Matty

It's October again and I can't believe how quickly the last year has passed. This time last October my familiy surrounded my son Matthew as he lived his last few days. He had been sick for a long time and we knew he was on his way to a better place, but we didn't know how to live without him.

A year later, I'm still not sure. Matt's life was complicated and challenging and he was often a large pain in the ass, but that was never his intention. The thing about Matt was that he was always so sure of himself and his place in the world. When he was a little child he liked to visit with elderly neighbors. He explained he needed to go see them because, "They'll be so glad to see me." He was right. They were glad to see him.

When he was seven and eight and nine he was sure he would play for the Mariners some day. He didn't notice the ever widening gap between what he could do physically and what his classmates and peers could accomplish. The gap grew even wider when he started having strokes in his early twenties. His balance was bad and he couln't see very well but his confidence didn't waver.

For me, Matt was a lesson in the eternal presence of love. He loved me with the devotion of a three year old. I was his mom and that was enough. I wasn't even close to a perfect mom. I'm not that patient, or kind or self sacrificing, but Matt loved me in a most childish and perfect way. No judgement. No stipulations.

Yup. I was privleged to know the love of my imperfect son. I won't forget. It's still with me. I love you too, Matt.

It's Not A Diet

That's what they all say. It's not a diet. It's a change in lifestyle. This time I'm trying the Southbeach Diet and I'm doing well with it. I really want bread with my peanut butter but I feel so good without the bread that I'm willing to keep eating the veggies.

For the last ten years I've gradually gained weight. A lot of weight. I've gained more since my son died last year. I'm out of control. I'm embarassed to go out in public with my husband. He's a really nice looking man, young for his age, and he's lost a few pounds in the last couple of months.

I never planned on being a fat girl. I was always the smallest person in school, at camp, at college, in my family. I liked being small. I liked having small feet and a small waist. It's how I saw myself. I was fairly athletic too. I'm prett coordinated and flexible but you'd never know it now. It's all covered up by sixty pounds of extra me.

My daughter is getting married next summer and I'd really like to look nice at her wedding so let the games begin. I want my kids and grandkids to be proud of me, not embarassed because I'm bulging. Bring on the vegies.

Rachael's Birthday

My oldest grandaughter has been on my mind all day today. Maybe it's because she is turning twelve on Monday. She's a beautiful, smart and absolutely pleasing girl. I keep thinking of the day she was born, a day that held several revelations for me. One was about her mom. Before Rachael was born I didn't realize what a generous and trusting person her mom was.

There she was after just giving birth, looking lovely and not nervous at all about being a first time mom. Some new moms are afraid to let everyone hold thier new infants but Rachael's mom seemed comfortable letting us each have a turn.

We watched as the nurse tended to the baby, each one of us wanting to grab her but I had the inside track. The nurse was an old friend of mine and she wrapped Rachael up tight and handed her to me. I looked at that tiny little face and knew there had never been a more lovely child.

I wasn't an official family member then. I was Rachael's grandpa's long time girlfriend. But Rachael changed that. Loving Rachael made me a family member. Her parents probably never knew how much it meant to me the next Christmas when they gave an ornament that read "to Grandma Cathy. I love you. Rachael."

We have eleven grandkids now and they are all beautiful and smart and full of life and they all call me Grandma, except for Jack who is two and a half and calls me Gaga. I have to admit that most of them like Grandpa best but since I like him best too I can understand.

Happy Birthday, Rachael. I still think you are lovely and I'm so proud of you.

Gratitude Journal

Since I opened my bookstore I haven't been able to watch Oprah in the afternoons. I've admired Oprah for a long time but there are times when she has really annoyed me. One of those annoyances came from my perception that if a mother and daughter were in conflict on her show, Oprah always takes the side of the daughter regaradless of the situation. She's been a duaghter but she's never lost a fortnight's sleep over a child's illness or a daughter leaving home and moving across the country. When everyone else was cheering and congratulating Oprah for her tough interview with James Frey, I thought she seemed self righteous and condesending.

All of that aside I am thankful to Oprah for introducing me to the concept of the gratitude journal. It was pretty easy to find things to be grateful for because my life has been blessed by my children, my husband's children and all those grandkids. Gratitude has it all over music when it comes to soothing the savage beast. Even in the darkest hours I can conjure up reasons to be grateful.

At Oprah's urging I started writing down a few things I was thankful for every day and eventually a pattern emerged. I would write down things like the how beautiful the river was that morning on my drive to Longview or how warm my dog is when he's cuddled up next to me while I read or watch TV. I'd list good health, good weather, good conversation, my ability to observe and write. You get the picture. It's so easy.

Eventually I realized that there was one entry that I wrote every day. Sometimes twice a day. I am grateful for my husband. Every day I am grateful that my partner is such a gentle, funny, generous, intelligent man. I get to spend my life with the man whose face I'm always glad to see. I don't even care that the grandkids seem to like him best. I like him best too.

I knew I loved him and he loved me but I didn't realize how importand he was in my life until his name popped up every day for a year in my journal.

So thanks Oprah for a fine idea. And thank God for all of his blessings, especially the one I married.

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

One of my favorite poems is "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats. It's a brilliant piece wirtten at a time of conflict and despair. I like the poem because I can read it and know that every generation at some time or another feels like things couldn't get worse. It gives me confort when I'm thinking the same thing.

The first stanza contains the most quoted lines:
The best lack all conviction while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Ain't it the truth? Our leaders have led us into an impossible war with all of the passionate intensity and conviction imaginable. They didn't listen to advisors who said it was a bad idea. There was no plan for management or withdrawl. I am as astonished at this foolishness as I was when Nixon was elected President. How could this happen? We may have been misunderstood by the rest of the world in the past. But now I think they understand all too well. We've become the aggressor without a plan.

The other night Bill Maher suggested we should give Iraq back to Saadam Hussein. He's a bad guy but he had knowledge we didn't. He held his country together by fear. Not an admirable method, but an effective one. Maher was kidding, of course, but he had a point.

I have eleven grandchildren. The oldest is almost twelve. She doesn't deserve to inherit a world at war. She deserves leaders with a little less conviction and a lot more reason. Those eleven beautiful children deserve a promising futrure in a country where they can grow and thrive and give the best to their children and grandchildren.

The answer is not to despair but to pay attention. Get involved. Stir things up a little. Write your representatives. Believe me, all of this goes against my peacemaking nature. I've never carried a sign in protest and I've avoided conflict my entire life but I can't be quiet about theis insantiy any longer.

The last part of my plan is to pray. You don't have to join the 700 Club or procalim your faith to strangers. Just take a few quiet momnents to contemplate q peaceful world and pray for your vision to come to fruition. It can't hurt.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god."

Betty, Coretta, My Daughters and Me

To say that I admire the women of my mother's generation is an understatement. They were the girls born in the twenties, raised during the Depression, worked in factories during World War II, and raised families for the next twenty years. From my point of view as a child, they were competent and mostly happy but appearances are deceiving.

My mom was widowed when she was thirty. In 1954 it wasn't the norm to raise children alone. She was the only mom on our block who worked outside the home. She worked every day and never saw me making a fool out of myself as a cheerleader. Neither did she attend school programs held in the afternoon. She was happiest baking on Saturday and going to her parents' home on Sundays for dinner and conversation with her mother. There was no family leave, no job sharing, no equal work for equal pay.

I'm reminded this week of the courage of women who were of Mom's generation. Betty Friedan wrote "The Feminine Mystique" in the late fifties and became the hero of several generations of young women seeking their own potential. She spoke of her own mother's unhappiness and lack of choices as inspiration for her work. Friedan died last week but her spirit carries on.

I caught a snippet of a talk Oprah Winfrey gave last week about Coretta Scott King. She closed by describing Mrs. King's efforts to make the world a better place for Afircan American women than the one her own mother faced. I was surprised by how those words touched me. Mrs. King personified dignity, as far as I'm concerned. Her example as a wonam of courage and tenacity will live on as well.

The mother-daughter relationship is profound and complicated. Hopefully, we are inspired by our mothers, whether we aspire to be like them or to be nothing like them. I ache for my mother's sad life but I'm powerless to change it. I can only make choices in my life, aspire to dignity and honesty and meaning.

I'm a daughter, a mother to two daugters, and a grandmother to a baby girl. My daughters are college graduates and support themselves. I'm so proud of them that tears are coming as I write. I fully expect them to make lives for themselves even though I've never supported myself or lived alone in my life. Okay, I'm a hypocrite but my trust in them is well placed. I have the advantage of knowing their great-grandmothers who were strong and loving women.

I celebrate five generations of women. It's an honor to be the link between those who came before and those who were born to me and my children.

Small Town Living

I live in a small town on the Columbia River west of I-5. You might say we live off the beaten path. Most of the time living off the path is just fine with me but it has its disadvantages.

The hiway between our town and civilization east of here is the most beautiful drive you can imagine. For several miles the drive is right along one of the most spectacular rivers in the world. The hiway is between the river and high cliffs to the north. The drive, though beautiful, is often treacherous. Rain soaked cliffs release rocks onto the road and deer and elk often cross the road at night.

Over the weekend several large rock slides closed the road to Longview and the estimated time to fix the road is uncertain. The only way to drive east of here is to take the Puget Island Ferry or to drive to Astoria and cross the bridge at Megler. A forty-five minute drive has become a half-day experience either waiting two to three hours for the ferry or adding an extra three hours a day for the drive around to the Oregon side of the river.

People in my town are amazing. They have found creative methods to accomplish the commute. My stepson and stepdaughter are leaving their cars on either side of the river, walking onto the ferry and using each other's cars on the other side. The county commissioners have established a shuttle service from Cathlamet to the ferry and bus service to Longview several times a day on the other side of the river.

The most amazing thing is that I've heard very little complaining. Poeple are extrordinarily inconvenienced, yet they continue to get to work with little grumbling. We may have been able to put this into perspective because a woman from Kalama was killed by a falling tree last Saturday on her way to Cathlamet for a basketball tournament. What's a little inconvenience compared to her family's shock and sadness?

Still, I have to pay homage to my freinds and neighbors who have risen to the occasion, to the Sheriff's office for thier professional and effective service, to the delivery people who have added hours to their day to deliver food, drugs and other vital products, and to each person who has tried to make the best of the situation.

Sometimes I Just Can't Help It

The other day my favorite blogger over at Hickopolis.com wrote about an article in a Seattle paper bemoaning the ignorance of store clerks and young celebrities who think Chicken of the Sea might just be chicken. Can chickens swim?

I wanted to chastise the writer for feeilng so superior in her intelligence and sophistication but I had an experience this morning that changed my point of view.

Some are born to smuggness, some achieve smugness and some have smugness thrust upon the. (Excuse Mr. Bard)Today smugness was thrust upon me. I tried to duck but it landed squarely and I wasn't quick enough or nice enough to cast it off right away.

As I was sitting at my computer desk in my bookstore, something moved behind me. It wasn't tall enough to be an adult. I looked around a just caught a glimpse of a white tail as it left my shop and went into the hall. I coulnd't resist. I really love dogs and I was pretty sure I had just missed a visit from one whom I hadn't formally met. I walked out the door and went into the visitor's center next door and sure enough,the dog and two men were talking to my neighbor.

The dog came right over to me and his owner said he was a "Dalpit." Then he explained that the dog was half pit bull and half dalmation. I was wondering who in his right mind would breed the reputidly meanest dog with the most energetic dog. A mean dog with tremendous energy and stuborness. Whoa!

To be fair, the dog was friendly and wasn't tearing anyting up. I was ready to go back to work when the owner told me proudly the dog is four years old.

"Born on Elvis'birthday." It was obviously a proud moment for him.

I said he must have just had a birthday.

"No, August 27. Elvis' birthday."

I said I thought Elvis was born in January wondering to myself how I know that Elvis was born in January. Yup, I thought, he's a Capricorn just like my hubby.

"August 27, Born on the King's birthday."

They turned to leave and I said good-bye to the cute pooch.

A google search confirmed January 8 as The King's birthday and now I'm feeing smug. I wonder if some dememted dog breeder (Dalpit?) just told the man who may or may not have been wearing a t-shirt with a replica of a black velvet Elvis portrait on the front that said dog, maybe a Pitmation, was born on Elvis' birthday.

I hope he doesn't know how to use Google. I hope he continues to enjoy his Elvis birthday sharing pooch for a long time.

Just One More Round of "Let the Sunshine In"

I need more light, less rain, more company, less wind. We have freinds and relatives who leave thier homes for the winter. They just pack up and leave for warmer weather and blue skies. I'm starting to realize why. How many days of rain and gray skies and wind can a person take without buying a therapy light or moving into a tanning bed?

I've been reading the dialy journal entries of Lewis and Clark's men during the winter spent at Fort Clatsop on the northern Oregon coast. I don't claim to be as hungry or wet or cold or homesick as they were but I'm beginning to see why they didn't rave about the vast beauty and irrisistable quality of life here. I think their word was "uninhabitable."

I guess we were spoiled last year. January and February were amazingly sunny and pleasant. The rain finally came in the spring but by then our attitudes were way up there so we didn't complain much. We're close to breaking a record thirty-three consecutive days of rain. Is this day twenty-five or six? I don't know. My brain doesn't work without a little light.

In order to get out of this dark funk, I'm going to list a few things for which I'm grateful. Lets, see.......my dog Oliver, my kids and grandkids, my lovely husband, my home on a hill way above the flood plain, my nieghbors at work who are such nice people, my big warm bed, my good friend, my son's uneventful tour of duty in Iraq, my little town and my ability to express myself.

I wish I could be grateful for a little sunshine.

A Good Read

The last week has been really slow at my bookstore so I've had a little time to read and write. I had to pick a book to feature in an advertisement in a regional monthly newspaper. I picked Jim Lynch's "The HIghest Tide," without reading it. I noticed that several northwest booksellers recommended the book so I felt safe in the choice.

Now that I've read the book I can tell you it's a gread read; a coming of age story about a fourteen year old boy who's knowledge of the bay near his Olympia area home is extensive. His voice is young, and fresh and cynical at once. His descriptions of the tide pools and the life within are rich and enticing.

I live near the most amazing river in the west. The Columbia's history is as rich as the life within it. A life I'm almost totally ignorant of . Sure I notice the river. It changes color hourly and I'm in awe of its massive twice daily tidal comings and goings. I notice when sea lions and seals poke thier heads out of the water and I'm frightened when the river runs high and is full of debris from tributary flooding. The drive between Cathlamet and Longview includes long stretches of highway right along the river. But I can't say that I know the river well.

Lynch's book has brought me up short. He's made me aware of my own ignorance and my unconscous willingness to take my surroundings for granted. It that's what he intended he is successful. If not, his book is worth reading anyway. His characters are familiar enough to be my neighbors and endearing enough to make me care about them.

I've never been a fourteen year old boy but I can identify with Miles O'Malley. If you haven't read The Highest Tide I recommend you pick up a copy, read it and loan it to your favorite reading friends. It's worthwhile.

Neil Diamond: Not Just For Fat Old People Anymore

One of my favorite Christmas presents was the new Neil Diamond CD from one of my daughters. I've been a fan of Neil's (I've been to enough concerts to call him by his first name) since his first album came out when I was in high school. Back then he seemed soulful and a bit mysterious, like the nice looking bad boy who's parents owned a music store down the street.

Neil saw me through some long days when I was at home alone in a strange new town with my first baby. My husband worked long hours and I listened to Holly Holy over and over for a couple of months while we saved up for that first black and whilte tv set.

The Johnathan Livingston Seagull alblum contains some of my favorite music. The movie was pretty awful but the words and music on that album did just as the composer intended; It made me feel like I was soaring. I loved the African rhythms on Tap Root Manuscript and the lovely "Ladio" on the Beautiful Noise album

I took exception when Neil, whom I knew to be Jewish, recorded a Christmas album in the nineties. It seemed a slightly desperate attempt to keep his career alive, and let's face it folks, the man ain't no Johnny Mathis.

His new album, Twelve Songs, is his best in a long time. It's just Neil and an acousitc guitar. Twelve songs that coulnd't have been written by someone in his twenties. Songs of Experience. (Forgive me Mr. Blake) I like "Hell, yea" and "I'm onto you," best but there's not a klunker on the CD.

Who would have thought back in 1966 that the young guy from New York would still be turning out great music forty years later?

One Mother to Another

Today in my daughter's blog she referenced an article about the Catholic Church's rethinking of the concept of limbo. You know limbo. It's the place where unbaptized babies and other innocents go after death. You have to give the church credit for not sending those little imaculate souls there instead of hell but even when I was a small child it all seemed unfair and unnecessary.

The church has decided to let God perform triage on innocent souls, allowing them into heaven as he sees fit. I imagine that God's desk has a new plaque that proclaims, "The Buck Stops Here." I'm sure he's up to the task.

My beef with the Catholic Church concerns decisions made to answer the questions of the reasoning faithful. Limbo must have been the result of such a question. My favorite is the "Imaculate Conception," the idea that Mary was the only human being other than Jesus himself, born without original sin. Really, I think it would have been better to establish Mary as an "every woman" than to cast her image as the purest vessel ever born.

Personally I think the imaculate conception came from the feeling that somehow women are dirty. We are the "near occasion of sin" we learned about in CCD. That means a big temptation to you non CCD raised folks. Those cardinals coulnd't imagine a woman good enough to give birth to the savior so they declared Mary to be other.

It's not that I'm a total nonbeliever. I've turned to Mary many times when I've been worried about my children. She knew the joy and pain of motherhood. She lost her son. I've lost a son. It's complicated but I'm comfortable praying to her, asking for the grace to go on that I think comes more easily from the feminine.

So a few old guys with funny red hats declared her special. She already had what no convocation of cardinals could grant her. She didn't seem to require more.

Not Quite Myself

You might have noticed I haven't been blogging much lately. I haven't written becasue I'm not myself. I mean, of course I am myself but I don't feel like myself. I'm watching me. Outside of myself.

You see, my son Matthew died in October. He was sick for a long time. We hadn't had a real conversation in at least a year. He suffered. I watched him suffer and tried to advocate for him in any way I could. Sometimes that meant making sure the doctors didn't forget to rewrite his anitphychotic medication when he went back to the nursing home from the hospital. Sometimes it meant making sure the aides put a warmer shirt to keep his tiny arms warm.

I ddin't realize he was on my mind all the time. If I hadn't seen him during the day the little nagging voice in my head would remind me that I might be his only visitor that day. I was always on the lookout for a little toy that would make him smile. Taking care of Matthew was what defined my life for almost thirty years.

And now he's gone. And I'm watching myself and waiting for the sad to come. I clean, and cook and talk to people, go to Chirstmas parties, even opened a my new store and I can't feel a thing. Sure I have teary moments but most of the time I'm so fine it's unbelievable.

It's Christmas and Mattthew is gone and so am I.

The Pope Speaks on Chirstmas

Yesterday while I was playing my new favorite game on the computer I listeded half heartedly to the evening news. Iwas relaxing after celebrating Christmas with my husband's family over the weekend. We have a couple of doctors in our family who will be on call during Chirstmas weekend so we celebrated a little early with them.

The weekend was otherwise eventful. My new store opened on Friday and my daughter brought her boyfriend to meet us for the first time. It was a great weekend for all the right reasons. Daughter and boyfriend were fun. He's just as great as she said. The grandkids laughed and played and the grown kids enjoyed being together.

The good company, the laughter and stories and good food happened in spite of my not so clean house and my undecorated Christmas tree and general unready state. And that brings me back to the evening news. The pope deliverd a Chirstmas message over the weekend. Chirstmas is just too commercial. The spirit is lost in the rush to buy presents and make cookies. We are compelled to redecorate our houses.

Women make Christmas. We cook and shop and put up the tree and plan for the perfect gifts. We have an image in our heads and hearts that is difficult to produce in real life. But we continue to try. It's the time of year when we try to match our frazzled lives with every unrealistic expectation imaginable.

Il Papa is right. We should be more mindful of the real reason for the holiday. Now I feel even more stressed trying to figure out how to accomplish that.

Our weekend was Christmas light. The Pizza was great. So was the company.

Good Old Girl

I took my daughter's childhood kitty to the vet today. She's been put to sleep and we're getting her ashes to scatter in the back yard in a couple of weeks. She was a good kitty and a part of our family for nearly sixteen years.

Isabelle was a barn cat that my step daughter rescued and brought to her dad's house. She was not a cute little kitten.She seemed to be divided down the middle. Even her face was half one color and half another. She didn't like people much and I have a few scratch scars from trying to pick her up at the wrong time. My husband named her for his first mother-in-law, an eccentric woman whom he admired.

Issy was an accomplished mouser and even Oliver our dog knew not to mess with her when she was in a mood. She slept on the dining room chairs and left large amounts of hair wherever she lay. She didn'tlike our other kitty and he learned to leave her alone too.

Isabelle demanded our respect and we gladly gave it. She was a fine female and we'll miss her. The only other pet she liked was our cocker spaniel, Blondie. They used to curl up together and sleep the afternoon away. I hope when she got to pet heaven Blondie was waiting for her. She deserves a good freind and a good rest.

Books, by the Box

Today while cleaning and pricing used books for my new bookstore I got a visit from Bob the UPS man. It may have been a little difficult for him to negotiate the box he was carrying into the room because there are books stacked everywhere. My bookshelves are being brought to life by an excellent craftsman as I write.

This is the day I feel like a bookseller. Not just someone who uses Ronson lighter fuel (Thanks Rick and Joe) to clean the old gummy stickers off old books, not just someone who's been guessing at the right prices to charge for the used books and writing them oh so faintly with pencil on the first light colored page and cleaning them with diluted orange scented Fantastic.

You see, today I got my first box of new books from my supplier. It was a small box but I kept glancing at it all day thinking that I'm not just playing anymore. I have new books to sell. Maybe some of them will become Christmas presents or some kind of surprise for a friend. Oh, the possibilities!

My store already has that booky smell. You know, ink and paper and dust; the smell I have driven miles to experience myself.

Book people! Are you out there? I'm almost ready for you!

The Urge to Make Stew

Fall is officially here. The air is heavy with moisture, the leaves are changing colors, football is back and I have the familiar urge to cook hearty meals. You know, meat loaf and roast beef and stew.

Most of the year I don't have the urge to cook anything. I have to admit I am an uninspired cook. My husband contributes to this lack of inspiratio by being a really good sport about getting a turkey sandwich for dinner instead of meat and potatoes and gravy. The autumn comes and with rain and cold he gets a real diner once in a while.

So Bring on the ghastly weather, the pumpkins and squash and (gasp!) the holidays. I'll be in the kitchen buttering the cornbread and ladeling something hot and thick into big bowls.

Matty The Magnificent

When my son Matthew was about four years old his dad and I watched from the patio door as he sang a loud and nearly on key rendition of The Carpenters' "I'm On the Top of the World" in the backyard. He was wearing only his superman underoos and he was using the green garden hose for a microphone. He was bold and self assured and not at all self conscious and he gave us equal amounts of joy and aggrivation.

That lovely moment was during the before part of Matthew's life. The part that was happy and hopeful. The part before the brain tumor. Before surgery and radiation, learning disabilities and a lifetime of loss and disappointment. He didn't get a drivers' license, didn't play basketball, didn't ever go out on a real date, had few friends. We were disappointed for him, but he rarely let any of it get him down. He was the football team manager and participated in FFA and his classmates treated him well.

Matthew has had several close calls with death and we've tried to prepare ourselves for his passing as best we could. But he has always managed to get better. He's had transfusions, surgeries, long hospital stays, numerous tests and scans and labwork.

Last week while I was in California Matthew took another turn. His kidneys are failing and he's being cared for by the great people at the local nursing home and by a wonderful hospice nurse. I'm hoping he'll stay around for his birthday at the end of the month but I also want him to be free of this life. It's a strange thing to pray for death to come to a loved one.

I know I'm rambling but that seems to be how my brain is working, just roaming around grabbing onto a thought here and feeling a little emotion there. I can't get the little singer wearing only his underpants out of my head. He was magnificent.

Going Home

I'm going home tomorrow. It does't matter where I go or how long I'm gone. I always get a little giddy about going home. To my husband and my dog and my own bed. I'll get to visit my son at the nursing home on Wednesday and hope he didn't notice I was gone. Home to my new bookstore.

Yup, I'm opening a bookstore just when many small bookstores are closing down. I live in Salmon country so the image of swimming upstream toward a goal is familiar. It's a small store, not quite four-hundred square feet but I'm going to fill it with books and hope that people will come and enjoy the space, the books, and the company.

There are boxes of books there waiting to be priced and shelved so my fun has already begun. You see, I am an addict. I'm so distracted by books that I forget what I'm doing in my own house when I pass a bookshelf and see a book I remember reading and enjoying or a book I intend to read soon. They look good on the shelf, feel good in my hands, even have their own inky, papery smell.

When I was about fourteen I sneaked a couple of Taylor Caldwell's books off my mom's shelf and read them at night after she had gone to sleep. They were historical romance, a little steamy for that era and absolutely wonderful. I gradutated to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mark Twain in high school and in college I fell in love with Ain Rand.

I haven't read all of my books. Not even close. But I love finding them. Used, new, in stores, online. My current favorites are a few Scribner Classics for children illustrated by N.C. Wyeth. They are breathtaking.

I hope a few people of like mind find my store. Even if they don't, I'm going to have a great time with the books.

Jack and Me

I'm away from home for a week to take care of my grandson. He turned two last Monday and he's so much fun. I've bemoaned the fact that he lives far away and I don't see him often for the past two years so when my son asked me to come down I jumped at the chance.

Jack eating oatmeal in the morning is on my list of the top five cutest things I've ever seen. He scoops up big globs and carefully aims toward his mouth and once the food reaches his mouth there is very little chewing and a great deal of loud swallowing. Being with Jack is sweet.

It makes me want to apologize to my children for not noticing every little moment, not relishing them enough. I was twenty when I had my first son and had all the confidence of a new adult but I wasn't mature enough to really enjoy being a mom. I wasn't great at having little kids, and I had four of them in eight years. As they grew, so did I and by the time they were teenagers I had relaxed enough to be present with them. They all turned out great and I'm proud of them. Hell, I even like them.

The last few days with Jack have reminded me of those days twenty-five or thirty years ago when I was a stay-at-home mom. I'm rembering how long the days were and how lonely I sometimes felt. My husband worked twelve hour days and we moved four times between 1970 and 1979. I'm not complaining. I wanted to stay home with my kids but it was difficult at times.

In the spirit of gratitude I'm glad for those days but I'm also grateful for the freedom I have now and the bonus of having grandchildren. Finally, I'm grateful for the little things, like onesies and Quaker instant oatmeal.