Basically Tuesday by Thorngren

Non Sibi

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 03:17:00 +0000

We arrived early that morning just an hour after the surgery began. I was told they would be waiting for us in the family waiting room, which was left of the information desk as you entered the revolving door.
Waiting rooms, I know them all too well. Being a sister with a handicapped brother, as bad as it sounds, I feel like my whole life is a waiting room.
As I shut the car door, I noticed a white dove gracefully perched in a tree where we decided to park. Surely, this was a sign. I needed a sign. My brother was not well and this time, I feared was crucial. More crucial than all the other times. It just felt different.
A white dove, what an obvious sign. But my faith is so far gone, I hadn't even asked for a sign. Was it a sign or a symbol? Maybe it was a metaphor? Who the Hell cared anymore. Not me.
I shuffled through the revolving door, another obvious metaphor. I hate revolving doors with their agitated sense of timing. One never knows when to enter or leave and there's that fear of getting sucked in and trapped.
The family waiting room had an air of false hope just like the decaffeinated coffee that the woman at the front desk offered us. I thumbed through an out-dated Self magazine with a fit blonde woman on the cover, which only angered me that much more.
A few hours went by and the surgeon came out to report. This was it, I just knew it. I was prepared. But, I was surprised to find he made it through just fine. I was at a loss. What now? More suffering??!! He's been through enough!
I am told I am not to know God's plan. I am not to question it either.
But, how much longer can my brother suffer? How is this fair?
Don't tell me life's not fair.
I've heard that too much.
I wanted answers,
not symbols,
not signs,
nor metaphors.
I had to step outside. I searched desperately for the white dove, but all I found were trees full of grackles....

Beach Balls In Cornfields

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Thu, 19 Jul 2012 03:06:00 +0000

Don't you agree that the things that involve an element of surprise or wonder, usually tend to be the most interesting? I love the unexpected, but mostly only in nature. It's not as visually appealing when people are involved. Although, the adage about judging a book by it's cover comes to mind. But, I'm learning the older I get , the more peoples' covers tell their stories and I'm not that surprised. The stories I wished I hadn't wasted the time reading and the ones I wonder how the hell they got published in the first place. Then there are those, that seem vaguely familiar. You want to believe it's a new story, but the more you read, the more you realize you've read it before. That cover jacket just slipped you up. You were duped. It doesn't matter though, because they got your money. That's usually how the story goes.
So, without a photo, you'll just have to use your imagination. Imagine two rubber beach balls, with all their shiny colors in the middle of a crispy golden cornfield.. This is what I saw the other day driving to town. An image that stuck with me throughout the day. Something so misplaced,and contrasted just begged for a caption. But, we get a lot of wind here in the middle of nowhere and lots of people have those above ground pools. The strangeness of it explained away and dismissed. Yet still, I can't shake the image. Some things I feel that I am only meant to notice. They may not make sense at the time. I mull them over and over until they do.
It's my nature.
Beach balls in cornfields.

Bang Your Head

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 16:06:00 +0000

For the past week, every morning, and at the very same time, it begins. A thud, a slight pause, and a thud again, waking me from my slumber. It took a while to determine it's origin. It wasn't until I noticed a little cardinal at the front door. Shaking his head, he looked a bit bewildered, but more so determined as he flew a short distance away and slammed full speed into the glass once again...thud!
I am not sure whether to be impressed by his tenacity or saddened by his stupidity. It's a similar feeling you have when you witness a friend, who is struggling and only you can see the solution. I know I've had situations like this. We all have. I once had someone tell me that I could bang my head against a wall, just so many times and one day I'd realize that it really hurt. Those are true life lessons. Some people just need more head banging to rattle their senses, like this poor cardinal.
Call it tenacity,stick-with -it-ness, determination, or just sheer and utter stupidity.
I just wish he'd take to learning this lesson a little later, so I could get some sleep.
Stupid bird.

An inadvertent way of asking for prayer.

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 03:19:00 +0000

As the wildfire grows steadily worse in Colorado Springs, people are posting on Facebook their prayer requests. It’s close to home for me, for I lived there just a few years ago and still have friends there. I know personally, what burns and what may no longer be. There’s an ache I cannot express. I am scared , but more so, I feel guilty.

You see, today my father had major surgery. I mean, major surgery. He needed prayers. I told my closest friends and I know they prayed, but I just couldn’t post it on Facebook. It didn’t feel right.

It felt hypocritical in so many ways.

I spoke to dad after his 6 hour surgery. I told him I prayed all day. It’s what he wanted to hear. He thanked me. He made it though and is doing well. Truth is, well…I am not too sure about praying anymore, as harsh as that sounds. I just don’t know. I did an awful lot of worrying. I thought about how I got to say, “I love you” over the phone the night before and feared those would be my last words, no matter how awkward and foreign they sounded coming out. With Facebook being a sure fire way to get prayers, I felt bad about broadcasting such a personal request. Yet, ask for prayers about a fire in a place I lived and loved, I had no problem. Maybe it was an inadvertent way of asking for prayers for my Dad.

My dad, an ache I cannot express. I love him so, but will never be able to express it in the way that isn’t awkward and foreign..just like a place I used to live and love so much. Colorado Springs is said to be "God's Country". It's breathtaking. If you've never been there, you should put it on your "bucket -list".

Prayer for me is too abstract right now.

I know it works. I have proof.

I’m just not there at the moment, so I’m asking you.

Please pray for my dad and his healing and a beautiful place called God's Country.

The Strand

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 17:06:00 +0000

You were carefully selected

based on your luster and shape.

In the past, these unique qualities

made you feel unusual and alone.

A tiny hole was drilled through your soul

and slowly

you were threaded

with others just like you.

Little knots were tied by your sides,

which silenced your insecurities.

You enjoyed the dual nature of these knots.

For not only did they distinguish you individually,

they secured your place in this beautiful strand.

The Nature Of Things

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 03:21:00 +0000

I don't want to ever be considered one who disturbs the nature of things. If I died today, let it be known that I was a preservationist of all things chippy, rusted, and vintage. I don't know if this narrative would ever succeed me, or have the kind of credence I imagine. Maybe it should be my epitaph instead, written in stone to confuse everyone for the rest of time. I'm good at that; no need to stop.

There's a rusted yellow sink in a ravine downside the path I walk each day. It's the perfect shade of faded yellow, almost butter,

mixed with rust, almost nutmeg.

It's eggnog!

I wonder how the heck I'd lug it up the ravine. It has to be rescued, for only I can see it's beauty and possibilities.

I've been wondering for a year now. The perfect planter, chicken feeder, or it could just come live on the farm next to the rusty tub by the barn waiting for the special day to have a reason. Not all things are that fortunate.

Yet each day the yellow sink turns into sour grapes. It's imagined as too heavy, too rusty, and useless. Then today it dawned on me. I can't rescue this sink, it's habitat.

I can't disturb habitat.

It's like a sunken ship on the ocean floor possibly providing shelter for all things small and smaller in the woods.

I looked up habitat and not only is it defined as a shelter, it is a way to obtain food, water, and attract a mate.

It was then that I

pictured a little "do not disturb" sign hanging from the corner of the yellow sink and I thought, Who am I to disturb the nature of things?

Lured

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 03:32:00 +0000

That shiny exterior lures you every time.

Yet, still you bite.

Why can't you see those backward facing points?

It's hard because they are hidden so perfectly behind the glitz and shine.

So, you bite again.

Dragging you deeper and deeper in.

Even further than you thought you'd go.

Time passes

and you bite once more, thinking it may be different.

But it's not.

Not until

that day.

The day when you just can't bite anymore

because you've recognized the bait

and realized it is false.

And, Oh my! ....It's Always been false!

This is the day that you swim.

Swim faster and more accurately than you've ever had before.

But, for how long?

Embracing A Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 03:19:00 +0000

There is a secret to growing old that I struggle to embrace. I believe it has something to do with accepting the changes. What once was a rather unified surface is now an unexpected, lumpy terrain that refuses to cooperate with my wardrobe. Things that stood high have shifted and settled. It's taken me a long time to become settled. It should feel better. It should feel more like an arrival. It should feel like wining a medal or some kind of symbol as to how far I've come.

I see this tree everyday when I walk the dogs. She wears her lumps and crevices proudly, front and center. This embrace forms a very strong symbol; one that reminds me how much further I have to go.

Thanks tree.

Organizing Butterflies

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 18:32:00 +0000

On New Year's Day my fortune cookie read,

"It's alright to have butterflies in your stomach. Just get them to fly in formation."

My resolution for 2012 is to DISCOVER.

Unfortunately, the things I want to do, stir the butterflies.

So as I approach each endeavor, I plan to imagine organized rows, fluttering peacefully, in the place I feel the fear.

Ring-A-Ling Ring-A-Ling

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:03:00 +0000

For the past couple of days, I've been thinking heavily about what I recently heard a weatherman say about snow. Snow is an annoyance or an adventure depending on your point of view or your age. Pretty poetic for a forecaster, don't you think? I imagine this could be applied to just about anything, though.

Perhaps, I've grown a little cynical, but lately things seem less adventurous and more of a annoyance. Maybe it's the fact that I turned 45 this week or because it's the holidays. Maybe it's a combination.

I was shopping the other day and found myself getting really annoyed. As I waited in line, the muscles in my neck grew tense and beads of sweat rolled down my back. It was then that I realized the song that was playing. It was Silver Bells.

That song conjures up the worst of Christmas memories, worse than the Ronco Bottle And Jar Cutter, a gift from my dad one year, which is a different story.

This song is psychological warfare to me. Keep this in mind when you need me to surrender the compound.

In the first grade Christmas pageant I was cast as a Silver Bell, not Susie Snowflake, and most importantly, NOT The Virgin Mary-the most coveted role among all 6 year old Catholic girls. This seems rather absurd, now that I think about it.

Had those nuns known the repercussions of casting be as a bell and not The Virgin, my life would have been completely different. I wouldn't be sweating like Pavlov's dog every time I hear a ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling . I think he salivated, but either way there was a bell involved.

Things would have been different alright.

Who knows, I may have even liked the snow.

Ring-A-Ling

Soon it will be Christmas day.

Vegetable With No Cream

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 14:41:00 +0000

The German word for snow is Schnee, when pronounced correctly rhymes with the English word, knee. When we lived in Germany I found it amusing that something so dreadful that could last for months on end had such a cute little name. It sounded like a petite sneeze. A sneeze is defined as a semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsion of air from the lungs through the mouth. No offense to the Germans, but that pretty much sums up the rest of the language. Not a series of sneezes, but convulsive expulsions. In the three years we were there, I learned a few words and could fake my way through a conversation. I knew when to nod and laugh. The Germans learn English in school and welcome the opportunity to show off their multi-language skills, therefore, I learned to speak English with a German accent.

The one phrase I had down was what kind of dog I had. This I had to recite to every passerby on our daily walks. After a while, I thought I get creative and add a little more to the phrase. My dog's name is Sienna. She is a mixture breed and she has no teeth. I said this phrase for the first two years and always felt so proud of myself. I was speaking German!

One day John was with me and I felt like showing off. Since he spoke perfect German and taught himself, well...whatever, he laughed and asked if I really knew what I was saying. Of course, I added," my dog is a mixture and she has no teeth". Except I had the two most important words wrong. The word for mixture is Gemisch and I was saying vegetable, which is Gemüse. The word for teeth is Zähne and I was saying cream, which is Sahne. Hello, this is my dog Sienna. She is a vegetable with no cream.

Now that we live in Ohio and it's sneezing outside for the first time this Winter, I wonder if the people in our little German village ever ask what happened to that woman who walked her dog that was a vegetable with no cream.

Searching For The Box

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 14:44:00 +0000

I have often been applauded for my ability to think outside of the box. I don't necessarily think it's such a grand feat. I'm rather disturbed by the way my brain operates. You see, if I actually knew where the damn box was, then I'd be more comfortable with the way I come up with solutions. I could be considered more of a rebel.

The "box" is defined as what is obvious. I imagine this box filled with all the obvious answers, the ones I never thought of. I hate this hidden box.

I will never forget the first time this circuitous way of thinking took the stage. It surely made a grand entrance as I played first base on my 8th grade softball team. The batter hit a ground ball directly to me as I stood slightly off the base. Instead of grounding the ball and touching the base, I got on the base and dove on the ball. I'm embarrassed still now. I can still hear my coach saying, "well that's one way to do it".

Yea...let's hear it for thinking outside of the box!

I tend to make the easiest directions more difficult. It's been this way for as long as I can remember .

We had hearing tests in the 1st grade. The nurse conducting the test told me to raise my right or left hand depending which ear I heard the little beep. Simple enough, right? I raised the opposite hand and came very close to wearing hearing aids.

There's been numerous examples throughout the years. Although, I am having trouble thinking of them. All I can recall is the stupefied look on peoples's faces as they shake their head and say, "well, that's one way of doing it".

I've learned to steer clear of those types of people. They act so superior because they know the location of the box. Heck some, simply live there.

I have recently found a group of women that think similarly as me.

It's funny being surrounded by a group of us outside of the box thinkers. I like to imagine being a boxed thinker and what they might think listening to us.

Now that's really thinking outside of the box!

Rummage Sale

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 15:28:00 +0000

I came across an on-line rummage sale where locals can post photos of their wares.

I like to look at it not only for good deals, but mostly for amusement.

With a background as a visual merchandiser, it's difficult not to be critical of some of the photos.

Don't people realize the importance of a good photo when they are trying to make a sale?

The word, 'rummage' is more commonly used as a verb; a haphazard search. This makes sense when it's used as an adjective to describe this type of sale. It's haphazard, alright. I know it's not Sotheby's, but come on people.

I ask you,"How tempted are you to buy this mirror?"

I saw an ad for a set of chester drawers for 30 dollars. There was no photo, which only made me curious. Apparently 30 dollars was a steal, because they sold right away, sight unseen. They must have thought it was a "blessing in the skies". So I guess, a good photo is not always necessary. Perhaps, it was the seller's kitchy way of talking that sealed the deal.

Today I am hoping that someone buys that eslectic stove.

Again there is no photo.

I tell you these people are so clever.

Head Up

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 15:28:00 +0000

Yesterday I saw a farmer pulling a cart on his tractor. A pretty normal scene where I live, until I noticed his daughter scrunched down in the back with her head between her knees.

It was then that a thousand feelings rushed over me.

You see, I spent most of my pre-teen and early teens in that very same position.

Looking back, I actually believe that my father got a certain thrill out embarrassing me. Such an easy task, though, at that age when you think the whole world is laughing at you.

He had a 1954 old Chevy truck that barely ran. He would start working on it early Saturday and by Sunday afternoon it was up and running. Through a black cloud of smoke one could see a proud father driving this loud stinking calamity through suburbia. It was at the exact time that all the good people did their normal suburban weekend activities like washing their cars and mowing their lawns. If you happened to look inside, you would have a seen a blond ball of shame on the floorboards in the very same position as the farmer's daughter.

I knew exactly how she felt in the back of that tractor. There were people watching, lots of people watching. Come on Dad!

Now that I am older, I feel a little guilty that I didn't pick my head up and enjoy the ride. I think of all the things I missed with my head down, worrying about what people thought.

If I could, I would have shouted to that young girl to pick her head up because she may regret it someday.

But some lessons, I guess folks need to learn on their own.

I am trying to learn this even at my age. Trying to hold my head up, so I don't miss a thing even through all the loud stinking calamity.

Thanks Dad.

I love you.

A Series Of Firsts

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 16:26:00 +0000

A group of us were talking the other night about how quickly time flies as an adult compared to when we were younger....much younger.

Here it is already Fall. It's like I went to bed one sticky Summer night, and woke up surrounded by vibrant colors wearing my favorite jacket.

I found that the reason time seems to speed by as an adult is that you don't experience as many first time events. First time events create lasting memories, which help slow down the illusion of the passing of time . I will never forget my first kiss. We both had braces and we were both scared of being permanently attached. A long time ago, yet it feels like yesterday, because it was a first.

Since I found this out, I want to lead my life as a series of firsts. It's already happening.

I grew up in Texas and didn't have the advantage of experiencing seasonal change. I remember 3 seasons-hot, hotter, and hottest.

Six years ago, I saw my first Fall, while living in Germany. It was breath-taking. Something inside me came alive, a feeling I had never felt before.

We now live in Ohio where the climate is quite similar. Each day there are more and more colors. Colors you wouldn't believe found in nature! God's palette is hard to replicate.

Believe me, I try.

Fall...

It's still a first for me.

One I know I will never forget

year after year.

What is It ?

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 00:37:00 +0000

"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together."

— Marilyn Monroe

What a profound, simplistic way of viewing things. It makes you wonder why she chose to leave this life in the manner in which she did.

Lately, I have been hearing the phrase, " it is, what it is". I have to admit that I have been saying it a lot too.

But it got me thinking. What exactly is," it " and is " it " a constant?

I came up with this loose correlation.

If, "it" is what we perceive to be real, thus becoming reality

and reality is all, meaning everything;

then

" it " must be all.

Some believe the way we perceive the world is an illusion and that nothing is real. I believe there is some truth to that. But that can be a scary thing, because an illusion can become a reality. Some people may spend their whole life in an illusion.

The only way their perception can change is through experience and awareness.

Marylin appreciated the good by experiencing the bad.

Her "it" was not a constant.

Being able to see through an illusion is a very difficult thing to do, since we all see the world subjectively.

It's important to surround yourself with those that validate your perceptions.

But, most importantly, that validation should come from within.

I believe Marylin was right. She figured the only way to overcome was to know and trust herself.

She was aware of the illusion and she was also aware of the dual nature of good and bad.

This was her knowing.

It still makes you wonder..

Perhaps, she knew too much....

So what do you think?

Is it what it is?

Perhaps, only if YOU allow it to be.

Pretty Packages

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 17:37:00 +0000

Years ago, I rented a small apartment in an old house. One day I was invited to a party by a fellow tenant. He was nice enough, but rather square. I accepted for lack of anything better to do. Plus, I was new in town and I didn't know too many people. The party was hosted by one of his co-workers, who was from India. It was in honor of his new wife, who had just arrived to America. She was beautiful. I was entranced, yet more so intrigued by the whole arranged marriage.

Along with all her mystique, she brought with her several gifts from her country to share with the guests.

I sat on a couch between my square neighbor and another computer geek trying to digest the whole concept. It was her first time in America. She didn't know a soul, not even her new husband. I was scared for her.

On the coffee table a beautifully wrapped box of colorful candies caught my eye. The hostess gestured for me to try one and within seconds the arranged marriage wasn't the only thing I was trying to digest. How was I going to swallow this hard concoction that tasted rather fishy?

She was watching and waiting eagerly for my response. I waited until she glanced away, quickly spat the candy back into the wrapper , and hid it deep within the couch cushion.

When she glanced back, I smiled and lied. Her country's candy was delicious!

I thought I was in the clear until a little dog came out of nowhere and began pawing at the cushion. It happened all too fast.

And there it was, my lie.

My lie exposed

chewed, spat, and hidden away.

I was so ashamed.

Years have passed since. I am more cautious now for I am aware that some things wrapped in beautiful packages may taste fishy.

It's okay to refuse them, but if you accept them, you better be prepared for the consequences.

Waiting For My Denouement

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 00:25:00 +0000

It was always to my understanding that in order for a drama to reach it's conclusion or denouement, there had to be some sort of climax. The denouement was that quiet time when one realized all the intricacies of the plot.

Right now I am stuck in a drama impending a climax. I am wondering, though, if it is possible to skip the climax and reach the denouement?

~FIN

A Pledge To A Sunflower

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 16:35:00 +0000

You were the only one facing my direction in a sea of others.

I made sure of it.

It was like wishing I may and wishing I might, that you were really the first and only star before I made my wish.

So I made a wish, which was more like a pledge.

A pledge of allegiance to you for being different,

for having the courage to face a different direction,

and be yourself.

A Not So Subtle Sign

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 14:29:00 +0000

There are some signs in life that need no explanation. They're

placed right in front of us, unavoidable, and most often lacking in originality.

I find that the most obvious ones, usually go unnoticed. By time you realize it was a sign, you've made an illegal u-turn and caused a major accident.

At what point do you turn back and is it safe?

Should you wait for another sign?

I believe in signs.

I often wonder if I look too intently for them, thus avoiding the reason

they were placed there in the first place.

Flowers For Chickens

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 18:44:00 +0000

Flowers For Chickens

36 x 48

acrylic on canvas

This painting was inspired by a little drawing that my student gave me. He is 8 years old and is so very creative. I just loved this drawing, so I asked him if it would be okay to copy.

It was quite challenging. I truly wanted to maintain the whimsical innocence that he had in his drawing. It was a fun painting; I was actually sad when I finished it.

I feel a series coming on!

One of my favorite quotes by Picasso says it well.

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up."
— Pablo Picasso

Friend Shapes and Training Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:18:00 +0000

I've never felt the satisfaction of having a circle of friends. I am always envious of a group of women appearing to enjoy each other's company. But, truthfully, I am most comfortable one on one in a friendship. Introduce a third friend and it gets tricky. It then becomes a triangle of friends, an uncomfortable shape compared to a circle. One point is further from the two and usually that point is me.

I know it's childish for a middle-aged woman to find herself feeling this way, but I am thinking that feeling like the "third wheel" may not be such a bad thing, after all.

The idiom, "feeling like a third wheel" refers to one that feels left out or useless. Since wheels work in pairs, a third wheel is not needed.

Or is it?

I got to thinking about this and remembered my training wheels on my first bike. That white metal apparatus with a little black wheel on each side. The whole thing just seemed so flimsy.

As I remembered, only one wheel actually touched the ground.

I'd like to think of this as the "third wheel", quite useful when it came to assuring me that I wasn't going to crash.

So the idiom isn't exactly true.

I have no idea what that fourth wheel was for. I bet if you really felt left out or useless, you could call yourself a "fourth wheel", hopelessly spinning, never touching the ground, and only there for appearance.

Fortunately, training wheels are only temporary. Unfortunate for my "third wheel" analogy, though. Gradual adjustments are made as the rider becomes more stable.

A day will come when the training wheels are no longer needed and can be removed.

One of the many rights to passage of childhood memories.

So at the moment feeling like a "third wheel" is quite enjoyable.

I know it's not forever and I can be supportive.

But really,

I am just along for the ride.....

The Red Umbrella

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 16:30:00 +0000

I recently heard that if you concentrated long enough on something, you could actually slow down the passage of time. Buddhist monks practice this deep focus while meditating. The study went on to stress the importance of "staying in the moment" .

I thought about this as I waited in line at my little town's post office. I began to focus on the clerk's methodical questions and his snail-like movements.

Time was slowing down, it was Zen-like, and I was getting very sleepy.

It is true what they say about small towns. People tend to move slower. I am not complaining.

I'd still be in line talking to the lady with the red umbrella, if my husband weren't with me that day.

She said that her grandson makes fun of her for carrying the umbrella when it's not raining.

"It's for sun protection", she boasted. Her face was riddled with bloody scabs and I found myself focusing on the red umbrella. I felt the Zen-sation returning and her words slowly slipping further and further away.

I once had an uncle who had a large portion of his nose removed due to sun damage. It was hard not to compare him to The Great Sphinx of Giza. Because of this, I always felt uncomfortable around him.

I would wager that having a visual mind is equally as harmful as ultraviolet rays, but I'm not a good gambler.

I never will forget the time when my grandmother returned from the doctor's office with her face looking very much like the umbrella lady. It was horrific!

At this point, John was pulling my arm to leave.

There was no more time left to stay in this moment.

As we drove home, I wondered what was the benefit of staying in that particular moment and the only conclusion I came up with was that

if you choose to stay in a moment, make sure you're protected from the sun.

Country Living Fair 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 18:30:00 +0000

I am getting ready to do it again! If you're in or around Columbus on September 16-18th, I highly recommend this fair. There's no better time and no better finds anywhere else! All the pages of my favorite magazine come to life in every booth. Mark your calenders and come see us at booth,

Kelly Lane.

Guaranteed to blow your mind!

Tuesday's Child

noreply@blogger.com (Thorngren) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 14:55:00 +0000

Tuesday's child is full of grace according to Mother Goose. That grace being only physical not

social.

All knowing soothsayer, Mother Goose, you sealed my fate as a young girl.

Had I been born on any other day, I would have known how to act at that absurd party called, "mommies night out".

Why wasn't I informed that there was a title?

Since, I was born so close to Wednesday, I am only half full of woe.

I guess, it could have been worse fate to be born on a Thursday. That child was told that they had far to go. I am beginning to think Mother Goose wasn't such a nice old lady after all. Good luck in life Thursday's child. You've got a tough load ahead of you.

Friday's child is full of love and giving. Now that sounds like a good day to be born. TGIF! I bet Friday's child could have handled a bunch of mommies droning on and on about their kids.

And how about Saturday's child that has to work so hard for a living?

Poor Saturday's child

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

Donna Summer was probably born on a Saturday.

Now there's Sunday the Sabbath. Not a working day.

That is if they never work retail.

This child is supposed to be bonny and happy

wise and gay.

This takes on a whole new connotation this day and age.

I mean, who says bonny anymore?

Lastly, there's Monday's child who is fair of face giving no indication other than this child will have to seek continuous protection from the sun, slather sunblock and always wear some sort of hat.

I bet Mother Goose was born on a Monday.