The Fourth of July and Pockets of Hope by Liz Flaherty

I wrote this four years ago. This is the third time to post it. I am more discouraged as an American than I've been since Vietnam days, And yet, I still have pockets of hope, too. That's what we're still about--filling those pockets  Have a safe and good Independence Day Weekend. - Liz

Today is the Fourth of July. It's always been a favorite day, full of family celebrations and parades and awe-inspiring fireworks. It's been a reminder of patriotism, of lives lost, and of sacrifices made. Of the amazing glory of our comparatively young country.

Do I still feel this way? Not so much. There is no place right now for those who tread the middle ground, which leaves many of us longing for the way things used to be. If I'm honest about it, I'll admit they weren't really that way even then. I guess we were just a lot politer about it.

There are things, though, that still feel the same. My husband, my brother, our son, and our grandson have all served--or still serve--in the military. I am proud of their service, proud of them, and proud of others who have answered that call. There is no limit to the love and gratitude I feel. When I watched my husband give our grandson (who now outranks him) his first salute as an officer, I re-understood the meaning of having one's heart swell with pride.

I remember, though, don't you? During Vietnam Era when people spat on soldiers? When they called them baby-killers. When the government tried to deny the damage that had been done to our own by Agent Orange and by the greed that led much of the war. So, no, not always better. I not only worry about my grandson having to fight in wars not of his generation's making, but of his own countrymen treating him badly when he is at home.

I love the flag and I'll always stand for the anthem if I'm able. But I'm happy the USA is still a place where it's your choice whether you stand or kneel or go on watching television when it plays. While I think burning the flag, emblazoning a political figure's face all over it, or making it into a shirt is disgusting, you are free to do so. 

And, oh, yes...protesters burned it "back then," too. There was a lot of noise about making it a constitutional amendment that outlawed burning it. But they didn't really do much about the reason for the protests. And the only amendments most people honor are the ones they deem the most important. The First one is big to me, but many people are perfectly willing to ditch it in a heartbeat as long as the Second one remains untouched.

So many people are angry. That includes me. We all feel betrayed by more people and more things than I can begin to name or understand. The Fourth of July holiday and all it's stood for for all these 244 years is just having the crap beat out of it, isn't it? 

I'm a sucker for patriotic songs. I remember most of the words to the ones we learned as kids and cop to having cold chills whenever I hear "God Bless the USA." Especially that one piece of a line in it: "...the flag still stands for freedom..."

It does, as it has for that 244 years, but if it's not standing for everybody's freedom, well, we have a really long way to go as a country, don't we?

Happy 4th of July, USA, and everybody in it. Have a good week. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

It's the Little Things

I know that title isn't original, nor is its sentiment. I'm probably not the first person who's ever said it, who's ever discovered it. It's not even the first time I've discovered it. 

But I bought these salt and pepper shakers for $16 and change, which I found shocking. I don't ordinarily spend that much on things like salt and pepper shakers that someday my kids are going to shake their heads over, but I loved them. They made me think of the red glass sugar bowl and vase that are in my east window that my mom always loved. And the red stained-glass lady Martha Roberts made and gave to me that I love. She hangs in the north window where I see her whenever I stand at the sink and think of Martha. I hope she knew how much I enjoy the glass lady. 

For a long time, there was a box of green army men in the closet upstairs. It was what made me stop cleaning my younger son's room after he left for college. Eventually, I went back and cleaned it, I guess, and I'm not sure what happened to the army men, but it's been 31 years since I opened that box and I still remember it as if it were yesterday. It was the first day of the empty nest, which wasn't nearly as funny as the jokes about it were. 

I have a bottle of my favorite Hempz lotion on my desk. My daughter gave it to me for her birthday. It smells like peppermint and vanilla. 

On the shelf of a cupboard where I can see her easily is the Hummel figurine my son and daughter-in-law brought me from Germany. I still have her box, too. 

Our friend Brad sent Duane a snapshot from their  younger days (okay, much younger) and I keep looking at it and remembering the boy I first met. 

Going through pictures, I found one of my brothers, sister, and me all dressed up. I wondered whose funeral it was, and I missed when there were five of us. Today, Friday is my sister's birthday, the second one without her. 

No moral to this story today. My friend Cindy's Uncle Estel passed away this week. He lived a long and good life and was well loved in it. He gave joy and friendship and he made people laugh. Cindy saw him just a few days before he died. She said, as a reminder, 

"Lesson learned…. Don’t skip opportunities to connect with people you love because they may not be there if you wait."

Cindy's right. Don't miss those opportunities. Never miss a chance to say good and loving things to people. Share memories. Laugh with them. Let them know you're thinking of them. It is, in the end, the little things.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Morning Has Broken... by Liz Flaherty

I wish the title was mine, but we all know it's not. It's borrowed from a hymn written by Eleanor Farjeon nearly 100 years ago and made famous by Cat Stevens. The lyrics are copyrighted, so I can't use them here, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I read them this morning. There are things that are just as splendid the 100th time you see or hear them as they were the first, aren't there?

When I saw daybreak this morning--bad picture here at the side--I thought, as I have all week, of Gordon Lightfoot. He passed away Monday at the age of 84 and the words of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" haven't stopped playing in my mind since. 

The church whose bell chimed 29 times the morning of the wreck rang its bell one morning this week, too, only it rang 30 times instead. Someone played "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes. Morning broke on grief and gratitude. I guess it always does.

What is with you, Liz, that you must continually write about loss?

Yes, those italics are quoting the voice in my head. But it's not loss I'm talking about. It's the gifts we are given on the way. The gratitude inspired by those gifts. 

I love churches, old ones especially. While I haven't attended that many of them, I visit them as often as I can when traveling. I worship when I'm inside them--worship being personal. Sometimes I just mumble thank you on the way out. When Duane was in Vietnam, I'd go into St. Charles--which was unlocked in those days--and light candles to plead for his safety. 

Something I've learned about churches--whether you go there for years or whether you just visit--is that even when you leave them, you don't love them any less. The gifts you receive within those walls stay with you forever. They give you things to pass on to others. No, not judgment, but tolerance and love for others and sharing.

 I'm feeling melancholy today, because of losses and changes and how quickly daybreaks, rainbows, and sunsets pass. But then I remember there will be more. Morning will break again, rainbows will light the sky and Bart See's barn again, and the sun will set with a light show that brings people to stunned stillness. 

You learn many lessons with age, and you don't learn a lot, too. You give advice when it's not wanted, share your opinion when it wasn't asked for, and you sing along with songs that are interwoven throughout your memory even when people wish you wouldn't. Grief and gratitude share equal space in that memory. 

I am blessed. I hope you are, too. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

The Sweater by Liz Flaherty

2013 or so - almost new!

Twenty-plus years ago, Duane was given a gift certificate from Rock Hollow by people at work. He was thrilled because they thought of him and because he loved Rock Hollow. I'm sure he played golf with some of the gift certificate, but he also bought the Sweater. While I am deathly sick of looking at and washing the Sweater, even I must admit it deserves a capital letter at its beginning.  

It's light gray, no collar, and has three buttons at the neck and the Rock Hollow insignia where a breast pocket would be if it had one. It's loose enough to wear over a shirt, but perfectly comfortable without one, too. 

A few years ago, I felt a little bit of hopeful glee when a small hole wore though the front of the Sweater. Maybe we could give it a Christian burial after all. I don't know of any scripture exactly right for threadbare Sweaters, but...

"What do you think?" said Duane. "Think you could patch it?"

So much for burial. "Sure," I said. "Maybe."

You could barely see the mended place and he was happy with it. The Sweater went on. And on. I washed it more often than I wash sheets. Sometimes its owner puts it on before it ever makes it to a hanger--it's so nice and warm straight from the dryer. 

No surprise that when Duane went to the hospital for back surgery last week, he wore the Sweater because it would be comfortable for going home. Before he put it back on, we squinted at the patched place (squinting comes with age, in case you weren't aware of it), and sure enough, the patch has worn through, as well as another hole close to it. If the Sweater were a shower curtain, the bathroom floor would be soaked.

I didn't even think about a funeral. How could I possibly think of getting rid of a Sweater that was just reaching its sweet spot in life? Its owner had stitches in his back because of a lifetime of wear and I hadn't even considered getting rid of him. All right, I talked about it, but not seriously.

"I can fix that," I said. 

The Sweater will live on. 

Nan Reinhardt

Nan Reinhardt dresses really well. I'm always kind of happy when she hands down something to me that she doesn't wear anymore because I know I'm going to like it. 

But then there's her Sweater. I asked her if it had a story and she said, "I put it on over my jammies and go to work in my office every morning." Nan and I travel together sometimes on writing retreats and I've seen her pajamas--I'll bet they cringe every time she puts that sweater on. It probably looked nice when it was newer, before it had holes in it, but I'm not placing any bets. 

Jim Reinhardt

Her husband, whom she calls Husband in print, also has a Sweater. He's had it for...oh, a long time. It's referred to in the family as his Mr. Rogers sweater. It was with...er...Husband every day in his office until he retired in 2014. Now it's in his home office. Except for when he's wearing it. 

The last Sweater is mine. Tahne, my daughter-in-law, bought it for me from a store near Biltmore in North Carolina. It's deliciously soft and seems to fit me no matter what size I am. It was expensive, and I told Tahne I was going to save it to wear when I was dressing up. 

My Sweater--not me.

She said No. She wanted me to wear it to be warm and comfortable in while I was working or whenever I needed it. I didn't argue. It does, after all, have pockets and is the perfect length and I roll the sleeves up to wherever I want them to be on any certain day. And every time I wear it, it's like being hugged by someone I love. 

I love sweaters. I have a blue-green one with sparkles that gives me some shine on a day when I need it. When I was in the fourth grade, teacher and I had the same royal blue cardigan, I was so impressed and felt so grown up! I doubt Mrs. Kotterman was all that excited about it, but I certainly was. 

I bought a burnt orange one on clearance once and wore it with everything. Although I admit burnt orange isn't much of a neutral, it still works for me. It's a warm color. Forty-some years later, my raincoat is that color. So is a down jacket I just bought on clearance. It was the only color available in my size. I think that was a message.  

When my grandmother died, we found a brown cardigan she'd never worn, and I took it home with me and wore it until there was little left of it. That's what Grandma did--she looked after us. 

This is one of those interactive blog posts. Tell us about your Sweater. Your favorite or your least favorite or one that wakes a memory. 

Stay warm. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Potholders and Memories by Liz Flaherty

My friend Karen had a pretty potholder at church that someone had made for her from Christmas fabric, and I thought, What a great idea! I could do that between other projects. When I was a kid, Mom had one of those looms where you used circles of fabric--usually cut from the tops of worn-out socks--to make potholders that were both ugly and indestructible. Once you gave one to your grandmother, she couldn't ever throw it away. 

While I have never been above mediocre as a cook--and sometimes mediocre is a bit of a stretch; ask my kids about cube steak at our house--the kitchen is still my favorite part of the house. It's a place of color, cherry cabinets and dark blue walls. It has shelves and windowsills full of memories, junk drawers I need to clean out someday, and windows that frame my life. Including one over the sink.  Kitchen appliances are third only to computers and sewing machines in my power tool inventory. 

The kitchen aisle is my favorite one in any store, and at the top of my list for gifts both given and received is a package containing dish towels--nice, absorbent, colorful ones--and dishrags. They don't even have to match. And it occurred to me just a few years ago that I don't have to wear the old ones completely out before I get new ones. What a concept!

Memories from Grandma's Kitchen

Oh, but I was talking about potholders, wasn't I? Sorry. I use them all the time, another reason I thought they'd be a good project. I still have a few of my grandmother's. They're not pretty, but they've been in use since the middle of the last century, and when I use one, I think of Grandma Neterer. She wasn't much of a cook, either, but I sure did love being in her kitchen. 

So, one afternoon early this week, I made a hot pad from scraps of Christmas fabric. I knew just how I wanted it to look. 

Well, not like that! It is such a mess that even Duane laughed when I held it up to show him. Really, he laughed, and what does he know about potholders? He's probably never left one close enough to a stove burner to start it on fire, dropped it into the dishwater accidentally when he needed to use it as a trivet, or left it somewhere when he used it to carry a hot dish into a pitch-in.

Since I obviously couldn't use it as a gift, I kept it for myself. It works really well. I used a layer of insulated batting, so I haven't had to mumble swear words when the heat came through it at a time I couldn't set the pan down. I like its colors, and I don't much mind that it's a mess. Grandma's are kind of a mess, too.

Most of our memories are that way, aren't they? I suppose it's okay that we clean them up and remember ourselves as more heroic and smarter than we actually were. To recall that our kids were always truthful and obedient as well as gifted. To insist our own childhood behavior was exemplary because our parents would have settled for nothing less. It gives a certain amount of pleasure to lend perfection to things that probably weren't. 

But the memories we laugh longest and hardest at, that we hold the closest even decades later, are the less-than-perfect ones, aren't they? They're the ones that soften the scars on our hearts just as the messy and old potholders keep us from being burned. 

Have a great week. Make memories. Be nice to somebody. 

I Love You More by Liz Flaherty

This is from two years ago. My apologies for using it again so soon, but it sort of reflected how I feel today. It was our 49th anniversary then--next Sunday will be our 51st. We're celebrating today, early, with friends and family. Being grateful and laughing and sniping because he doesn't listen (to me) and I don't remember what he said 10 minutes ago but can quote him a remark he made 50 years ago that he shouldn't have. But I love him more now than I did 51 years ago. And more than I did yesterday. Thanks for reading again. 

To Duane Flaherty, I love you more. - L

I changed the bottle in my water cooler the other day and reflected a little grumpily that it won't be long before I'll have to start using three-gallon bottles instead of five-gallon ones because the weight and awkwardness are getting hard to handle.

I've been wearing the same necklace ever since the beginning of sheltering in place because neither Duane nor I can consistently manage to fasten or unfasten jewelry clasps.

When we watch Grace and Frankie, I nod my head the whole time--not just because it's funny but because even at its most unbelievable, it's shockingly accurate.

This morning I needed something from the shed. No, not that shed--the other one, which meant I had to look in both of them. I found the item I was looking for, used it, and went into the house to ask Duane to go out and latch the doors on the sheds because even though I got them open, I couldn't get them closed.

Walking is the only form of exercise I like, and I like to walk two miles; however, I'm tired enough after a mile and a half that I usually just do that. I might add that the mile and a half takes me as long as the two used to take. Or I might not. I might just say that I choose to take more than 20 minutes to walk a mile. What's the hurry, after all?

Our 49th anniversary was yesterday. We talked the night before about the things long-marrieds often talk about. (Actually, I did most of the talking--he nodded sometimes.) Would you do it again? Has it been worth it? What would you change? What if we'd done this instead? The truth is, any change at all--including the times of pain, sadness, and anger that create pock marks on any enduring relationship--would alter the path of our lives together. It might be straighter, but it might not be, too. It would make the climate of the marriage different and put us in a place we might like less instead of more. It's not a chance I'd be willing to take. He wouldn't, either.

All of these things are seeds planted by time. By age. Some of them were surprising--who knew I wouldn't be able to put my own necklace on? Some were expected--walking slower--but not expected already. Later, maybe, but not now.

But I've noticed...

That the water in the three-gallon bottles tastes and costs the same as the water in the five-gallon bottles.

That whatever necklace I have on has memories and love attached to it--doesn't matter what one I wear or for how long I wear it.

That the women who play Grace and Frankie make no pretense at not being the age they are, nor do the characters they play, and when I'm laughing I don't give any thought at all to how old they are.

People, even ones you aren't married to, will help you with things like door latches. Partly because they feel sorry for you because you're old, partly out of respect for said oldness, and partly because people are generally nice.

That when you walk slow, you see more wildlife and plant life. You smell the flowers. You hear the birds--although I have to admit I still don't usually know one from another.

That scar tissue, some of the fabric that holds 49-year marriages and other long friendships together, is strong stuff. Made to last if that's what both halves want to happen.

The seeds of age are hard-won and we earn them whether we want to or not. How and where we plant them and what we do with whatever grows from them...well, that's up to us.

Have a great week. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

Tiny Threads by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

“Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years.” - Simone Signeret

One of the best parts of being married a long time is that you always have someone to laugh at. The reason I'm bringing this up now is that this week, I was the one who got to do the laughing. There have been other weeks in the past 49 years when the Other Half of this relationship was the one doing the laughing. One or two, anyway. I probably won't write about them. 

Duane had cataracts removed from both eyes. His left eye was last week, his right eye this week. For both surgeries, he had to ride all the way to Warsaw with me driving--twice each time! He had to do this without complaining. Much. He did some gasping and grabbing of the armrest on the passenger door. 

I said, very quietly and gently, "What's the matter now?"

He said, "Nothing." He spoke stiffly. His hand may have been trembling where it was fisted around the shoulder strap of his seatbelt. I'm not sure if he was considering escape or thinking about hitting me with it, but he did neither. 

For his surgery, he received the kind of anesthetic that was (1) in the long term, responsible for Michael Jackson's death and (2) the same thing that is used when a person gets a colonoscopy. Usually this medication inspires Duane to spend money. He complained for years that the colonoscopy that was fully covered by insurance  cost $1000 out-of-pocket because we went home by way of Gilbert's and Breakaway. We went to Dairy Queen, too, but he doesn't even mention that.

But, anyway, the dosage was less this time, I guess, so he wasn't in shopping mode. He also had a little trouble getting into the car. His foot couldn't seem to find where it needed to go. I hope that the nurse who escorted him out thought I was being concerned when I bent over him to help. You know, because I would have looked mean if she'd seen me laughing so hard I couldn't talk.

On the way home, he told me about another patient at the eye clinic. Three times. Now, we're both at the age where we repeat things a lot, but not usually three times in fifteen minutes. I kept saying, "Uh-huh," and he kept looking at me with one normal eye and one that looked...not normal at all. It was kind of like when people have gauges in their ears (sorry--your business if you do); I don't want to keep looking at them, but I can't help myself. 

When he had his other eye done, and I drove him again, we were in my new car. Which I didn't know very well. My steering wheel was in the wrong place, as was my seat, and my lights kept dimming and brightening themselves. Also, my old car--which I drove for nine or ten years; I don't remember which--didn't have much get-up-and-get. As in, it was tempting to open the door and push with my foot on the pavement when I needed to take off or when I needed to get out of the way of some big monster of a car with six cylinders in it. The new one has the same number of cylinders as the old one, but it also has a turbo charger in it, so when I put my foot on the gas, it takes off without me pushing, pedaling, or swearing. I like this a lot, but that day I was still in the mode of giving both the passenger and myself whiplash.

Sometimes he's just so unappreciative of the things I give him. 

We stopped for breakfast on the way home on all four trips we made to Warsaw--often enough that the waiter knew what we wanted to drink and that we use Splenda in our coffee. It is well known among everyone who knows us that I might be just the slightest bit messy. I don't think I own a single top without a food stain on it. In all fairness, other than the occasional snicker, Duane very seldom even mentions it.

Unlike me, when--still anesthesia-impaired--he took a bite of hash-browns that ended up tumbling gracefully down the front of his shirt and onto his plate...and maybe the table. I don't know. Once again, I was laughing at the person I love more than my life. What kind of terrible person am I?

Oh, before I feel too guilty...we took the new car to our daughter's house, where I was talking about...where I was bragging about not having to have a key to drive or unlock the car. Just this fob thing, you know, in my pocket. (I haven't lost it yet, but it'll happen.) I said all you had to do was open the door. 

Except that Duane couldn't. He tried, then held up his hands in defeat. "It doesn't work." And, I gotta tell you, it was so cool. I just walked around the car, pushed the little button, and that door opened right up. The first try! 

I've spent 49 years hearing noises in cars that would go mysteriously silent when Duane listened for them. Not that he ever told me it was all my imagination, but...yeah, the noise would never be heard again. It was so empowering that he couldn't open that door! And so funny. I laughed, our daughter and son-in-law laughed. Best and loudest of all, Duane laughed. I'm not sure he meant it, but he laughed. 

In case you'd wondered why I used that quote up there, this is why. Because being able to laugh not just with each other but at each other--those are some of the strongest and best of of those hundreds of tiny threads. They are the minutes that make the years easier to attain. 

Have a great week. Laugh at someone you love. Be nice to somebody. 

 

Support and Defend by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Photograph from Jack Rahilly

I kind of knew what would happen. When I posted a picture of my husband and a group of other soldiers from Vietnam in 1970, along with the assurance that they were neither losers nor suckers, I knew there would be a firestorm. And there was. Along with remarks about how young those guys were, there were a multitude of comments concerning the President and how many of us feel about him, and another plethora of observations from people who support him. Many of the comments had nothing to do with the subject at hand, which was a public figure's disrespect for veterans.

They served, some voluntarily and some not, and many are still serving. They have kept us safe for 244 years or so. They serve to protect not only us but our rights, to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic." They "bear true faith and allegiance to the same."

I don't like that it created such an issue, even though I did it purposefully. Possibly because my politics are unpopular where we live, I don't like to post contentious things. I get my feelings hurt when people say mean things. I get furious when they say things that aren't true. I get defensive...oh, all the time. 

But I remember George Wagner. It was the first year of North Miami's schools being consolidated and some of us rode a couple of buses for a long time to get to school. It was a disgruntling time. So the administration made a rule that kids on buses were not allowed to go together and buy their drivers Christmas gifts. The other part of the rule was that the drivers couldn't give the kids treats on the last day of school before Christmas break. 

George was one of the best drivers and the best guys ever. So we pitched in our quarters and bought him a present. He told us we shouldn't have done that. And then, one-by-one, as we got off the bus at our houses, he handed us the treats he wasn't supposed to have given us. 

Joe Wildermuth, who'd broken his back and didn't get around too well at the time, backed the students when they staged a sit-in at school. I don't remember whether we won or lost the cause we were sitting in for, but I remember Joe standing at the podium in the gym. He had our backs.

Years ago, some books got banned from our school library. My son told me about it, I wrote a column about it, and things got a little uglier than they might have if I hadn't done that. The kids and I lost the battle and the Stephen King book got banished. 

I've lost a lot of battles in my lifetime, probably more than I've won. I am a coward of the bravest kind in that I never cop to being anything but a coward. One of my brothers said once that while he would never be a fighter, he certainly could run. That would be me, too, except that I'm really slow, so I don't run, either. 

What that means is that sometimes I have to stand up. I learned it from the Constitution our military swears to uphold, and from George Wagner and Joe Wildermuth. Even from the school board that banned a Stephen King book because a parent didn't want her son reading it. 

I will not make a habit of writing political columns. Not because I don't feel things strongly, but because I like writing about fun things and because I think people's beliefs should be their own and respected as such. But there are times, as I said, when I have to stand up. 

This was one of those. Thank you to all veterans who have served, to the ones who didn't come home and the ones who did. Especially to the ones like my husband mentioned today--the ones who made it home but not really, because they were never the same again. Thank you to the ones who are serving now and will be there in the future when we need them. Thank you for standing up. So that the rest of us can. 

Have a good week. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody. Buy a veteran a cup of coffee. 

...we mutually pledge to each other... by Liz Flaherty

Today is the Fourth of July. It's always been a favorite day, full of family celebrations and parades and awe-inspiring fireworks. It's been a reminder of patriotism, of lives lost, and of sacrifices made. Of the amazing glory of our comparatively young country.

Do I still feel this way? Not so much. There is no place right now for those who tread the middle ground, which leaves many of us longing for the way things used to be. If I'm honest about it, I'll admit they weren't really that way even then. I guess we were just a lot politer about it.

There are things, though, that still feel the same. My husband, my brother, our son, and our grandson have all served--or still serve--in the military. I am proud of their service, proud of them, and proud of others who have answered that call. There is no limit to the love and gratitude I feel. When I watched my husband give our grandson (who now outranks him) his first salute as an officer, I re-understood the meaning of having one's heart swell with pride.

I remember, though, don't you? During Vietnam Era when people spat on soldiers? When they called them baby-killers. When the government tried to deny the damage that had been done to our own by Agent Orange and by the greed that led much of the war. So, no, not always better. I not only worry about my grandson having to fight in wars not of his generation's making, but of his own countrymen treating him badly when he is at home.

I love the flag and I'll always stand for the anthem. But I'm happy the USA is still a place where it's your choice whether you stand or kneel or go on watching television when it plays. While I think burning the flag, emblazoning a political figure's face all over it, or making it into a shirt is disgusting, you are free to do so.

And, oh, yes...protesters burned it "back then," too. There was a lot of noise about making it a constitutional amendment that outlawed burning it. But they didn't really do much about the reason for the protests. And the only amendments most people honor are the ones they deem the most important. The First one is big to me, but many people are perfectly willing to ditch it in a heartbeat as long as the Second one remains untouched.

So many people are angry. That includes me. We all feel betrayed by more people and more things than I can begin to name or understand. The Fourth of July holiday and all it's stood for for all these 244 years is just having the crap beat out of it, isn't it? 

I'm a sucker for patriotic songs. I remember most of the words to the ones we learned as kids and cop to having cold chills whenever I hear "God Bless the USA." Especially that one piece of a line in it: "...the flag still stands for freedom..."

It does, as it has for that 244 years, but if it's not standing for everybody's freedom, well, we have a really long way to go as a country, don't we?

Happy 4th of July, USA, and everybody in it. Have a good week. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

The best of things... Liz Flaherty

When I can't think of things to write about--or, more likely, when I'm in danger of writing about the same things too often--I make lists. My favorite this or that or the other. Since I've complained fairly incessantly about the last couple of years, which haven't been my favorite anything, I thought I'd make a list of things about 2018 that were good things. Happy things. I'd love it if you'd offer up some things in the comments, too.

1. Best movie. I don't watch all that many, but I loved Mary Poppins Returns. The cast was so wonderful I don't know how they got so much goodness onto one screen. Seeing Dick Van Dyke dance and Angela Lansbury sing would have had me in tears if I hadn't been smiling so hard.

2. Best time. Thanksgiving weekend, when most of our immediate family was in one place. I remember when our oldest was born, thinking I'd never again be able to love anyone like I did that little baby, but then finding out with his sister and brother how love just grows and multiplies and gets stronger because it's braided instead of single-strand. There are a lot of braids when family gets together.

3. Best bittersweet moment. At my brother's funeral, when one of his best friends related a certain streaking story that relieved and delighted everyone who was there. Thank you, Jim Conley. There was much light offered by friends on that sad day, but yours was the brightest.

4. Best play. Ole Olsen Memorial Theatre, under the direction of Jayne Kesler, presented The Diary of Anne Frank. Kurt Schindler, who's been making me laugh since the day I met him, made me cry. Carsten Loe as Anne was...I don't have the words for how good she was. Sarah Luginbill's magic turned Ole's small stage into an attic so convincing you forgot it had ever been anything else.

5. Best song. When Duane sings "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

6. Best new place. There are many contenders for this--you only have to look at the buildings in downtown Peru--but Black Dog Coffee in Logansport is my favorite. Scott Johnson has done as much for art and artists of all media as anyone I've ever known, and he's still doing it.

7. Best TV show. Murphy Brown. It's not for everyone, I know, but it is perfect for me. No, better yet, it's less than perfect. Its characters are flawed and so are its stories.

8. Best book. Too many to choose from. My friend Nan Reinhardt's A Small Town Christmas is right up there. So are 2018 releases by Kathleen Gilles Seidel, Laura Drake, Mary Balogh...

9. Best day. Today.

So, Happy New Year. I hope you share your bests--or worsts. Mostly, I hope 2019 is wonderful.

Believing...

I don't know when I wrote this, but it's a repeat from last year. The grandkids mentioned near the end are 21 and 22 now, so it's been a while, but I was happy to find it. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you believe. Merry Christmas to all of you, and thanks for continuing to read the Window Over the Sink.

Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to. - Fred, in Miracle on 34th Street

I'm a Christian, so believing in and embracing the “reason for the season” was never an issue. I have three older brothers, so believing in Santa Claus was an issue. In short, I never did. In our house, by the time I came along, Santa was a mythological folk hero portrayed, as Susan said in Miracle on 34^th Street, by a “nice man with a white beard.” I liked him, I wanted him to be real, but I knew better. Some part of me wondered if the reason a lot of classmates got better presents than I did was that they believed in St. Nick and I didn’t.

         Twenty or so years later, my husband and I worked hard to keep our kids’ belief in Santa alive and well. Duane even gestured over the fallow fields we drove past and assured the back seat brigade that the rows only looked empty—they were actually filled with bumper crops of air oats. This peculiar grain, which grows only where there are children to imagine it, is what reindeer eat that allows them to fly.

         One Christmas Eve, we drove home from my family’s celebration through a Christmas card display of falling snow—great fat flakes falling straight down. Although it was only late afternoon, it was dark. The car was full of gifts and goodies and excited children.

         Duane saw the movement from the side in time to pump the brakes gently and slow to a crawl. Allowing the cluster of antlered deer to cross in front of us to the field on the other side of the road.

         The kids fell silent. Watching.

         “They’ll be working tonight,” said Duane.

         “Uh-huh.” As usual, I had a brilliant rejoinder to add to the conversation.

         “Filling up on air oats before they go out,” one of the kids offered.

         “Uh-huh.”

         I know the deer were whitetail, not reindeer. I know the only thing the field produced that night was a few inches of snow. I know that Duane and I did the Santa job later on that night, laughing and wrapping and eating his cookies and drinking his milk. I know all that, really.

         A year or two ago, I was driving somewhere with grandsons in the car. I don’t remember how old they were, only that there was more than one and it was wintertime. One of the boys lifted a hand, gesturing toward the field we passed. “Look,” he said. “Air oats.”

         I don’t care what I know—I believe.

Days Eleven and Twelve

On Day 11 of 30 Days of gratitude, still thankful for these guys and for all who serve. Happy Veterans Day. (This was a memory day)

 Day 12 of 30 days of gratitude. I'm grateful for fuzzy socks, coffee, and quiet places.

It ain't easy...

          We’ve been married a long time and I hope we’re married a lot longer, but contrary to the belief of everyone who hasn’t been married a long time, it never gets easy. On either participant. Although it’s harder on the one who’s right. In our case, that would be me—but there, as in virtually everything else, we don’t agree.

          Take, for instance, spending winters in Florida. He—Duane, the roommate, the boyfriend, my husband, the person I do in all actuality love more than life itself, but for now we’ll call him “he”—loves Florida. Loves heat and says he never has to shovel it or blow it out of the driveway. Loves the beach. Loves palm trees and all the other tropical things that grow there—except roaches; I don’t think he loves them.

          I like most of those things, too—other than unrelenting heat, but I like them, it must be said, for a week. Maybe two.

          However, we spent a few winters down there and enjoyed them, although I was always eager to get home. However, he doesn’t want to go again, because he worries about the house we have here. About power going off and pipes freezing, about vandalism and burglary. (I worry about those things, too, which is why we have alarms and people checking on the house all the time, but what do I know?)

          Speaking of the house, we’ve lived in it for over 40 years. It has an upstairs and three acres of lawn and it’s in the country. It would be a good idea, I have mused, to sell it and move closer to town or maybe even to town, where things are more convenient, lawns are smaller, and we could find a one-story house. He was okay with that, except that he doesn’t want to buy another house. Owning a house is okay, he agrees, but he doesn’t want to own another one. I, on the other hand, think renting a house is okay, but I don’t want to rent one.  

          So we’ll stay here, which is fine with me. If anything changes I’ll let you know.

          Then there’s music. I like music—he loves music. However, he hates crowds, so we never go to big

Janie Fricke at Shipshewana

venues to see anyone. I’m good with that because—voila! I don’t like crowds, either. We agree. What we don’t agree on is how much to spend on concert tickets. No matter what the price is, he turns pale, wipes his forehead, and says it’s too much. The artists are great, but it’s just…too much.

          It took me a while—years, in fact—but I finally learned to buy the tickets and when he asks how much they cost to just ask if he’d like a cup of coffee, because I’m not telling. It’s kind of like how many guitars he has or how much fabric I have—not worth discussing.

          Neither of us much likes how the other one drives, although that’s something we’ve pretty much worked out. If we’re both in the car, he’s driving. Even if I start out under the wheel, I give it up about six or seven comments down the road. I have mastered the wilting look, given just before I say, “Would you like to drive?” and pull over so that he can. Which was what he wanted all along. No, I’m still not crazy about his driving, but if I talk enough, I can ignore it.

          I like to talk. Frankly, he likes to talk more. I think I’m a better listener. He thinks he is. I like to talk about personal, sensitive, intense things. He likes to talk about anything that’s not personal, sensitive, or intense.

          As the years have gone on, we’ve discovered newer, sillier things to disagree on. Skipping over religion and politics, we are never hungry at the same time. I yearn for anything salty and he’s never met a pastry he didn’t like. I love red meat, he prefers chicken. I want to eat at regular times almost every day. He wants to eat whenever. He almost always orders the same thing at a restaurant and I practically never do. He always drives the same route to virtually any destination and I look for a new one every time. He is so relieved that I have GPS because I no longer get lost every time I go anywhere.

          We don’t worry a lot about those differences, because for the most part, they don’t matter all that much. What matters is ending the day laughing at each other’s jokes and having each other’s back. Just don’t expect it to be easy, because it never will. Especially if you’re the one that’s usually right—just ask me.