Strawberry Pie

My husband and I went to our lake cabin this weekend. Actually, not even for the whole weekend, just for twenty-seven hours. Just enough to re-charge. We arrived at 5:00 on Saturday evening and left at 8:00 on Sunday night. A quick trip, but enough to prepare us to face another work week.

Because it was a short trip I opted not to cook. We took a take-and-bake pizza and Marie Callender's chicken pot pies. Normally I enjoy cooking when we go to the lake. I find it relaxing and enjoyable to prepare good meals when we are there. It is at home, in the real world, where I don't usually have the time, or the energy, or the desire to spend much time in the kitchen. But in consideration of the time and my apathy toward food this weekend, we took the easy way out.

Our arrival was timed to enjoy our favorite time of day at the lake. We like nothing more than to sit on the deck overlooking the lake, watching the setting sun turn the water a multitude of colors. The transformation is astounding. From muddy blue, to milky green, to emerald, to aquamarine, to midnight blue, to slate, to onyx, and if the moon is full - to mica. A kaleidoscope show of color, seemingly just for our benefit.

Without city lights the night sky is more vivid. The moon admiring its reflection on the water, the stars, somehow nearer to earth than they are in town. Nature is not timid about showing her beauty after dark. Deer, a raccoon, and an armadillo all come out from their hiding places.

After a night of sleep uninterrupted by sirens or honking car horns we wake to the sound of birds outside of our window. The first light on the lake is, perhaps, more dazzling than the last. Watching the sun turn the gray water to mercury is magical. Then the diamonds are cast on the surface and I am a rich woman.

The eight tom turkeys, who reside somewhere near our property, stagger across the tableau like drunks returning from a bachelor party. Quail single file run behind them as if admonishing them for their bad behavior. One lone bird of prey glides gracefully over the lake, flaps his wings once in approval before disappearing into the bright, white, morning sky.

Early rising neighbors nod or wave or salute each other with coffee mugs as the sky turns to blue and the whine of a boat motor breaks the magical silence. I feel as if I have just been to church on this Sunday morning.

The rest of the day is spent doing what we enjoy. My husband does the maintenance chores he wants to do versus has to do. I read and write without interruption, without guilt, without the worry of cleaning the house or doing the wash or running the errands. One more magical evening and it is time to return to reality and to our work week.

While waiting for our Marie Callender chicken pot pies to cool we snap the leashes on the dogs and go for one last walk. We inspect the handy-work my husband has done around the dock, and let the dogs sniff deer tracks and rabbit holes to their content. We return to the cabin and to our dinner to find a strawberry pie in our refrigerator. In this utopia where we don't lock our doors, some kind neighbor left us a strawberry pie. We sit on the deck, watch the lake go through its chameleon performance, eat strawberry pie, and smile.

What Do You Want?

I want to go to a doctor when I am sick. I want to pay the doctor a fair price for care, with the help of health insurance, for which I pay a fair price. I want my husband, my children, and any future grandchildren to have affordable health insurance so they may see a doctor if they become ill. I do not want them denied health insurance because they are unemployed, in school, or have a pre-existing condition. I want to have money left over from my paycheck, after the deduction for my health insurance, with which to pay other monthly expenses. I want to pay a fair price for my prescription medication. I don't want to choose between taking a prescribed medication or paying a utility bill. If I should ever have to go to the hospital, I want good care at a fair, affordable price. I do not want to be forced to file bankruptcy because of an illness which required hospitalization.

I want to live in a world that is free of war. If that is not possible, I want to live in a country which is respected as a fair and just peace-maker. I want to live in a country where more money is spent on education than military. I want to live in a country where our young people are valued and well educated. I want to live in a country where our teachers are well educated, valued, and well paid. I want to live in a country where college is not cost-prohibitive.

I want to live in a country where everyone has access to good food. I do not want to be fed pesticides and hormones and genetically modified food. I want healthy, clean, pure food. I don't want my food grown in questionable conditions in another part of the world or country and shipped to me at a great cost, when the farmer down the road could grow it. I want the farmers and laborers paid fairly for the food they grow. I want animals raised for my food to be treated humanely. I want to pay a fair, affordable price for my food. I do not want to choose between adequate, clean food and medical care.

I want to live in a country where my fellow citizens are responsible for themselves. I want to live in a country with compassion for those who cannot be responsible for themselves. I want to live in a country which seeks to solve the core problems of irresponsibility - lack of education and skills, mental illness, drug abuse, hunger, poor parenting, aging, homelessness, to name a few. I want to live in a country which values its elders. I want to live in a country where senior citizens are respected and cared for.

I want to live in a country not divided by political or religious affiliation. I want to be free to hold my own opinions and religious views without fear of persecution or ridicule. I want to live in a country which is tolerant and open-minded. If you do not like or agree with my politics or with my God, at least concede that I may vote and worship however I choose.

I want to live in a country which is respected and respectful. In world politics and in our communities and in our homes I want to remember that respect is earned. I want to lead by example and I want our leaders and my neighbors to do the same.

I want to live in a country which values the earth and seeks to sustain our planet and our universe. I want future generations to have clean water, fresh air, trees, and mountains, and oceans. I want the beauty and sanctity of our world preserved.

I want to be happy. I want others to be happy.

I want to assume we all want the same things.

Two Funerals

I attended two funerals in two days. One for a man who lived well; a long, satisfied life, a life of giving and caring. The other, for a woman who lived a life cut short, but also one of satisfaction, of giving and caring. The funerals coming so close together, like the deaths, twenty-four hours apart, I can't help but compare - not the lives, but the way they were each grieved and remembered.

Both funeral services were a celebration of the life they lived. The older man's character, family and successes were lauded. Tears were shed over the remembrances offered by his grandchildren, but the tears were tempered with laughter. He left a tribe of family members, all better because of him. He left friends and family reluctant, but ready to let him go.

The younger woman's funeral was a tribute to her life, as well. Her years cauterized by a courageous battle with cancer. She left behind a husband, barely grown sons, a grandchild, a father, a sister, and hundreds of family and friends trying bravely to convince themselves she lived a full life, a complete life, in the years she was allotted.

One life lived to its fullest, one life cut short. Both lives lived well. Two funerals in two days will make you think. I wonder how much time I have? I realize how much time I have squandered. Will I leave a tribe of family misty-eyed, but satisfied with what I gave them or will I leave them mourning because I wasn't finished living? I've known the pain of losing my mother too soon, the pain of raising my children without their grandmother, the pain of carrying on without my mother. The pain of losing my father followed too quickly. But I have also known the joy of a life lived long and well. My grandmother continues to touch her family tribe with her love and wisdom of one-hundred and two years.

I know the admonition, we all do. Live everyday as if it were your last. Keep your lamps trimmed. We don't know the day or the hour. Two funerals in two days - I'm thinking of this now, but how long before I forget?

(Dis)illusions of Canning

I debated long and hard about canning. I almost talked myself out of it. These were the cons:

• I had too much other stuff to do. Including, but not limited to - work, housework, grocery shopping, laundry, visiting my grandmother, and cleaning out the hall closet (ha-ha, not really).


• I wasn't really sure how to can.


• I didn't own all of the necessary canning supplies.


• The necessary canning supplies are expensive.


• I'm sort of lazy.

But the pros won. The pros were:

• The thought of the beautiful jars of tomatoes in my pantry in mid-winter.


• There is a "woman who cans" inside of me dying to get out. (See blog dated 2/19/09 Earth Mother)


• I could go shopping for the canning supplies.


• If I canned it would get me out of cleaning something to blog about.

I did go shopping for canning supplies. These are the things I purchased:

• A water-bath canner with rack - $23


• A set of canning "tools" - a jar lifter, a magnetic lid-lifter, a funnel, a spatula - $7


• Labels - $3


• One dozen quart jars with lids and rings - $8


• One dozen pint jars with lids and rings - $8


• One dozen half pint jars with lids and rings - $8 (Does this make sense to anyone? Why do the little jars cost the same as the large?) (I know, I know - I already had jars, but I wanted to start off with new ones.)


• A set of three sieves - $12

I didn't have to purchase the tomatoes - they all came out of the garden, the final harvest of the season. Beautiful red and yellow (Lemon Boys) tomatoes. I coerced my husband into assisting me. "This will be fun," I said. We began our simple canning project at 7:00 p.m. on Friday. We had every burner on the stove boiling a pot or a kettle. We began by washing all of the tomatoes, then dipping them in boiling water for one minute and then cold. My husband took over that job. I had the task of peeling and coring the tomatoes, and putting them in the prepared canning jars with two tablespoons of lemon juice and one teaspoon of salt. We filled the first seven quart jars quickly and set them in their one hour and thirty-five minute hot water-bath.

On to the next seven jars. Who knew this would take so long? Two bottles of wine, one pizza and five hours later - we finished, and the kitchen was a disaster. With tomato juice splattered on every surface it resembled a murder scene. We ignored it all and went to bed with fourteen jars of tomatoes resting on a towel on the kitchen counter.

At 5:50 the next morning I bounded out of bed, eager to check the lids on every jar to make sure they sealed properly and to admire my beautiful jars of tomatoes. The sight was not quite what I had expected. Oh, the jars did seal, but they weren't as pretty as I had imagined. Each of the jars held about two inches of clear liquid below a floating glob of tomatoes. A quick Internet search assured me that this was normal with tomatoes. I probably didn't fill the jars full enough.

I guess the point is to have food "put by" for the winter months. I will certainly have a nice supply of tomatoes, but they look nothing like the beautiful color photo which accompanied the recipe.

Peppers. Peppers might be more attractive? Pepper harvest is in full swing. Only one problem - I don't think I'll be able to convince my husband of the "fun" - especially if he's the one nominated to handle the jalapenos.

"I'm going to can." vs. "I'm going to Cannes."

I mentioned tonight, at our weekly dinner, that I was going to can on Friday. My Aunt was ecstatic upon hearing this news. I was dumbfounded. Why would she care that I had decided to put up tomatoes? After about 3 minutes of her excitement over my news of canning it was discovered that she thought I meant - "I'm going to Cannes." Funny, isn't it, that we all have a unique frame of reference?

Julie and Julia and Me?

Yesterday my husband and I saw the movie, Julie and Julia. It was a good movie, a girl movie. A girl movie I was owed after seeing District 9 with my husband on his birthday. The movie, Julie and Julia was essentially the life stories of two women - Julie Powell and Julia Child. We all know Julia Child, but I was more interested in Julie Powell. We have a few similarities. She's from Texas - I'm from Texas, in the movie she had written half a novel - I've written half a novel, she felt unfulfilled as a writer - I feel unfulfilled as a writer, she rarely finished anything - I rarely finish anything, she has a blog - I have a blog. All similarities end there.

The movie begins with Julie deciding to write a blog about cooking as a means of satisfying her inner writer. But not just any cooking - she decides to blog about cooking her way through Julia Child's cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. I. And, she decides to do it in one year - 524 recipes in 365 days. And, these recipes are extremely complicated, requiring boiling a calf foot and killing lobsters. (Warning: If you don't want the ending to the movie ruined - Stop reading now.) She meets her deadline, becomes famous, and has a movie made about her.

Wow! Who knew blogging could be so exciting? And profitable?

What does this mean for little-ole-blogger-me? Is there a famous book out there on cleaning which I could work my way through in one year in order to draw the attention of publishing houses and movie producers? I did just read that E.L. Doctorow's new book is about the Collyer brothers. They are legendary hoarders who were found buried under tons of "stuff" in their Manhattan mansion in the 1940s. But, even my house can't compare with that!

I guess what the movie did for me was make me realize I haven't been very serious about my blog-project. I haven't been a very diligent cleaner and purger of my house and of my "stuff." Should I follow Julie Powell's example and install a countdown meter on my blog site? We could all watch the days of the year tick by and wonder if I will complete my cleaning house project before the year is over. Should I follow Julie's example and get up extra early and stay up extra late in order to make sure I get everything done? How awesome would it be to know that in exactly one year from today my house would be spotless and free of all the extraneous "stuff." Could I do it, should I do it?

Nah, but it was fun, for just a minute, to think I might.

Aunt Margie

If left to my own devices I would probably be a lot like my Aunt Margie in her later years. My Daddy's sister lived her whole life in east Texas, with the possible exception of her earliest years, of which I have no knowledge. Not being the family genealogist, I'm not exactly sure if she was born in Texas or in Oklahoma, where my grandparents lived before coming to Texas.

Margie married an oil man, had four beautiful children, built a magnificent home (hand-selecting the bricks she wanted exposed on the fireplace wall, to the detriment of the tendon in her arm), took care of her aging parents who lived across town in their own home and her mother-in-law who lived in a specially built m-i-l suite in her newly built home, and lived what appeared to be an enviable life. Her mother-in-law died, her husband left her (for his secretary, no less), her children grew up, her parents died, and she drank. Living alone in that big, empty house I can see how it happened. I recall once while visiting, she announced she'd quit drinking. I was shocked to see her unpack a case of white wine and open a bottle. She really had no idea that replacing Jim Beam with Chardonnay wasn't quitting.

I loved visiting my Aunt Margie. Memories of my childhood at Aunt Margie's always include time spent in her kitchen. Her kitchen pantry always held "exotic" foods we didn't have in our home. She always had Oreo cookies on hand, and Frito's and Cheetos, hot chocolate mix and a bag of miniature marshmallows. She even kept jars of maraschino cherries in her bar, and didn't mind that we put several in our Cokes or Seven-ups. I learned to add a slice of American cheese and milk to Campbell's tomato soup in her kitchen.

Even when I was a teen she treated me differently from the other aunts and uncles. She gave me a freedom I hadn't known before. Putting on a bathing suit and walking through the copse of trees, or the forest as we thought of it when we were kids, that separated her home from the gated swimming pool which served her small, exclusive neighborhood, at any time of the day or night was liberating.

Looking back on her life I realize she must have always possessed a creative soul. In her later years Margie began to write poetry. Long poems about her life, her family, her friends, her loves. Typed copies backed with blue paper, like a legal document, were often mailed to those she loved or featured in her writings.

I believe it was about this time when she changed her schedule. She began staying up all night, reading and writing, and sleeping during the day. This schedule drove my father crazy. He couldn't imagine how his sister could live this way. (His irritation probably stemmed from the late night, long distance phone calls Margie made to my mother.) I'm sure her schedule inconvenienced her children as well. Now they had to do her shopping and errands during the merchant's daytime hours and had to visit their mother on her schedule. To say Margie was idiosyncratic would be an understatement.

The past few days, for me, home alone, with no schedule to adhere to, no supper, no television, no bedtime, I found it surprising to look at the clock and see it was past midnight. Reading and writing and just doing "stuff" filled huge amounts of time and before I realized it, I was on my way to staying up all night. If it weren't for the minor inconvenience of a 6:00 a.m. alarm set to wake me for work, I would have kept right on reading, writing and doing "stuff" all night.

I think Aunt Margie was on to something.

Dr. Pepper vs. Coke

Wow, so many disappointments lately. I really feel like I am falling into some sort of crazy depression. Not being prone to depression, and not actually being allowed to be depressed (depression is one of the illnesses my mother would not allow me to have, along with asthma and allergies), I am not sure if depression is the right diagnosis. I tried to Google a diagnosis I read about in my freshman college psychology class to reference here, but I couldn't find it. The symptoms include being overly affected by negative happenings in the world. Wow - I have that disease, even if I couldn't find it on the Internet. So much negativity lately. I was so happy when Obama was elected, but - sadly, my right-wing-republican brothers and sisters would not let that happiness last for long. So much strife, so much derision, so much finger-pointing and name calling - so much, so much, so much - hatred. So many twisted truths, so many blatant lies, so many hidden agendas, so much bullshit. I am to the point where I want to either move to another country or find a fall-out shelter from the cold war era and hide out there for a while.

For weeks, or months, (or years) I have been thinking about the difference between the left and the right, Democrats and Republicans, (the sane and the insane - just kidding!). For weeks I have had a snippet of a poem I once wrote rolling around in the far, far corners of my brain. A poem I wrote when I was young, very young - probably all of thirteen, when I had my first heartbreak. A poem that referenced the basic differences in people which cause them to not get along. I found the poem amongst the flotsam and jetsam of my early years and the gist of it was: we ultimately didn't get along because - (drum roll, please) - "I liked Dr. Pepper and you liked Coke." Ah, if only life were that simple.

Now, some forty years later, I find myself looking at the differences between myself and my friends and family - the differences between myself and those whom I truly do love dearly. Could it be so simple, can it be so simple. Can't we just accept our differences and go forward without rancor? Can't we accept our differences and go forward to create a nation, a country, a world, a home where we can all be happy, and healthy, and well fed, and prosperous? A world where everyone has a right to a decent life, a life which includes basic inalienable rights?

I like Dr. Pepper, you like Coke. I am a Democrat, you are a Republican. Aren't we all human beings? Don't we all want the same things?

It's a Dog's Life

I feel much better this morning, much more like myself. I don't know why I let the weather affect me so. Well, I do know why, I just don't know why I can't let it go. Things are much better now. The lady and the man have been very good to me. I've all but forgotten my old life. Almost stopped thinking about the boy. Almost - except when I see a bicycle or when it storms.

On our walks I try to follow the other one. The one who was here before me. She's turned into a good friend. She didn't like me much at first. I think she thought I was trying to take her place. Once we got that out of the way, once I let her prove she was in charge, things were good between us. Now I don't know what I'd do without her. She's older and knows more than I. She's good on our walks. I try to be, but there's just so much to see and smell. And, I'm sorry, but if someone goes by on a bicycle, I do go a little berserk. I always think it's the boy. At first I was sure it was the boy coming back for me. I was sure this had all been a mistake and he hadn't really intended to leave me. What did I do to make him give me away? That thought still troubles me.

Now when I see a bicycle I still go nuts, but it's for a different reason. Now I'm afraid he's come back for me. I no longer want to leave. I really like the lady and the man. And the girl, the girl who comes some days, is my favorite. I know she likes me too. They all like me. I just wish I could get over my fear of storms. I tell myself I am safe. The lady and the man speak softly to me and pat me. They've even made me a special place to hide when I know a storm is coming.

I hear the rumble of thunder and it all comes back to me. The cold rain soaking my skin, the hail coming at me from all directions, bruising my body. The flashes of bright light and the roaring noise. Why won't the boy let me in? I'm afraid. I scratch and scratch on the door and bark for a long time. When he finally comes I am numb from the cold and exhausted from my frenzied efforts to get back into our house where it is warm and dry and quiet. But something is not right. The boy is angry. I try to go in, but he won't let me pass. Another flash of light and more booming noise. I've got to get away from it, but the boy won't let me in. He's yelling now. I can barely hear him over my barking and the pouring rain and the pounding hail and the booming sounds. And then, he did the unimaginable. He kicked me, he kicked me hard - hard enough to send me scooting away from the door. I was stunned. He had never done that before. He closed the door and left me. He'd never done that before either. Not knowing what else to do, I found a place to hide. I tried to hide from the cold and the wet and the noise and the hurt I was feeling in my side and the hurt I was feeling in my heart; but I couldn't. I dug a hole in the mud between the bush and the fence and hid there all night.

I must have done something really bad that day to have brought all of this on myself. That was long ago, but I can't help but recall it when I hear the rumbling of loud noise begin in the distance. I know the lady and the man won't make me go outside when the weather is bad. They've been very kind to me. What frightens me now is thinking I might have done something wrong again. Something that will cause them to leave me like the boy did. When I hear a storm coming I'm afraid I'll lose the lady and the man and the girl I love so much. What would become of me then? All I can imagine is living a life in the cold, wet, loud world if they should send me away. I can't help but tremble and retreat to my special hiding place until the feeling passes, along with the storm. I'm sure glad they understand. When the storm has passed and I have regained my composure I find the nice lady and the nice man to make sure they aren't mad. I lick them and wag my tail and hope they know I'm sorry and that I love them. I think they know.

Desk Set

My parents were frugal. We always lived in a nice, well furnished, middle class home. We always had food on the table and a car or two in the driveway. But we didn't have the extras. Apparently my parents considered a desk for a student an extra. Why couldn't I do my homework at the dining room table or the kitchen table with my siblings? No one seemed to understand how badly I wanted my own desk in my own room (well, the room I shared with my sister). One day I discovered a solution. I took the Samsonite card table from the garage, dusted it off, and set it up in my room for my very own work space. I borrowed a chair from the dining room and I had my first "office." Slowly I began making it my own. To say I put my mark on the Samsonite card table is an understatement. I covered it with cut out pictures and words from magazines and plastered it with the neon plastic adhesive flowers so popular in the 1960s. Mother made me promise I wouldn't do the same to the dining room chair, because we still had to haul it back into the dining room for holiday dinners.

Eventually I got a real desk, but by that time homework and studies had been replaced by activities that didn't require office furniture. Somehow the draw of the desk remained with me throughout my life. My husband brought his grandfather's antique office desk into the marriage. We had it professionally refinished and thirty years later it is still in use as a computer desk in my living room. Across the room from it stands another desk, my husband's desk, an antique roll top desk we purchased from an antiques dealer. Years later I inherited my Great Aunt Opal's antique roll top desk from a cousin who had no space for it. This desk has history and personality. My Great Aunt Opal's desk came out of the old-fashioned drug store she and her husband owned in a small Texas town. My aunt was rather fond of frills and the color pink, so it was no surprise that the desk had been painted pink at some point over the years. It has received a new paint job and is in the corner of my bedroom where it serves as a repository for all things necessary - magazines, lip balm, newspaper, books, framed photographs, a tissue box, and hundreds of other essential items.

Based on my childhood trauma of not having my own desk I made sure my daughters had a desk of their own. When they were small I brought home a wooden school desk from a garage sale and put it in the kitchen where they could sit and read or color or talk while I was cooking or doing other kitchen duty. My youngest daughter will inherit this desk some day, because in my heart it belongs to her. Every day of her childhood she ate her breakfast sitting at that desk. I would wake her up, scoop her into my arms, and carry her into the kitchen for breakfast. Family lore insists that I did this until her feet suffered carpet burns as I carried her down the hall.

When my oldest daughter wanted her very own desk in her very own room we searched every antiques store in town until we found the right one for her. It is still in her childhood room, supporting a massive three volume set of The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, copyright 1971, complete with leather case and magnifying glass to enable the reader to see the small print. My youngest daughter's desk came with her bedroom furniture and I am typing this blog at her desk, her room having become my home office when she left home.

What is it about a desk I find so appealing? Is it the scholarly image of a desk? Perhaps it is a paraphrasing of Virginia Woolf's famous remark, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Perhaps a desk of my own was the beginning.

Aroma Therapy II

When I stay in hotels I habitually bring home the complimentary shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, soap, sewing kit, shower cap, and anything else the establishment might offer. Usually I donate these to the food bank to make sure the items go to someone who will need, use, and appreciate them vs. filling up my bathroom cabinets with product which would go unused/untouched until the next bathroom cabinet purge (probably sometime within the next 10 years). But, (there's that famous "but" again) sometimes I take the hotel samples to the lake house for guests to use if they have forgotten toiletry items. Or for me to use if I especially like the brand, or scent, or if I just want to relive the vacation experience.

I am still hoarding a supply of shampoo and soap from the Hotel del Coronado. Every time I use it, the scent reminds me of the wonderful week spent there. I can close my eyes in the shower and almost hear the California surf when I use the little green bottles of hair care products in the fragrance - "the sea."

This morning I used little blue bottles of product from a stay at the Hilton Hotel in Virginia Beach, VA. I don't recall using them there, but I'm sure I brought them home and kept them for me because they were Crabtree & Evelyn brand. Today as I began washing my hair with the LaSource shampoo I was transported to my mother's bathroom of the 1950's. The scent was the same as the bubble bath she used; a scent I haven't smelled or thought of until today. Closing my eyes I could almost visualize the bubble bath bottle perched on the rim of the bathtub and I could almost remember the color of the shower curtain and the towels in that bathroom.

The hair conditioner in the same product line evoked another memory. This scent transported me to my early teen years. It was reminiscent of the Breck cream rinse which was diluted in a plastic tumbler, kept in the bathroom for just this use. Closing my eyes today and smelling the LaSource conditioner made me feel thirteen again and reminded me of how worldly and sophisticated I felt then to be using a product advertised in Seventeen Magazine when I wanted so badly to be a real, grown-up, teen.

I am always amazed at the power a fragrance can have over the memory. My sister and I have been know to phone each other just to ask if a certain scent summons any memory. The orange aroma of Goo Gone reminds me of something - I just haven't remembered exactly what. I am still trying to pin that memory down. The smell of canned asparagus conjures long ago holiday dinners at my Aunt Opal's. Fresh cucumbers, my Aunt Dee's house. New-mown grass will bring forth memories of my dad in his sweat-stained, faded red golf shirt with the little penguin over the left breast. Nina Ricci L'air Du Temps perfume brings forth memories of my mother so vivid I tear up missing her so. Once I even followed a woman through a cosmetics department because she smelled like my mother.

The little bottles of shampoo and conditioner took me on a pleasant trip down memory lane this morning and it was a trip that didn't even require a hotel stay.

Too Much Nature, Dear (Deer)

Sometimes getting back to nature is a little more than I bargained for. My husband and I are away for Labor Day Weekend at our little slice of heaven lake cabin. We got up early this morning to drive to a small town 15 miles away to have breakfast at a cafe named one of the 40 best cafes in our state.

When I went out to the car with visions of biscuits and gravy in my head I was distracted by a noise from across the road. Curiosity got the best of me, so I ventured over to the pick up truck bed that had been transformed into a trailer which our neighbor filled with hundreds of pounds of Milo to feed birds, deer, and to throw into the lake to lure catfish to the fishing area he frequents. As I crossed the sandy dirt road I heard the noise once more - a thudding and shuffling sound I couldn't place. Then I saw animal legs on the far side of the Milo trailer. Thinking it might be the cougar rumored to be in these parts, I approached slowly and with caution. To my horror, the noise was not a cougar rolling on its back and thumping the sides of the trailer with its paws. It was a deer, a large deer was somehow caught in the trailer by one leg. A deer was thrashing on the ground while one leg - one hoof was stuck in an opening on the top of the trailer. No contortionist could have achieved this position. Calmly, I called my husband, not wanting to disturb, or further alarm the injured deer. He quickly appeared by my side and determined the deer's leg must be broken. We had to somehow deal with this. The deer was obviously suffering - the deer should be relieved of its pain.

Perhaps we have both seen too many old western movies, but both of us had the idea that the humane thing would be for the deer to be shot, to be put out of its misery. We wouldn't own a gun. We don't hunt or shoot animals. But this poor deer had probably been suffering most of the night, trying to free itself. We roused a neighbor with a request for help. While waiting for him to dress, I had a moment of good sense and called the local Sheriff, asking him to shoot the injured deer; to put it out of its misery. Our neighbor arrived on the scene, assessed the situation, went to his pick up truck, got a crow-bar and pried the deer's hoof loose from the hole in the trailer where it was stuck. The deer, stunned and exhausted, ran about four feet from the trailer and collapsed. We surmised that the Sheriff would still need to shoot the deer to humanely put the animal out of its misery. As we discussed the fate of the deer and awaited the arrival of the Sheriff the deer suddenly bolted and ran for the cover of the brush. The three of us all agreed the deer would survive, perhaps with only a leg injury. We notified the Sheriff that he was no longer needed and went on with our plans - thankful our neighbor showed up with a crow-bar rather than a shotgun.

At the cafe, for breakfast, my husband asked me if I had an aspirin, he didn't feel much like eating. The prospect of killing the beautiful wounded creature had sickened him, as it had me. Neither of us enjoyed our breakfast, though no fault of the cafe.

On our fifteen mile return trip we couldn't help but notice the deer blinds in place for this year's hunting season. I'm sure we were both considering the fate of the poor deer we saw rescued this morning.

Would it get another chance?

Venus Envy

My sister has always been beautiful. Even as a baby with her white feather hair and her enormous blue eyes and her nickname, Tweetybird, she was beautiful. Her white feather hair grew into straight, thick, long, blond tresses and her big blue eyes, though no longer the sapphire blue of her infancy, remained sparkling. Five years my junior, she caught up with me in height in our teenage years. Our facial features were similar enough for her boyfriend to comment, "creepy" when he first met me when I was home from college one weekend. But, all physical similarities end there.

My sister is fair, I am dark. She is blond, I am brunette, her eyes blue, mine brown. Her hair is straight and thick, mine wavy and thin. She is tall and thin (willowy, even), I am tall and, well - let's just say I could stand to lose a few pounds.

I like to think my sister looked up to me when we were growing up. As the oldest I had to "blaze the trail." She learned by observing as I survived junior high, convinced our parents it was okay to date, cruised through high school, and left for college. She raided my closet for clothes and borrowed makeup and record albums. She attended my college and joined my sorority; maybe I did have some influence. However, she surpassed me in everything - prettier, thinner, smarter, more popular. In college she had her own car and her own apartment. In college I bummed rides and lived in campus housing.

Was I jealous of my sister? No. I didn't begrudge her any of her accomplishments and successes, rather, I was proud of her. Even if I wished I were thinner or had possessed a car or my very own apartment while away at college, I cheered her every victory.

As adults we are on more even ground, both happily married, with beautiful children and full, satisfying lives. Yet there is one thing I do envy about my sister. (No, it's not her lithe figure.) I envy my sister's hair! What began as white feathers and grew into long, thick, straight, flaxen hair is now a beautiful, extremely sophisticated gray. Surprised? Surprised that I envy her gray hair? It's not just the beauty of the color of her still thick hair that I envy. I envy the freedom her hair gives her. She isn't tied to a monthly appointment with a colorist, lest her roots begin to show. She doesn't fret over just the right cut to make her thin hair look fuller. She doesn't waste money or time on thickening shampoos and blow-drying the "frizz" out. Most importantly, her hair gives her the freedom to be herself, a beautiful woman approaching her fifties, not someone trying to look like the picture on the Miss Clairol bottle.

So, why don't I just ditch the hair color and go gray with her? I've tried. My hair is not the pretty, vibrant gray of my sister's. Mine is a dull, mousy gray that leaves me looking and feeling old, tired, and washed out. That is why I continue to color, why I give up my desire to be a "natural woman," why I make my colorist a rich man.

How long will I continue this un-feminist ritual? I'm not sure. All I can tell you is - my grandmother, the famous Big Red, only this year quit dying her hair. If I follow in her footsteps, I will "go gray" when I am 102 years old. That is only 588 more appointments with a colorist and, if prices don't go up, only $44,000. Yes, I envy my sister.

Someone to Watch Over Me

From framed photographs throughout my house - the kitchen, my bedroom wall, my desk - five familiar faces watch me as I go about my day. One of the framed faces is mine, the others belong to friends, some of whom I've known for over thirty years; well over half of my life.

Other photos show images only of children. Children at t-ball games, at dance recitals, at school competitions, in junior high band, on vacations, in college. The five familiar faces aren't in any of these photos, but I know they were there - somewhere in the background - while the children filled our camera lenses.

When it was finally our turn to be photographed, t-ball games and ballet classes were long behind us. The children were gone and, one would think, so was the reason we were friends. The five familiar faces couldn't be more different - in interests, in political opinions, spiritually. What brought us together was our children. What keeps us together is our history and our love.

The framed photos show us smiling at weddings, at showers (bridal and baby), at Christmas dinners and birthday parties - celebrating the hallmarks of our lives and of our children's.

What the photos don't show, can't show, are the other times - the illnesses, the deaths, the divorce, the crises of our lives when we have come together. We've been there to hold a hand, to bring casseroles and hams, to change the sheets on a sickbed, to offer advice and a shoulder to cry on. We've confessed our worst secrets and our worst fears - knowing we won't be judged or betrayed. In spite of our differences, because of our love, we've become each other's mainstays, each other's constants.

From framed photographs five familiar faces watch me as I go about my life.