Lessons from Mom

I've learned so much from my mother over the years.
I've learned about smiling through difficult times.
Creating a home that overflows with love.
Giving without expecting anything in return.
Unconditional and unfailling love.

I could go on and on with the list -- or you could read more stories about my Mom if you'd like. The point is -- she is one special lady -- and she has taught me some of the most valuable lessons of life. The one I want to share with you today is about keeping house.

Now before I say another word, I want you to know that my Mom keeps a very orderly house. She's not neurotic about cleaning-- but she is conscientious and she takes very good care of her home. I honestly don't remember a time when I walked into her home and thought it looked out of order.

That said, I also don't remember my mother ever missing out on anything because she needed to stay home and do housework. In fact, growing up there was a magnet on our refrigerator that said, "A clean house is a sign of a life misspent."

That's the lesson my Mom taught me.

My Mom taught me that there were no household chores that were more important than enjoying family and friends -- and life. From Mom I learned that Saturday mornings didn't necessarily have to be spent doing housework -- that could be done at any hour of the day. When it came to Saturday morning cartoons, dance lessons, and high school football games -- we either put down the broom or missed it.

Needless to say, when I received the following verse in an email this morning, I realized how very lucky I am that my Mom taught me this very important lesson before I missed out on too much living!

Dusting...

Author unknown

Remember...a layer of dust protects the wood beneath it.

'A house becomes a home when you can write 'I love you' on the furniture ...'

I used to spend at least 8 hours every weekend making sure things were just perfect -- just in case someone came over

Finally I realized one day that no one came over; they were all out living life and having fun!

Now, when people visit, I don't have to explain the 'condition' of my home. They are more interested in hearing about the things I've been doing while I was away living life and having fun.

If you haven't figured this out yet, please heed this advice. Life is short. Enjoy it!

Dust if you must
but wouldn't it be better
to paint a picture or write a letter,
bake cookies or a cake
and lick the spoon
or plant a seed,
ponder the difference between want and need?!

Dust if you must, but there's not much time . . . .
with wine to drink, rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
music to hear and books to read,
friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must,
but the world's out there with the sun in your eyes,
the wind in your hair, a flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around, again.

Dust if you must,
but bear in mind, old age will come and it's not kind. . .
And when you go -
and go you must - you, yourself will make more dust!

Mom, I am forever grateful that you taught me this life lesson. I've come to appreciate the dust bunnies (some of them even have names)....and when I see cobwebs strung from the curtains and ceiling I smile and see them as "streamers" that are celebrating LIFE!

As always, thanks for being wonderful YOU.

Just Ask

I know I tell you a lot of stories about my dogs and the lessons I learn from them, and today I had another "Ah ha moment." Yes, another life lesson learned from my pet -- except this time it wasn't a dog, but my cat who was the teacher.

My cat, Tina, is a terrific cat. Don't be upset with me, but after years of trying to keep her as an indoor cat, we stopped fighting her each time she raced to an open door -- and we let her go outside.

We live in an area that's perfect for us (and our pets). We're close to shopping centers and all the conveniences of a well-developed suburb and there are many neighborhoods being built on old farmland -- but our home is on a more rural country road with very few neighbors. Across the street we have a beautiful walking park, and behind our house a cornfield. Needless to say, with a cornfield behind us and so much local development displacing the country mice, the first time Tina experienced the great outdoors, she got a taste of life as a hunter, and she refuses to give it up. She's getting up there in years and slowing down a little, but she still loves to pounce and play -- but more than anything Tina LOVES to snuggle.

So here's the story -- this morning I was sitting at my desk reading my emails, when I heard Tina's meow coming from outside my window. I quickly got up and let her in, then headed back to my office. She's a "talkative" girl, and when I opened the door she greeted me with a "mew," then scurried towards the stairs, presumably to get her breakfast. (Years ago we put her self-feeder upstairs on top of our dryer so that her food would be out of reach of the dogs, and she could eat in peace.)

Anyhow, on occasion Tina won't jump up onto the dryer unless someone is there with her. I'm really not sure why exactly, but when she doesn't want to make the jump alone, she will stand at the top of the stairs and cry until someone comes to be with her. She only wants someone there with her while she jumps up, then she happily goes right to her food, and the "escort" can go back to whatever they were doing. Well this morning when Tina went upstairs, I assumed she needed an escort, because she cried the entire way up the stairs, and I heard her crying as she pattered around upstairs looking for someone to join her at the food bowl. Eventually she returned to the top of the stairs and sat there crying until I headed up.

When I got to the top of the steps, she turned and headed in the direction of the food, but then kept moving past the laundry area and into my bedroom. She stopped at the foot of my bed, sat down, then looked up at me and meowed.

"What do you want?" I asked, fully expecting her to answer me.

Tina looked back at the bed, stood up, walked around my legs then sat back down and meowed again.

"Do you want me to go back to bed?" I asked, tempted by the thought.

"Meow."

'You've got to be kidding me,' I thought.

"Meow," she repeated.

Puzzled by her cry, I laid down on the bed to see how she'd react. Sure enough, Tina jumped right up and walked up to my face and started purring and rubbing her face against mine. She walked back and forth rubbing her nose against mine for about two minutes, then she curled up next to me as if to go to sleep.

'Well I'll be,' I thought. She just wanted some love.

I laid there for a few minutes and pet her, and thought about this very special little furball. She knew what she wanted, she asked for it -- and she got it. Hmmm...now there's a lesson.

How often do we want something, but for whatever reason, we don't ask. Maybe we are afraid, maybe we're too proud, maybe we don't want to appear selfish -- whatever the reason, we sit there quietly, wanting or needing something, and we don't say it.

I've been doing a lot of self-reflection lately, and this is one of the biggest lessons I need to learn. I need to learn to ask for help instead of hoping that someone can read my mind.

I know this is going to sound a little silly -- but I could tell you many stories about times when I have absolutely no doubt that God was speaking to me through my cat. In time, those stories will come -- but just for today, I'm enjoying Tina's version of Matthew 7:7 --

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."

Just so you know...I stayed there with Tina for a few minutes this morning, then headed back downstairs to work. Before I did, I opened the door to the boys' bedroom, and sure enough I heard her jump down from my bed then patter down the hall to their room. I'm sure if I went looking for her now she'd be snuggled up with one of them. I guess she just likes to be close to the ones she loves.

Santa Claus, Where Are You?

If you're looking for a posting about phenomenal shopping deals, or starting Christmas shopping in July, you've come to the wrong place. The truth is, if I wrote about Christmas shopping in July it would be a rant -- and I really try to keep my rants to a minimum. No, this post really doesn't have much to do with Christmas. It's actually just another one of those realizations I've had -- an "ah ha moment" -- and now seems the perfect day to share.

Every year I sit back on December 26 and wonder how I managed to get it all done in those few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s not just me though, the whole world seems to go into overdrive at the holidays – buzzing here, buzzing there. We shop, decorate, wrap, cook, send greeting cards, visit family, visit Santa, get our nails done, bake cookies, attend parties, throw parties, volunteer for those less fortunate, attend our kids’ choral concerts….the list goes on and on.

The month of December is truly amazing – and personally, I always give the credit to Santa Claus. I mean, it isn’t humanly possible otherwise, so it must be Santa, right?

But here’s my question, where, exactly, does Santa go from January through November? Why couldn’t he maybe help out a little during the year, instead of leaving me to spin my wheels all day and get nothing done? What’s different about the month of December?

I thought about this question a lot in January, and I realized that for starters, in December I know exactly what I'm working towards and precisely what I need to do to get it done.

Ah ha...goals.

Of course. It makes sense that when we know where we're going, we can figure out how to get there.

Armed with that nugget of wisdom, in January I laid out a master plan for 2009. This was to be a year of personal growth for me. A year when I would find time for my passions. I'd plow through the stacks of books that have piled up on my bookshelf. I'd do more knitting and scrapbooking, I'd really "dig into" my gardening. I'd take time to explore different things that I've been interested in but have never really taken the time to learn. 2009 was to be "my year."

So here it is -- July 1st -- a great day to check in and revisit those personal goals, right?

Well, the good news is that I was able to locate my list. The bad news is, apparently even with a plan, Santa Claus doesn't like to help out (at least not from January to July).

In all seriousness, initially I was kind of disappointed when I reviewed my progress towards my goals. There was very little that I could check off as even "in progress," let alone "complete." But in asking myself the question, "Why haven't I completed more?" I realized that there are so many things that I have accomplished that I never even considered when I wrote my goals.

Nowhere on the list had I considered flexing my creative writing muscles and starting a blog -- yet I'm faithfully maintaining two! Nowhere had I considered working on my photography, or learning new software programs, or making new friends. Yet these are all things that I have done already this year. I am very happy for those accomplishments.

But still I maintain that Santa Claus has been checked out so far this year. I haven't done anything as amazing as what I can do at Christmastime. So once again, I find myself asking the question, what's different about December? And in asking that question, today I had yet another "ah ha moment."

Santa isn't just about goals - he's also about discipline. He's about planning the work, and working the plan. Call it consistency, sticktoitiveness or productivity, call on Nike's "Just do it" campaign. Santa Claus knows what needs to get done, and he makes it happen.

Later today I'll be updating my goals for this year, because truthfully some of the things that seemed so important to me in January, are a little less important to me now. Sure, I love to knit, and I'd like to try to knit something different than the one and only thing I know how to make (a Prayer Shawl), but I also love to write. I love to read the books on my shelf, but I take equal pleasure in reading the incredible blogs written by so many talented friends I've made in the past few months.

Yes, I'll be doing a mid-year adjustment to my goals, and that's a good thing -- after all, that's part of finding my way. But rest assured, before the week is done, I will have nailed down some core disciplines that I want and need to be a part of my life if I want to accomplish my goals.

Oh yes Santa, I will see you before Thanksgiving. How much rest do you need anyway?

A Dog's Welcome

I know I write a lot about my dogs -- probably too much -- but I can't help it. I just love those boys -- and it seems like they are always reminding me about the important lessons of life. Today was no exception.

Today was such a gorgeous morning -- sunny with beautiful blue skies and cotton candy clouds (that were actually white instead of the grey that we've been seeing for most of the month of June). My office window was open just enough to let in a nice cool breeze. Truly a perfect morning, and I wanted to take advantage of it. I slipped on my sneakers and headed to the park across the street for a quick walk before the heat of summer overcame the breeze.

I know I should take the dogs with me when I walk, but for many reasons, I don't.

#1 - They've never been trained to walk on leashes, so walking them can only be described as a lesson in weaving, as they dart from side to side until their leashes are a tangled mess.

#2 - We have invisible fence which they are deathly afraid of. In order to get them to come across the street with me, I'd either have to carry them, or put them in the car and drive (which seems to defeat the purpose of using a park that's out our front door).

#3 -- There are two of them and only one of me. I am strong, but let's face it, if we came across another dog, or if a bird or bunny got their interest, I would be flat out on the ground.

#4 -- There are hundreds of trees at the park -- and dogs who walk there every day. I'd never get a good walk for all the trees we'd need to sniff (and mark).

Besides, Bear and Champ have free run of our yard all day and get plenty of exercise. I don't feel too bad about leaving them behind so I can get some exercise myself.

So anyway, off I went this morning. The sun was warm on my face, but the air was still cool -- perfect walking conditions. I didn't pass a soul on the first lap and when I walked by the house there was no sign of the dogs. The second lap was a little different -- several people (some with dogs, some without) had arrived at the park --which meant my dogs would be offering their usual "welcome to the neighborhood" greeting to each person and dog who walked by.


The neighborhood welcoming committee

Sure enough, when I rounded the final bend, about 1/8 of a mile from home, I saw them -- standing at attention on our front step, watching two walkers go by. They stood there, side-by-side, their bodies were still, just scanning the park to see who would be the next passerby. I could tell the moment that Bear saw me because his fluffy tail wagged ever so slightly. Three steps closer to home, and they both saw (and recognized) me and their whole bodies started wagging in excitement. Oh how they carried on, running back and forth across the yard, and jumping up on their hind legs as if to wave to me to make sure I saw them.

From across the park I imagined what was going through their minds:

"There she is! There she is! We've missed you!!"

"Woohoo! She's back! I hope she has TREATS!!"

It didn't matter that there were other dogs walking in front of the house. For that last stretch of my walk home, they saw only me -- and carried on in such a way to make sure I saw them too!

As I crossed the street and walked into the yard, the two of them lept around like fools, running circles around me, and pouncing on each other. If dogs could skip, that's what they were doing. They were SO HAPPY to see me. What a welcome home.

They skipped beside me all the way to the back door, and waited there as I went inside to fill a bowl of water for them. I poured myself a glass of water as well, and watched the two of them lap up what I had given them, then run out to the back yard to chase each other around for a few minutes before returning to their posts in the front yard.

I went back into the house and thought about the way the dogs greeted me versus how I greet the kids or Jeff when they come home after a day of work, school or play. I am embarrassed to say that I don't remember the last time I did anything besides shout out from my office, "Hi Honey! How was your day?"

How sad is that? The people who are nearest and dearest to my heart get a shout out -- when, in fact, they should be getting a hearty dog's welcome. It took my dogs to remind me how good it makes people feel to be greeted warmly, and to be shown how much they're loved.

Oh those little puppies -- they should be counselors or philosophers with all their life lessons. Once again -- dogs just get it.


Bear's generous kisses


Silly Champ loving life!

An Ah Ha Moment

We all have those times in our lives – those memories that are so vivid you feel like you could just close your eyes and relive the moment. Well I'm convinced that those vivid memories stay with us because our subconscious knows that there is a valuable lesson to be learned from that experience. Sometimes we learn the lesson right as it’s happening (visions of my first accident come rushing to mind) – but other times it takes years until the lightbulb goes off and we finally realize why that memory has lingered for so long. When we’re ready to see it, I call it an “Ah ha moment” -- a realization on life. In the past year, I've had a lot of those realizations -- and today is another one of those days.

In the very truest sense, today is a day that defines me. Today is my birthday. But today, like every birthday since I was 7 years old – my thoughts aren’t about my birthday – they’re about my brother, Jim.

Let me forewarn you, you might not like this story so much – because it’s not necessarily the most uplifting. But it’s reality – and a humbling realization about life. So here we go…

Family History
I am the youngest of five children in my family – the youngest by eight years. These days that age gap isn’t necessarily a big deal…but growing up the gap seemed monumental.

I was a definite whoops. “The best mistake I ever made,” is the way my Dad describes me. Some people cringe when they hear that. I don’t -- in fact, I think it’s pure and sweet. I have never doubted that my parents love me – my Dad is just being honest, and I appreciate that. Anyhow, the point is that with anywhere from eight to eleven years between my siblings and me, even though I am part of a big family, I grew up kind of like an only child. While my brothers and sister were off working, or dating, or doing high school and college stuff – I was going to grade school. So from my little kid perspective, the world pretty much revolved around me.

The Story Goes
So flash back to my seventh birthday -- it was the last day of school, and the first night of the church Carnival. I had spent all day peeking out the classroom windows at the rides that were set up in fields behind the school, and I had convinced myself that I was going to be brave enough to go on the enormous ferris wheel with the “cages” that spun around.

As soon as my Dad got home from work, we would all head down to the Carnival and stay there until way past bedtime. I was beside myself with anticipation. It was the perfect way to spend my birthday!

I remember playing with some dolls on the floor of my bedroom when I heard a car pull into our driveway and start honking its horn like crazy. I jumped up to peer out the window to see what was going on, and I saw my Mom walk out of the house to the car. Seconds later she and my brother, Jim, came racing into the house. I didn’t think much of it at the time and went back to playing with my dolls, but then I heard my Mom’s voice coming from downstairs. She wasn’t yelling – but I could tell she was upset about something.

I made my way downstairs to see what was going on, and though I don’t remember the details exactly, I remember seeing my brother sitting at the table with a blood-stained white towel wrapped around his hand, and my Mom was hustling around the kitchen and putting ice in a bag, yelling at Jim to keep his hand in the air.

She told me I needed to go across the street where my sister, Karen, was babysitting. She had to take Jim to the hospital and I was to stay with Karen until she came home. I had no idea what was happening, and the only words that came out of my 7-year old mouth were, “What about the Carnival?”

“Not tonight,” Mom told me. Jim just looked at me and said, “Sorry Lolly.” In the blink of an eye they were pulling out of the driveway, and I walked across the street with tears in my eyes. I'm embarrassed to say, I wasn’t crying for Jim. I was seven years old, and devastated.

A few hours later Mom called from the hospital to tell us that Jim was going to be ok. He had severed his finger in a freak accident while riding his bike. He had almost lost his finger completely, but fortunately they got there quickly and the doctors were able to restore it perfectly. Mom knew it was still going to be a few hours until they got home, so she told me where I could find my birthday present, and I opened it while I was on the phone with her. It was the “Busy Lizzy” doll that I had been wishing for, and I played with it until it was time for bed.

I don’t know if we ever made it to the Carnival that year, but I remember when we picked Jim up at the hospital a day or two later. He felt so bad for “spoiling my birthday” that he asked my parents to go to the store and get a present that he could give me when we came to get him. It was a diving mask with a snorkel and flippers – and he promised me that he’d teach me how to use the snorkel as soon as he could go in the water. What a good big brother he was (and still is). When I should have been doing stuff for him, there he was thinking of me.

The Lesson
It’s been 37 years since that freak accident, but as sure as the sun rises, Jim is the very first person I think of every year on my birthday. I guess it is just one of those “moments” that is permanently etched in my memory.

But remember how I said that I think we keep the memory in our subconscious until we’re ready to learn the lesson? Well today I think I was ready -- because for the first time since that accident I cried at the memory -- but this time I didn't crying about missed Carnivals. This time I cried for all the times when I've selfishly thought that I was the center of the universe. And for the times when I should have cared more, or done more, or given more to people who had less. And mostly I cried for the people who will never know what it’s like to love and be loved in a family like mine. I am truly blessed.

It may have taken me 37 years to figure it out, but Jim, thanks for giving me the best gift ever -- a gift that no amount of money could ever buy. Now whenever you’re ready to teach me how to snorkel, I'm game.

This has nothing to do with the story...but it's probably the funniest e-card I've ever gotten for my birthday.

Garden of Weeding

I spent almost the entire day in my garden last Sunday, diligently pulling weeds and trying to restore some order to my perennial garden.

Despite the story that my pictures tell, I'm really not much of a gardener. In fact, over the years there have been many times when my husband and I have stood there and examined a plant that was growing, trying to decide if it was friend or foe to the garden. Sometimes it can be hard to tell. So hard, in fact, that I have already let full crops of weeds grow for a season, sure that eventually they’d bloom; and in the same season wondered when the daisies were going to sprout, only to realize that I had mistakenly pulled them as weeds early on in the season.

The wild violets that have slowly overtaken my garden are my most recent brown thumb blunder. I had always admired what seemed to be a very delicate violet growing along the side of a friend’s house. When she offered to divide a plant for me a few years ago, I jumped at the chance to add it to my garden. Little did I realize that these violets weren’t so delicate at all. In fact, in just a few short years, they have invaded my garden to the point that they appear to have a strangle hold on peony plants that have bloomed in utter abundance for at least two decades. These stunning peonies were the hub of my garden when we first moved here, but this year they have been reduced to just a handful of blooms. I’d like to believe that they are just tired or that perhaps the soil needs to be enriched – but when I see those little violets flourishing below the peonies, I know the soil is fine – it’s just that the violets are literally strangling the roots of my peonies.

Fortunately, I'm pretty sure that I’ll be able to uproot and transplant the peonies later this season to free them from the grasp of these invaders, and restore them to their full beauty. It will require some intensive care and attention, but I'm hopeful that it can be done. Sadly, it all could have been avoided if I had I only known that the violets were garden bullies.

Anyhow, as I worked that day in the garden, trying to distinguish the weeds from the plants, my mind drifted, and it dawned on me how similar a garden is to life. The soil -- our foundation that needs to be tended to keep it rich and fertile. The plants -- our blessings, our talents, our gifts that grow in the light of day. The water and sun – that which sustains us. And the weeds – the vices that keep us from being our best. It’s scary to realize how quickly (and sometimes unexpectedly) the weeds can invade. Like the violets, sometimes we even plant them ourselves – mistaking them for something that will enhance the garden -- only to find that over time they invade and choke out the good.

These thoughts have been weighing heavily on my mind lately. What are the plants that are essential to my garden? What are the weeds that are invading? Are there plants that need some intensive care and attention?

We all have weeds growing in our garden – heaven knows they’ll never be perfect. Our best hope is that we spot them easily, remove them quickly, and let the flowers bloom in fragrant abundance.

A Good Cry

I watched "Marley & Me" again last night. And I cried again.

For anyone who has ever lost a beloved pet, that film will make the tears flow for obvious reasons. But somehow, last night, my tears were different.

For the first time, I wasn't thinking about "Uncle Sam" (our "bad dog" who we lost several years ago) -- instead, while I watched, I let my heart feel the years of life that whizzed by in those two short hours. Somehow that whirlwind felt very real, and as the tears flowed freely down my cheeks, I tasted the bittersweet reality that as cliche as it sounds, life goes by way too fast.

I've been trying to mentally prepare myself for what's going to happen in my life in the next few months because I know there are some significant milestones just around the corner. Yet every day that I tear off a page on my "Life is Crap" calendar (yes, despite the title of this blog, I still get a good laugh out of those things that make you say "Aw crap!" -- like being out of coffee or dropping your cell phone in the toilet), I find myself wishing someone would wave a magic wand to make time stand still.

Within the next five months I will watch my oldest child graduate from high school, celebrate my husband's 50th birthday, celebrate 20 years of marriage, watch my daughter start college, help my middle son get started on his college search process, watch my youngest son start high school, and attend our first "Family Weekend" as the parents of a college student. Five months ago I was baking Christmas cookies.

When did my life start flying by at the speed of film?

Life happens and there is no slowing it down. All we can do is jump in, enjoy the ride, and try to create a story that you can look back upon with joy. When you look back, if the tears come, as they did for me last night, hopefully they are bittersweet -- not because there is regret, but because you would gladly jump back into any moment in time.

"Live a good life. And in the end it's not the years in the life, it's the life in the years." Abraham Lincoln

Patchwork Pillows

I realized today that patchwork pillows are really just art for the artistically challenged.

When I was in third grade, my grammar school had an art show – it was like a science fair for the artistically blessed. Unfortunately, I was not one of those people. I couldn’t even get all the crayons back in the box, let alone make snowflake garland or fold an origami tea set. Participation in the art show was not optional, and I upon receiving the assignment, I immediately envisioned all the parents and teachers snickering as they walked past my pathetic display. I knew that unless they let me submit a haiku, I was doomed.

In the weeks leading up to the show, I lived in denial about my required participation. I had convinced myself that if I didn’t talk about it, I could will it away. No such luck. On the night before my project was due, I sheepishly went to my mother with the assignment, prepared to take the wrath for my ill-preparedness. Fortunately my Mom was (and still is) the kindest, most forgiving mom in the universe, so she didn’t dwell for too long on my superior ability to procrastinate, but instead cut to the quick and started figuring out how to get an art show-worthy project done inside four hours.

Unlike me, my mother is incredibly gifted artistically. She is also incredibly honorable. So unfortunately for me, when I suggested that I re-sign one of her oil paintings, or blow the dust off one her handmade dried flower arrangements (she even used to grow the flowers herself, then dry them), she wouldn’t go for it. Instead she reminded me of the importance of working to the best of my ability, using my God-given talents, and doing my own work (a lesson I am so blessed to have learned).

“So you want me to fail,” I thought?

But failing was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead she took off up the stairs and started digging through the storage closet in her bedroom. She had nearly vanished amidst the garment bags and the Christmas wrapping when I heard her yell, “I found it!” With that she tossed a black garbage bag onto the floor of her room.

One of my mother’s many artistic talents was her ability to sew, and the bag was overflowing with remnants and scraps of every fabric she had ever worked with in her 24 years of marriage. I looked at her blankly. I didn’t know the first thing about sewing, and with three and a half hours ‘til bedtime, it was not the time to learn.

“You’re making a patchwork pillow,” she told me, “start picking out fabrics.”

Still confused, I emptied the content of the bag on the floor and started looking at all the fabrics. There was every color and texture imaginable -- florals, stripes, checks, plaids, denim, corduroy, taffeta, lace, velvet, eyelet, pastels, and jewel tones. Before we even did a thing with it, this pile of fabric looked like a work of art. My mother was a genius – even I could do this.

I started pulling out the fabrics that I liked, and laying them side by side on the floor, moving them around to see which fabrics looked nicest next to each other. My mom showed me how to cut the perfect little squares, and pin them together in the layout that I liked. Once I had the patchwork pinned together, she would sew it on the machine, add the solid back panel, and then I could stuff it and hand stitch the small seam to finish the pillow.

I ended up picking out ten different fabrics in all. Each one representing a special occasion my mother had made something for throughout the years. Among the swatches were fabrics used for prom dresses, Easter dresses, Halloween costumes and much more. The backing was a sturdy fabric that she used to make curtains in our family room. When it was all finished the pillow told a story of many happy memories for our family.

After each square that she joined together, my mom showed me how beautifully it was all coming together, and the whole pillow was completed with time to spare before bedtime. I felt badly that my mom had done the sewing, but she assured me that it was “the creation of the patchwork layout” that was the art – the sewing was just the mechanics. My mother had found the perfect outlet for the artistically challenged.

My patchwork pillow didn’t win any awards at the art show, but I didn’t hear anyone snickering as they walked by my display.

Thirty-some years later I’ve realized that life is a lot like a patchwork pillow. Every experience is its own piece of fabric, joined together to create a special little work of art with intricate texture and dimension, held together by a sturdy backing, and filled with a stuffing that you never really see – but it is what makes this hodge podge of fabric a pillow.

Yes, I do believe life is a lot like a patchwork pillow.

The Philosophy of Nicholas & Sarah

Did you ever notice that there are some people who have these incredible memories? They remember names, faces, dates, and things like how much they paid for their first car. Those people amaze me, and in truth I'm kind of envious of them for having that treasure trove of memories in their brains.

Over the years I've learned to accept the fact that my memory is pretty bad -- with the exception of those things that I remember like they were yesterday. Like family vacations to Cape May every summer -- and the amazing smell when you walked off the boardwalk into Morrow's Nut House. Or the night I met my husband at The Cask in Boston. Or the time I tripped going up onto the stage to be the magician's assistance at the Knights of Columbus Family Party.

Incredibly vivid memories -- every one of them. But there is one memory I have that I truly believe was a defining moment in my life.

It was spring of my senior year of college, and I was struggling with the "big question" about what I was supposed to do with my life. One of my roommates (and best friend), Michelle and I, decided to go to my parents' house one Sunday afternoon -- probably to do laundry. It was one of the first nice days of spring, and we were sitting in the driveway at my parents' house talking about life and trying to find the answer to the "big question."

The little neighbor girl (whose name I don't remember, so we'll just call her Sarah) was out playing in her yard with her younger brother, Nicholas. Sarah may have been 4 or 5 years old -- and when she saw us in the driveway, she came skipping over to us all giggly and grinning. Nicholas toddled along behind with sticky fingers, a runny little nose (you know the kind that makes bubbles when you breathe) and an enormous one-year old grin. You could tell he just adored his sister as he teetered behind her trying to keep his balance.

"Hello! What's you're name?" Sarah asked when she got to our driveway. Nicholas just grinned and came over and climbed into my lap.

Michelle and I introduced ourselves, then proceeded to talk to Sarah about all the things that a 5-year old wants to talk about -- dolls, butterflies, clouds, pigtails, pierced ears and the like. Nicholas just kept grinning and occasionally would reach up and touch my nose with his filthy little fingers.

All of the sudden, Sarah just stopped talking, and she stood up and looked at her brother, then she looked at us and said, "Nicholas is a cutie pie, and I just wanna hug him." And she did, right there and then she hugged her brother, and the two of them giggled like crazy.

It wasn't a minute later that she said goodbye and took off back to her yard, and Nicholas tried to keep up behind her.

Michelle and I sat in the driveway laughing about how adorable the two of them were. They didn't have a care in the world, and the most important thing was just being together, making friends and being happy.

"You know, Lol*, " Michelle said to me, "That's what it's all about. Right there -- that's the secret to life -- just be happy."

We sat silently in the driveway for a few minutes and digested the words -- both of us realizing that plain and simple truth.

The ride back to Muhlenberg that night was an easy one. All the stress of trying to answer "the big question" was gone, and we just laughed each time one of us would mimic little Sarah's words, "Nicholas is a cutie pie, and I just wanna hug him."

I may still be trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up, but fortunately Nicholas and Sarah taught us the best philosophy of life -- just be happy.

*Note: Lol is a nickname I've had since I was a child. My nieces & nephews call me Lolly...and someday I hope my grandkids will call me Lolly and my husband Pop. The nickname came long before LOL meant Laugh Out Loud...but I'm pretty pleased with that acronym. :)