  Twenty-four hours to make a good day or a bad day, love or hate, eat or diet, exercise or vegetate,  read, laugh, or cry.  My hours are all ticking on my wrist, or in that box on the dresser, while I try to do the best things with what each tick represents.

    In the summertime, I don't wear a watch.  It interferes, reminding me that time flies for other people, but NOT FOR ME !  There is such freedom in being watch-less.  Who CARES what time it is?  I just say to myself, "I am doing THIS now," and go on with the day, and whatever time it might be doesn't matter.  Pure joy. Ah, summer.........

     I plan to retire sometime in the next few years.  I will have at least ten watches that I will no longer want to wear around reminding me of my time-watching-obsession-at-work.  I wonder if I will have them muffled in that box, or let them run down and not replace their batteries, like that unloved, ugly clock behind the sofa.  Or maybe I will just let them join the thirteen silenced antique clocks, sitting silently, never to ring again, while the old lady LIVES!






copyright KP Gillenwater