Joe, Dr. Suess, and an Ikea Couch by Joe DeRozier

I was going to write a post this this week...no, really, I was. But then I read this essay by Joe DeRozier and decided it would be a good Saturday morning for me to just sit back and enjoy--so I asked him if I could borrow it! I hope you enjoy it, too, and I hope you let me come back next time after reading this. Have a great week and be nice to somebody. - Liz

I was sitting on the mini-couch in my wife's Pipe Creek kindergarten class while perusing Dr. Seuss 's Hop on Pop. For just a second, I smiled as I fondly reminisced about the days when my kids could hop on me without causing lethal internal damage.

I fidgeted slightly on that multicolored, mini-couch because I was just a little nervous as I prepared to read this very book to 18 kindergarten students. They can be a tough crowd at that age...and my wife, their teacher, would be there watching my every move... 

...and I fear the Greek girl. 

She had to keep a close eye on me to ensure I'd behave myself because she knows firsthand just how fun, or as she says, immature I can be. 

Walking in single file, my soon-to-be audience quietly entered the room. They were all quiet because they were startled by the ugly, dusty, old man sitting on their uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. 

Mrs. D corralled the students with just a few words and they automatically settled onto the large, round carpet that sported numbers and letters, sitting "criss-cross applesauce" in what must have been designated seating locations. So firm was her command, that I found myself sliding off the Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch to sit on the carpet...though "criss-cross applesauce" was completely out of the question. 

After regaining my bearings, I sat up and introduced myself. A couple of the children had visited me in the back of the bakery at one time or another with their parents, and simply knew me as "the donut guy." Others knew me as Mrs. D's husband. 

My nerves gradually faded as I started to read the book while sharing the pictures on each page. It occurred to me that our maturity levels were on an equal playing field as I discovered I was as intrigued by the book as much as they were. 

I'd read a page, then point out any obvious absurdity. One rhyme had a puppy flying over trees as he jumped over a cup, and another rhyme had a few fish in a tree. Both scenarios were highly implausible and the second one was even more confusing since the word fish didn't need to rhyme with anything else, so could have been easily replaced by bird, squirrel... 

...which caused me to ponder what the good Doctor was doing recreationally¹ while writing his books. 

The responses from the class varied as some claimed their doggy could indeed jump over trees and quite a few considered the fish in a tree not to be all that unlikely. 

There was an unfortunate rhyme involving a Dr. Seuss character sitting on a bat... I'm sure Mrs. D breathed a sigh of relief when I stifled my initial reaction to the picture, but I did mention that by sitting on the bat this way, the odd Dr. Seuss character would experience butt pain... That last sentence made every elementary school teacher reading this story, cringe... 

...because I said butt. 

Chaos ensued and I had to do some quick damage control as the whole class roared. Butt seems to be a magic word to five-year-olds. My wife's and her assistant's eyes rolled to the backs of their heads as they envisioned hearing butt for the rest of the day. I quickly created a diversion by making funny voices for the next rhyming pages, and butt was temporary placed in hibernation. 

Gaining confidence, I went through the rest of the book with my voices and observations...until I got to one of the final pages when I had to read a couple words that "Pop" could pronounce. The words were Constantinople and Timbuktu. I was caught off guard since the rest of the book consisted of mostly one syllable words. I hesitated momentarily as I sat on the small, Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. I struggled temporarily with Constantinople, making my adult audience snicker. 

After I finished reading, I spent the next 10 minutes just talking to the kids about what they were learning. I was amazed at the things they knew how to do and enjoyed observing all of their personalities. One young man had a lot to say, but his questions were very intelligent and I loved his thirst for knowledge. 

One young lady was much more timid, but I could see her eyes absolutely dance when I asked questions. When she raised her hand to answer a question, I immediately called on her. She was nervous to talk at first, but I kept encouraging her and she quietly told me her answer. She's going to be something else when she comes out of her shell. 

My heart was full as I bid adieu to my new friends. As they lined up to go to lunch, I suddenly remembered the the mocking sniggles² I heard while I attempted to say Constantinople. Thinking quickly, I obtained the attention of the most boisterous student in the class. With a grin, I bent towards him and quietly whispered... 

...butt.

¹ I made up that conjugation

 ² Sniggle is an actual word. I was surprised, too.

A repeat business of the week is DeRozier's Bakery. Not only are Joe DeRozier's pastries worth an extra turn around the block if you're counting those calories and steps I mentioned above, Joe is one of the kindest and most generous people around. A conversation at the table in his back room is a great way to start the day. He's an entrepreneur, an extraordinary donut-maker, and a gifted storyteller. 

The bakery phone number is (765) 473-6688 and the Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/DeRoziers-Bakery-235272106981456 Stop in for a donut, some conversation, and a copy of one or all of Joe's books. He'll even sign them for you!

Thank you, Joe. 

Strange Places by Liz Flaherty

 "It's not my job to be mad at you." 

The quote above came from "Ask Amy," an advice column in the Chicago Tribune. It was totally unrelated to anything in my life. It was also just about the coolest thing I've read in a long time. 

I was going to write the column on that, but I'm not going to bother, just as I'm not going to be mad at people whose opinions and actions I can't do anything about. It's pointless and it's not my job. 

Instead, I'm going to smile and wave when I see you, open the door for you if your hands are full, walk away rather than feel compelled to say the words "...yes, but..." and use my turn signals when I drive. You can be mad if you want to.

I'm at a strange place with the Window Over the Sink right now. And, wouldn't you know it? Just saying the words strange place made me think of some and be amazed at how many there are in our lives.

The day I walked into first grade at Gilead, I was on my own for probably the first time in my life. My sister was grown and married, my brothers were all in their big kid classes, and my mom--who was always there...well, she wasn't. I'm sure I knew some of my classmates, but I don't remember it if I did. It was a very strange place. 

Six years later, I walked into the high school. I went from riding the bus for 10 minutes to riding it for 50. Based on places I'd been and seen, the whole experience was huge. It had clickety-click tile floors instead of warm, creaking wooden ones, plenty of restrooms, and a wonderful round library. And it was never, never warm. We had three or four minutes to get from one class to another, no matter what hall it was in, and sometimes we made it. It didn't take long to get used to, but it was strange.

At not-quite-21, we got married and shared personal space and pooled our financial resources (which we used to say boiled down to being his car and two cartons of redeemable soda bottles). It was fun and exciting, and...for a while...kind of odd, too. There have been many times of strangeness over 51 years, too. Tearing down, rebuilding, rebuilding...

When I had kids and found out "to the moon and back" wasn't in any way an exaggeration and that I was going to be scared every single day of my life that something would happen to one of them, or to the ones they married, or to their kids, that was strange. Natural, but who knew you could actually love that much?

After I retired and didn't have to get up and go to work, I was shocked at how much fun it was. I mean, I still "go to work" because my office isn't in the house, but I go when I want to and I don't have to get dressed or warm up the car.

Last night, as we drove home from Logansport, the western sky was all dark clouds and a horizon the color of fire. Not angry fire, but warming, lighting the way to the end of the day. It was strange and so very beautiful.

Have a good week. Don't be mad--be nice to somebody. 

The Business of the Week is me. On Wednesday, March 22, I'll be talking at the library in Walton at 8:00 AM. There'll be coffee and company and conversation about writing and other strange things. I'd love to see you there!

March Madness by Liz Flaherty

Congratulations to all county basketball teams for the skill, sportsmanship, and spirit of competition they've shown this season. 

The term March Madness means different things to different people, doesn't it?

To a lot of people, it has to do with basketball. While the NCAA uses the phrase, I will always prefer high school. Although the tournaments don't start in March, they end then, so I'm good with calling it March Madness. I remember sectional time from when I was in elementary school, when the schools in what became the North Miami district were still separate. It always snowed. 

Always. 

I can still feel, even 55 years later, the excitement at our school when the Warriors went to the semi-state. I don't think we used the term awesome in those days, but it most certainly was that. 

I remember when our kids played high school sports--game nights were set aside. If anything else happened on those nights, we didn't know about it. We were on the bleachers. It didn't all happen in March, of course, and it wasn't just basketball, but it was one of the most fun parts of the madness that is parenting. 

But there's more to March Madness than fun and excitement, slushy roads, and sump pumps working away in basements. More than planning the garden and flowerbeds and bemoaning the approach of mowing season. This March, there are train derailments added to the mix, deepening of our country's political morass, and shootings. Always shootings--we hardly even flinch when we read about them or hear about them in the news. Maybe they're not madness anymore; maybe they're the status quo. 

And then there's tonight. Or, actually, 2:00 tomorrow morning. When we will change times yet again. 

The real madness, for me, starts when I get up tomorrow morning and it's an hour later than it actually is. And goodness knows when I'll want to go to bed. As a retired person, I will admit that it should not matter what time it is. I don't have to set an alarm clock, I go to bed whenever I please, and I eat when I'm hungry. (Yes, way too often and too much, but we're not going there today.)

The autumn change is supposed to keep kids from getting on buses or walking or driving to school in the dark. Frankly, I don't know why it's okay for them to drive, walk, or board buses in the dark in March, but apparently it's safe then. 

I don't have a good windup here, since there is no solution to the time change issue until the members of the morass I mentioned above decide it matters enough to do something about it. I hope you don't mind it as much as I do and that your March Madness has more to do with basketball and flowers than things to complain about. 

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

The Farmhouse Cafe offers home cooking, good coffee, and pleasant conversation. It's located at 97 W. Harrison St. in Denver--on the main drag, catty corner from A Li'l off the Top. They have specials every day and are open from 6:00 AM till 2:00 PM Monday through Saturday. 

Words. Right Here in River City! by Liz Flaherty

I will try not to be sesquipedalian when I write the column today. Only showoffs are, you know...oh, and people who know more and better words than I do. Ones who walk down corridors instead of hallways, have fevered brows instead of sweaty foreheads, and suffer from plantar fasciitis instead of sore feet.  

The word sesquipedalian came from a word-of-the-day email I get from Merriam-Webster. I forget a lot of the words, and never use some of them, but then there are those that are just so...fun. 

Sesquipedalian--see? I keep repeating it in the hope that I'll remember it--means either having many syllables or using long words. I like it a lot, and when I say it, I think of Robert Preston singing "Ya Got Trouble" in The Music Man. There's a rhythm to it. A cadence. Measurement. 

I love words, but their pronunciation is often a mystery to me. If I have to read aloud from the Bible in church, I look up audio pronunciations of things like koinonia so that I will sound as if I actually know what I'm talking about. (Yeah, I know the Lord knows better, but He has infinite patience.)

I was in my 40s before I knew that Aloysius was actually Allo-wishes. I'm not sure I have it straight yet that epitome is e-pit-o-mee but Jerome is Je-rome. Isn't it? Or is Je-rome really Jer-e-mee? Which brings me to my son's name, which is Jeremy. Should we have spelled it J-e-r-o-m-e? I hope not, because I don't even like how that looks. Perhaps this is the underlying reason we call him Jock and always have.

I was also in my 40s before I learned to spell weird and diminutive. Not knowing how to spell them had never stopped me from using them in print, but it should have. 

Words become buzzwords. I'd never used the word efficacy in my whole life--I had to look it up to be certain of its meaning and I'm still confused--and yet it's suddenly in the news all the time. Do you remember when someone realized that harassment was a real thing and the word became what had to have been the most-used of that particular year? Only the pronunciation got changed. I still blink when someone says HARassment instead of harASSment. Did they do that so that the very fitting word ass wouldn't be stressed when they talked about it?

Etymology is the study of words and their origins. This is a word I'm really not too crazy about, because I get it confused with entomology, which is the study of bugs.

I do have favorites, though. I love the word serendipity, because it feels good when I say it. I like juxtaposition, although it sounds goofy when I say it. I like compassion, tolerance, joy, kindness, gathering. I like when words sound like themselves, like rain or gentle or laughter.

I like that I get to write this column every week and that you are kind enough to read it. There's another good word: appreciation. 

Got any favorites? Or ones you don't like? I hope you share them with us. Have a great week. Use good words. Be nice to somebody.

***

The #businessoftheweek is Gallery 15 & Studios. The gallery is beautiful and welcoming. It is a place to appreciate and enjoy art and music as well as learn from artist Sarah Luginbill and musician Ron Luginbill. There are paintings displayed that will complement any décor and, more importantly, find comfortable places in any heart.

Stop in or call to see what's going on. Arrange for lessons or just go in and sit a while and absorb. You'll feel better for having done so.

Gallery 15 & Studios

15 E. Main

Peru, IN 46970

(765) 469-9730

Splintered by Time by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

If you didn't know your age, how old would you be? I've thought about that off and on for a couple of weeks now. The question (for me) came from the lyrics of a song I don't remember by a group I don't remember that I heard...somewhere. Sometime. 

At the age I am now, recent memories are little pieces of the whole. Instead of wide swathes of color, they've become like a kaleidoscope. Always colorful, always beautiful, but never quite the same. When I was trying to come up with something profound and metaphoric, I thought of jelly beans, but they are always smooth. But my friend Marietta Snow used to bring stained glass candy to work. The flavors were separate, but if they hadn't been, the candy would have looked like this. 

That's the way memories are now. They have sharp edges and sometimes they are hazy. Splintered by time.

So, if I didn't know my age, I'd go back to when memories were large and complete and as smooth as jelly beans. Not sure what age that would be, but I know I'd like it.

I love women's clothing right now. The designers seem to have realized that many of us are not tiny, built like hourglasses, or 17. But, still...

I guess I'd go back to an age when clothes were more fun because they fit better.

I'm bewildered by the fact that five of the Magnificent Seven--our grandkids--are adults. One of the others has a driver's license and a job. Even the seventh one is a year or two into double digits. I think his mother tries pushing down on his head to slow his growth, but he's going to pass her up pretty soon.

Hmmm...if I were just 20 years younger than I actually am, they'd be little again. Maybe I'd do that.

The past five years have been pretty rife with loss and heartbreak, so I guess I could just be five years younger. That would work, wouldn't it?

I cared about all the wrong things when I was in high school. I was probably smart enough, but I wanted to be popular. I'm sure if I were 16 again, I wouldn't care as much about being popular, but I'd work harder at being smart. I'd be nicer, too. I wouldn't leave such a trail of things I need to apologize for.

If I were in my 40s, nothing would hurt and I could set down on the floor and actually get up without the help of a sturdy chair or a strong hand. The full-blown wrinkles that I'm melting into would be only harbinger lines denoting character. 

Maybe I would be 28 instead of the 48 I was when my first book was published. That was such a fun year, but if I'd been 28, my mom would have been alive to see it.

My friend Nan Reinhardt wrote about this a few weeks ago and ended up with the same conclusion I have. 

When I was younger, I looked better in my clothes, but could never afford to buy the ones I wanted. Nor did I go anyplace to wear them. 

I wouldn't change anything about my grandkids, including how fast they have grown up. Like my daughter-in-law, I'm all about pushing down on Eamon's head, but that's because then I get to hug him even if he does roll his eyes.

The last five years? I'd love to have not lost my brothers and my mother-in-law, to have not struggled with day-to-day things that were...a struggle. But what else would have changed if those losses and those conflicts hadn't been there? Different isn't always better. 

While I wish I'd been better at being in high school, no one could pay me enough money to go through that time of my life again.

My 40s were...yeah, probably my favorite time ever. But they were only meant to last 10 years. 

So, that conclusion? If I didn't know how old I was, I'd still be 70. My grands would still be growing up too fast. The regrets would still be there--potholes in life's road. But I've loved people my whole life, and been loved. And had a great time.

The memories may be shards of color now instead of big sheets of it, but they're just as bright. I apologize if I tell you about them more than once, but thank you for listening. 

How about you? What age would you be? 

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.

***

City Tire of Peru is this week's business of the week. In business on Main Street since the 1980s, their service and the friendliness with which it's rendered is a highlight of the town. With my tendency to run over nails, I get to visit them even when my tires are new! Stop in or give them a call.

 

No Limits by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Just because it's pretty.

This morning, as part of my Facebook scroll, I read this: "In a society that has you counting money, calories, pounds and steps, be a rebel and count your blessings instead." It's a nice thought. 

I guess. 

But are we really that limited? As someone who's been on one diet or another most of my adult life, I'm always going to "count calories." As an only-fair-weather walker, I think it's fun to wear my Fitbit and keep track of my steps. I have enough money to eat, have shelter and health care, and donate some, so counting it isn't part of my regimen, but if I had a lot of it or thought I needed to, I probably would. When I had a cash drawer at work, I counted it all the time and liked working with money. (Although I never got all that good at it. Sigh.)

Even then, I manage to count my blessings every day.

Politics are limited now. Have you noticed? My father--and my siblings can correct me if I'm mistaken on this--always voted for party. My mom didn't. I never have, although my votes have nearly always leaned a certain way. Bipartisanship didn't used to be an anomaly--elected officials were able to think and act beyond the limitations of the party and give consideration to the needs of their constituencies. Do they tell us that they are limited by the logos on their hats when they're running for office and I just never catch on? 

There is a meme--how did I ever write without Facebook?--that says the opinions of entertainers and athletes are valueless. Another one that seems to indicate if you've never watched certain TV shows, you must be a better person than someone who does. There are ones who say if you're cautious, you're living in fear. Others that insist if you believe in science, you can't be a Christian. Or that if you're a Christian, you can't believe in science. 

I suppose that's what the term "cancel culture" really means, isn't it? It's not so much about a publisher stopping the printing of six books out of a children's author's 46-book catalogue. Or taking Confederate flags and statues out of statehouses. It's not about stopping organized prayer in schools--I'm here to tell you can pray anywhere you like; you just can't insist everyone else do it with you. 

Once again, I have no answers to this. Personally, I don't think anyone else does, either, because one of the first skills we give up is the one of listening without preconceived judgment. Yeah, me, too.

But it's so important that we stop this limiting of each other and ourselves, isn't it? So go ahead. Count those calories, steps, and money if you want to--it's a piece of cake to count your blessings at the same time. While you're there, watch whatever you like and turn off what you don't. Pray when and where and how you please. 

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Oh, and while you're out,   Get up, get dressed, and get DeRozier's!

Business of the week is DeRozier's Bakery. Not only are Joe DeRozier's pastries worth an extra turn around the block if you're counting those calories and steps I mentioned above, Joe is one of the kindest and most generous people around. A conversation at the table in his back room is a great way to start the day. He's an entrepreneur, an extraordinary donut-maker, and a gifted storyteller. 

The bakery phone number is (765) 473-6688 and the Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/DeRoziers-Bakery-235272106981456 Stop in for a donut, some conversation, and a copy of Heck, I Don't Know... I Just Make Donuts. He'll even sign it for you!

Thank you, Joe. 

Dear Nancy by Navi Vernon

Navi Vernon read this at one of the first meetings of Black Dog Writers at Black Dog Coffee in Logansport. As one who's loved and lost and loved again, she speaks with a gentle and knowing voice. I'm so grateful to her for sharing it with us today. To find other essays by Navi, visit her blog. You won't be sorry you did.

Dear Nancy,

I hurt for your friend who just lost her husband. As always, your gentle questions are wise and nonintrusive. What helped? What clearly did NOT? Your desire to, as you put it, “stand with her in her grief” made me reflect back to that time. You knew it would.

Enough years have passed that clarity has replaced the fog that overtook me for so long. I couldn’t have responded to your questions then. Now, the answers are within reach.

I hid after Allan died. Sounds like your friend may be doing that too. Don’t take it personally. She may not know it yet, but the fact that you care, and that you don’t presume to know how she feels gives you credibility as an authentic presence in her life. Write to her. I promise she will read and reread your words and they will strengthen her.

Everyone is different. It’s possible that supportiveness is solely in the eye of the beholder, but I don’t think so. Humans respond to empathy and compassion. Trying to fix, minimize, distract, or simply check “offer nice words” off your list isn’t helpful. Doing no harm seems a good universal practice.

A wise man once said, “you can’t know what you don’t know.” I have no doubt—none—that my own efforts through the years to console or comfort people in grief have fallen short, despite my best intentions.

From my perspective, there were five kinds of post-death gatherers—all with good intentions.

First, were the “well-wishers” who sent a Hallmark card signed only with their name, paid their respects at the memorial, and offered well-worn platitudes.

Second, were the “distancers,” those who knew us and cared but found the whole situation overwhelming and simply stayed away. I’ve never held it against them. I’ve always assumed they had bigger issues around uncomfortable realities.

The third group was the “gut punchers,” who made me feel worse, although I wasn’t sure why at the time. “At least he didn’t suffer,” “at least you were home,” at least, at least.” Your label fits. I share your disdain for the at-leasters. Others grief-trumped me with their own horror stories (conversational narcissism at its worst). Who knew grief is a competition?

Fourth, were the “loyals,” those who loved us and bore witness to my total devastation. Although most of them had no frame of reference, they never gave up on me. And, with a nod to your insightful brilliance, they didn’t lie. You’re right, we don’t know how other people feel and we can’t read the future, so we don’t get to make that stuff up. Instead, the loyals continued to reach out with help/motivation/compassion EVEN when I was in hiding. EVEN when I couldn’t/wouldn’t respond.

Lastly, there were the “grief-standers.” Their heartfelt words outshone the dreaded platitudes. “I’m with you…. I’m sorry…. Don’t forget to breathe….” landed differently on my heart than “thoughts and prayers,” “so sorry for your loss,” and vague offers to help. Grief-standers offered specific acts of kindness. Karen sent a book of stamps with her card for the thank yous she knew I’d write. Louis and Margo gave me a $100 bill to cover unexpected expenses those first few days. Barb and Herschel brought a simple food that we christened “Man Bread.” Hot or cold, it gave visitors something positive to talk about.

A few not only stood with me in my grief but gave me a lasting gift, whether they knew it or not.

• My mom. Not just because she was my mom, but because she lost her husband (my dad) in a construction accident and was a widow at 21. She knew firsthand that the road would get a lot rougher than it felt to me in those first few “love bubble” days. Even after she and my step-dad returned to Florida, I knew she was just a phone call away. The gift: She wasn’t afraid of my emotion.

• Allan’s friend, Mike. Mike was out of town when Allan died. He cut his trip short and came directly to our house. I was sitting at the dining room table. The girls were there. My mom/dad, I think; maybe others. Mike walked in and simply stood in the dining room. When it was obvious he couldn’t take another step, I went to him. He just hugged me and cried. There was no doubt we were sharing the weight of this new reality. The gift: He didn’t shelter me from HIS emotion.

• Our neighbor, Sam. Sam is a quiet man. An introvert to the extreme. He and his family have a small farm with a big red barn and a plethora of animals–large and small. The stereotype that comes to your mind is the right one. It may have been the day after? For some reason, I was drawn to the front door. Had the dogs barked? I looked out and there stood Sam in the middle of the yard with a casserole dish in his hands. I walked out. He never said a word. I took the dish. We stood there–each with tears streaming. He tried to talk once and couldn’t. We just looked at each other and finally we nodded and he turned and walked home. In that shared nod, I felt all of his love, care, and concern. A look of full empathy. The gift: A total heart connection when you least expect it.

• My client, Cassie. Years ago, Cassie was a training director at Bank One. By then, I’d moved on from my job and she’d moved on from hers and we’d lost touch. Her mom still lived around here and alerted her when Allan died. A couple of weeks later, I got a letter from Cassie. Though we’d only known each other through a client relationship, here she was, speaking my language. I learned that she’d lost her husband to cancer the year before. She knew (as close as anyone could) about the void that is left, about the excruciating feeling of half of you being torn away–your history, your promised future. We wrote back and forth for years. Now, we’re connected on Facebook. We share the knowledge that even though we’re both remarried, we are WIDOWS too. That doesn’t end. You can love again. You should love again. But, that never (ever) diminishes the love that was. It’s not an either / or. Love is an AND. The gift: HOPE.

I leave you with my ponderings—quasi answers to your insightful questions. Maya Angelo said, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” May we use our shared experiences and both become better grief-standers.

FYI – I didn’t proofread this. Decided that if I did, I’d likely delete a ton of it. So here it sits. As is. Raw.

Love,
N

 ~*~

This week's Business of the Week is 2 Days Boutique, at 39 N. Payson Street in Denver. Owners are mother-and-daughter team Mary and Katie Day and the hours are as follows: Sunday-Tuesday: closed. Wednesday & Thursday: 11-5. Friday 11-5. Saturday: 10-3. Their Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/2daysboutique/?ref=page_internal 

2 Days has a cute selection of clothes, shoes, and accessories. Mary and Katie are always friendly and they're glad to help you find anything you need. I love going there!

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Ends, Beginnings, and Funny Feelings by Liz Flaherty

Our family sold our farm. The 40 acres on a corner had been in the family for well over 100 years. Although I am sentimental about virtually everything, I am not particularly so about the place I grew up. Go figure. Mostly I am happy that the person who bought the place will take care of it. He will respect and nourish the land in exchange for what the land gives back. So I'm good with it.

But the lilac bushes there on the corner where the house is were my mom's. They're big, glorious ones. I used to hide in the one there by the driveway near the old hitching post. I crawled into it so often there was a hollowed-out place in the middle of it. It is the one that bloomed in August in 2019 when my brother Tom died. I felt as if it was Mom assuring us that Tom and Dan and Christine were all with her and all was well. It bloomed again in August of 2020, and I hope it was Mom and Dad saying it was okay to let the farm go. It was time. 

There are blue spruces on the corner. My brother Dan planted them, I think. He had a way around blue spruces. 

A large rock sits there. My sister sat on that rock with her back to the rest of the world and figured out how to go on from whatever place she was in. Coming along later, I tried to use the rock for the same purpose. Didn't work. It was Nancy's rock, not mine. 

Thinking of the corner makes me ache and my eyes sting. There were five of us who grew up in that too-small house, and one little girl who died when she was only three. How many times did a school bus stop there in the 26 years there was a Shafer kid in school at Gilead and later North Miami? How many times did Mom watch us and imagine what Christine would have looked like climbing onto the bus?

Mom always kept things "for good," which is why I don't. I think she enjoyed having the things, and looking at them, while I enjoy using them. Neither way is wrong. But I remember boxes of candy sitting on the stairs at the farm (it was cold there on the steps--even colder at the top of them). I opened a box of chocolate covered cherries one time and found them collapsed in on themselves and hardened by time. That may be when I decided I wouldn't keep things, but use them. It was heartbreaking to have candy that couldn't be eaten.

Those stairs are still in that old house full of memories and things saved for good. Most of the things are gone now. We've taken them out, shared them among ourselves and given much away. We've wondered what some things were and why they were saved. Vandals have done their part, too, destroying and doing harm because...well, I don't know why they do it. I get angry about that because even in these last months of owning the farm, it was still my mother's house; it deserved respect if for no other reason than she loved it.

Maybe now, finally, I know why I've written this column this morning. It's a goodbye to the farm, yes, but it's also a thank-you to it. It's not that I was always happy there--I'm not someone who enjoyed childhood--but I was safe. I was loved. I was never hungry. It was where I learned that if you look hard enough, there is always something to laugh about. It's where I learned to be strong and to think for myself  and that no one owed me anything except whatever respect I earned.

Although selling property is always an end to something, the memories don't go away; they are yours to keep. I still hid in the lilac bush, broke the window on the front of the house--Dan dared me to see if I could throw the stick over the roof. I never said I was smart--and read 100s of books that started me on the path to writing my own.

I'm thinking about the family I grew up with as I sit here. My brothers and sisters and my parents and the ripples that came from them. Brothers' friends that I had crushes on, sister's friends who were funny and friendly and still are, and the neighbor's farm where we went every year for our Christmas tree (a dollar every year; thank you, Mr. Swigart.) 

I think of the song I talked about last week, Harry Chapin's "Circle," and once again his lyrics speak the voice of my heart. 

"But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again."

Amen. Have a great week. Seek out and treasure the memories. Be nice to somebody.

***

Anita's store is colorful, its inventory reasonably priced, and, kind of like "Alice's Restaurant," you can "get anything you want." It's a great spot for clothing, gifts, and one-of-a-kind items. The store's phone number is 765-470-2035. If you haven't been there yet, you're missing out!

 

Bends in the Road by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Harry Chapin (1942-1981) was a gifted singer-songwriter. Think "Cats in the Cradle." My favorite song of his--at least right now--is "Circle." It is my favorite because I am at a time in my life when it has much meaning. Especially the following words. 

"There's no straight lines make up my life and all my roads have bends
There's no clear-cut beginnings and so far no dead-ends"

When we were first married, we had a table with three chairs. Someone gave them to us when they bought a new dinette set. I don't know if they're still called that, those oblong creations of Formica and tubular stainless steel. The seats on the chairs were upholstered in heavy plastic and the backs were either bolted between struts of the aforementioned steel or pushed down onto them. Once the plastic started giving way and tearing away in strips that revealed fuzzy yellow stuff, you could buy replacement ones that never fit quite right. 

By replacement time, though, we needed four chairs instead of three, so we went to Glazier's and bought our own dinette set. It was $139 and chances are good we had to buy it on time. We bought a lot of things from Glazier's, including the next table and chairs, which were made of wood. We got five chairs because there were five of us and six would have cost more. The fifth chair didn't match the others and it didn't last as long, but by the time it totally collapsed, the kids were starting to leave home. 

Our kitchen was small, so we got a little wooden table with two chairs and moved the other set into the dining room. We could now, if we searched out all the chairs plus the piano bench and possibly a bucket turned upside down, seat eight people at one time.

Then, I don't know when it was...years ago, we paid a visit to Glazier's for something and ended up with an oak dining room table the size of a small country and six new chairs. It's beautiful. I think we've only used it stretched to its full three-extra-leaves length a few times, but it's been nice to have. Letting it go is hard to think about.

But it's time.

I can't lend too much importance to the dinette set--I'll keep calling it that even though it's the least elegant of the terms we use for it. It's in your life from the time you're tied into a chair with a dishtowel in the absence of a highchair to when you're using it for a desk or a sewing table or a place to play Solitaire when you're older than you want to talk about. It's where you have hard talks with your teenagers, harder talks and hand-holding affirmations with the person you share your life with, where you laugh until tears are rolling down your face with girlfriends. There is no end to the joy and pain and healing that are shared across the table over the years.

The kitchen table is the place that you either get good at piecrust or you admit you're always going to buy it because yours is terrible. It's where families do much more together than just share meals--it's where they love each other without ever having to say the words. It's where decisions, both good and bad, are made. Hearts are broken and hearts are made whole. It is both a pulpit and a judge's bench. 

So now, here we are, although Glazier's is no longer that Big Store with a Little Door we depended on for so long. The big table will be re-homed soon and we need a new table and two chairs, maybe three. Our dining area hasn't shrunk, but our needs have. We're thinking a little dropleaf one that will sit flat against the wall. When the kids and the grandkids come home, they'll wonder why we got rid of the big one because they're at a different place on the circle's curve than we are. We are indeed back to its beginning, thrilled that there aren't dead ends here and wondering what's around the next bend.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

I worked in Logansport for 30 years. One of my favorite places to eat was the Boardwalk Cafe on Broadway. I was delighted when they opened a venue in Peru, sad when they had to close because their building was sold, and thrilled again when they reopened on Broadway this week. We had lunch there today--Friday--and it was as delicious as always, the service was prompt and smiley, and we were full when we left. (I also used way more napkins than the average person, for which I apologize, but I'm also way messier than the average person.)

The phone number for Boardwalk is (765) 460-5003, and the hours are as follows. I hope you pay them a visit!

Monday- Thursday: 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM

Friday and Saturday: 11:00 AM - 9:00 PM

Sunday: CLOSED

Vex and Valor by Debby Myers #WindowOvertheSink

Ebook Cover

When I was in first grade, our teacher asked us to write a story about anything we wanted. It could be something true or we could make something up. Although I don’t remember a lot about first grade, I do remember how excited my teacher was about my story. She gave me a permission slip to take to my mom so she could submit my story to children’s magazines to be published. The story was about a little girl who loved daisies. It was accepted by Children’s Digest and Highlights. Miss Gustafson told me she knew I would write a novel one day.

Since then, I’ve written many other short stories. I took every writing class I could in high school. My creative writing teacher said I had a gift. All I knew was that I loved to write! I was going to be a writer! Of course, then came…life.

When I was 20, I moved to Texas with my ex and my oldest daughter. I hated it and I started a journal that I later converted to a book. A few friends read it, but I was young and didn’t pursue it any further. I’d written it on an old word processor, so it’s lost now.

The next 30 years I dedicated to raising my children and working. I still took every

chance I could to write. I worked in radio, where I got to write news stories and ad copy. I worked as an Assistant Director of Development, where I composed a newsletter, donor profiles, and performance reviews. I ran a day care, writing original stories for the kids we watched. I was part of a non-profit, as well as a large corporation, where I wrote quarterly newsletters. But no novels.

About 10 years ago, I met Liz through our theater group. I was in awe of her knowing her accomplishments as a best-selling author. One day she asked me to write a story for her blog about directing plays. Since she’s been kind enough to let me write several more about: my multiple sclerosis, being in flying trapeze in the circus here, my father-in-law’s death, generation gaps with our children, depression, the death of my daughter’s baby when she was five months pregnant, being a best friend, even our cat’s disappearance for three months before he was found. I think she gave me writing fever again!

As the days of the pandemic went on…and on, I decided to start writing again to pass the time. At first, I wasn’t really serious about it. Yet the more I wrote, the more I liked what I was writing. I kept going. I am beyond thrilled to have had my first REAL novel published just last week. It is fiction with a culmination of my life experiences.

Paperback Cover

Vex and Valor is the story of two families from different sides of the tracks. Tim and Vee Crawford are the parents of four children who are lifelong residents of Brookton, PA. Georgia and Zeke Hayes struggle to make ends meet after moving four of their seven children there from Tennessee.  They become intertwined through the marriage of their two youngest children, Ella Crawford and Ben Hayes.

The story begins with a fight between the married couple. The argument is overheard by their two young children hiding in a closet with their 10-year-old daughter watching through a crack in the closet door. Following the altercation, a neighbor finds Ella unconscious with no witnesses as to what happened to her. And her children are missing.

As Ella fights for her life, the children are found. Both she and Ben’s families gather, all waiting on word of Ella’s condition and looking for answers. Many believe it was an accident, while others, who know Ben drinks too much, think he may have caused this to happen. 

The saga begins in 1969 and takes place over three days. We are transcended into the lives of Ella and Ben’s families. The book is written in two sections. The chapters are short, moving from character to character and place to place. In section two, we watch the families become even more entangled and continue to search for answers about Ella. We meet new characters as we see the Crawford and Hayes grandchildren grow into adults, each with their own accomplishments and problems. The story comes to a climax when the truth about Ella is finally revealed.   

I’m pleased to say the book is available on Amazon in paperback or eBook. I’ve had a few challenges already. The cover was wrong on the paperback the first time, I found a few typos (that’s what happens when you self-publish, self-edit), and the chapter breaks are off in the eBook. But overall, I’m pleased. In its first week, it has sold better than I expected. Of course, all of my family and friends are the buyers so far. I’m hopeful some of you will check it out too!

The title Vex and Valor comes from the words tormented and fearless. As you meet the characters, you’ll see these attributes in the lead and in many of the characters. I also chose the title hoping to keep the stories of the Hayes and Crawford families going. I’m considering a three book V series to include Vows and Verdicts and Vengeance and Victors.

As a writer, it’s not really about how the book sells, but more of a feeling of accomplishment at its completion, the end product. I had so much fun writing it – I want others to have just as much fun reading it! Thank you, Liz, for letting me share it today with your readers!

Vex and Valor is available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08VTT9174

When Duane and I had lunch at the Farmhouse Cafe at 97 W. Harrison in Denver one day last week we chowed down, enjoying every bite, and talked to Missy Yocum. Then we left, waving as the door closed behind us. 

We got to the car before we realized we hadn't paid for our lunch. I didn't ask her, but I'd venture to say chasing recalcitrant customers down the sidewalk isn't Missy's favorite part of the business she owns and operates with her husband Dan. 

But every other part seems to be. The cafe is comfortable, the food is good, and there's always someone to talk to! The phone number, if you want carryout or to order ahead, is (765) 985-3000. The hours are as follows. Just remember it's a pandemic and sometimes things have to be changed. 

Monday:

6:00 AM - 4:00 PM

Tuesday:

6:00 AM - 4:00 PM

Wednesday:

6:00 AM - 4:00 PM

Thursday:

6:00 AM - 4:00 PM

Friday:

6:00 AM - 4:00 PM

Saturday:

6:00 AM - 2:00 PM

Sunday:

CLOSED

Not What Was Intended by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Unless the Colts were playing...or a long time ago, Joe Montana...I've never watched the Super Bowl. I've seen a few halftime shows, but mostly I just find something else to do. However, I do love the commercials. I have enjoyed this year's Doritos commercial, every year's Clydesdales, and if Betty White shows up, all the better. 

I used to make shirts. One time I misplaced the buttonholes on one of my younger son's shirts. Once a buttonhole is made, especially if you cut the little gap between the stitches, it's...well, made. You can't undo it. So there was Jock's shirt with its top two buttons less than an inch apart and all the rest of them correctly spaced. Whether he meant it or whether he was just being a nice kid, he told me he liked them that way, and every shirt I made him thereafter had the top two buttons less than an inch apart. 

Kathy Mattea

One time years ago, we went to a concert at Honeywell. The guy we went to see was really good. We loved his show. But his opening act was outstanding--we really loved her.

I ordered a pair of jeans recently. When they came, they were the wrong size. I mean, they were the size I ordered, but they were too big. I was going to send them back, but they were so...comfortable. And if I'm walking on a cold day, there's plenty of room to wear leggings with them. They're not my favorites, I don't think, but somehow, they end up in the wash more often than anything else. 

Of the books I've written, fewer than half the titles I've chosen have stuck. Most of the time, I'm okay with what ends up on the cover (although not always--want to talk about The Debutante's Second Chance?) Occasionally, I really want the title I've chosen. Such was the case with The Happiness Pact. Five years or so later, I don't remember what I originally named the story, because The Happiness Pact was perfect. 

When I met Duane Flaherty in May of 1969, he didn't like me. At all. In May of 2021, we will have been married 50 years. He says he likes me now. 

We all make plans, don't we? The Super Bowl is the Rolls Royce of televised football games, carefully planned by the people who are going to make money from it. The shirt pattern gives very concise directions on where to put buttonholes. Every writer I know puts a lot of thought and heart into the working titles of manuscripts. I couldn't wait to get the jeans I ordered, but they're not what I intended at all. I don't think Duane meant to ever like me that day in Keller Kleaners when we met. 

I remember writing about this years ago, only I was writing about my plans for adulthood in general and motherhood specifically. My kids weren't who I thought they'd be. I was nowhere near as good a mother as I wanted to be. Truthfully, if there's a mistake I haven't made in life, it's because I haven't thought of it yet. 

But I'm so happy to have our kids be who they are and not reflections of plans we may have had for them. I'm glad Duane liked me last instead of first. I'm glad the books I write are more about what's between the covers than what's printed on the front one. That Jock liked his shirts with funny buttons, that we got to see the opening act, that I like the commercials even if I don't watch the game. 

I was wondering when I was writing this if it's stuff I've figured out during the pandemic, when plans are...well, pretty pointless. But it's not about plans or even goals, is it? It's about finding the good and enjoying it until you have to let it go. And then finding the good again. It's about loving when you don't feel like it, laughing when crying would be easier, and to put it into social media language, scrolling on by if it's something you can't change. 

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

 

Heard in The Nail Studio: "I AM relaxed!" "Choose your color." "Have you been oiling?" "How's the family?" "How are you? Doing okay?" "Coffee?" "Want some water?" Sisters Gina Lopez and Julie White are the techs in The Nail Studio at 302 E. 3rd Street in Peru, although you get to the shop on Wayne Street. 

There are often flyers hanging on the wall for fundraisers and community events. You can order your cheeseballs there. If you need to talk, people will listen. If you need prayer, it’s free without asking. If your hands need gentleness, Gina and Julie know that. If you need a little longer massage, they know that, too, because the tightness in your hands will tell them.

Like most businesses in small towns, in addition to making a living, it's about community, family, and caring. Nail care is by appointment and the phone number is 765-473-5866. Julie and Gina work with your schedule and will often rearrange their own if it's necessary to a client. 

Gina Lopez and Julie White

Added later: I just found out (via Facebook) that today is Gina Lopez's birthday. Happy birthday, Gina! Thanks for opening The Nail Studio in Peru.