A confession confession

This afternoon I walked out of confession.

No, not out of the confessional itself. I was only in line. But I still feel guilty having left.

It's only the second time I've done such a thing. The first time was in 2005. April 2, to be exact. The reason I remember it so clearly is because I was freelancing for the Florida Catholic at the time, and with (now Blessed) John Paul II struggling to hold on to life, we were all on death watch. We'd even been given assignments about which church to go to should he pass and, as I waited for my turn to confess, I felt the phone in my bag start to vibrate and I knew it was time to go.

Today was different, though. I haven't been to confession in about two months (I like to go every month, generally) and, while I hadn't killed anyone, I needed to go. Since I work on Saturdays, I've taken to going to confession at the church near my office during a break in my afternoon. The pastor there is typically very quick and always gives the same penance every time ("Say five 'Our Fathers for any guilt that you might feel'"). He also gives the same penance to everyone... I know this because there are two doors into the confessional, neither very thick, with space beneath the bottom of both doors so sound carries across the tiled floors in the chapel. Typically it isn't an issue, thought, because Father only raises his voice when he's giving penance and absolution. If he offers counsel, he modulates his voice accordingly.

Today, there was a visiting priest, however. There were a good eight or nine people in front of me, and as the priest began to hear the first penitant, it became clear that every word he was speaking in response to the woman confessing could be heard. I thought "Maybe she's hard of hearing. She is somewhat elderly, so perhaps she asked him to speak louder." I felt for sure the priest would use a lower tone with some of the others in front of me.

Only he didn't. A few more people went in and came out in turn. The visiting priest was equally loud. I felt sure someone would say something; ask him to speak more softly, maybe. He was also rather long-winded. I don't mind that, generally, but when you're trying to tone out counsel someone else is receiving in response to sins confessed, it's very frustrating. None of us were trying to over hear. One man cleared his throat frequently. I tried focusing on prayer and reading the Sunday Mass readings, but couldn't concentrate. Another man, two people ahead of me in line, was even pressing his fingers into his ears to avoid hearing details of others' confessions.

As I sat there waiting, debating what I should do, I realized how uncomfortable I was. Part of it was trying to avoid overhearing. But part was also worry that others -- several people having come in behind me, by this point -- would hear what he would say to me once it was my turn. In truth (and, weakly perhaps), I was more worried about that. So I left. I can hear you saying right now, 'Why couldn't you have said something to the priest when you got into the confessional if he hadn't started using a lower tone by that time?' Sure, I could have. I'm sure if I'd gone ahead, my confession would still be valid, and I'm sure people wouldn't have listened to the priest's response to my confession on purpose.

But I didn't go. And now I feel a bit cowardly, like perhaps Satan got the better of me. I know confession is uncomfortable even in the best of circumstances. No one likes admitting they've failed. It's probably people's least-favorite sacrament...until it's over, that is. Everyone hates having to go but loves having gone. That's certainly the case for me. Part of the beauty of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, though, is the seal of confession. No matter what you've done, how bad you think you are -- and this takes me back to college, when (I think it was) Brother Jude used to say "I'm the worst sinner I know" -- confessed sins are only between you and the Lord. The priest is the intermediary, the conduit to Christ. No one no can be told what you've said, and only a priest can hear what you confess.

Unless the priest is loud. At any rate, next Saturday, I will try again.

Poetry

Some days, I yearn for poetry.

For, as Garrison Keillor puts it, "to be interrupted mid-stampede by a beautiful thing is a blessing indeed."

What's cookin'?

One of my New Year's resolutions was to do more cooking in 2012, and so far, I think I'm off to a good start.

The first Friday of Lent, I made shrimp alfredo. It had been years since I'd made a good alfredo sauce from scratch, but man that was good. Creamy, cheesy and extra garlicky, just like I like it. Oh, and completely healthy, of course. The salad I had with it totally evened things out, calorie-wise. ;-) I also made a great pasta salad the other week with cheese tortellini, spinach and tomatoes that made a great addition to several lunches.

Inspired by a recent issue of "Cooking Light, " I've also made several homemade pizzas. The first was a chicken barbecue pizza that turned out spectacularly, easily beating out the California Pizza Kitchen version that I enjoy. And just the other night, sans recipe, I made another chicken pizza (I do plan on branching out from chicken... one recipe in the Cooking Light that I want to try calls for smoked salmon) with spinach, Parmesan and a good garlic marinara sauce. It's pretty basic, but completely satisfying, this homemade pizza making (although not totally from scratch, as I'm not making the crusts myself...but who has time for that?), and likely healthier than the greasy American ordered variety, which Italy pretty much spoiled for me.

One thing that definitely has me upping my cooking game is Big Breakfast Wednesdays. They're a tradition my housemate Pam and her former roommate Jen started when Jen moved in, and we've continued it since I've taken up residence. It's a simple premise: we take turns making a larger, more elaborate-than-cereal-or-toast breakfast each Wednesday. This has actually been a little bit of a challenge for me. Growing up, when we made breakfast on the weekends, it was scrambled eggs, oatmeal or, most often, pancakes. The only problem with making pancakes for Big Breakfast Wednesday is that Pam, for health reasons, can't have anything too sweet first thing in the morning (I did make pancakes for Fat Tuesday dinner, though, which was awesome). As a result, I've made fried eggs and scrambled eggs with cheese and hashbrowns, but those don't seem quite big enough. So for last week's turn, I went trolling on the Internet, looking for a savory muffin recipe. A lot of them were quite complex, and called for ingredients I would have to buy in larger amounts and then likely never use again. But then I stumbled on one that offered a variety of filling options. And they turned out marvelously. The recipe made 16, so both Pam and I took some to our various offices, where they got rave reviews from coworkers (in my office, Elaine said they tasted like something you'd get at Panera, which was incredibly flattering). It will definitely be added to my breakfast repertoire.

Of course, there are still nights where I come home and just do something simple with a chicken breast or tilapia fillet, nuke a TV dinner or, like tonight, make a meal out of sweet potato fries dipped in apple butter. But I'm thoroughly enjoying getting back into cooking on a more regular basis, and I hope to continue this good start. There are so many more recipes I want to try and lots of 2012 left.

My brain on shuffle/Utter randomness

I remember watching reruns of The Monkees as a kid, and just loved the show. They also had a guest spot on an episode of Scooby Doo, which, in my book, was pretty much the coolest thing ever back then. Davy Jones was my favorite Monkee, though, because he was the cutest (I had a crush on him as a kid, I'll admit it), had that exotic English accent, could sing and, really, when it comes down to it, the man could play the tambourine with flair, so I was sad to hear he passed away today. And while I really do love most of the Monkees songs, I think this is one of my favorites. Maybe because Neil Diamond wrote it. Or maybe because it IS the song used in that Scooby Doo episode. But it's just good:

***

On a completely unrelated note, I wrote a poem today. My boss, Lorraine, has been out sick, and in an email to Elaine, one of my coworkers, she joked that she knew we were lazing around, dancing, singing and eating office (i.e. shared/community) chocolate instead of putting out a paper, and that she knew all this because there are cameras hidden in the multiple giraffe figures (she collects them) on her desk. I'm not entirely sure what prompted it, but Elaine said, "We should write her a poem." So I did...and then I posted it to her Facebook wall:

An Ode to an Editor out sick"

"We the eaters of office chocolate
Dancing in front of the giraffe cam to block it.
Work!? What is that? Our boss is away!
And when that happens reporters will play:

Ed writes B.P.s on county financing
So exciting he comes in prancing;
Elaine sings songs into her phones
To answer those calls she needs clones;
Carol dreams of going antiquing while
She's doing story critiquing;
And Anne's piece on a school event
Is better when read with a foreign accent.

When Lorraine comes in tomorrow
The newsroom will be full of sorrow.
For it's back to the status quo
And all our fun we must forgo." 

My boss is actually awesome, so the sorrow will not be real when she comes into the office on Thursday, and we do have lots of fun when she's there. Also, B.P.s are big picture stories, so called because they paint a big picture (duh) of an issue. And yes, I frequently speak in foreign accents (English, Ukrainian, occasionally French) at work. I'm a nut. But I also think I'm a pretty good mimic, and unless my coworkers are lying to me...wait, maybe they actually are. :)

***

My roommate and I have discovered an incredible time-waster of a "reality" show on Animal Planet: "Finding Bigfoot." A team of four (one of them answers to the nickname Bobo, which in Spanish means stupid. He also has a preference for trucker hats) goes to different parts of North America (which, as one of the team members was compelled to explain tonight, includes "the U.S. and Canada," in case you didn't know) to study evidence (grainy videos and the like) and talk to people who have supposedly seen a sasquatch. Only the team members have shortened sasquatch to "squatch" and have subsequently turned it into an adjective ("This area is squatchy."), a verb ("Now this is squatchin!'") and a noun ("Other squatchers say..."). There are also select phrases they repeat often, such as "Hear that? That's a squatch!" Also, sasquatch apparently love a myriad of disparate things: cows, power lines, fireworks, cemeteries, ducks, deer, bacon (although come on, who doesn't?), donuts and the sound of crying babies, among other things. Pam and I can hardly keep from laughing the whole way through an episode, mostly because these people take themselves so seriously.

***

And finally, thrift stores are just fun. There's a new, huge Goodwill opening up near my office, and they had a soft opening tonight. After we filed everything for the Thursday paper, Elaine, Carol and I went exploring, finding all sorts of silly things to try on (Shoes! Hats! Lampshades as hats!). Naturally, since we document even the most mundane things ad nauseum, Elaine took many photos...some of which just began appearing on Facebook (and some of which were incredibly unflattering and I just as quickly removed them from my timeline). Others are fun. One is me holding an Oliver Hardy mug. I joked that since Stan Laurel was missing, I'd be the Laurel in the picture (since it's my first name... Yes, I do realize I'm incredibly nerdy/corny. I did know a girl growing up in Lakeland who's parents named her Laurel Ann Hardy. Sad. And funny. But I digress...). I think once Lent is over it will make an appearance as my new profile photo. It'll be interesting to see how many pick up in it.

***

Right. I should go to bed. I meant to a good hour and a half ago, but time has run away with me. This is the result. Perhaps I should put a moratorium on late-night blogging in the future. :)

Grounded

"You're so grounded and sure in the faith, sometimes I just need to talk to you and get your perspective."

I actually started laughing when a friend of mine surprised me by telling me this during a phone conversation Saturday. It was a beautiful and unexpected compliment, all the more so because I rarely feel like I have it all together faith-wise. More often than not, I feel like I'm just keeping my head above water, fumbling about and praying as I go. I told my friend that so often, I wished I knew the answers or understood what God wants me to do and when, but just keep plugging along.

Especially lately. Although I've been in my new place for three weeks now, I still don't feel settled just yet. There are still plenty of things to sort through and find a place for. I've been so busy. And I've barely found time for prayer, which, I have no doubt, has surely contributed to the somewhat scattered feeling I've been experiencing of late.

That's why I'm so looking forward to Lent starting Wednesday. I need and am longing for that focus (that grounding, if you will) Lent brings; So many people see Lent as a time of denial, and it is. Of course it is, and for good purpose. But it is also a time of joy and time for us to learn and grow more towards God. And here, in the waning hours of my 33rd year, I know there's still more growing for me to accomplish. I don't think, and I hope, that growth will never end. I have several books picked out for Lenten reading (one, a book by Fulton Sheen -- "Way to Inner Peace" -- that I found at a used bookstore for a quarter a while ago but only turned up again when packing to move) and have decided to pray a Rosary daily -- one of my New Year's resolutions was to pray it more frequently, and as I haven't quite followed through with that one, making it a Lenten sacrifice seems like a good plan.

The great book count of 2012

So, while I was packing to move, a number of people asked me how many books I owned. I had no idea, as I'd never counted before. A few friends wondered if I had 1,000. A girl I work with has 2,400-plus. I knew I wasn't to that level, but I figured a few hundred wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility.

Now, when I moved into my old apartment six-odd years ago, I came in with 14 boxes of books. And over those six years, I accumulated more. Some of them I knew I'd be able to part with: books I read but couldn't recall what they were about when I picked them up, several books I found I actually owned a duplicate of (somehow I'd managed to acquire two copies of Alison Weir's "The Life of Elizabeth I") or random thrillers my dad had passed along to me that really aren't my speed. Ultimately, I donated 165 of them.

Some of the first things I packed were books: they're easy to toss into a box and you don't have to worry about adding any kind of packing materials to make sure nothing is damaged. In the week before I moved all the big stuff, I brought several car loads over to my new place and stowed them in the garage. My roommate, Pam, kept asking how many more there were, although, a reader herself, she was excited to have some more reading options at her disposal. Ultimately, the majority of boxes I picked up at local liquor stores wound up filled with books. In fact, by the time I was done, I had 26 boxes of books that came with me to my new place.

I make no secret of the fact that I daydream/long for a home with built-in bookshelves, or an entire room turned into a library, preferably. I do have one smaller book case next to my desk, but it's only three-shelved and two feet wide. There's a legal sized bookcase in the living room and that small plastic bin filled with to-be-reads currently lounging under my bed. But I needed a place to store lots, so last weekend, with the help of several (awesome) friends, six pine shelves were installed on one of my bedroom walls. This weekend, I stained them a lovely darker color. Today, I filled them. And they are things of beauty. I just keep looking over at them and grinning like a Cheshire cat, hoping, too, that gravity and the weight of my books won't somehow send them crashing down. They are truly loaded with books, 467 all told (counting those on a "shelf" I created on the floor beneath the shelf lowest to the ground).

Anyway, since all my books are now shelved. I counted everything. Grand total: 758, including cookbooks and my school yearbooks. If I hadn't parted with those 165, I'd have had 923, so still under 1K, but it's a completely respectable number, I think. And that doesn't mean that I won't eventually acquire more. There is still a little bit of space on the top shelf for additions. :)

 

Movin' on...over

So when I wrote my New Year's Eve post, I closed it with the line that I hoped "For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself."

Well, color me surprised. I hardly imagined that within the month I'd be preparing to pack up my apartment. Now, I'm not moving to a new city or for a new job -- despite the fact that for years I said I wouldn't move unless I had a new job or new city to go to -- but into a new place about five minutes away from my current apartment, where I've lived for the past six years. And I only just got around to hanging that long-framed art on the wall two months ago. Go figure.

Anyway, my friend Pam told me her current housemate was moving out this month, and she asked me if I'd be interested in moving in. It took me several days to think about it and make a decision. See, I can talk a good game about being spontaneous, but I'm really a prototypical eldest child, with the need to be responsible and a propensity to over-think things. I have a serious lack of daring, generally, and like many (and not just eldest children, I imagine), both a desire for, and a fear of, change.

But at the same time, I realized that I've grown too comfortable. While the thought of packing and culling these next couple of weeks is more than just a little daunting, it needs to be done. I'm looking forward to being free of some of my stuff. Plus, I have this strange notion that if I don't make this smaller change now, I might be unwilling to make any sort of larger move in the future (worst cast scenario: 12 years from now, I'm still living in this apartment, crammed with even more stuff, and sharing the space with multiple cats...ok, maybe not the cats, but you get the idea).

Plus, moving will enable me to save significantly every month and, almost more importantly, I will never have to truck my dirty laundry to the laundromat (thereby avoiding being hit on by creepy men old enough to be my father) ever, ever again. It's the little things, really. 

Like any transition, there will be some things to get used to (it has, after all, been a good nine years since I've shared living space with anyone besides an immediate family member), but Pam and I get along really well, and I already have a key to the place (from occasionally dog-sitting her pooch, Trustee), so I can gradually take boxes over as I pack them, saving the big items for last (this is the plan, at any rate). I'm sure there will be some adjustments, but I've been saying for a while that I need to be organized and more neat as a general rule, which Pam most certainly is, so hopefully a little of that will rub off. She is also fully prepared for (and excited about) the onslaught of books I'll be bringing with me.

And it looks like, if nothing else, I'll be able to put a check mark next to my New Year's Resolution to "clean out my refrigerator" sooner rather than later. :-)

I'm going to be needing more of these!

Books for 2012

On New Year's Eve Day, a high school friend of mine (Kristen lives out in L.A., writes TV show reviews for an entertainment website and is working on a romance novel) wrote a blog post about books she'd read in 2011 and others she hopes to read this year.

I thought it was a fun idea. Well, the later portion, at any rate. With as fast as I read, I honestly can't remember how many books I read in 2011. But that contributed to this post, too, and I thought perhaps I should keep track in 2012. I'm not going to blog about all of them (that would be silly), but there are occasional books that I find myself wanting to write a term paper (for lack of a better, um, term) on and may deserve note. But I think I will use one of the many journals I've received as a gift to record them...that way at the end of 2012, I will know what and how many books I read this year. It should be interesting to look back on.

I received several books for Christmas, along with a Barnes & Noble gift card that enabled me to buy a few more. :) Plus, there's that giant bin underneath my bed, a few stacks scattered around the house and several books I'd like to reread.

Anyway, five days in, I've read one and started another. The one I've completed, "The House of Silk," which I finished yesterday, is one of the books I got for Christmas. It's a Sherlock Holmes novel, but the first one that was actually authorized by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate. I'm always up for a good mystery novel, and this one was entertaining.

I started the second book, Bill Bryson's "At Home," (which I also got for Christmas) last night before bed. The problem (if you can call it that) with Bryson is that A) he's an incredibly witty writer and B) there's so much fascinating information in this book (all kinds of crazy facts about the Crystal Palace, for instance), so I spent a fair amount of time laughing and really didn't want to put it down and go to sleep last night (or this afternoon while reading during lunch). I've found several topics/ facts that I want to know more about (Skara Brae in Scotland, for example. I'd never heard of the archaeological site. Reading about it also almost immediately triggered a time-travel novel idea, but that's another story). And I've only just made it into chapter 2.

But I digress. In addition to finishing "At Home," there are a few other books that I know I want to read this year. They include, in no particular order: "The History of the World in 100 Objects," written by the director of the British Museum; P.D. James' "Death Comes to Pemberley," a mystery that takes place about six years after the events described in "Pride and Prejudice;" then there's "Hedy's Folly: the life and breakthrough inventions of Hedy Lamarr," (no, that's not Hedley) which should be fascinating, since she was an incredibly beautiful and talented actress in old Hollywood, but she also was remarkably intelligent and helped create technology that aided the war effort in WWII and now makes our cell phones possible. Then there's "A Canticle for Leibowitz," by Walter M. Miller Jr. My friend Rebecca sent me a review of it written by Peter Kreeft in Dappled Things several months ago (sadly, I can't track it down now, even with Googling--whatever happened to things staying on the Internet forever?) which fascinated me, and so I ordered it off Amazon. It arrived just after Christmas.

Plus, I also want to reread "The Screwtape Letters." I haven't read it since I was in seventh or eighth grade, when I was required to read it in Theology class. I'm sure I will see parts of it differently, now that I'm an adult. For the same reason, I also want to reread "War and Peace."

Time to go read!

Fast away the old year passes...

A mere seven hours remain of 2011, and it's natural to look back on the year that has gone (I gained a godson -- the newly crawling Charlie Rosario -- saw my brother Ethan deploy to the Middle East and come home safely, and I bought a car, an experience that was somewhat surreal and yet made me feel concretely an adult).

Like most people, I make resolutions for the one upon us. Although it's been true of past years, I want to write creatively more (which, in looking back, was really the only resolution I made last year. I kept it a little, but there's much room for improvement); to clean out my refrigerator (although more of a chore than a resolution) which so desperately needs it; to get back into the gym regularly because, even if I say so myself, I looked damn good for most of 2010. In 2011 I let it slide, and I want to get back into those clothes I only wore for a short period of time. I've also done a lamentable amount of cooking this year. So I resolve to cook at least one meal a week (and put all those back issues of Cooking Light to good use!) starting tomorrow with a crock-pot pork loin recipe I'm eager to try.

As for the writing, I was recently encouraged to continue by one of my fellow reporters at the paper. He's a veteran at the paper (he said his original plan when he started there was to stay three years. That was in 1990, which makes my two-year plan and six-year stay pale in comparison) who is also a poet, and was encouraged to hear I still write creatively, albeit not as frequently as I used to. But last night (well, about 1 a.m. this morning, to be honest), just before bed, I was thinking about how, to me, the New Year has always seemed slightly akin to Advent (although less liturgical, of course): a new season to be hopeful for coming joy. I was reflecting on hope, and I had this phrase trip through my brain, which I had to write down. It turned into something akin to a concrete poem:

Hope on a plate

There's a chance for me to take another international trip in 2012. I'm saving up for a ticket to further European adventures and the opportunity to knock out at least one of the places that's been on my to-visit bucket list (I started a bucket list post a few weeks back and haven't finished it) for a long time, Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany (more on that later), among other sights.

Of course, I want to continue to deepen my prayer life, and to trust in God more fully. This never changes, nor will it, I pray. I hope to say the Rosary more frequently, and to keep trucking through the Theology of the Body. I pray for good things for all my family and friends, for their intentions, for peace and wisdom and grace. For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself.

So too may charity unite

Us all in bonds of endless light,

And bringing household peace, o'ercome

Life's woes in ev'ry earthly home.

- Pope Leo XIII

Just for fun

I've found my wedding cake! You know, if I decide to have a Muppet-themed wedding when I get married...



I found this over at Cake Wrecks which, if you've never been there, is a source of nearly endless enjoyment (and sometimes horror, if you have any sort of grammar and spelling skills) at the expense of, well, lets just call them less-experienced cake decorators. On Sundays Jen, the creator, also posts fun and beautiful cakes baked and decorated by professionals. This cute monster creation falls under that category.

And yes, being a girl, I do think about wedding cakes occasionally, even though there is no wedding in the offing for me at the moment.

A hair-brained post

I've been thinking about a hair-themed post for several weeks now, ever since an older woman stopped to stare at me in the library not too long ago. I thought something was wrong at first. "Oh, my," she said, pausing on her walk to the checkout kiosk, "What glorious hair." For a retiree, she was pretty speedy, and I barely had time to smile, probably somewhat goofily, and say thank you before she'd taken off again. It was a completely unexpected compliment, especially since I don't know that I've ever thought about myself, or any part thereof, as particularly glorious.

But her words stuck with me, and for the rest of that afternoon, I found hair-related quotes  and incidents from literature popping into my head. First, the scene in Louisa May Alcott's "Little Women" where Jo reveals she's sold her "abundant" hair -- "her one beauty," as one of her sisters terms it -- to a wig maker to buy a train ticket for Marmee. Another Anne, Anne of Green Gables, bemoans her red mane and wishes she could have jet-black hair like her "bosom friend" Diana. She even goes so far as to try and dye it, resulting in her hair turning an unfortunate green hue. And St. Paul, in 1 Corinthians 11, says "the long hair of a woman is her glory," but likewise admonishes those who go to prayer with their heads uncovered because it shows a lack of humility.

Well, women can certainly be picky --  and, yes, vain -- about their hair. We want what we don't have and lament what we do, yearning for curls if our hair is straight (and vice versa) or wishing it was a different color. We dye it, straighten it with flatirons, perm it and fill it with product to be more shiny, less frizzy or sometimes just to keep it in place. Most of us have had at least one hair style that we regret (bangs, for example. I tried them twice, and they were no better the second time around).

 When I was younger, somewhere around 6, I remember telling my mom that I wished I was a blond. Even at that age, somehow the "blondes have more fun" mantra had already worked it's way into my psyche. Or perhaps it was due to Barbie. I was incredibly excited when I received a Barbie doll that had even light brown hair and so looked slightly more like me. Funnily enough, I had honey blond hair when I was 2 and 3, but by the time I got to kindergarten, it was long gone. I would actually look terrible as a blond now, I think.

I've had my hair both long and short. For a long time, growing up, my mom cut it. There wasn't much to her cuts -- occasionally some layers, or the aforementioned bangs.

The first time I had my hair cut in a salon, I was 13, and I got one of those asymmetrical cuts that was popular in the early 90s. I don't know that I'd do that again, but it looked good at the time. By the time I went to college, it was the longest it's ever been, nearly to my elbow. A few months in, though, I chopped it almost all off, over a foot of it so it was less than chin-length. Sometimes, you just need a change. I know women who are incredibly intimidated by cutting their hair short. I've been to salons where, when I tell the stylist that I want it bobbed, they practically turn to stone and ask me, several times, if I'm sure. Once, there was even an older woman in the next chair over who said "You're very brave." Really? It's a haircut. I was hardly going into battle.

Right now, my hair is the longest it's been in several years. Though hardly Rapunzel-esque, it is practically to the middle of my back. Usually, when it gets to this point, I'm frustrated with it, especially if I try to blow-dry it -- I find myself looking like Gilda Radner playing Rosanne Rosannadanna on SNL, minus the bangs. But I have a really good stylist and a great cut. And I certainly appreciate the fact that it's pretty low-maintenance in the styling department.

Still, vanity has gotten the better of me, too, when it comes to my hair. Up until June of this year, I'd had what is typically referred to as virgin hair; never been dyed, never been permed. And I was proud of that. But thanks to genetics, my hair started to gray early (I found the first full-length one at 24), so over the summer I finally decided to dye it, just to cover up the gray. I was nervous that it would look strange, but practically no one noticed, which was my hope, since I didn't want the change to be drastic or obvious. One of these days, when I'm older, I'll let it go all nice and silver. I think having longer, silvery hair (why do almost all women cut their hair short into a helmet-like do when they reach a certain age?) will look quite striking. But not until I'm 50, let's say. :) Hopefully, it will still be glorious.

October's bright blue weather

O sun and skies and clouds of June
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather.

-Helen Hunt Jackson

The first breath of chill in the air awakens something. An energy that has lain dormant. More than spring, to me, fall conveys its own special brand of verve. Perhaps it's because spring here dives right into summer without pause and the heat is more oppressive than it is welcome, and that it just seems to take more effort to do things slowly.

But this crispness is enchanting, the door cracked to Thanksgiving and Christmas and a peek around the frame to at least a semblance of the season that is in full flush north of here. Even without the vibrant change of color, autumn is an opening of windows at night and an opportunity to (literally) let down my hair from the near-constant buns and ponytails of languid summer, a time for scarves and sweaters; despite the protests of "it's cold" from neighbors, I rarely find it such.

Where I'm From

I stumbled upon this writing exercise while meandering about the internet today (and honestly can't remember how I wound up on the this page in the first place. It links to another, possibly the original template. That led me to this information) and I thought it would be fun. I like writing exercises (yes, I know that makes me strange. I'm ok with being strange) and have fond memories of several I did in various creative writing classes in college. But also, I'm in a non-writing phase at the moment. I tend to beat myself up about this sometimes, but I'm realizing more and more that, as with most things, there is an ebb and flow to that as well. I found myself filling in the blanks out of order as the answers came to me, but I don't think that mattered, ultimately.

 

Where I'm From

 

I am from hand-me-down furniture, from Playskool's "Record your world of sounds" tape recorder, horse models, fairy tales, a Fort Apache play set and the Berenstain Bears.

I am from avocado green appliances, Legos underfoot, the once-despised but now fondly-recalled scent of paper mill, shuttle launches, the combined smell of mothballs and morning coffee, daydreaming under the dining room table, balled up newspaper wars and waking on weekends to The Beatles, the Beach Boys and the Bangles.

I am from my parent's lawn I started mowing at 12, the cherry laurel I'd climb to read "Romeo & Juliet," crepe myrtles, orange trees, gardenias, hydrangeas and pine needles.

I am from pigtails and honey blond hair darkening, Santa gifts left unwrapped on Christmas morning, Disney rides that no longer exist (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), mom's overflowing tea cabinet, long car trips and going gray early, from Bertolotti and Klockenkemper and Lynes and Wilson.

I am from lengthy reminiscences (which is hardly surprising) and stubbornness from all sides.

From "Annie get your gun," "Don't spin in the piano room chairs," "Pick up your feet" and "Don't say 'hey,' hay is for horses."

I am from cradle Catholics and converts, prayers at meals and bedtime, ("Angel of God, my guardian dear...)," from chastisement for pretending a piece of Trident was a consecrated Host (at 6?), the only girl with no veil at my First Communion, from a mental snapshot of how my mother's hand looked to me as a child while resting on the pew at Mass, my great-grandmother's sterling Rosary which I am never without and hopes for a future unwritten.

I’m from Fort Polk, Louisiana, Mobile, Alabama and rural Illinois, old Dutch New York, Italy, Prussia and Florida (including Key West, which I'll get to someday), from sofrito-based turkey dressing, spinach Lafayette and chocolate pancakes.

From Great Aunt Julia Collins convicted of a murder she didn't commit and sent to the Alabama Insane Hospital, staying even once she was discovered innocent; from my dad who, as a boy started a forest fire playing cowboys and Indians; from Grandpa dropping silken handkerchiefs from his plane to girlfriends he planned to take out that night and my great-great grandfather Obediah Lynes lying about his age and running off to to join the Confederacy.

From old movies and Saturday morning cartoons and late nights reading and college football.

I am from both overflowing boxes of sepia photos with once-heard names scrawled on the back and alphabetized albums arranged by year, from scrapbooks of clippings and attics full of the past, a family tree written on the back of a paper shopping bag, glass-fronted bookcases and Chrysler cars.

I am from these people and things and more than this short list can convey, from stories forgotten and some written down, a hodge-podge and melting pot that can neither be weighed nor found wanting.

Remembrance

September 11, 2001. I can't quite believe it's been 10 years. In a way, it seems like we've been living in a post-9/11 world for much longer than that.

While everyone experienced that day differently -- and I would never claim anything like those who experienced the events firsthand -- it was also the same: horror and grief and the knowledge that everything had changed. There are so many images from 9/11 ingrained on our collective memory: smoke, fire, tears and a tidal wave of ash, fluttering paper everywhere, remains of the towers stark against the sky. The planes careening into the buildings over and over and over again. Like my mother remembers exactly where she was when she heard JFK was assassinated, and how our grandparents knew what they were doing when they learned the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, we will always remember where we were when the Twin Towers (and the planes flying into the Pentagon and the field in Shanksville, Pa. -- blow upon blow) were hit and, subsequently, fell to earth.

I wrote a short article recently on North Port's piece of one of the Twin Towers, eventually to become part of a permanent memorial there. I was almost hesitant about touching the I-beam:

"It’s a 500-pound, rusty chunk of metal with a strip of nuggety concrete still clinging to it. Protruding from one side, steel bolts at least an inch in diameter are bent like reeds in the wind.
But it wasn’t a gentle wind that caused these bolts to warp. It was pressure and heat and gravity, enough force to shear some of the bolts completely off at their base and fling others in directions opposite the bolts just next to them..." 

In 2001, I lived in Gainesville, where I was going to grad school at UF. I didn't have class on 9/11, but was headed to work in the undergrad telecommunication department, where I was an office assistant. I was in my car, driving to the commuter lot to catch the bus into the heart of campus when I heard on the radio that a plane had crashed into the North Tower. Everyone thought it was a tragic accident, and no one was panicking because it was so early, not yet 9 a.m. I chatted with others on the bus about how terrible such an accident was.

It wasn't until I got off the bus and walked into Weimer Hall, the Journalism building, that I learned of the plane hitting the second tower. There was a wall of televisions just off the atrium next to the journalism library, and I joined the semi-circle of students standing or sitting on the brick floor in stunned silence. I was late for work -- not that anyone minded, ultimately -- but couldn't tear myself away from the screens. The whole day seemed to stop.

Eventually I did head up to my office on the second floor. I just remember flashes from the rest of my time at work. According to my journal, I spent a lot of time wandering down to the dean's office (where I recall the plants being incredibly green) and watching the TV there, waiting for confirmation that classes were cancelled for the day, as well as standing in the doorway of Dr. Debbie Treise's office (she had a TV, too) a few offices down from mine. It was there I watched one of the towers, possibly the second, fall, slack-jawed, hand over my mouth. It strikes me as silly now, but I apologized to her for just standing there. Waiting for the bus to head home later that day, one of the reporters for The Alligator, the college paper, asked me for my reaction. I remember all I could think to say was "It's just crazy." I couldn't come up with anything more than that.

I personally didn't know anyone who died or was injured. One of my classmates at the time, Gary Mattingly (a newscaster for one of the local TV stations) lost a cousin, a New York City firefighter. I had several college friends in D.C. at the time, and I was fortunately able to IM with both Marie (who worked two miles away) and Linda (who only lived a block and a half from the Pentagon) while still at work that day and make sure they were ok -- they were, but were scared. Linda's whole house shook, she said. My uncle Tim, retired Navy and a government contractor, worked in the Pentagon occasionally, but thankfully hadn't been there since the week before.

According to my journal, that night, in moments when I wasn't watching the news (although I probably just had it muted -- for days all my roommate and I could seem to do was watch the coverage, wiping away the tears and "waiting for another person to be pulled from the rubble." I remember the always nattily-dressed Peter Jennings reporting with tired eyes, in his shirt sleeves with thick 5 o'clock shadow, continuing to update people with the latest), I called home and all my close friends. I wrote that "It almost seemed necessary -- like an affirmation that some things were still the same."

Later daily Mass at 5:30 was packed that night. It was so nice to see the church full. All we felt we could do was pray, for those who had died, and in hope that some might be found alive.
Before going to bed, I wrote the day's events in my journal. At that point we had no idea how many had died -- some 50,000 worked in the towers. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my bedroom closet (not sure why exactly I was sitting just there) and wondering about whether we would soon see young men drafted and marching off to war. We still didn't know who was responsible. And we did go to war, but in a different way than we ever had before.

Soon after, radio stations started playing a version of Bruce Springsteen's "Secret Garden" that included sound bites of people reacting to the tragedy and remembering loved ones who had perished in the attacks. I always thought it was an interesting choice of song. Back in 1996, it was the theme song for my senior prom, although very few people had heard of it at the time. Only later that year did it became really popular once it was featured in "Jerry Maguire" ("Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?" "Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at hello.") and clips from the movie were also added to the song.

Anyway, about a week later, I was heading home from a Catholic Young Adults meeting at my parish, Holy Faith. I don't remember anything about what we talked about that night, but as I was driving, I happened to glance up. I saw the lights of a plane in the air blinking against the night sky for the first time since the attacks. It seemed like I'd cried so much, but this, too, brought tears to my eyes, not of sadness, but as a small symbol of hope that things would, in a way, be ever-so-slightly more normal.

Afterwards, movies and TV shows airbrushed away previously filmed images of the WTC out of fear that people would be traumatized by seeing them still standing. One of those movies was "Serendipity" and, while I enjoyed the movie quite a bit, I thought taking the buildings out was silly. I remember sitting in the theater noting the absence of where the towers should have been. Shouldn't we remember them as they were?

I have newspapers from September 12 saved. Some of them show people in the Towers jumping out, choosing that instead of fire. There was a huge outcry when those were published, but they, too, show the horror of the day.

I read on one website last week that there was some backlash over all the coverage of the tenth anniversary, the argument being that the shows somehow trivialize the tragedies by turning them into entertainment. Seriously? None of the shows I have seen have been remotely pandering, instead honoring heroes and remembering those who were lost.

One such show was a special about three men, two who were New York Port Authority workers, who risked their lives to climb higher in the North Tower to help others get out. They made it to the 90th floor and rescued more than 70 people by opening jammed doors or guiding workers to safety through smoke and rubble. One of the three survived after helping someone with injuries down the stairs. The other two died, sacrificing themselves that others might live. It was a small story, one of thousands from that day and the days that followed, but one that shouldn't be forgotten. Those who had albeit brief interactions with these men credit them with their lives. Ten years on, still all I could do was cry. Watching one of the many videos of the planes smashing into the Towers, and then seeing them plummet to earth still comes close to stopping my heart. Images of people walking around the ash-covered war zone are still just as wrenching. I don't think that will ever change. Nor should it. I don't think there's enough we can do to remember -- not out of anger or a need for revenge, but out of honor and prayer. Not remembering would be the travesty.

But I think Peggy Noonan, in a piece she wrote for the Wall Street Journal late last week, said it better than I could:

"They tell us to get over it, they say to move on, and they mean it well: We can't bring an air of tragedy into the future. But I will never get over it. To get over it is to get over the guy who stayed behind on a high floor with his friend who was in a wheelchair. To get over it is to get over the woman by herself with the sign in the darkness: "America You Are Not Alone." To get over it is to get over the guys who ran into the fire and not away from the fire.
You've got to be loyal to pain sometimes to be loyal to the glory that came out of it."

Used bookapalooza!

Anyone who knows me even slightly is aware that I have the tiniest smidgen of a book problem. An addiction really. They are my drug of choice. :) Anyway, when presented with a used book sale, well, that's even more fun than a store that sells new books, because you never know what will be in the piles. I also collect old books, and it's always fun to find inscriptions on the inside flyleaf or interesting bookplates affixed inside.

Today, I was charged with heading to the library to take a picture of the Friend's of the Library book sale. Once my job was done, I spent a few minutes perusing. And when you can buy a book for a $1, or eight books for $5, well, I was able to rack up those eight pretty quickly. The great thing was, I found one for each of my brothers and I found two for my mom as well (kids books were 50 cents apiece, so I picked up a few for my twin goddaughters, too).

But I found a few gems for myself, obviously. :) I'm a fan of old cookbooks -- the appeal is some amazing old-fashioned recipes (usually the desserts), along with some now-laughable ones that most modern cooks wouldn't want to make, let alone serve and eat (mostly those involving gelatin and things you should never encase in it), so coming across a 1938 copy of  Canadian cookbook called "A Guide to Good Cooking" compiled by the makers of Five Roses Flour was neat. It also includes completely fabulous illustrations like this:

Jellied chicken, anyone?

Another book I picked up is called "Mirror, Mirror on the Wall," subtitled "Invitation to Beauty," published in 1961. Written by a man named Gayelord Hauser, it is apparently a self-help guide-to-a-more-beautiful-you type of book, where he encourages women to attain their true beauty through healthy eating, caring for the skin, etc... It should be interesting to flip through, since some of the advice about food seems before it's time. I suppose I'm just going to have to read to find out about the "Scandinavian Complexion Secret" and whether I really can make my own cottage cheese. Unfortunately, I think it will always be a mystery to me why Gary and Ethel Patton decided to give this book as a gift to Don and Mary Black on July 26th, 1962:

But I was most excited about a two books, one published in the late 50s, the other in 1961, that look brand new. If they didn't have separate publication dates, I'd have sworn they were a set. One is "The Life of Christ" and the other is a book of Catholic prayers. 

 

Both are gorgeously illustrated. The Life of Christ has maps and an entire section devoted to Mary. The book of prayers includes prayers for every day, for each month, prayers dedicated to Our Lady and a number of saints and for the various sacraments, only for some reason, the sacraments of marriage and holy orders aren't included, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. I flipped through the sacraments section twice (why are there 12 pages of pictures depicting last rites?) before looking to the table of contents to confirm their absence. 

No marriage or holy orders?

Sure enough, they're not there. Why would they have been left out? Could it possibly be a pre-Vatican II thing? It seems like a rather glaring omission. Hmm...must research.

"Ground down by mediocrity"

So it had been probably more than a month since I went and looked at my Google Reader page, and today I found that there were hundreds of entries for the blogs I've subscribed to (note to self: must read them more frequently!).

But scrolling through some of them, I found exactly what I needed to hear today. I'd been struggling to put my feelings of inadequacy and frustration -- I'm not miserable but I'm hardly fulfilled after close to six years at my job with nothing to show for it aside from 36 extra cents per hour, single as I ever was and wishing for something more but not knowing what exactly that something more is --  into words (I even stooped to writing some mopey, very pathetic (and stupid) poetry this afternoon, from which you will be spared).

It makes me think of Belle in "Beauty and the Beast" -- the bookish "princess" I've always identified with most -- and that scene in the field just before her family horse rushes up to her, sans her father:

"I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell. And for once it might be grand to have someone understand, I want so much more than they've got planned..."

But Blessed JP II (probably at a WYD) did it for me. Elizabeth Scalia, over at The Anchoress, posted it 13 days ago:

“It is Jesus in fact that you seek when you dream of happiness; he is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you; he is the beauty to which you are so attracted; it is he who provokes you with that thirst for fullness that will not let you settle for compromise; it is he who urges you to shed the masks of a false life; it is he who reads in your hearts your most genuine choices, the choices that others try to stifle. It is Jesus who stirs in you the desire to do something great with your lives, the will to follow an ideal, the refusal to allow yourselves to be ground down by mediocrity, the courage to commit yourselves humbly and patiently to improving yourselves and society, making the world more human and more fraternal.”


I do feel mediocre, like I am settling somehow for the compromise, or that, sinner that I am, this is all I deserve. There are so many things I hope for, or would love to do, but I feel so limited. By my location, and by being either over or under-qualified for jobs I might want. I don't want to have a defeatist attitude...it's too much like how my father tends to handle things...and yet I find myself falling into that pattern sometimes, ground down by the day-to-day.

Yet, I think God uses it, too, to help us turn and return again and again to him, toward hope and away from doubt. It is a reminder I will always need, and I am thankful for it. I may have limitations, but God can and will step in where I lack, making me stronger than I am alone, improving me, one little bit at a time.

Letter from home

I wrote a letter to my youngest brother, Ethan, today. He's deployed in the Middle East currently, and is slated to come home in early November from a short (in military terms, at any rate) six-month tour.

As I sat there, I struggled to come up with topics to write about. I felt terrible. Shouldn't I be able to come up with something witty to entertain my brother? We chatted online only last week -- a far more rapid mode of communication than snail mail -- so anything I said then would be repetitious. I wanted to write a letter that he'd be interested in reading, but everything I wrote sounded dull; trifles of my life that wouldn't mean much to him. I even mentioned the weather, usually the last of all possible conversational resorts. I am clearly in need of a more exciting life.

But as I continued writing, it occurred to me that even the boring little things I have to say do mean something to him, stationed as he is on a base in the middle of a desert (and where, I'm sure, Florida's daily thunderstorms would be a freak of nature). When he's not on missions he doesn't do much aside from play video games, read and work out, which can get old pretty quickly when you have no other options.

It also made me think that I was doing something that people have done for hundreds of years: write to their loved away at war. And although I don't necessarily think of Ethan being at war, per se (he's not in a fox hole somewhere), he is away from everything. I found myself picturing old World War II movies, where all the guys gather round for mail call, thrilled with a letter or even a flattened, stale cake from home. I'm sure it's done a bit differently now (and food sent isn't usually stale, what with faster transport times), but I have no doubt the excitement of receiving something from home is the same.

A number of years ago I read a book called War Letters. It started as an idea a man named Andrew Carroll had to preserve history in the form of letters written by servicemen and women overseas or away at war. He received thousands, and had letters (and later emails as well) from every campaign beginning with the American Revolution through Desert Storm (the book was published in the early 2000s). He's since gone on to edit several more books of the same type, one devoted solely to letters of faith. They're beautiful, moving books. The letters published are sometimes funny, almost always moving and, occasionally, incredibly sad. But they are a testament to those who were and are willing to give up their time (and sometimes more) to serve their country and the families they leave behind at home.

Even sometimes those overseas wished they had more to say (or could say more than the censors would let them) in letters home -- I know Ethan sometimes struggles with something new to come up with during Skype sessions, too. What can be said that hasn't been said already? And in one of the missives reprinted in "War Letters," an Army sergeant on Bataan during WWII laments to his wife that he doesn't have anything spectacular to write home about, either:

"I could write a lot of nonsense and a lot of foolishness but I know you will read between the lines and see more in spirit than in what I write."

So in the next week or so, Ethan should get my letter, written on the last few remaining sheets from a box of blue stationary, along with a small package. Hopefully it will prove distracting for a little while, and that he finds something to laugh at in what I've written him about movies I've watched and cleaning I've done around the house. The ubiquitous they say God is in the small stuff (although He is, of course, in everything), so I suppose it's not so much the content of a letter as it is the time taken: the love and pride implied and prayers prayed...

                                                                        

"A friend who gives candid advice"

A friend of mine passed through town last night (such a rarity -- someone I know actually coming to Port Charlotte! -- is a cause for celebration). It was great to catch up with her, a FOCUS campus minister who I hadn't seen in probably two years. During dinner we talked about her work and the fact she has now fully discerned her call to religious life (it's been a lengthy process, but I, completely aware of my own stubbornness, can only admire her patience and openness to God's plan and the sometimes meandering path He's led her on) and the journey she's taking to find the right order. As we sat talking over delicious Mexican food, I realized couldn't recall the last time I used the word "charism" in a conversation and not had someone look at me askance or had to explain what it meant. :)

Afterwards, we headed to Books-A-Million and wandered among the shelves, laughing over ridiculous discount CD sets (3 CDs worth of Irish accordion music, for only $4!) and hunted for small gifts for her oldest godson. As we made our way toward the small Catholic section, she asked me, "So, what are you reading these days?"

I knew, of course, that she wasn't referring to novels or fun books about history. She was asking about my current spiritual reading. And right now, that would be a whole lotta nothin.' I told her about how excited I had been, starting over with my reading of Theology of the Body during Lent, and the fact that I wanted to continue with it post-Easter. While I didn't automatically stop reading the moment Lent was over, I haven't continued with it as I hoped to do, either. So much for commitment. I also mentioned several books that I have and want to read ("No Man is an Island" and "The Discernment of Spirits," among them) and books I've started, like "A Shorter Summa," that I've now attempted twice (I keep getting stuck because, at least at this point, I find Peter Kreeft's introduction far more readable than Aquinas' style. Maybe I'm just not ready for it yet...or maybe I should soldier on through...).

I told my friend that it's not that I don't want to read spiritual works, I do, but that it feels like "things" keep getting in the way. And as I said it, I realized it sounded like an excuse. Yes, I'm busy, but I always seem to find time to waste on things like Facebook, for example. Even reviewing morning and evening prayer and daily mass readings in Magnificat, something I've done for years now, has fallen by the wayside of late. It's not that I've stopped praying, far from it. But perhaps it's my own laziness setting up roadblocks. What things could possibly be more important and worth spending time on than my spiritual growth?

Back at my house later that evening, my friend pointed out a website a mutual friend of ours, a seminarian, recently began blogging for. Along the right side of the main page was a short anecdote about St. Jane Frances de Chantal, who's feast it was yesterday:

Saint Jane Frances de Chantal was heading to the chapel one day to pray. Seeing a young novice in the hallway, she asked "Why don't you join me in the chapel for prayer?" The young nun answered "Sister, I really don't feel like praying right now." Jane responded with  "Sister, I haven't felt like praying in years! Now, let's go to the chapel and pray!"

The story made me laugh, but it also struck a chord. While God often speaks in a "still, small voice" to whisper in our ears, sometimes I think we need another, physically present voice to redirect us. My friend urged that, instead of beating myself up for not going through all the prayers of the day in Magnificat, I should ease back into it slowly, and also to not feel guilty about occasional spates of less-than-voracious spiritual reading, while at the same time, recommending several books she's found helpful. Her visit was so timely -- certainly not a coincidence, for God always sends what I need -- and a subtle, loving reminder to refocus myself on what's really important.

And although St. Pius X was addressing priests when he said the following back in 1908, he could just as easily be addressing me now:

"Everyone knows the great influence that is exerted by the voice of a friend who gives candid advice, assists by his counsel, corrects, encourages and leads one away from error. Blessed is the man who has found a true friend; he that has found him has found a treasure. We should, then, count pious books among our true friends. They solemnly remind us of our duties and of the prescriptions of legitimate discipline; they arouse the heavenly voices that were stifled in our souls; they rid our resolutions of listlessness; they disturb our deceitful complacency; they show the true nature of less worthy affections to which we have sought to close our eyes; they bring to light the many dangers which beset the path of the imprudent. They render all these services with such kindly discretion that they prove themselves to be not only our friends, but the very best of friends. They are always at hand, constantly beside us to assist us in the needs of our souls; their voice is never harsh, their advice is never self-seeking, their words are never timid or deceitful."

And who am I to argue with a saint? :)

Je parle un peu de français...but not much

As a kid I remember watching old reruns of the "Addam's Family" and laughing at how Gomez would become suddenly amorous when Morticia would drop a French turn of phrase, kissing his way up her arm after loudly (and obviously) declaring, "Tish -- that's French!"

Now, although it is one of the Romance Languages, I hardly think that being able to speak it would have men falling at my feet a la Gomez, but lately I have had the yen to learn more French. I'm not sure what use it would be to me (I barely use my Spanish these days, truth be told), aside from just the sheer desire to learn something new. And while France isn't at the top of my countries-to-visit list, it is there, and it would be nice to have un soupçon of knowledge.

The idea struck me again the other night when I picked up a mystery set in fin de siecle Paris. And it's not really a new thought, though, me wanting to learn French. For years I've been somewhat fascinated by the language. When I was younger, being of a nerdy, bookish persuasion (moi?) and reading a lot of classics from the Regency and Victorian periods of English literature, I was often stymied by phrases, sentences or sometimes whole paragraphs of French thrown into the text, and lamented the lack of foot or end notes to help me understand. It was only later that I realized there wasn't such a key because the books were likely written for members of the upper classes who probably flitted across the Channel to the Continent with regularity and could speak French just as well as their mother tongue. That, or I just needed better editions with a glossary included.

At any rate, when it came time to choose a language to study in high school, I did briefly ponder French (after a course in eighth grade where French, along with Spanish and Latin, were each taught for six weeks), but settling on Spanish was practically a fait accompli, for several practical reasons. A) I lived in Florida, and B) my mom is a Spanish teacher, so (although she wouldn't be my teacher) I wouldn't have to travel farther than my kitchen should help be required. :)

I did love the elegant way the French words sounded, though. Ever since that six-week course, I've (quite randomly) enjoyed saying the number 60: soixante. Such a softly sibilant, fancy word for a number. :) The rest of my rather limited French vocabulary, aside from some basic counting and knowledge of various French foods, consists of "je m'appelle Anne" and, thanks to Renaissance, my high school's major fundraiser (it had a different theme every year and saw the seniors, costumed, pair off to greet guests and walk around showing silent auction items) called "An Evening in Paris," learned "bienvenue a Paris" and a few other sundry words and phrases. Somewhere along the line, from a TV show, I think, I also picked up "mon petit chou," although I don't have much cause to use the (admittedly odd) term of endearment "my little cabbage" on anyone.


My last foray into learning something new (the piano) was short lived (although that was due to my piano teacher moving away, rather then me up and quitting...although I admittedly haven't sought another instructor), and, aside from taking a class, which I'm not sure I can fit into my work schedule, I'm pondering getting a book or two and trying to learn French my own. Yet I wonder if it will go the same way as my brief flirtation with embroidery (it's only been 10 years since I almost finished the first of that pair of pillowcases) or, even better (worse?), my hope to learn Gaelic when I was 12 or 13. Though I have to say, French is a somewhat more practical selection than Gaelic. 

At any rate, we shall see. For now I will wish you a bonne nuit.

Perspective

I try not to get too whiney, but I have those moments (far too frequently, if I'm honest with myself) where all I seem to do is splutter at God about why isn't my life this or that way or why can't such-and-such happen because I'm bored/tired/frustrated? And then the news of someone else's tragedy puts my own petty worries and complaints into perspective.

A friend of mine, who for several years was my one Catholic friend in the area, moved to Georgia a few months ago with her two children, just lept and took that chance that I can't seem to take. This afternoon, without provocation, she popped into my head, so I made my way over to her Facebook wall and asked how she was and how things were going in the Peach State. I come back from exercising a little while ago to find her reply: "I'm in Florida actually. My father passed away from a massive stroke this afternoon."

And like that, my wants are nothing...just so much blather compared to how much she must be hurting right now. My heart goes out to her, my funny, sarcastic, self-deprecating friend and piano teacher who, despite feeling down sometimes, always managed to wink and smile at whatever it was that was bothering her. All I can do is pray for her, her children, the rest of her family, and that her dad, Jon Kangas, rest in God's peace. Bless and give her peace, oh Lord. May this time of sorrow not diminish her joy.