That's A Wrap.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I am a summer gal. I live for my pool and 85+ degree days. Humidity doesn't bother me, and I could get by on 2 weeks of cold (1 for Christmas to feel in the holiday spirit, and one to spend the week skiing, playing in the snow.) That's it. Fall is... depressing. It's the end of my favorite season, end of vacations, end of long days and short warm nights.

I fight it as much as I can, but the day I wake up and have to wear pants because it's too cold for shorts (even if it gets warmer during the day) is the day I throw up my hands and give in to the darkness.

Like losing a pet, moving away, changing your life in some major way, autumn is a time I have to force myself to move forward, not give in to melancholy. Oh yes, there are thick soft sweaters, hot cocoa, burnished leaves, book snuggles by the fireplace.

But I hate the cold and the long dark.

It means jumping out of the shower as fast as I can, wearing socks because my feet are always numb, blowing on my fingers while I wait for the car to heat up. And stumbling around in the dark at 5 p.m.

Yes, this is all very depressing.

I can't live like that.

So what do I do?

I surround myself with beauty.  Here's my house: my kitchen table.

That's my dining room table.

The mantle over my corner fireplace.

A table in my living room.

I have more pumpkins and fall-sy things scattered around the house, but you get the idea. Vibrant color helps cheer me.

So if you have to move on from a rough spot- poor health, loss of a friend, change in lifestyle, rejection of a novel, etc., surround yourself with reminders of what makes you happy.

Char

Crazy Days of Summer...

are done.

On this rainy Labor Day holiday, I'm doing this:

When I'd rather be doing this:

Hope you're enjoying the last day before we get back into the yearly routine.

Because tomorrow it's back to working your a*$ off...

Char

Love, Defined

So there I was, chilling at Duke Island Park, listening to The B Street Band (a Bruce Springsteen tribute band). They were very good and I was enjoying myself. The Bruce doppelganger announced that the 'dance floor is officially open.' I saw kids throwing frisbees and footballs, families enjoying ice cream and other treats, and dogs relaxing in the cool night air--but no one dancing.

Then he guided her through the crowd of chairs and blankets and running kids. She was unsteady, unsure, as she walked. I wondered what had happened.

When he came to an open spot of grass, he took her in his arms and lead her in the dance. They were alone, in front of everyone to see her initial faltering steps, but his was sure and smooth, his arms strong around her.

And they danced.

While everyone heard the music, they felt it, moved to it, looking lovingly at each other.

Love defined.

Char

The Sharp Edges of Time

It was our 'stay-cation' week. Our kids had crazy work/school orientation/camp schedules, and with two of the three going away to school in August, the finances are crying. Our plan was to do day trips: Great Adventure (we are soooo done with that place and the interminable waiting lines), the Jersey Shore (one day because the weather was crappy, but we squeezed in jet skiing and dinner), a movie & dinner day (re: see note about weather being crappy above), a day getting housing for son (hubs went, I worked on edits, so no vacation that day for anyone), and then a day in NYC.

Here's where we went first:

It's the Freedom Tower. It still astonishes me how quiet people are at this site. Even though there are jackhammers and car horns and construction crews yelling, most visitors were hushed. We stood there, admiring the beauty of the building, so different from its predecessors, yet just as majestic.

The best way to view the memorial waterfalls is on an angle; it shows the depth (30 feet) of the first waterfall. The bronze edging, with all the names of the people humanity lost that day, are cooled in summer, heated in winter. The information pamphlet said it was to make it comfortable for loved ones to visit and touch the names.

This is the Survivor Tree. It was the only tree to survive the fall of the towers. It was cut to an 8' stump, then moved where it could be attended by specialists. It was then uprooted in a storm. Again it was moved and specialists tended it and kept it alive. It is tethered while its root systems re-establish themselves. When it blooms in the spring, it is spectacular. The 9/11 memorial is hauntingly, devastatingly beautiful and gut wrenching. The sharp edges of time have not dulled the horrific pain of this inhumanity. We left in silence, to wander away, touched again.

What better refuge from heat and sorrow than the loving embrace of a sea wind? We took a cruise on the Pioneer, a late 1880's sailing ship. We were allowed (read: encouraged) to help hoist the sail. It was relaxing to sail around NYC harbor in a smaller boat piloted by staff and volunteers, rather than sit in a large boat the felt like a bus on water.

What a view! A little to the left is the spire of the Freedom Tower.

The Lady greets us, reminding us that all yearn to breathe free...

Now that vacation is over, I'm back to editing, promoting, writing, blogging, trying to get ready for school, thinking about fall cleaning, painting the dining/kitchen/guest/bath- rooms once the kids are all settled.

Oh, and yes, tormenting my cat.

Hope the rest of your summer brings good, thoughtful, peaceful, and enlightening things.

Char

(All info about the 9/11 Memorial were taken from the free information pamphlets available to visitors)

Improbable- yes, impossible- NO!

A distant relative on my husband's side of the family was this little grandmother. Being Italian, of course she was called Nonni (pronounced naw-ni). Nonni was a petite little woman, maybe just a bit over 5 feet tall, lucky to break 100 pounds.  And being in her early 80's, she was frail.

Now there was an old stove in the basement of the house where she lived with her daughter, the grandchildren grown with families of their own. This stove was in Nonni's way. She wanted it across the room, against a wall. But what could she do? She was too small, too weak to move it herself.

But everyday, when she went down to the basement to do laundry or whatever else, she'd sidle up to the stove and lean against it, using all of her 100 pounds to push. Maybe it would move an inch, maybe not.

Fraction by fraction, that stove shifted.

It took Nonni months to move it--but she did.

And so it goes with writing or whatever endeavor we face that looks too daunting to attempt. Don't set impossible goals--for Nonni that would be immediately moving the stove across the room; for you that might be finishing a novel in a month, or losing weight, or overcoming an injury. But take a little time every day, or whenever the opportunity arises, like Nonni passing that stove, to do just a bit. At first it doesn't look like you've really accomplished anything, but eventually you will see you're achieving your goal. Nonni was determined to move that stove, and I'm betting she was smiling with satisfaction when she saw it halfway there, or even just a quarter of the way across the floor because even though every day brought only an incremental change, she was moving that stove by herself. Improbable as it was, she refused to accept it was impossible.

Now go accomplish your goals.

Char

A Miffy Subject...

Toward or towards.

Afterward, afterwards.

Which one to use?

Someone recently had a post on Facebook that said using 'towards' is incorrect.

Is it?

According to Webster's Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language, printed by Grammercy Books, New York, 1983 and a whopping 1,854 pages, both forms of both words are acceptable, even if the latter is not the preferred use.

You can use towards and afterwards if it tickles your fancy.

Personally, I don't like the 's' tacked on; it feels, well, tacked on. (Like the way people not-in-the-know use 'irregardless' instead of 'regardless.')

But as I consider Webster's an authoritative cite, I give you the green light to use the form you like.

Here's something else you didn't know: miffy: adj. Touchy, inclined to take offense. Also, miffed, miffier, miffiest. (You know that's going to appear in my writing somewhere!)

So the next time an editor/copyeditor circles that word and tells me 'no such word,' I'm going to send her the cite from Webster's.

Char

No Judgment Here....

This is my meditation garden:

I don't really meditate; I usually go there to weed and clip when I'm so mad at everyone/someone/something that I need, for safety reasons, to be alone. It's a good thing because I have this:

And this:

(That's a statue of a boy reading, it represents my oldest who loves books. The other two are in there also).

Then there's this:

Hanging baskets of greenery!

And my gazing ball (unfortunately it doesn't tell me anything other than whether it's sunny or raining or snowing). But see this? This picture is kind of different.

Why? It's green, about to bloom, and is kept nicely fed and is almost center stage when you enter my garden.

It's a weed. Technically. People who spend most of the year and tons of money gardening rip this sucker out.

Yet it's here in my garden, in a visible spot of honor.

My son loves it. It produces purple flowers and when he saw it blooming, he squealed with happiness. Yank it out? Relegate it to the compost pile? Prevent butterflies and bumblebees from collecting and spreading pollen? Just because someone, somewhere, sometime labeled it a weed?

It is just as colorful as my store bought, expensive, coddled flowers. It provides something essential to a variety of beneficial insects, and does not attract the non-beneficial ones which move on to destroy the expensive, temperamental flowers.

My son loves it. I do not care who mis-labeled this plant because in their narrow world view it was a pest, but in my garden, I don't hold with that judgment. I've stopped by the side of the road and taken samples of plants for my garden that people spray to keep away. The beautiful hanging baskets? Filled with begonias AND an intrusive vine that grows everywhere. It's the only plant that can withstand the shade and forgotten waterings. Doesn't it look beautiful? How can you hate something cascading down like a leafy green waterfall?

I like diversity- in my plants, my friends, my books, my food (although I won't eat anything soggy).  So spare me your judgments. As my college social science teacher said, "Weeds are only mis-placed plants in Man's mind."

And they have a place in my garden.

Char