Happy Places

Nickel Plate Trail

On Wednesday, coming through Denver, we automatically slowed to a crawl at the park where the baseball diamonds are because that's what you do where kids play. Or you should. And this time it was a definite payoff because kids were playing on at least one of those diamonds. There were cars in the parking lot, parents on bleachers. It made me happy, seeing the players out there. It made me happy remembering the time I spent on those bleachers and in that concession stand watching kids be kids.

I've thought, in the few days since, about the term "happy place." It's a popular one now. I have several of them--my office, our kitchen, anywhere our kids and grandkids are, the Nickel Plate, the passenger seat when Duane and I are going somewhere and talking the whole way. It made me wonder about other people's happy places, so I asked. Here are the answers I got. I love that so much happiness came from people and porches.

Becky Shambarger - My back porch, where I can relax.

Denise Smoker - I literally call my front deck, which is outdoors but covered, my happy place. As in don't bug me, I'm going to my happy place to write.

Bruce Clark

Bruce Clark - These days, it's where most of my friends are.

Gary Working - I have photos of my daughter Amber and I long ago making snow angels in upper park.

Pete Jones - Nothing makes you feel better than helping others. This is at a special needs school in Belize. The kids are getting water to take back to their classroom.

Joann Runkle - One of my Happy places!

Cheryl Reavis - My Happy Place: The Tiny Porch I had to lobby three or four decades to get, with my favorite writer cat, Carl, where the mosquitoes cannot get me, AND there are rocking chairs (which I have to share with said cat), AND a ceiling fan.

Carl

Joe DeRozier - My happy place. 

Jeremiah, Joe, April, and Nicole DeRozier

Cassandra Correll - I take after my Dad. He always liked lakes, canals...water. It's calming. I especially like lakes and trees.

Cindy and Kennedy Ridenour

Cindy Sue Ridenour - Anyplace, anytime with my granddaughter.

Cindy Walker - This is my Florida house. It’s my happy place because I can walk everywhere to visit friends, play cards, exercise, have Bible study, share a meal or glass of wine, and just chat or give a hug. Makes my heart happy from the time we arrive in December till April when we leave.

Jay Pritchard - My porch. I start my day here with a coffee and end it here with a

glass of wine. Love to sit and appreciate the gifts we have been provided.

Jane Lorenz - Our garden is always too wet in the spring.  So I plant on our back deck my herbs and some tomatoes. 

Skye Huges - The Oregon Coast. Or any beach, if not there.

A MOMENT OF PERFECT by Liz Flaherty

I was standing in the middle of my office, with the mess of office stuff on my left and the even bigger mess of sewing stuff on my right. The windows and door were open. The fifth episode of the second season of The West Wing was on television. The orioles were talking outside and our cat, Gabe, was just sitting there. He may have been a little cranky about the orioles, but he’s old and he’s a guy—maybe he was just cranky for general principles. I had coffee in my hand, fresh from the Keurig, sweetened and creamed to just the taste and color I liked. My husband wasn’t here, but he’d kissed me goodbye when he left. We’d laughed about something and we’d danced in the hallway in the house before I came out.

I laughed out loud, in here with no one to hear me, and I can see my smile in the screen of the computer even now. The orioles in the yard are even more orange than they usually are. Birdsong is sweeter and flowers gorgeouser.

And there, just for a couple of minutes in my morning, life was perfect.

Joe DeRozier

My friend Joe makes doughnuts. During the coronavirus quarantine, he’s been delivering pastries to surrounding towns on certain days of the week. One town in particular was happy for his deliveries since their own long-time bakery was closed. The other bakery has opened back up now, so Joe stopped delivering to that town. He didn’t have to. They didn’t ask him to. But he wasn’t interested in taking over someone else’s playground.

For a moment in time, there was perfection in the world of local small business.

I like color. I like birds. I like rabbits and squirrels and deer in the yard. This morning, the cardinals, orioles, goldfinches, and blue jays—not to mention what I think was a bluebird but I’m not positive—are all over the place. I can see the rabbits down where they live and the squirrels scaling the cottonwood. No deer today, which is fine.

The scene out my office window is perfect. Just now.

Terri Hall

My friend Terri gave me ten bags of fabric. Yes, ten. Since I already have…much fabric, I don’t need to get into those ten bags all at once. They’re sitting over there on the sewing side of the room. And it’s like having a Christmas tree in May. Each of those bags is a gift and I don’t know the contents. When I need something new, something uplifting, I open a bag. I make plans for the pieces of fabric in the bag. Masks, or one beautiful piece I’m going to be wearing as a summer top—if we ever actually get summer—or the center of a quilt block.

There is nothing except the fabric and the plans for it and who can be made happy by what is done with it. Happy’s good. Passing it on is even better. Opening that bag makes for several perfect moments.

There are drive-bys going on for high school graduates. This morning I watched a video of North Miami staff sending their students off for the summer with signs and waving. Dry eyes weren’t an option if you were watching.

It was perfection in a time of pain and loss.

As part of a lifestyle, a vocation, or an avocation, I think perfection is overrated—possibly because I’ve always known I had neither the patience or the necessary skills to achieve it. I’m a great fan of pretty good, good enough, and okay. If something was fun, productive, and no one was hurt, that’s as close to perfect as I need.

I remember a customer showing me a bubblegum card with a a young Mickey Mantle on it. I was so impressed because it was really old and it was…you know…Mickey Mantle. But he said it was worthless because it was so imperfect. The corners were crumpled and it was faded and it looked…old. All I could think was, Yeah, but it’s Mickey Mantle.

And yet. And yet I can still appreciate those moments of perfection. And talk about them, remember them, and be glad they happened. So, once again in my best Pollyanna Whittier voice, I’m asking you to look for the perfect, enjoy it, and store it up so that when 2020 is in the past, you will remember more than darkness. More than division. More than haters hating and people dying and high school seniors having to grow up at least a semester before their time.

I hope you’ll remember that while churches were silent, the people who attend them still worshiped. That while school buildings were closed, teachers (and parents!) still taught and students still learned. Don't forget bright orange birds, graduates not in the least lessened by not being able to march with their classmates to “Pomp and Circumstance,” and health care and other essential workers who stepped up Every Single Day of the quarantine. Remember always that in the midst of all that was bad, there were also moments of perfect in every day.

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

Dear hearts and gentle people... by Joe DeRozier and Samie McFadden #WindowOvertheSink

There are two guests here looking out the Window Over the Sink with me today. What riches that is! I'm sure you'll agree when you read what they have to offer. My thanks to Joe DeRozier and Samie McFadden.

 The first real snow... by Joe DeRozier

One of my favorite memories of a good snowstorm was around 1999. It had snowed hard and continuously, all day.  There was no way my trucks were getting out for donut deliveries.

The worst days are when it snows and accumulates very early.  I've stared out the window a million times...is it slowing down?

Are the plows out?

Is it freezing?

Salt trucks?

I'd hate to halt production just to have the snow stop at six pm, and the snow removal teams at full force.

No, this was one of those days when it is so bad that you KNOW you can't deliver, and all your accounts know it. 

It’s evening, and I’m wired because I’m usually in full work mode.

The kids and I watch the snow come down by the bucketload and are amazed by the beauty of it as it hangs on the trees and blankets our cars.

Thumper (Nicole) konks out early, as is her habit, but Dodi and I stay up to watch it.

After a while, I ask her, "Hey, Doe, what do you think about walking around in this?"

She enthusiastically said she would love it, and after her mommy's protests fell on our deaf ears, I bundle her up to the point that she can hardly move. Under her hat, and above her scarf, all I can see are two big eyes that are very blue and very excited.

As we descend down the porch, I realize she is too small overcome the snowbanks, so I throw her on my shoulders and hold her hands

We venture down the sidewalk past the Shenemans’ and Dawalts’ homes...their lights are on and smoke is coming from the chimneys of their snow-covered roofs.

It is cold, but not the kind of cold that you feel through your being... it's the kind that after you're moving around, you feel comfortable...it was an absolute, living, Norman Rockwell painting.

I'd occasionally pick her off my shoulders and throw her into a huge snowbank.  She'd hit it and sink in with the sound that fresh snow makes when being manipulated...THHHUUMPH

The way she laughed...I saw her bright blue eyes crinkle and the sound of a child absolutely giddy with laughter...the most beautiful music in the world.  Every parent knows this sound. And every parent gets a slight lump in their throat while reading about it, as it brings back the memories of their own young child, making that most beautiful sound...

We get to the St. Charles playground. We climb the snow mountain to the rim of the basketball rim, where we make snowballs and push them through the hoop.

We trek farther north. There’s a train on the tracks.  We stand hand-in-hand, and watched the train go...we check each car and comment on all the graffiti.   Graffiti can be very pretty...

We get to Boulevard and climb a steep hill.  When we get to the top, Daddy does somersaults all the way to the bottom, as Dodi slides on her bottom.

 

I feel snow slide down my back and up my pant legs all the way down. It’s completely worth it to hear that musical masterpiece of a child's laughter once again.

As we walk home, I see Dodi looking at everything with such amazement...we forget, as adults, the beauty that every season brings, and it isn't until times like this that your mind is jolted back to a time when you appreciated such wonderment..

We get back home, and after I received a slight scolding from Mommy, we get Dodi into some warm dry clothes.

Completely tuckered from our adventures, she goes right to sleep.

I remember sitting on the couch, thinking...

I was thinking that I'd never, ever forget this time...

***

by Samie McFadden

But hey
What can you do?
Contribute protest create donate
Eat more eat less exercise stretch
Sound off educate debate research read test validate consolidate
communicate hibernate
Vaccinate medicate isolate procreate
Teach preach listen pray leave stay
Walk run jog kick scream soothe
pacify justify unify amplify
Think write
Make art make music make love make peace make a statement
Grow a garden shop locally open a business care globally
Say no say yes discuss resist
Run for office serve an office expose an office
Judge love dance
But do it because you choose to
And do it now.
That's what you can do.

Let's just be glad... by Joe DeRozier #WindowOvertheSink

Welcome to one of my favorite times of year, and welcome back to the Window--it's my intent to post once a week again. I hope you still visit and enjoy. If you have a good post for us, please get with me so I can use it here and we can all enjoy it. Joe DeRozier did just that this week. I love this, and I'm sure you will, too. - Liz

Joe and Kathy DeRozier

My wife and I had a date on Saturday afternoon. Saturday is the only day I really have time to enjoy her company. I have time to de-frazzle from the morning in the bakery and I'm not overwhelmed by what awaits me at the donut shop Sunday. I get paroled from work early on Saturdays and go in just a couple hours later (4 a.m) than usual on Sundays. To some, that schedule would seem terrible, but when you have so little personal time, every hour is precious.. But I digress. We enjoy a lot of places to go out to eat, but we have a special tug for the Twenty's restaurant in Charlie Creek. We were married there and the atmosphere at this place is nothing short of spectacular... the memorabilia from times gone by, really relax me... I swear I was born in the wrong era... As my bride and I are talking and enjoying some delicious cuisine, I couldn't help but to notice two older couples dining together. It was hard to tell their decade in life, because while their hair and some wrinkles told the tale of a certain era, their smiles, laughter, and teasing of each other, made them forever youthful. I couldn't help watching them ... their familiarity with each other... Were they related, perhaps? Coworkers from a lifetime ago before retirement? Did they share vacations? Did they raise families at the same time...maybe grandchildren...comfort each other during passing of loved ones? Did they visit each other on holidays? There was a bond. It was a closeness that could be felt. They were comfortable in their roles in this relationship. One man was the storyteller. I caught very little of the stories, but he spellbound the rest. He made everyone laugh often, but it was the laughter of his wife that I noticed. It was genuine. It was prideful. She was proud to love and be loved by this man that could regale a story with such elegance. The other man listened intently, but was very comfortable to humorously interject. The whole table participated in the dialogue... There were so many smiles. A lot of eye contact... ...a lot of love. When they arose to leave, there was a spring to their steps. They inadvertently touched while jostling chairs, and reaching for their wallets, but there was no awkwardness. They epitomize what I so want...what everyone wants. Those friends and family in life, that you feel so comfortable with... the love, the laughter and the closeness... that you're genuinely excited to be around. I wonder if they knew I was watching... I wonder if they know how blessed they are... I wonder if they have any idea of the example they set... ... I hope so

"I talked to a lady today..." by Joe DeRozier #WindowOvertheSink

The title of this post is from a poem by Tanya Howden. There is so much to be learned and read about Alzheimer's and its cruelties. I loved what Joe said. I think you will, too. My thanks to him, and to "T. S." and her family for allowing me to share it. - Liz

Alzheimer's is a thief.

It is a lowly thief that steals beautiful minds.

I know a strong, vibrant, intelligent, and outgoing woman.

This woman speaks several languages. She is an amazing chef. She is a terrific hostess. She has a vast knowledge of words, places and etiquette.

This lowly thief, Alzheimer's, has locked all of this women's attributes in a vault. A vault in her own mind. Those things are still there, they're just under lock and key. This key holder is a thief, and he will never reopen it.

I've read articles about this wonderful woman. I've heard a million stories from her children. She has told me many things about her life that the thief has yet to take from her.

I look in her eyes...eyes that have seen and experienced so many things...but those eyes no longer possess the depth they once held.

I'll ask about one of her past accomplishments. She smiles, but can't remember. She wants to remember. She tries...but that thing, that thief, just sits back and laughs as he dangles the key.

She asks questions. Questions that she should already know the answers. Questions she has asked before...maybe many times in succession.

To her, it is the first time she has asked. For us, it's hard to not seem exasperated...she has to think we're rude to not want to be bothered by a simple question.

The thief laughs.

She can't throw things away. We question her, but she doesn't know why...she just has to keep them.

The thief knows why...and smiles

We have to wait until she showers to wash her clothes because she's afraid to let us take them.

It laughs, again.

Well, thief, you HAVEN'T won! You haven't won because WE remember!

We remember the great mom she was.

We remember the great hostess she was.

We remember the great teacher she was.

We remember the great friend she was.

We remember her love and her compassion.

She would have always been kind to any of us, had it been one of us whose mind you had treacherously stolen.

This beautiful mind you have stolen, you thief, still has her beautiful soul.

She still loves, and appreciates, and she is so kind. You can't take that, you thief. And you can't
take our memories of her.

One day, she will leave us...and she will get back that key, because she will be in a place that no longer permits you to lock up her memories.

Until then, you will never win, because we will always remember...and you can't steal that from us.

We love you, T.S.

A Different Feeling by Joe DeRozier

Mom....

You get a whole different feeling when someone mentions her name, don't you?

I talk a lot about Dad. Maybe because I feel my life has been a series of failed attempts to be like him..... but Dad couldn't have been Dad.....without Mom.

"Mom" IS her name. Isn't weird when someone calls her by her first name?

Mom and Dad together are a formidable team.

While Dad's status as Exalted Grand King Poo Bah was never in question, Mom was the Radar O'Reilly of the home. Dad may have been President, but Mom was the Congress and the Senate...except she wasn't lazy and corrupt...but you understand.

Dad didn't anger often, but when he did, Mom was the only one that could calm him. Had she done it the same way, each time, we kids would have caught on. I suppose it depended why he was mad...but Mom always knew how to disarm him.

Mom never got mad...well, not screaming mad...more Clint Eastwood mad. Quiet, and looked you in the eyes..."Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?" kind of mad...

When Dad disciplined us, he could get a little crazy.
Dad: Joey, you're late, again! You're grounded until you're 75.

Me: (maintain silence...don't poke the bear!)

After an hour or so, Mom came to the room and let me know it was for a week. I just had to let her work her magic.

When Dad didn't feel we did a good job, he redid it. We knew it. He left traces of evidence showing that we dropped the ball.

Mom did the same thing, but left no evidence... I noticed, though.

Mom is an observer. I don't remember her teaching us to be like that, or maybe I'm more like Mom than I know, but I would notice that the carpet was vacuumed a different way, or the cushions were set up differently. Then the question was, did she REALLY not want me to know she redid my job, did she REALLY want me to know, or did she REALLY want to see if I was observant enough to figure it out?

While we were growing up, Mom was an early riser. I'd get up at five am, and she was already up doing exercises. She was the last one in bed.

Her profession was nursing. She went back to it once we kids were older. Though nurses were just starting to wear scrubs, Mom insisted on wearing her nurse's uniform. I was really proud of that. That was cool.

Mom broke her back at work...twice. She has had approximately six million surgeries and most of her body parts are not original. She should have died a few times, but I fully believe her will to take care of Dad always kept her with us.

Moms, for those of us born so long ago, always took a back seat to Dad...but Dad could have never been Dad...without Mom.