THE EYES ARE A WINDOW TO THE SOUL

Although I have a dishwasher, most of the time I’m a bubbles-in-the-sink and wash by hand kind of gal. Just after starting the early morning coffee, and to my hungry cat’s chagrin, I immediately fill my sink with hot soapy water to soak the dishes that seem to have grown exponentially in the sink overnight. And then I just look out my window. Sometimes it’s really dark and I see nothing but shadows and other times the sunlight is vibrant and cresting on the horizon. But no matter the weather, it’s one of my favorite things of the day and especially now. My view is not skewed by news reports, internet bias, nor pandemic panic. Instead, when I peer outside and see all of God’s gracious beauty, it makes my mind go to simple things like the trees, flowers, the singing birds, stunning skies with white puffy clouds or majestic colors. 

Nature is a constant. It keeps cycling no matter what’s going on in my head. And I also find the warm running water soothing to the chill of the morning and now more than ever, think of how grateful I am to have hot running water and the luxury it brings to my day. It slows down the pace of life and the churning in my mind. It might not be washing dishes by hand for you but it could be folding clothes, dusting, digging in the dirt outside, painting, reading or just doing nothing at all. Sometimes finding a mindless task helps our brains to rest from the turmoil going on around us. But whatever it is, I hope my friends find ease in the mundane today.

THERE’S GRAFFITI ON MY WALL

Several year ago, I stood at the doorway of my living room and felt like I was thrown back in time.  Everything and anything from the 1980’s to the 1880’s resided in this space.   A room filled with family treasures, old furniture that was passed down from my grandparents, and the dusty rose and hunter greens of 1988.  Slowly my eyes traveled around the room.   As much as I cherished all the collected memories of our family, the room was beginning to feel overwhelming.  There was just too much stuff.   It was in that moment that the wheels in my brain turned so loudly that the hubs heard it from our lumpy, comfy family room sofa and he shuttered.  He had heard those wheels before!

I thought it would be easy and ten-minutes and not-too expensive and done before The Voice came on.

I thought wrong.

For two long, painstaking years I battled with myself about furniture placement, wall color, what should remain or what to let go.  I measured.  I shopped.  I fretted.  I returned.  The old furniture was moved around the room so many times trying new arrangement ideas that there were tread marks on the rug.  After countless hours spent looking at design magazines, Pinterest, Houzz, and the internet, I still had nothing but an empty room.  Sympathetically, my hubs watched me brood over this for months and tried to help out by choosing a  paint color for me -- a new trendy color called Dismal Grey.   But after it was rolled on, I saw only Putrid Purple.  Once again, he  heard the wheels turning in my head and offered to repainted the room a different shade of grey because he’s a good guy like that.  But the new room color did nothing to reinvigorate my creative mojo, so I simply blamed it on him.  How could anyone feel inspired trying to decorate a cold and depressing gray room?  Surely it was still the wrong color.   But this time he didn’t budge.  He liked the color and suggested I just buy some furniture.  Sky’s the limit he said.  Splurge.  Whatever makes you happy.  So with plastic in hand, I measured.  I shopped.  I fretted.  I returned.  And yet, still nothing!

After dreaming about sofas for weeks, I decided to lay it all down and for six tranquil months my grandson, Henry and I played carpet ice hockey in the big, empty room.  LOTS of hockey and LOTS of fun!  And for the first time in two years, I found joy and peace in the room—yet there was no stuff.   Just me and Henry making memories.  

The summer months quickly flew by and as the daylight grew shorter, so did our hockey games.  Unless I bought a lamp, our hockey fun would have to come to an end.  Since I had still not given up hope of furnishing the room, I decided to start with a lamp.

Just. One. Lamp.

In the end, I bought more than a lamp.   Along with a new sofa and a couple chairs,  an ugly abstract painting that looked like teenage graffiti made its way into the room.  The salesperson talked me into it, but the more I looked at it the more I disdained it.  In fact, nobody liked it, but for now the graffiti will remain on the wall.  In a weird kind of way, I like that the new room is not perfect.  In fact, it's not even all new as three of my most cherished furniture pieces remain in the room.  They are old, dinged and outdated, but I love them.  I think that’s why I had such a hard time with the room.  I wanted to move on, but didn’t want to let go.

But just like life, decorating is all about perspective. It’s about learning to live with what you have and embracing every inch of the imperfect.  The flaws, the character, the dings and dents and nicks.  But making room for the new.  Because truly, here’s the truth that we know, but we often forget.  All those imperfections are so much more beautiful and amazing and incredible than perfect and new ever dreamed of being.  

 

THE NANTUCKET BASKET

I never thought the fall of 2018 would ever arrive! After a year of anticipation and planning, Diane and I were finally on our way.  My sister-in-law and globetrotting sidekick was presumably a travel agent in her prior life as she is no slouch planning excursions.  With savvy precision, she found the most amazing places for us to stay all the while making sure we received the greatest bang for our buck.  Neither of us had ever traveled to Nantucket nor seen much of New England so we put both on our bucket lists and agreed now was the time to check them off.  As a genealogical enthusiast and descendant of settlers arriving via the Mayflower fleet, it was also my goal to glean anything I could uncover about my family roots and with this in mind, our trip began in the little port town of Amesbury, Massachusetts.  

 

 

Now as fate would have it, Diane, a seasoned traveler, had vacationed at so many amazing places and planned on a myriad of others but sorrowfully, my brother took his finally voyage after a long, hard fight with cancer leaving her to fly solo.  Between the throes of grief and selling the family business, the furthest thing from her mind was taking a trip.  But as the years eased the pain, she and I spoke more frequently about New England's autumn landscape, the colorful foliage, historic cities, and a ferry ride over to Nantucket.  As a bonus, searching for our family's past to corroborate it for the future was right up my alley, so it was decided— Thelma and Louise would ride once again!  

 

 

After extensive research on her part, Diane discovered most Nantucket resorts and tourist shops closed for the season the last week in September so it was decided we would forgo the foliage for this year and take in all that the island had to offer.  We would begin our road trip in the northern corner of Massachusetts, work our way down the coast, ferry over to Nantucket and culminate our final destination in Chatham on the Cape.  

 

 

With the car packed, wine bottles secured, travel binder in hand, a quick selfie was snapped and we were off!  Now everyone in the know who has ever read any of my little blog posts is aware that nothing of importance ever happens in my life without one of my messages from heaven-- butterflies, cardinals, rainbows, pennies, blooming flowers -- and this day was not unlike any of those other days except I seemed to have hit the spiritual jackpot!  

 

 

As you all may recall, the last week of September was the week both my parents passed away and mother’s favorite flower, the Iris, always re-bloomed right on time.   

 

 

All week long I had been checking, but so far there hadn’t been anything more than dried out, withered leaves and began to think this year she had forgotten my heaven-sent hello.  But as we eased out of the driveway the morning of our trip, I spied out of the corner of my eye one lone iris bloom and I knew my parents would be along for the ride.  With a bit of melancholy, Diane and I reminisced about my parents and Jimbo but slowly our thoughts turned to the trip at hand.  

 

 

Two hours flew by quickly and as we cruised through New York and into Connecticut, I decided to turn on the radio which is also connected to my I-pod.  Hundreds of song are loaded on my playlist, yet as soon as I turned up the volume, the first thing we heard was my brother Jim's favorite singer,  Neil Diamond crooning  his hit song, Holly, Holy -- a song we played at Jim's memorial service.  Now, I must admit this completely freaked us both out!  I think if Mary Poppins had been in the car she would have said, close your mouths please—you are not cod fish!!  Both crying and laughing and in utter disbelief as to what just transpired, we turned the radio down and reminisced some more.  You would think this would have been enough divine intervention for one trip, and perhaps had I turned the I-pod off and not just the volume down that would have been the end of it, but another 100 miles later as I turned the volume back up once again we heard Neil Diamond once again, but this time he was singing, Hello, My Friend, Hello.  And in that millisecond, I knew we had a stow away on board!  

 

 

Reaching our destination after a carefree, scenic seven hour ride, we arrived to a lovely B & B, unpacked and enthusiastically scouted out the area.  We allotted two full days for genealogical investigation between Amesbury and Boston and ten cemeteries in which to nose around.  Our goal was to be up and out early with hope of completing everything on the agenda.  At 9 am, with camera in one hand and coffee in another, our first call of duty was cleaning up the full cup of coffee that plopped onto the entire front seat. I began to wonder if perhaps the ancestors didn't want any early morning visitors, but withing minutes, we found our way to my 26th grandfather's home build in 1637.  The Colby-Macy house.  And yes, THE Macy of the departments stores. 

 

 

During our excursion, we left no tomb stone unturned.  From grave yard to Harvard Yard we braved it all.  Not even an entire cup of spilled coffee on the front car seat would deter us from taking our lives in our hands to find the graves of my ancestors in a very sketchy part of town.  Diane, one of the most cautious and fearful people I have ever known suddenly turned into Braveheart as we quickly darted into the cemetery and found the beautiful headstone of the first Lowell to arrive in America.  Assuring ourselves that most criminals were sleeping off their nighttime crime sprees, we felt we could lower our instincts to duck and weave.  I got right to business and etched a wax rubbing of the tombstone of both my distant grandparents’ names onto velum fabric while snapping pictures of the rest.  Most stones were found, while other had disintegrated for eternity.  After a few days of chasing history, it was time to ride the ferry!  

 

 

Just an hour-long and thankfully smooth ride across the bay, the ferry boat dropped everyone off in Nantucket’s pretty, yet commercialized shopping district where streets are cobblestone, houses are cedar shingle and gift shops are plentiful.  But Diane knowing my love of nature and photography shuttled us to stay on the far end of the island where the bay and ocean are just separated by a few hundred yards.  It's a natural and rustic photo opportunity with a breathtakingly, beautiful town called Sconscet where rooftops are covered in climbing roses and privet hedge lines the streets.  And then there are the baskets.  Nantucket Lightship Baskets filled with hydrangea.  Oh to have been able to buy one, but they are too rich for my budget with original ones pricing in over thousands of dollars.  An artwork in and of itself, the workmanship is marvelous and only wish I had one!  

 

 

On the last day of our trip, we packed our gifts, luggage, and fresh experiences into the car and took off into a deluge of rain.  Quite satisfied that we did and saw most everything we planned with minimal trepidation of fly by bullets and the hullabaloo of a wet front seat.  With windshield wipers swiping at breakneck speed, it forced us to take a divergent road.... should we go??  Oh what the heck, with Thelma and Louise, it's just another great adventure so stay tuned!  

 

 

Several months have passed and I have thought frequently about our amazing trip and my only regret is that I didn't pick up an imitation Nantucket Basket at one of the gift stores.  In fact, I almost put it on my Christmas List for Santa when one afternoon I went out to my mailbox and noticed a box.  Someone had been listening to my heart and there in my hand came the best type of Nantucket basket-- a beautiful framed picture and sent with love.   

 

To my little Thelma,  thank you so much for your friendship, sisterhood and love!  

 

... until we ride again!

GARDEN RAMBLES AND HAPPENINGS

From March through December, I spend the better part of my life outdoors, entwined with nature.  This is my all-time happy place.  From the first spring thaw until those early December snow squalls blow through, you will find me puttering about the yard with rake or shovel in hand and my trusty- rusty lawn cart faithfully pulling up the rear.  My hands are sometimes gloved, or at the least I start out that way, but end up regretting the money I wasted on my bi-weekly manicure always promising myself I’ll be more diligent wearing them next time.  My uniform is simple and changes only with the season. Jeans, fleece jacket, and garden sloggers.  Shorts, sleeveless tops and flip flops.  No fancy garden hat or ozone free burka gear.  It’s just me and the elements—sun and all.

Of course, I make my dermatologist crazy as I can just hear her now in my head scolding me about all the sun exposure I receive.  “Mrs. Knauss, please tell me why you enjoy being out in the sun?  Will you at least cover up from head to toe and only go out at midnight?” asked Dr. K (for Killjoy).  But she’s probably right as I’ve got sun spots, age spots, liver spots, wrinkles, and even had a few basal cells.  And I thank goodness each and every day for the tech wiz that invented photo filters!  But inevitably, there is going to be a price to pay for all the sun.  And when I’m finally brave enough to pay to have my face Botox frozen or face lifted, I will know that I really got my monies worth!  But for now, I’ll just continue to schedule my derma visits in February after all my freckles have faded and tan lines erased.

In my gardens, it’s usually just me and the plants. Occasionally some of my critters— the neighborhood squirrel with no name and Chippy the Chipmunk who’s been brought into my house 3 times by my cat-- scamper through hoping to find dropped bird seeds, but for the most part I’m left to the sounds of birds chirping or singing and the droning of a lawn mower streets away.  Now this can be either a good thing or bad depending on what’s going on in my life and on my mind.  FYI.  It’s always good to do your garden spading when your mad.  And speaking of mad.  My hydrangea hates me.

On the side of my house grew the most beautiful, Nantucket blue hydrangea this side of Laurys Station. It was not only enormous, but always brought forth a plethora of large, mophead blooms for most of the summer.  I did nothing to add to its’ beauty and for years just admired it from afar leaving it to its own devices.  Then about three years ago, for some dumb, whatever-was-I-thinking and always ever-regretful reason other than it appeared to be getting too large ?? and over grow?? I decided to trim it back. UGH! 

Worst. Mistake. Ever 

I killed it Charlie Brown style.  OK, so I exaggerate a bit.  I didn’t kill it at all.  In fact, it’s the fullest, greenest, loveliest green plant in the yard—but with not one bloom.  Ever.  In fact, I swear it chides and laughs at me each and every time I walk by it and I can almost hear it chastising me for giving it that bad haircut so for the past few years I have apologized profusely (yes, I talk to plants) and this year there was one bloom.  mean, how long can one carry a grudge?

On the plus side, some good things are happening in my newly planted Faux English Garden just off my porch.  This is the area I've been revamping after losing most of my flowers last year’s winter freeze and my pretty pear tree but not really sure how I feel about the plant types I’ve selected.  They always look great on those little tags with all the planting directions but getting them to bloom at the right times is tricky.  For now, I have too much pink blooming in July and my yard it starting to look too Preppy with all the green and pink.  And as a non-rules gardener, I don’t care if it calls for full sun or shade.  They need to grow where they are planted! Suck it up, buttercup.  In addition to the new plants, I’ve added another bird house but didn’t think I’d get any new tenants since I’m always tweaking the area and doubted any bird would be brave enough to be side by side with a human on a daily basis.  But low and behold, I noticed sticks poking out of the entrance hole and indeed, there is a nest inside.  The young birds from my pole birdhouse in the other garden have flown the nest, but I see the momma bird is back.  Oh, those birds and bees!  

On the down side, the bird feeder on the opposite end of my flower bed fell over after just being filled due to the hanger giving way in the rain-soaked soil. For sure the squirrel and chipmunk are happy, but I’m probably going to have sunflowers in my English Garden by fall if it doesn’t stop raining.  And what’s with all the rain!  This is the third summer in a row that we are having rain almost every other day. Actually, it’s not really even what I call rain.  It’s annoying storms with enough rain to just steam it up and mold us out and grow grass exponentially. 

For the first time in 40 years, I decided to go with a lawn treatment service.  The grubs wore me down. After realizing the grubs were eating the Grub-ex like candy and still eating up the entire lawn, I decided to call in the big guns.  Chemicals.  I went with a company that used to be called Chem Lawn, but since everyone worries about chemicals these days, they just changed up the name to Tru-Green.  It makes you feel better.  So far, the only change I’ve noticed is the weeds are growing like they are on steroids and I have to mow twice a week instead of once. 

Someone asked me once why I loved to garden. DUH.  Of course I didn't really answer that way-- that would be rude.  But later on, I reflected on it and found I didn’t really have an answer.  I wondered if it’s a genetic trait since both my grandmother and mother enjoyed and were good at it or was it simply exposure to the experience.  My daughter, Laura never gardened at our house growing up but is a great gardener and even better, won the golden ticket as she’s extremely creative.  Creativity is a winning card!  She knows just how to space things, plants that look best together, how to group flowering plants with leafy plants for texture.  Height and balance. How to overlap things seasonally. Yup, a Master Gardener in the making. These things I did not pass on to her and indeed lack and wish I understood them. Instead, I’m forced to glean my ideas from gardening books and the internet. I drool with jealousy when I see Ina Garten’s garden pathway lined with limelight hydrangea and a stunning archway of deep purple Clematis.  And then I remember that Ina isn’t a gardener—she’s a fabulous cook and pays somebody to make it look that pretty. 

I believe the reason I love to garden has nothing to do with gardening.  For most of my life, my time was devoted to taking care of my family.  Free time was valuable and not to be squandered on the frivolous as we moms know all about.  18 years of my life were spent driving the mini-van taxi service along with all the other things we do for our family.  Little by little my children grew up and needed me less and less and yet, all the while they were learning new things, I was not. 

About 15 years ago, I just started trying all kinds of different things that I knew little or nothing about. Gardening was one.  I really wasn’t very knowledgeable on the subject but remembered the pretty flower gardens my mom and grandma created and just started digging and planting.  It was a place where it was quiet and peaceful and before long I was hooked!  There are really limited mistakes to be made and the worst thing to happen is a plant can die.  And many have.  But it also gave me confidence to try other things. 

When my mom and dad passed away, and then my brother, I was filled with so much grief and sorrow and just didn’t know where to go with it all.  Someone suggested I put my feeling down on paper, so I gave it a try and my first story was written.  And then another and another.  I poured my heart into words that invoked every feeling I felt about the memories of the family I loved.  I know I’m not a Pulitzer Prize writer, nor ever hope to publish anything, but I do enjoy writing about my family and life and hope one day my thoughts will be passed on to those who wonder about Great-Great Grandma Christianna and her life. 

Then along came my Grandmother’s dining room table to live at my house and I stripped that baby bare to the bones and restored it.  Was I scared to do it?  Heck yes!  But I did it anyway.  And who could forget that I bought myself my @#%$^&* camera for my 60th birthday.  I know I gripe a lot about it with it's too many buttons and gadgets, but it was one of the best purchases I’ve ever made even though I take a lot of dud photographs.  For every good one there are 40 rejects.  But like gardening, I just dug in and kept shooting.  

My garden.  My life.  It may not have been pretty when I first planted it, but with some work and time it bloomed—just like I did!

YING AND YANG

April 7th is my mom’s birthday. Just before Easter Sunday 1933, she arrived in the middle of the Great Depression and was called Patsy Ruth by those who loved her most. Unlike me, Patricia Ruth Carr was a quiet, reflective girl that loved both reading and school. I always envisioned her to be a teacher’s pet – an exemplary student who could sit endlessly still and patiently raise her hand while waiting to be called on. Such an impossibility for me. School was nothing but fidgets, squirms and unbridled energy. In my opinion, it was the greatest social event ever invented and I could never understand how whispering with friends and passing notes could inevitably lead to standing in a corner. My mom would never have stood in a corner. Ever. Truth be told, I always wanted to be a good student, but my daydreams always seem to get in my way. They were infinitely more interesting than anything written on a chalk board, so my imagination soared out the same window through which I stared.

My mom was a small, slight girl with long, black hair which I envied. Worn in braids to her waist, Patsy Ruth had poker-straight hair. Nightly, her mother braided her hair into two plaits so that in the morning when combed out she would have some wave to her hair. Sadly for her, and me, the curls she always longed for ended up on my head. And I felt cursed. It was the 1970’s and everyone wore their hair long and straight parted right down the middle of their head. I was determined to uncoil my hair, so each and every night instead of plaits, I slept on huge, pink rollers the size of tin cans trying to relax my waves. To this day the frizz remains and torments me. How funny that we each wished for what the other had, so throughout our lives she paid for perms and I hid my locks under a hat on rainy days.

Genetically, I probably received half of her genes, but have often wondered how we could have been so opposite.

My mom was afraid of moths. Deathly afraid. Just holding a door open at night for ONE split second longer than needed would send her into a frenzied lunacy as she imagined moths flying into the house. Stephen King could write an entire novel based on those crazy scenes. And second only to her fear of moths was the dentist. I vividly remember how she would grip the arms of the dental chair and he had only just turned on that bright and glaring dental light. I wished I could have been brave for her as oddly, I fear nothing. And as weird as it seems, getting my teeth cleaned is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.

Now other than those rare moments of apocalyptic fear of moths and dentists, Patsy Ruth was a very serene and reticent soul. Her four highly energetic offspring could be bouncing off the walls around her, yet she remained unflappable and rarely raised her voice. She loved to read books, drink coffee and smoke and somehow had the ability to just drift away from it all in a chair in the corner of our family room. This was her euphoria.

Mine was the beach!

Everything about the beach makes me jubilant. The sun, sand and sound of the ocean brings a peaceful calm to my spirit that can’t be found anywhere else in my life. The keow of the seagulls and breaking of waves at the shoreline has the ability to slow my hyper pace to normalcy. But it had the opposite effect on my mom and for this reason I rarely saw her on the beach during our vacations. She claimed she detested the feeling of sand on her feet and wanted to avoid the scorching sun. But, perhaps it was just a ploy so she could obtain some peace and quiet away from her hectic life. Regardless, she seemed tickled pink being alone in the beach house with her books, coffee and smokes.

I try hard to find the similarities between us.

My mother had large feet and bosoms while everything about me is small. She was proper and I was wild. A staunch Democrat, my mom cheered when my favorite Republican president, Reagan, died. I never saw her throw a ball, run, or do anything remotely athletic and yet, I was a tomboy. She had beautiful long, thin legs and I acquired my grandmother’s thick cankles. I was a modern, hip gal and she was square. But as time went on, something I thought impossible began to happen. I’d heard of it but never ever, not for one polar opposite, split second believed could happen. I was beginning to sound like her, and say things she would say, and do things she would do. And there it was. I was becoming my mother! One day her words just stumbled out of my mouth and I suddenly realized that she was no longer just the voice in my head. As we both grew older, our differences dwindled and my love for her overshadowed the last remnants of conflict.

She was artistic and creative and once daringly covered her kitchen cabinets with contact paper printed in cherries. And when the (expensive) Danish modern sofa lost the war to my brothers and me, she simply painted over the stain left from the can of Hershey syrup we spilled with blue wall paint. S & H green stamps were licked, coupons were snipped and water was added to the shampoo bottles. She was of the depression era and frugal. A stylish fashionista, she taught herself to sew and created many beautiful outfits for me and my children. On Sunday afternoons, her kitchen was filled with the smell of luscious bread baking aromas… Italian, French, Sour Dough, round, long… she could make them all. This is what I loved about her.

And she loved us.

She wasn’t demonstrative with her affection, but we knew how she felt about us. She and my dad were married 51 years-- together through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse-- until death they did part. They gave my brothers and me the gift of a great life and a happy home. In return, we gave them the loves of their life and pride and joys-- their 9 grandchildren. Sweet Pea, Scooter Dooter, Tank, Bubba, Princess, Darling, Fred, aka Shine, Oy and Mary Sunshine.

I think of my mom often and miss her so much. I believe she would smile seeing how I’ve evolved and grown as person while tackling many of the things she loved. I’m no longer a tomboy and really don’t enjoy the beach and scorching sun as I did long ago. Occasionally I’ll throw rollers in my hair for a little curl, and I even attempted several decorating challenges way beyond my means and ability that turned out quite well. Mental notes were taken over the years on how to spoil grandchildren and one day I might attempt to bake some bread. But I will never, EVER vote Democrat! Sorry mom.

~ Happy Birthday, Mom… I miss you so much and hope you are well. And can you do me a solid? Please tell The Gipper I said hello and send me an Iris soon! Love you so much ~ Your Chrissie

I THINK I CAN. I THINK I CAN. I KNOW I CAN.

I was halfway down the basement stairs when I reminded myself that the chair in my hands endured three generations of my family so it would survive me!  I did an about face and parked it in the corner of my living room until I could decide what to do.  But for weeks it felt as though it was taunting me each time I walked past the room and could almost hear it jeer at me that I was no match for this project and it was presumably right.

It had been three weeks since I struggled to restore and modernize the vintage 1920's dining chairs that belonged to both my parents and grandparents.  The  solid walnut chairs were diamonds in the rough but I knew, with a bit of effort, they could once again be restored to their original beauty.  As a Pinterest junkie, DIY-er, and "if it's free it's for me" kinda' gal, I decided that I was ready for the challenge!  After reading numerous articles on how to install nailhead trim, I purchased the essential equipment and fabric, stripped and re-stained the wood and was confident and eager to begin the upholstery.  Easy peasy.  Or so I thought.  With a wack of the hammer the first nailhead was struck and simply dropped to the floor.  The second attempt wasn't much better as the stem of the nail crumpled and bent sideways. Not to be disheartened, I wrestled with the trim for an entire afternoon but my enthusiasm soon waned.  Six frustrating hours later, I surrendered in defeat and started to take the chair back down to the basement from where it came. But I suddenly stopped right there on the third step and, with resolve, turned back around.

I had always considered myself to be tenacious and determined, but something happened that day that made me wonder if that inner person I always depended on was waning.  Strong-willed people like myself have a hard time being weak as there is something uniquely about us that feels the need to be able to do it all, on our own, and in our own strength. But sometimes in life, we come to a place where we have to depend on something greater than ourselves.  Sometimes it’s a little thing like refinishing a chair and other times a big and scary life changing event like learning your brother has cancer. 

My goal was to have the dining room set completed in just two weeks' time and ready for a very special occasion.  My brother, Jim was coming north from his home in Florida for a medical evaluation in Baltimore and all of our Pittsburgh family was coming east to my house to see him and his wife, Diane.  We had not sat together at the Kirk family table in the many years since my parents passed away and it traveled across the PA turnpike to my home. I needed to get this project done!  PRONTO!

Having stripped the table down to its' bare wood and re-staining it during the summer months, the table was already completed, but I desperately needed help with the chairs!

For months I had been talking non-stop with God about my brother and his illness and decided to just ask Him for help finishing the chairs.  It might seem a silly thing to bother God about, but I took him at His word that  we could come to Him for help about anything—even something so seemingly insignificant as updating old chairs.  I told him how much it meant to me to restore them and why —but I think He already knew.  And I also took Him at his word that I could do all things through Christ who would strengthen me.  So right there at that crossroad, I chose to believe that those same nails that I drove in crooked were going to be put in place with His help.   

I stood at the living room doorway peering at that chair and decided that I could to get the job done.  Back to the kitchen went all the chairs, and with hammer in hand I went to work and doggone it, if each nail didn’t go in straight! What once seemed impossible was now finished just in time.

What a meaningful time we all had that weekend, but regrettably I never took a photo of us all sitting together --  such a great family memento that would have made!  But each time I walk into the room, the memory remains of that special October weekend where we all gathered at our childhood family table, laughing and talking and sharing all the great times we had as a family growing up at 245 Elias Drive.

My beloved brother lost his courageous fight with cancer the following spring of 2015, but like the chairs, the memories we made that day will forever be hammered and nailed to my heart. 

** March is Colorectal Cancer Awareness month and the difference between spending time together as a family or saying good bye to someone you love can be something as simple as a colonoscopy.  PROCRASTINATION is a very dangerous word as early detection is key -- especially if this disease is in your family.   It's never too early an age to get screened.  In fact, colon cancer is being seen in young adults at a greater rate.  Please don't put this off as it may just save your life.   If I can drink all that prep, so can you!  Just Do It!