toy train memories . . .

When Jamie was a baby, Christmas was exquisitely simple. Santa's elves actually carved and sanded building blocks and crocheted colorful bags, by hand, to hold them. Even the ornaments on the tree (yes, including popcorn and cranberry strings) were handmade. Does anyone remember the recipe for the ornament dough???

The train table and trains, projects eternally in progress/process, came later. But, Jamie's first Christmas, I discovered a song in my books of Christmas carols for the piano that was to be forever linked to those precious Christmas memories of his babyhood. I could even play the song on the piano then--and for most of his childhood years . . . Not now . . .


I found our song today. Twenty years after my baby boy and I discovered "Old Toy Trains," Roger Miller gave that song to the world.

Where was I that Christmas of 1995 that I missed this . . . ? I remember attending a middle school Christmas concert (my last year as a teacher) and, in spite of my first and only abcessed (knock on wood!) tooth, discovering both solace and delight in the music. I remember that at midnight that New Year's Eve I was home alone, assembling one of those eternal jigsaw puzzles (on the table I de-puzzled and lemon-oiled yesterday ), and consoling (via landline) my broken-hearted middle child, also home alone on New Year's Eve . . . But Christmas I don't remember at all . . . 1993 had gifted me with Patty Larkin's "Good Thing" from Angels Running and James Galway's rendition of "Gabriel's Oboe" (on tape--no CD or mp3 for this one but the YoYo Ma version is even more awesome!). 1994 had eased an achingly lonely Christmas with David Lanz's Christmas Eve. 1995?

I purchased two copies of the mp3 today (the Roger Miller version--many have followed since)--one for my Zen V Plus and one for Jamie's iPod. Making new memories with an old song. Michael is into toy trains too :-) . . . or at least he was last spring . . .



I also purchased the acoustic guitar mp3 version (from Christmas Innocence by Peter Groenhof). There's my Seagull in the entryway to dream with and two grandbabies, Mason and Campbell, taking guitar lessons . . .

I have seen . . .

the littlest angel!

[insert picture here]

When I was four, a little angel--four hours old--presented himself to the venerable Gatekeeper and waited for admittance to the glorious kingdom of God. While "Little Angel" was not to mark his earthly resting place until our Daddy joined him in eternity, James Michael left his mark among us. I named my son James Michael--and Jamie named his son Michael.

When I think of Jamie and Christmas stories and childhood, I think of Charles Tazewell's The Littlest Angel. It was their story, a connection of sorts between the brother I was never to know and my son, his precious namesake.

I laughed through the tears last night as Michael, just a month younger than that four-year-old Littlest Angel . . .who presented himself to the venerable Gatekeeper and waited for admittance to the glorious kingdom of God, tumbled into my mind's image of that story.

From the story [and last night's children's Christmas pageant]:
His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot, little, chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running [into the communion rail (OUCH!!!) because all he could see was his proud family in the audience]. Furthermore, even when he stood very still, [when he was singing?] it never behaved like a halo should. it was always slipping down over his right eye . . . [uh-huh!!!]
Or over his left eye . . . [Amen!]
Or else, just for pure meanness, slipping off the back of his head [yes, it did!] and rolling away down some golden street just so he'd have to chase after it [according to Michael, who's heard The Littlest Angel at least twenty times!," his halo never slipped lower than just below his chin :-)] !

Head over halo. I have seen that and more!

I've never once read the story--this morning is no exception--without tears spilling over the beautiful ending . . . There it shone on that night of miracles, and its light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet, earthly eyes, blinded, too, by its splendor, could never know that the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel [a box which held his earthly simple pleasures] was what men would call forever,

"the shining Star of Bethlehem"

To my three generations of littlest angels . . .

thank you!

today's 2 B ;-) ~

61. chasing a patch of rainbow on a cloud-studded December horizon

all I want for Christmas is . . .

After another both harrowing and funny hour in the dentist's chair, I'm one step further along the path to normalcy.

Let's see . . .

Imagine someone installing an Erector set contraption in your mouth--and one of those tiny one-of-a-kind pieces slips out of her gloved grasp. I figured it was in the chair under me because I'd felt it graze my shoulder. She thought it was lurking somewhere inside my clothing. We were both wrong! This medical marvel that was soon to become a permanent part of my mouth had landed inside the dentist's shoe!

Sometime later the porcelain crown did an almost repeat, bouncing across the room.

The verdict--after multiple screwing and rescrewing and installing and reinstalling of the pieces--was that the mold for the tooth had twisted slightly somewhere between here and the lab and that I would need yet another 2-3-weeks-to-construct permanent crown. Which, of course, meant another 5 minutes with plastic goop congealing on my upper teeth . . .

The good news is that, after a considerable amount of scraping, the composite that was gluing my fake replacement tooth to its neighboring healthy tooth is gone. I feel like someone's removed a parasite from my mouth!

The other good news is that the crown that wasn't exactly right (too much space so debris would have collected between my teeth on a regular basis) is now attached, with temporary cement, to the permanent abutment which is attached to the permanent implant which is attached, hopefully for life, to my jawbone. I can floss and brush normally. I can bite. I can chew (just not sticky stuff yet) on both sides of my mouth. I can eat bagels for breakfast!!!!!!!!

So now, like the "All I Want for Christmas" song, I'm shooting for permanently-in-place-by-Christmas . . . ?!

Oh, and I can hang on to the $800 balance (of the $3600 tab) for another 2-3 weeks . . .

remember . . .

I have lived long enough to have my own memories of November 22, 1963.

This year, on that anniversary day and hour, I was absorbed in the memories of those gone before me, memories of other lost heroes . . .

little star . . .

twinkle

twinkle

a Toy Store story . . .

I am really intrigued by what Windows Moviemaker chose to leave out from the original videoclip. You'll need to use your imagination here to picture Percy's magical transition from Cassie's hand to Michael's and her predictable two-year-old response :-)

There's another story in the picture in the background. When my son was about 9 or 10, he decided he was ready to attempt counted cross-stitch. Having an older sister who excelled at the craft was both his inspiration and his project's eventual salvation. I purchased complimentary designs: Antique Store (in the background) for me and Toy Store for Jamie. Both were tucked away, unfinished, for years, until Kimberly decided to surprise Jamie one Christmas by completing his picture. (A snapshot of the project, as Jamie had left it, is taped to the back of the frame.) A few Christmases later, a completed Antique Store (probably the last time I attempted anything in the way of embroidery . . .) joined Toy Store in the nursery being prepared (yes, that wallpaper had to go!) for Michael's arrival.

more to be happy about . . .

51. coming out on the right half of a 50:50 chance
52. having your adult daughters, in the same week, call you their . . . buddy :-)
53. laughing at what makes you afraid
54. laughing at yourself
55. crying over a good book
56. staying up late and sleeping in later
57. making the most of Daylight Savings Time
58. noticing contrail-crossed autumn-afternoon skies


59. remembering what was once good about October . . .
60. resurrecting the mending pile

Why I Am Not a Writer!

More than a year after my one-and-only draft-but-not-published post on the Why I Am Not a Writer blog, the catalyst for launching this blog appeared on my doorstep this afternoon. Click the link above/below and check them out!

Bed in Summer

turning a page . . .

I bought the crib for Mason--so he'd have a place to sleep when he came to visit Nonny.

I made the afghan for Garrett--
blue for little boys
and pink roses just because . . .

I added the mobile
to light Michael's dreams
with stars and a moon,
to thread them through with lullabies.

But today time turned a page . . .

This one's for Cassie.

listen!

October . . .

more quirks ;-)

43. cherishing crystal clear credit in chaotic times
44. owning too many books but ordering even more
45. taking summer clothes to the cleaners before the first leaf falls
46. investing in Ace braces and reaping wellness dividends
47. rediscovering apple butter
48. fueling imaginations with a forest face and a tree door
49. not having to do everything today
50. holding fast to someday . . .

quirky things to be happy about . . .

33. going shopping in the closet
34. slowing into the therapeutic zone
35. renewing a Lincoln rocker
36. conversing in old glass: slag, goofus, opalescent, carnival, whimsey, custard, rose bowl, nappy, jack-in-the-pulpit, coin dot, hobnail, vaseline, epergne
37. enjoying neighborhood walks with an mp3 bff
38. blogging on Friday evenings when Monday seems forever away
39. collecting everything adagio

40. knowing a Seagull guitar is tucked away for someday . . .
41. finding blue paisley capris at 75% off (and in a size you thought you'd never see again!)
42. holding fast to dreams . . .

Galveston . . .

A couple of years ago, maybe three (was Katrina the catalyst?), I began collecting everything I could find about the 1900 hurricane. There's no family tie other than my genealogist daughter's laments about immigration records lost . . . But it's amazing how a well-crafted piece of nonfiction can tie us to those who lived long before we drew breath. Isaac's Storm and The Sisters of Charity Orphanage story on the Galveston News website did just that for me . . .

As I watched the waves crash over the Galveston seawall this afternoon, courtesy of 21st century streaming video, the Cline families and the Sisters protecting their parentless charges lived once more in my mind's eye . . .

I so wanted to give the young man who was out to see the waves this afternoon, staying because Ike, after all, is only cat two, a copy of Erik Larson's book . . .

108 years, almost to the day . . . Time is indeed a circle . . .

nine eleven - where I was . . .

What isn't there, in that long-ago journal (click blog title to view), is why the words ran out . . . A plane went down somewhere near Pittsburgh. My daughter's home is in the Pittsburgh flight path . . . My cell phone was in the car . . .

When I called, my son-in-law answered. My daughter was on a plane that morning . . . thankfully in the Atlanta airport between connections when the world as we know it stopped. The evening before, my son-in-law had watched, from the Newark airport, lightning backdrop the Twin Towers . . .

The crew and passengers of UAF93 have a very special place in my heart . . .

Hanna . . .

Today's paper says we'll be spared, that Hanna is following in the steps of Bertha and Floyd, Bonnie and Fran. Just a few days ago, Fay broke Donna's longtime record . . . but not my heart.

Donna is the one hurricane I haven't forgiven--maybe because she stole some of my childhood's simple pleasures when I was miles away in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania Dutch country, not even able to find solace in saying that I too had faced her fury and survived.

Donna erased the shacks from Cape Carteret. The shacks--they were really all the name implies--were where I saw my first queen conch shells, gaping holes in their exquisite spirals, evidence of harvesting for conch stew. I've never been tempted to try my hand or my taste buds at conch stew but I've also never lived in a home without a queeen conch shell on display somewhere . . .

Donna tore down the two fishing piers, washed up fishing boats, on the pluffmud flats where my brothers and sister and I played on weekends and summers. Somewhere--not sure where--is the picture I painted (during my very abbreviated teen artist phase) of that aftermath . . .

Donna washed up a treasure trove of shells from the Atlantic deep. My family--again without me--brought home bucketsful. A few years ago, I inherited that collection--and the Sanibel collections too--some saved in a plastic container that had once housed wire used in my parents' electric motor repair business.

I cut my hurricane teeth on another "H" hurricane--Hazel . . . She earned my respect. Another "H' hurricane--Hugo--came close to challenging Donna's status as heart-breaking, beyond forgiveness. But I was no longer a child, no stranger to loss and change and adjusting and moving on . . .

I would wish, though, that Hanna stay away from the paths of Hazel, Donna, Floyd, Bertha, Bonnie, Fran . . . stay away from the places where my childhood memories are rooted . . . stay away from where I'm from . . .

simple gifts . . . a song

SIMPLE GIFTS

'Tis a gift to be simple,
'Tis a gift to be free,
'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend, we will not be ashamed
To turn, turn, will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning, we come round right.

I've always associated the melody with Copland's Appalachian Spring and, in doing so, with concert band, my children, what seems a lifetime ago . . . Never truly heard the words of this traditional ballad until today . . . courtesy of Yo-Yo Ma. The lyrics are, of course, copyright free. The message they convey is . . . simply beyond price.

not that I have anything to write . . .

I finally broke down and added two of my secret obsessions--music and local histories--to my profile :-) tonight. Can't figure out what to do with this year's technology and literacy focus, though. Is this also a simple pleasure or does it really just belong on my other (techie) blog, which I've been seriously avoiding . . .? It's a little like my blog about why I am not a writer (NOT!). I wrote the perfect intro piece for that blog two summers ago, emailed it to the individual who was the catalyst for that state of (non)being/blog, shared it with a group of close friends (some of whom had had similar experiences)--and I was over not being a writer! But the empty blog is symbolic, somehow . . .

This week's simple pleasure? Last Saturday with the "babies," teaching them the swing song I grew up with . . . Watching them explore the new family car their parents surprised them with . . . Michael's first reaction--What on earth were they thinking about???--morphing into This is the best thing you ever bought for us!

I've never owned a black car, in or out, and doubt I ever will. But their new car brought back this one, one of my first ever memories . . .

On the back of the photo are these words, a message my mother wrote from me to my grandfather across the sea, the grandfather whose hat I threw out of an upstairs window somewhere across the gray Atlantic a few months before this photo was taken, the grandfather I would not again, in this world, see . . .

Fevrier 1950

Bon baisers a Grand daddy

Memories are everything . . . the best of life's simple pleasures . . .

home improvements--the next installment

Here's a quote that made me smile--something from my February blog on dealing and blessing . . .

Had to laugh when resolution time rolled around a few weeks ago. I was still wedged uncomfortably in the throes of 2007's three top-rated resolutions. Never mind the rest of the list--the usual stuff like exercising semi-regularly or replacing porch railings or thiswouldbetheyearI'dgobacktoFrance. . .

Maybe the way to approach the list is to put the really hard stuff at the top? Sure makes planning for and doing the tasks of lesser importance much easier.

Take replacing porch railings , for instance.

Thank you, Mama!

Or take thiswouldbetheyearI'dgobacktoFrance. . . OK, maybe it wasn't--but next year is. I've actually picked up (but not yet completed) a passport application and, get this, bought new luggage!

Exercising semi-regularly? I tried! My left knee is functional again. Yes! I've bought serious walking shoes. Any day now, I'll be back on the streets, earphones and all!

Seriously, I did tackle the big three first . . . major league resolutions: taking stock of life, health, career. Between me and this blog, I'm glad to be dealing, once again, with minor league resolutions. It's a blessing that I can . . .

home improvements 2008 - the shed

many thanks to KAKGK for the gift and to MRMC for the installation prep, inspection/recommendations, etc.,




and to my left knee for simply hanging in there :-) long enough for me to paint the exterior (well, except for some of the toohighup trim [but that's primed]) . . .






of course, the only new space I've occupied so far is the windowbox (too cute!) . . .

August . . .

A third gone already and I haven't posted . . .

OK, maybe life isn't all a case of simple pleasures.

But, under all the stuff of getting through the days, there are a few . . .

If I weren't on a baby food diet at the moment (long story, hopefully with a not too distant happy ending), I would never, ever, in a million years made myself the best-ever eggsaladwithrealmayonnaise and ateitall! today. I didn't even know I liked egg salad!

If I weren't temporarily sidelined with an overstressed knee, I would never, ever, in a million years have given myself permission to read all the books I've read so far this month alone! I would never have ordered the serious walking shoes to go with my serious mp3 player and my serious conviction that yesIdoneedtoputmyselffirst . . . at least sometimes.

Bet there's more simple pleasures under the stuff of getting through the days of August . . . I'll keep digging :-) And maybe even posting . . .

childhood dreams are made of this . . .

holding court

butterfly flying high

Cassie is 2

. . .

If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take care of itself. The dreams will come to you. - Randy Pausch

Randy Pausch lost his battle with pancreatic cancer this morning. Tony Snow, my brother's college classmate, lost his battle with colon cancer just a few days ago. Two inspiring men in the prime of their lives and careers. Men who had so much to live for: courageous wives, young children just beginning their journeys to adulthood. Men who taught us so much about how to celebrate our last days of life . . .

Daddy had those same reasons for living . . . Someone somewhere once told me his wish was to live through that one summer. He did.

He was a man of few words, but even had he not been, I don't know that he, or we, would have found the words to say what needs to be said when you know you, or someone you love, have/has so little time left on this earth.

His world was a world before the stages of grief had been named, before talking about dying was a good thing to do. But, deep in memory, there are indelible pieces of that summer:

* watching him hold my daughter, his first grandchild, and knowing that, because he would not want us to remember his wasting frailty, I could hold that picture only in memory, only as long as I drew breath . . .

* listening to his stories, the weekend before his surgery--Grandpa saving him from the fire--stories about love never judging . . .

* holding my breath when he tried, the weekend before his surgery, to pour a life's wisdom about running a business into my so-confused brain (fortunately my mother had the clarity of vision, courage, and determination to build on his legacy) . . .

* knowing that he, on his one best weekend of that summer, watched as man first set foot on the moon . . .

* spending one last night in a chair in his hospital room and being welcomed, through his coma, with a veryslowmotion wink the next morning . . .

Many years later/ago, I dedicated my dissertation in this way:
to my father,
who nourished my dreams,
and my mother,
who gave me courage . . .

I would like to think that those three fine young men, fathers, nourishers of dreams in their children--Randy, Tony, and Jimmy--will find each other somewhere in that next world. What stories they could tell each other!

Bet Daddy will take a break from gigging for flounder to be in the bleachers in my hometown when Good Morning America visits next week!

happy ending . . .

I so love a story with a happy ending!

When I picked up my now-leather-seated new car from the dealership this afternoon, my salesperson made my day!

Do you want to know what happened to your car?

Bonny 3, of course. For two weeks now I've been moving on, trying hard not to think about what being relegated to a wholesale fate might say about her prospects for a life after me . . .

My salesperson has found a family member of his own willing to adopt her!

He's picking her up later today!

And I'm smiling . . . Bet Bonny is too . . .

I so love a story with a happy ending!

the innocence of childhood--reprise

beach week memories

exploring (webkinz)

playing games (Xbox, Wizard, Five Crowns, poker, bridge, Chinese checkers, . . .)

swimming

feasting

beach week memories--summer birthdays

beach week memories--kites flying high

beach week memories--sand castles

music . . .

OK, I'll admit . . . this label was already long overdue when I added it last December.

Maybe it's because music is the one simple pleasure in life that renders me powerless, eludes me, takes me to places and times I can't always come home from, at least not unchanged . . .

Soon after my last cell phone upgrade--maybe the day I downloaded Yo-Yo Ma's rendition of Gabriel's Oboe and made it my ringtone--I added own an mp3 player to my too-long to-do list. I did the research, to the point of deciding that the one I wanted would be a someday purchase--as in when the Christmas debts were paid, after the price came down, etc., etc.

A year and a half later, I've just been (late-birthday) gifted with the very one I wanted--both upgraded and downpriced. I've spent most of today revisiting a modest collection of CD's I rarely make time to enjoy . . .

A gig of downloads and four playlists later, I'm so enjoying this now-simple pleasure.

And going in my mind to other times, other places, other . . . selves . . .

. . . where there is time, there is a circle . . .

7 more reasons to be happy . . .

left-to-right, top-to-bottom

26. Cassie

27. Kelsey

28. Campbell

29. Mason

30. Michael

31. Kira

32. Garrett

beach blues . . .

Full circle again. North Carolina beaches nourished and inspired my childhood dreams. This was the beginning . . .

Back to another North Carolina beach this week . . . with other children with other dreams. A bit bittersweet, though, from this place in time . . .

There's something to be said for the innocence of childhood . . . Need to remember to take this inner child along with me, to let her out to play and wonder and dream . . .

Bonneville blues . . .

It's the end of an era - 21 years of entrusting my life, the lives of those I love, to me behind the wheel of a Bonneville.

I've owned three. Each with its own set of memories, with its own set of tin-woman personality quirks.

I saw the first Bonneville on the highway on our way home from taking our first child off to college--first year, out of state, far from home. I remember crying that Sunday in church as another talented teenager played the flute in her place . . . The image of the car left an indelible mark. A few weeks later, I went in search of one much like it and suspect I found exactly the one--a demo--I'd seen that earlier afternoon. It was blue--really just blue--and I loved it. But, like so many first-of-its generation cars, not so very reliable. The fuel pump failed within walking distance of work. Several years later, the (first) transmission failed when I was on my way to work on a statewide testing day (I was the school test coordinator). From that car I learned to diagnose terminal illness of the alternator, a skill that spared me two potential Bonneville strandings. Having also learned to diagnose cancer of the transmission, I reluctantly traded it in for Bonneville #2 (just in time, I was told).

Bonneville #2 - an interesting metallic purple gray with soft gray leather seating - was my love. I'm sure it had its share of mechanical problems. In fact I remember one I diagnosed long before the mechanics would believe I wasn't just some crazy woman who thought she understood cars. And, yes, this car too came at a turning point in my life--moving, sending my last child off to college (first year, out of state, far from home), moving again . . . If it hadn't been for that last child, I don't know that I could have let that car go . . .

On the morning of one of those January days with snow in the air, my last child had what we hope still would be his last wreck - a close call, interstate median, just missing trees that could have stopped time for us all. I had promised him Bonneville #2 when the time came for me to move on to something newer, more reliable. Now, when I wasn't at all ready, was the time. On an icy Saturday, eight years ago, I met Bonneville #3 - midnight blue metallic, taupe leather seats, I was determined not to become attached.

This wasn't just about keeping a promise. It was also about taking a leap of faith. More car than I had funds to purchase, even with a five year loan, at the time . . . Just a few months later, I was offered the career opportunity that has shaped these last eight years--and the extra pay I so needed to support my Bonneville passion.

This Saturday--8.5 years and almost 140K miles later--I found the strength to let go. I could sense that this was the time--not that I wanted to let go (I would have kept Bonny 3 forever too), but that I must let go. Bonny 3 must have sensed my decision. When I turned the key in the ignition yesterday morning, silence . . . The original battery (I could write a book on what I've learned since about batteries located under the back seat, passenger side, AAA can't replace, special mounting kit required) died without warning (as if I hadn't been watching the battery indicator for years now, thinking surely I would know).

For the first time in 21 years, I am not a Bonneville owner. I've joined the ranks of SUV owners, downsized, de-glamorized . . .

I will not become attached to this car . . . It's not a Bonneville, after all . . . But I opted for the blue without and the gray leather within all the same . . .

SUV woman :- /

full circle

I've come full circle, in the last few weeks--immersing myself once again in my post-graduate quest for understanding all things technology (technology and literacy, that is) and in my undergraduate thirst for knowing all there was to know about the story of our world (and, more specifically, about the European history that is my heritage).

The technology stories I'll tell, all this next year, on (one of) my other blogs, thevirtualsandbox. But the world history stories will make their home here, I think.

I spent much of last weekend reading the first half of Volume 3 of Susan Wise Bauer's The Story of the World--fodder for fashioning texts sets to support the humanities curriculum writing going on at my school. It was fascinating reading--stories new and stories I'd once known, but long ago forgotten.

Coming full circle . . .

One story I did not know. All my life I've heard the phrase "Black Hole of Calcutta." I had no idea what it meant, or even that it meant anything worth knowing. A seed of a story in Bauer's book led me to an out-of-print reprint--Noel Barber's The Black Hole of Calcutta: A Reconstruction--a book newly published at about the time I should have read it first, but am sure I didn't. I made the time for that reading this weekend . . . oddly enough on the anniversary dates of that world-changing event, June 20-21, 1756.

I've gleaned two important truths from the story of the Black Hole of Calcutta. I now understand how and why the British came to rule India. Retribution. The second truth validates my valuing of life's simple pleasures. The author concludes his account with this observation: nature has a habit of outlasting history.

Coming full circle . . .

2 years later . . .

It all started so simply--a place where I could post our family photos, my son explained. Blogging was uncharted waters for me. I'd created an award-winning webpage for work several years earlier, using Netscape Composer, but this seemed, somehow, the greater challenge. Those first pictures of Michael were the only trace of this venture/adventure for months . . . until, tasked with creating a multigenre piece of writing around a theme of my choosing, the concept of capturing, of celebrating life's simple pleasures in a virtual writer's notebook took shape.

I have a new writing assignment this summer--a cultural autobiography. Not sure which virtual scrapbook I'll use for that--only that it will be more . . . private perhaps?

I've webpaged (two new sites at work this year), wikied (I'm a rank beginner but learning), Photostoried, and begun moving on to Smart notebooks and Movie makers . . .

In the fall, I'll coteach, for the first time in a long while, a technology course . . .

But writing for this blog has been, is, and will continue to be . . . a simple pleasure.

rose of the week/month/year/decade/andbeyond?

I think it's been at least two years, if not three, since Brigadoon bloomed for me. Just last year I noticed that much of the bark and wood at her base had splinterchipped away. Natural aging, I guess. What more to expect of a rose that spent her youth containerbound before being tucked away in a deeply shaded, treerootbound, oft-neglected rose garden?

I took a picture of her single bud this spring, fully expecting that it might not mature. Was I ever wrong, in just this week when I needed a gentle reminder that miracles happen all around us every day of our lives . . .