Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

I posted this two years ago.  I know.  Sorry.  I was cleaning out files today on my computer at work and was skimming through old stuff in my writing file.  There's a line near the end of this piece that made me think I needed to re-post this, and dedicate it to my youngest daughter.   She got married last month.  Jeff?  He's perfect for her.  He can fix most anything . . . kind of like McGyver, which is one reason I am reposting.  Read on.  You'll see.  It works - remarkably so. ---------------------------------- My kids are essentially grown. How the heck did that happen? I remember one morning about ten years ago, as I lay in bed enjoying a few quiet moments before the day onslaughtered me, I had the most astounding thought. I had done it. My oldest son had just turned 18. I had raised a kid. What?? I recalled people who told me, when all five of the kids were under 10, that the teenage years were going to kill me...

So, I'm pretty sure a gang of squirrels just rumbled outside my bathroom window this morning.  I was at the sink, trying to rectify the Great Bleach Spill of 2011 and kind of wishing I knew how to swear properly, because if ever an occasion called for vigorous and proper swearing, it was indeed the Great Bleach Spill of 2011.  This event is not to be confused with the Lost Phone Charger Emergency of 2010, nor the #10 Can of Cut Oats All Over the Kitchen Floor Fiasco of 2009.  It was a totally separate disaster and one worth swearing over (properly), if I were that kind of girl. But these squirrels were something else.  I'm tempted to call them Ninja Squirrels because I definitely saw one of them do a three-foot vertical backflip leap onto the branch above him.  It was a him, I can assure you, because shortly thereafter, he completely flashed me.  They weren't Ninja Squirrels, however, because Ninjas are silent, and these hooligans were not. I ...

Someone should do a study on me.  Either there is a genius lurking in the recesses of my brain, or I’m severely disturbed.  Maybe both.  The stuff that goes on in there while the rest of my body is trying to sleep is getting stranger and stranger. This looks a lot like the view from the house where I grew up. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer.  I’m not talking about the usual stuff – you know, waiting naked at the bus stop, forgetting to attend classes all semester and then realizing you have to go take the final exam, or remembering on opening night that you’ve forgotten to memorize any lines at all; that kind of stuff is oatmeal for me.  Flying?  Please.  Been there done that so many times.  My favorite flying dreams are the ones (most of my best - and worst - dreams are recurring) where I climb a staircase to a plane hovering in the sky, then parachute out, and do it over and over and over again . . . of course, with no parachute.  ...

I have often called myself the least ambitious woman in the world, mostly because I have not been drawn with any real passion to enter the workforce and pursue a career. I know women who have brilliant, high-powered and high paid careers who discuss with ease ideas and procedures unfamiliar to me. I know women who work to provide the basic necessities of their lives and who often don’t care much for the work they do; in it for the essential paycheck. I watch these women juggle work and home and family, and am in awe of what they accomplish. I have worked in a variety of jobs, some more enriching than others and none involving skills worthy of an impressive salary. Most of my life I have relied on my parents and my husband for the substance of my support.  I’m okay with this even if it’s made me the least ambitious woman in the world – well, sort of. Maybe this story will explain. I was invited to a bridal shower in the summer of 2000. I hate bridal showers because of the silly ga...

I stole a post yesterday.  My friend won’t mind.  He is a most genial and generous writing friend, and the post was not one that he had written, but rather one he was sharing because it moved him.  My little virtual circle of writing friends (note I’m not calling them a circle of virtual writing friends . . . big difference) is good like that.  We share our stuff, and other stuff, and the stuff that moves us or scares us or makes us crazy mad.  The post began, “Date a girl who reads” and went on to extol the virtues of women who love books, and what it means to be in a relationship with them.  It was beautifully written and touched and moved me.  So I stole it and reposted it and dedicated it to my girls and the men who love them.  Then I thought about who my girls are.  There are a ton of them out there – my friends and neighbors who love the magic of books, and their daughters who I love like daughters.  Then there are my own daug...

It’s the first of March, when a woman’s fancy turns toward thoughts of spring.  You remember what that is, right?  For those of you south of the Mason/Dixon line or west of the Mississippi, you might want to go file your nails or take out the trash or walk the dog or something for a bit.  Those of us who live in areas that actually have all four seasons are going to get a little misty-eyed and sentimental for just a moment here. Spring – when stepping out the front door doesn’t automatically elicit mild profanity and/or The Dance of the Idiot because of A) falling ice or dripping ice down the back of one’s neck, B) sheets of ice or melting ice under now airborne feet, C) proof that the plow guy really does have it in for you, or D) just plain more of the darn white stuff. Remember?  Spring – when the trash can lid isn’t permanently frozen to the top of the can. Spring – when salt and sand aren’t on the bottom of every shoe and boot in the county...

I love this story, and wanted to include it in my "Twelve Days of Christmas" on Facebook, so this is linked there. This story can be found all over the internet, usually cited "Author Unknown." The author is Carol Laycock, and her story is protected by copyright. If you click on the title of this post, you'll access a link to a website that presents the correct version of the story. An interesting detail is that in many online versions of this story, the final line reads, "I still have that Bible with the tag inside: $19.95." Neither the tag that supposedly fell out of the coat nor a Bible are part of the original story, which follows here. This story needs no dramatic embellishments. It stands on its own, and with dignity, unaltered. Merry Christmas to all! MY WONDERFUL GRANDMA December 1, 1999 Grandma is ninety-eight this Christmas. In spite of declining health, she forges on with characteristic determination, hope, and wit....