Gone where?

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. 

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is still just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. 

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There, she's gone!" There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying. 

 - Henry Van Dyke
         

A Delightful Moment

As I gaze out the window of the airplane at the ground below sparsely covered with snow, I am struck by the contrast between the white snow on the ground and the white clouds floating in the sky. Miles below me, yet miles above the ground, the clouds cast their shadow on the earth far below. 

Some areas are thick and stretch for miles like a huge plush mattress of cotton, others are just small puffs of white. They both equally invite cherubs with plump, rosy cheeks to dance and frolic about in giggles and fits of laughter in their softness. 

Far below the dark rivers and roads snake across the landscape making crazy patterns in the snow. 

I'm looking for spot where a fun loving, little angel jumped a little too hard, glided the distance to earth and upon landing proceeded to flap arms and legs making a perfect angel in the unblemished snow. 

 

It's a delightful day with a joyful moment of imagery. 

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things is not like the others. One of these things, doesn't belong....the tune from the old Sesame Street song danced through my head. 

In the Amsterdam airport last month, I had walked in and sat down in the Irish Pub for a burger. I noticed it was very similar to Irish pubs and burger joints I'd been in before, but this felt different. It was palpable.  I noticed it right away.   I was the only woman patron in the place.

The woodwork was deep mahogany and the music played quite loudly. There was a lingering smell of foreign cigarette smoke in the place, even though there was a separate smoking area through a stained glass door dully marked, and the conversation was interspersed with the deep tones of guys laughing about guy stuff. 

As I sat at the table in front of the stained glass window withvthe sunshining in, I'm certain that my gayly colored yellow blouse screamed "IT'S A GIRL!"  Although at 50+ I hardly feel like a girl any longer. 

I noticed another woman walk in, look around and leave. 

Finally a gal walked in and found a spot at the bar.  She either hadn't noticed yet or was much braver than others.  I had actually selected the table by the window so I could sit and observe everyone else. Not a bold move, but perhaps some would consider it daring. 

There was a fair amount of traffic through the smoker's door. I don't think they were here for the burgers, instead they were here for a power that was tough to resist in an otherwise smoke free environment within the airport. 

I ordered at the bar. Other than that the waitstaff acted like I had leprosy. Interesting. The man who ordered after me finished his meal and left which cued me to inquire about the whereabouts of my burger. Apparently the waitress hadn't rung it in, it was shift change and  alas no burger.   Good thing I have time to kill before my flight. 

More women appeared.  And stayed. Perhaps they figured if an old lady in a yellow blouse was okay here, they were too. 

Sometimes that's how life is. We just need someone else to go first. 

Hi! How are you?

I read the other day that the most common lie we (as North Americans) tell is when we respond to the question, "How are you?"  We typically answer without even thinking about it. We open our mouths and out comes the canned response ..."I'm fine."  "Good!"  "Never better!"

Having met a number of people  from other countries, I've had the opportunity to discuss this topic with some of them. One young man considered us to be fake and insincere because of our flippant auto-answer and another when asked that question took it as a genuine inquiry and launched a heartfelt answer. 

Since it's really just a pleasantry and we are not really looking for an honest answer why don't we switch up our question?

How about...

What is the last song you danced to?
What makes your heart sing?

What makes you smile at the end of the day?

What gives you energy?

When was the last time you were decently kissed?  (Ok, that's a line from a fun movie that doesn't really fit this situation but I thought I'd throw it in here.)

What makes you cry?

If you could change the world, what would it look like?

You get the idea.  And then the trick is that you need to listen to their answer. After all, if you aren't going to listen to their answer, why bother to ask it in the first place. 

Give it a shot. Although you may want to do it over a tall, decaf, cappuccino.  Because you may find a real answer to how your friends are. 

The Daily Commute

Today I took the subway to and from work for the first time. I've been on the subway in years past, but never as a daily mode of travel to work. My morning commute looked like this:

My ride home was rather different and looked more like this:

It's been interesting contrasting the city commute with the mid-west commute where you hop in your car, drive 2 miles stopping at 2 stop signs and a traffic light to get to work. 

When I worked from an office in our home, we used to joke about what I did during commute time. Sometimes I vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom or washed a load of laundry.   

For a people watcher the subway certainly offers variety that's for sure. 

The BIG Apple

I haven't posted for quite some time now. Much has happened and little has happened. I am still madly in love with my husband. He and our five month old black lab have given me much joy to write about; however I have chose not to. If you ask me why, I won't have a good explanation.

Today I boarded an airplane headed for the big apple. As in BIG apple. NYC. Yes, that's correct, New York City. We are almost ready to land and a very different way of life awaits me. You see, almost two years ago I applied and interviewed for my dream job.  The position was offered to another person, life went on  with wonderful things...marriage, we became grandparents, my husband accepted a job transfer, we moved to Florida. Home of the Blue Angels and the white, sugar sand beaches!

Lo and behold a month ago, the dream job HR department contacted me to see if I was still interested!  After a whirlwind month of interviews, conversations with my husband and wrapping up obligations from my previous employment, I now find myself on an airplane preparing to land in a city that both excites and scares me.

This little Wisconsin (Florida) girl is hitting the big city and is chockful and bursting with joyful things to write about. 

A Delightful Tale

 My mother called me yesterday with a delightful tale to share.

She and my father live across the street from the city park in a small town in central Wisconsin that has many "goings on" all through out the year such as band concerts, family reunions, the Tator Trot 10k run/walk, ice skating, weddings, and of course, the annual Easter Egg Hunt.

Today is Easter and yesterday was the infamous egg hunt.

I'll set the stage for you... it's been a long, cold winter with a LOT of snow.  Every time the weatherman comes on TV he's reporting 2, 5, 9 inches of snowfall.  Some of it has melted, but not much.  On Friday when I talked to her she said the park department had been across the street that day with the equipment they use to groom the snowmobile trails.  She said it was funny watching them as they made paths through the snow throughout the park so the children could run on the trails to find their eggs at their annual egg hunt.

When she called yesterday she was laughing as she told me what happened.  The children all gathered for the big event and unfortunately it started to rain.  So they were all running along the trails through the snow, hunting for eggs and holding umbrellas to keep dry.  Then the rain turned to snow.  Big fluffy, wet flakes, coming down heavy and thick.  It made me laugh to picture the kids with umbrellas in one hand, Easter baskets in the other, as they ran around the park in a snow storm looking for colored eggs.

The part I loved best was hearing the delight in my mother's voice as she shared the story.

Only One Space? For Realz?

Did you know you only need to put ONE space following a period at the end of a sentence? Times have changed my friends from the typewriter days! Here I am reading away and thinking, "They only put one space.... they need another space at the end of their sentence.... goodness aren't they teaching kids anything these days?" A short time later I happened upon something (I don't even recall now what it was) that led me to believe something may be amiss.  So I went to two trusted resources,  my daughter and Grammar Girl, where they both had the same story.    

Here's a snippet of what Grammar Girl had to say:  (click here to read her entire post)  

Two Spaces After a Period? The Old Way

Here's the deal: Most typewriter fonts are what are called monospaced fonts. That means every character takes up the same amount of space. An "i" takes up as much space as an "m," for example. When using a monospaced font, where everything is the same width, it makes sense to type two spaces after a period at the end of a sentence to create a visual break. For that reason, people who learned to type on a typewriter were taught to put two spaces after a period at the end of a sentence. 

One Space After a Period? The New Way

But when you're typing on a computer, most fonts are proportional fonts, which means that characters are different widths. An "i" is more narrow than an "m," for example, and putting extra space between sentences doesn't do anything to improve readability.

Although how many spaces you use is ultimately a style choice, using one space is by far the most widely accepted and logical style. The Chicago Manual of Style (1), the AP Stylebook (2), and the Modern Language Association (3) all recommend using one space after a period at the end of a sentence. Furthermore, page designers have written in begging me to encourage people to use one space because if you send them a document with two spaces after the periods, they have to go in and take all the extra spaces out.

I know it's a hard habit to break if you were trained to use two spaces, but if you can, give one space a try.

I love that this world is always changing.  How refreshing!  The next thing you know we won't have cords on our telephones.  Oh wait...

Blind Excitement!

As I continue my attempt to walk the walk of eating healthy and moving more, I sometimes  track calories consumed and calories burned on "My Plate" which is part of the Livestrong.com website.  A couple days ago I logged in to start tracking (again!) and I had to chuckle when I updated my weight. It gave me this big, bold declaration that I'm sure is meant to be inspiring for those who are losing weight. I find it humorous that the program is just as pleased and excited when I went the other direction!

Blind Excitement = Excitement without really knowing what we are excited about.  

Out of the Mouth of Babes

 Mmmm mmmm mmmm.... Oatmeal cinnamon chip cookies sounded delicious.  Warm from the oven, all melty and soft tender cookie goodness.  YaUuuuummmmmmy!  It was right after lunch and I had a hankering for something sweet.  I figured I'd bake a half a batch and then give some to the neighbors.

I should warn you.  Cookies are not my friend.  We have tried and tried over the years, but we just plain ole don't get along well.  We are simply talking the art of baking here as the calories and what they do to my hips are a completely different post on a completely different blog for a completely different day.

No one asks me to bring cookies to the bake sale and I have a sneaky suspicion why.

Once when I was in high school and baked a batch of cookies, Peter, my little brother sat in his high chair, held out his pudgy little baby hand and firmly proclaimed, "Here, garbage."

Over the years I've baked various batches, some with more success than others and I came up with a number of possibilities for their failures:

• The ingredients were off because I licked the spoon and cooking is chemistry, right?
• I must have missed a minor ingredient 
• I used margarine instead of butter
• I was a tad short of flour
• The eggs were large, medium, small, round, oval, square, whatever
• Baking soda or baking powder - aren't they the same thing?
• The pan is old, too dark, has moisture between air layers, too thin, you name it
• Must have needed more "something"
• The oven heats "hot"
• The humidity is high (that's a new one I get to use!)

Cookies and I just don't get along

Well, today I used all the right ingredients. I mixed according to directions and never once licked the spoon. I used butter. I had enough flour, sugar and eggs. I used baking soda. I baked them at the correct temperature for exactly the correct amount of time. They should have been just fine. They should have been yummy and melty good.

I think perhaps Peter had it right all along. Oh, the wisdom that comes out of the mouth of babes.