"The Beginning Of Wisdom is to Call Things By Their Right Names."

  Much like the Native Americans, I feel the giving of names is an ongoing process.

  Take my dog Jake, for example. After living with him for three years he's now known as The Chicka Dog. His  name slowly morphed due to his propensity for chasing any bird, bug, or small, furry mammal when I say the words chick-chick. I didn't teach him this handy skill, it's all him. And although he's still called Jake on formal occasions, in his heart, he is The Chicka Dog.

 In the same vein, my chickens have had the working titles of Rosie and Babbette for the last two years. I picked the names when I was driving home from the farm with my adorable little pullets perched in a cage next to me.

 Well, a lot has happened in those two years, and after much reflection on the spirit of the beneficiaries, their true spirits have spoken to me and whispered their new names in a dream -

 "Nutsie The Chicken"  &  "Little Bitie".

  There will be no ceremony.

Native American Naming Ceremony

Wake Up And Smell The Flowers

     Between the Dogwood, Magnolia, and Cherry trees blooming; the Rhododendron, Forsythia and Azalea bushes a blaze of color in every yard; not to mention the Tulips, Daffodils, Phlox, Bleeding Hearts, Hyacinths, Crocus and Dandelions adding their colors to the pallet after their long winter's nap, I find myself going about town with an interminable, delighted smile on my face.

  I also find myself, more often than not, stopped in my tracks, staring.
  Like the other day, when a trip out of town and then confinement to a sick-bed had me and my little dog Jake, who had stayed by my side to help nurse me back to health, itching get out of the house and stretch our legs on a sunset walk by the lake.

  We walked through the woods, enjoying the warm spring sun shining through newly budded branches on our favorite summertime-shade path. The ducks on the lake were in full voice and the Cardinals and Robins flew above our heads calling out to loved ones. We turned up the hill to follow the wooded path that opens to a  meadow then continues on to a grove of pine trees (the grove where I search in vain for the Barred Owl that usually scolds us as we walk).
  As soon as I entered the meadow I stopped.
 And stared.
  I was in no way prepared for the changes my week away had brought.
 The immense Apple tree, which dominates the clearing, and her little sister were in full magnificence, every inch covered in soft, pinkish-white blossoms. In her branches I spied two pair of Baltimore Orioles having a grand ol' time jumping from limb to limb. Above their heads, swallows darted and dipped, working hard to catch their dinner.  Numerous Goldfinches and Warblers captivated me with their intertwining songs while hustling from Apple to newly-blossomed Dogwood tree then setting off to visit my elusive friend in the pines. Meanwhile, the Robins hopped through the newly sprouted grass and the Cardinals whistled a happy tune from the thicket. The Red-Winged Blackbirds were certainly not going to be outdone and sent their songs floating up the hill from the lake on the breeze. Our constant friend the Sparrow rounded out the chorus.
 Occasionally a fellow walker would pass by and our dogs would play for a minute and we'd comment on the beauty of the day, then owner and dog would go on their way.
Not me. I stayed.
And stared.



 Bird songs, flowers in bloom, and a bit of sun warming my skin and my soul; all the ingredients needed to wake me up from long winter's nap.

Apple Trees & Bird Songs

Jake doing what he does best

A Walk In The Woods

A Walk In The Woods

In a clearing in the woods

 I saw some colors bright.

Petals blowing in the wind, 

Catching day's last light.

Cut flowers in a field of brown, I know not how nor why.

Perhaps a small remembrance offered God's all seeing sky.

In a clearing in the woods

I saw some colors bright.

Petals blowing in the wind,

Catching day's last light.

Sing a Song of Spring

 Cardinal singing in the tree
I like to hear your song's new key

All winter through you sat and chirped
And told me of your warmth usurped

Through wind and ice and flakes of snow
You warbled "Where'd my sunshine go?"

But now the bright beams warm your verse
No longer do you winter curse

Your notes have changed from ire to glee
And I you answer joyfully

sing a song of spring

United We Stand

  Other kid's parents.

  They are the bane of my existence and have been ever since I became a mother 19 years ago. They are the ones who said nothing to their child about pushing mine out of the way while he was waiting for his turn on the slide at the playground. They are the ones who let my 8 year old son play Grand Theft Auto. They are the ones who let their high schoolers stay out till four in the morning.
 And now they are the ones who don't care if my 19 year old sits at their house and drinks half the night then drives home.
 Now, I understand that it's my son doing the drinking. We have very strict rules about underage drinking in this house and he knows it. He is at fault for breaking our rules and has been punished accordingly. But perhaps if half of his friend's parents didn't facilitate the drinking by allowing it when they hang out at their house, and even occasionally BUYING it for them, my arguments to my son against it might seem more valid to him. As any parent who's heard the phrase "Well, so-and-so's parents don't care" uttered to them can attest, it can be the most frustrating thing when another parent undermines a value you are trying to instill or disregards a rule made for your childs well being.
 In this case, these parents are actually breaking the law.

  We must be a united front in raising our children. Not all of our values will always be the same, but there are core rights and wrongs on which we must stand together. There are rules of law and rules of society on which we all must be firm and help each other guide our children down the right path.

  I will help your child in any way I can. Please help me to help mine.

  

  

  

  

  

  

Happy Thanksgiving

The turkey is cooked

The stuffing is made

The smell of fresh pies

For days, will not fade

The silver is polished

The table is set

As I look around

I'm not finished yet

I have to give thanks

To my Lord up above

For all of my blessings:

Friends, Family and love

As we all gather round 

On this festive day

No matter how many

No matter which way

Let's us all give thanks

As well as we're able

For all we enjoy

as we dine at life's table

A Rose By Any Other Name

  Today I attended a lovely alumni reception at St. Patrick's Church, which is celebrating its centennial. Although the reception was light on actual former St. Patrick's School students, the hall was filled with the bustling, devoted women who have lovingly kept the parish running for more than half of the celebrated centennial.  As I bent over the dessert table to get a homemade piece of chocolate cake to go with my coffee, one of these devotees called out, "Karen!". I instantly raised my head and responded, "No. My name is Kathy". She gave me a perplexed look and then started talking to the woman behind me, whose name actually is Karen.
 I laughed to myself as I walked back to my table, the calling of that name bringing back a flood of memories; Memories of 8 years spent  following my well behaved, studious older sister, Karen, though school.
  Not once, during any of those 8 years, by any teacher, was I ever called by my rightful name, Kathy. In every class, the teacher's eyes would come to rest on me and, with the certainty of the sunrise, that teacher would: 1) call me Karen; 2) be offended when I corrected her; 3) 15 minutes later, call me Karen again.
  One elderly teacher not only couldn't get my name right, she couldn't even get my sisters name right, so I went through 4th grade as Karen Louise. Now, it's bad enough being called the wrong name, but tacking a Louise onto it just added insult to injury.
 To compound this confusion, all through school there was a girl in my class whose actual name was Karen. Karen's older sister was in my older sister Karen's class. Guess what Karen's older sister's name was? You got it- Kathy.
 Let the hilarity ensue.
 Poor Little Sister Karen and I never knew which one of us was being spoken to. The teacher would ask, "Karen, would you please spell PREPOSTEROUS" and when Karen opened her mouth to respond,  she would  invariably be beaten back with whatever weapon the teacher held at the time and told "I was speaking to Karen!"
  If Kathy was asked to come to the board to diagram a sentence, I was meet with equal fury upon rising.
 Throughout the years LSK and I endured endless blows raining down on our heads from countless yardsticks and pointers for the imagined disrespect of not answering to the wrong name.
 I can still hear my comrade's plaintive voice pleading, "But my name is Karen, Sister." in her never ending attempt to rectify the injustice.

 I gave up around 7th grade when I realized it was probably better if they didn't know my actual name.

Karen Louise- identity crisis over and no worse for the wear