This Day

I am still in the middle of two more posts, but they won’t happen until the weekend at the earliest. They’re works in progress, and the gist is mostly written, but I don’t have the energy to edit after the last post. Not to mention, I’ve got three people clamoring for my computer.

I’ve also been wanting to write more about Michael Brown and Ferguson, MO; more than my two line blurbs here or there, but I can’t wrap my head around it so I keep reblogging those who can say things coherently. It just makes me so sad, and I can’t focus on writing anything. I grew up in the 70s, in NYC during bussing, and I can’t imagine that we’ve gone backwards rather than forwards. It’s appalling and frightening, even for me.

The last few weeks – probably about four – have been a patchy, unpredictable roller coaster of being down and trying to force myself out of sinking into a depression. It might sound silly, but Robin Williams’ death really threw me for a loop. Besides it happening at all, for me it came in the middle of a downward swing, and made coming back up a little harder. At least I’ve been aware of it happening and can try to remedy it as best I can.

I’ve been drawing, which is weirdly calming considering I have no talent, but surprisingly, I’ve been doing pretty well. I’ll publish some pictures and I’ll write more about this when I post my wrap up for my recent retreat.

(Some of this sounds as though I’ve posted it already in other forms, so I’m sorry if I have and forgot – brain fog and all.)

I’ve been praying the rosary and reading my Grace book. These are unexpectedly soothing. They comfort me with a silent, invisible presence, there only to reassure my soul that things will be alright. And even stranger: I believe it.

I will be catching up with phone calls soon. As in, if you’ve called me and I haven’t called you back, I will. And if I’ve called you and haven’t gotten you, I will try again. Plus those three emails because I do not want to drop the ball on important things.

I can feel the darkness, but the light is around the edges and I’m hyperaware; not letting it swallow me up this time.

I returned to church yesterday and then again today. Skipping it Sunday made it easier to sleep in on Monday and choose to not go.

But there is something remarkable about receiving communion that fills me with joy and sacred presence, and then the people holding my hand for the Our Father. I like shaking hands right after that, feeling the warmth of others. Today my priest took my hand on the way out, and instead of letting me go, held it for a moment and squeezed it. It’s weird, but it’s almost as though he knows when I’m in that place and need a little extra kindheartedness; it is such a genuine gesture of caring, seemingly right when I need it.

Tomorrow is my 20th wedding anniversary.

This is the first time we’re leaving the kids home and going out on our own to celebrate. Dinner and a movie, just like our first date, and then home so my newly independent son can go out with his friends. My daughter is planning some elaborate something or other that requires secrecy, streamers, and a drum set stool. I don’t even want to ask.

It is nice, though.

James Garner (1928-2014)

(Photos are from Google Images. I do not own these images.)

I woke up at 5am. I felt ill and took some Tylenol and thought I’d check Facebook. I’m not sure why I picked Facebook; Tumblr’s my usual go-to place. At the top of my Facebook newsfeed was a post by my sister. She is always posting celebrity deaths, so her posts consist of my nieces and this year, the death of my childhood apparently.

I saw the RIP and gasped when I read the name: James Garner.

My eyes welled up and a tear or two escaped.

I watched a lot of TV as a kid; still do. A lot. I could name pretty much any actor and I recognize them in other roles as well as by their voices if I’m not looking at the screen. I like so many of them that it’s hard to pick a favorite. I mean I could pick ten or twelve, but pinning it down to one is almost impossible.

Unless James Garner’s name comes up.

I adored James Garner.

He was my childhood hero.

Jim Rockford.

The Rockford Files.

Most of my friends know of my intense dislike, hatred, phobia of water and the beach is my least favorite place. So it would probably surprise them that because of Jim Rockford I wanted to live in a trailer on the beach.

I also wanted to be a private investigator. I don’t have the skills, but what the hell?! Anything is possible with Jim Rockford as my mentor.

If I couldn’t be a writer, I would to be a private eye. The logistics didn’t matter. Jim was everything. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t loved by everyone. He had a shady past. He carried a gun. He had an answering machine. I don’t think we even had an answering machine back then.

And his car. Loved his car.

Today, I wore a brown poly-blend shirt with a collar in honor of his hideous brown polyester trousers and huge lapels. Ugh! It’s hard to believe that that look was ever popular.

I talked about Star Trek fandom the other day, and I fan-ficced the hell out of Jim Rockford.

I can hear the opening music in my head.

I’m going to miss him so much.

You will always be in my heart.

Rest in peace, Jimbo.

What is Bullying?

What is bullying?

According to the Webster’s Online Dictionary, bullying is “the act of intimidating a weaker person to make them do something.” It is also defined as “tending to browbeat others,” and its synonyms include intimidation (noun), domineering, and blustery (adjectives).

In modern vernacular it happens much more than in the schoolyard for some kid’s lunch money or baseball cards. For starters, and not entirely relevant, do people still collect baseball cards?

In addition to school bullying by peers, we have adults and teachers who don’t know the appropriate responses to bullying. Often we blame the person being bullied, trying to get them to change how they do things to avoid the bully and/or the bullying behavior.

We also have the internet which is both the best thing for modern technology and information dissemination, but it is also the best place that feeds the trolls and encourages some aspects of bullying because of its anonymous nature.

Using a made up name with no affiliation to a legal name or location seems to free people’s subconscious to the point that they think their abuse of others is normal and/or okay.

We all know that many bullies have their own problems, whether it is mental illness, chronic abuse by others, or any other reason that they feel validates their abuse and bullying of others.

When I was in middle school, I was told by a girl, same age, same class, her name was Donna and she told me that I couldn’t go on the field trip strawberry picking. I really, really wanted to go strawberry picking. I grew up in the city and the suburbs, which was more city-like than rural, and I had never gone strawberry picking. We barely had a backyard. I really wanted to go.

I think she said they would beat me up.

I went home and cried. I cried a lot.

I also think this is the reason I’ve always wanted a big brother, someone to beat this girl up so I could go on my field trip. This just illustrates the mentality of dealing with a bully; more violence. We know now that this is not the way.

Thinking back on it, she also had two friends with her: it was like Crabbe and Goyle with Malfoy from Harry Potter. She looked like Meg 1.0 from Supernatural, probably one of the reasons I prefer Meg 2.0 to the blond version. The first one always made me uncomfortable and it wasn’t until I started writing this that I realized why.

Anyway, I knew I couldn’t go on the trip. That was obvious; no argument there. I was upset and I’d cry, but no way could I go on the trip.

I also knew I couldn’t make a fuss.

I said I was sick. Very technically, I was sick; sick to my stomach about so many things that I couldn’t understand at eleven or twelve years old. All I knew is that it sucked, and I wasn’t precisely lying; I was truly sick.

I stayed home, and I never forgot it.

Thirty years later, I went to my son’s middle school back to school night. I came home having a panic attack and after spending about two hours talking and crying on the phone, the panic was barely soothed. I was upset for days after, on the verge of other panic attacks.

Bullying never goes away, and so when a fellow Tumblr user began bullying me last week, I became that twelve-year old again.

I tried to talk to the person, to express that I didn’t want to be harassed.

They bullied further.

I shouldn’t admit it for the satisfaction they might get (or others), but I’m in my forties and if it could happen to me, it could happen to the teenagers here who might be less equipped to handle the pressure. I cried. Every time I turned on Tumblr, my tears welled up. It was in the back of my mind at every moment. I stayed after mass and prayed on it.

Tumblr is not supposed to be stressful like this. Tumblr is not supposed to be upsetting. Nothing we do for fun is supposed to be stressful and upsetting.

I’ve taken legal steps to stop this bully from harassing me, but it’s not simple on a public site.

It also shouldn’t be my responsibility to stop this person. They shouldn’t be encouraged by others.

You can’t stop someone from hurting you by hurting someone else.

Sure, I could leave. But why should *I* have to leave? I like it here, and I’ve done nothing wrong. Tumblr is a place of diverse ideas, diverse opinions and people say stuff all of the time that I don’t agree with and don’t like. I don’t jump down all (or even some) of their throats, bully, threaten and harass them because I don’t like what they’re posting.

That is what’s called being an adult.

But it’s more than that.

It’s called respecting that not everyone will agree with you. Not everyone will share the same experience with you. Not everyone will want to follow your tactic. And you feeling that you’re right does not give you the right to bash someone who also thinks that they are right.

I don’t care what their problem is. I don’t care if it’s mental, physical, they’re a victim of abuse, what their political affiliation is, what their gender or orientation is, married with kids or single. I honestly don’t give a fuck.

My empathic nature does have its limits. I try to live my life through Christ, but human nature is at once beautiful and compassionate and it is also selfish and egocentric. Once you crossed the line to threaten me (and this person did), you lost my empathy. I have no need to have direct contact with anyone unless they come to me first; unless they talk about me with the name calling and verbal abuse.

When my first son was born, I remembered the strawberry picking field trip. It is never far from my mind when harassment begins, but when my first son was born, I swore that no one would bully him. I would not leave him to fend for himself.

And a few years ago, I swore again. I promised myself that *I* would not be bullied ever again.

I would not live in fear of some ignorant, arrogant, holier than thou, knows better than me about me person, whether in physical person or online.

So this is me standing up.

I know I’m not the only one this person is harassing. I know I’m not the only one that this person has attacked.

And I won’t be silenced.

Basket of Tea

On my dining room table (or on my kitchen cart) sits a basket of tea. This is mypublic basket of teas. The regular grocery store varieties. Stash and Twining’s in green tea with jasmine or green chai or chai spice which is a black tea as well as lemon ginger, which I don’t really care for and PG Tips. I just bought two boxes of Ginger Breakfast Black tea and one Honeybush, Mandarin and Orange and I’m gradually acquiring matching metal tins for three or four special loose teas.

The private basket in my office holds all of my loose teas, some of which I chose from a local place, the rest sent by my friend to try different kinds: Lady Londonderry, Moroccan Mint, and Mexican Chocolate. I had planned to do a tea tasting on my blog but never started the project.

Now might be a good time.

I do go through a space where I drink one kind for a long time and then switch over to another. I went through a Star Trek phase and only drank Earl Grey, hot.

On the morning that I began the first draft or snippet of this, I had the ginger black for the first time in more than a year. I was very lucky to have found it in the grocery store. Up until now, I’ve always had to order from a catalog.

The green tea with jasmine is the one I tried during Lent when I gave up soda. I was told that the green would counter the negative effects of the diet soda. I don’t know if it did, but I have been good and limited my soda intake to two cans a day on most days, and none for breakfast anymore.

I have green and black Moroccan Mint and I prefer the black tea. I prefer black teas in general.

I enjoy British tea, especially PG Tips. This is perfect with milk and a tiny bit of sugar. And it’s always wonderful. It also reminds me of Ed whose quintessential Britishness can be defined by his tea-brewing.

I also enjoy the Chinese tea that I found at my local store: Pai Mu Tan and Wu Yi Oolong. I believe those are their names. It tastes exactly like the end of the Chinese dinners I had in the restaurant when I was a kid growing up in New York.

Tea is that comfortable friend who sits in your lap and holds your hand. Tea turns the pages of the book and reminds you to use a bookmarks. Tea makes all things better. Tea understands. Tea comforts and reminds and is thoughtful.

Sweet, Sweet Music

I haven’t done a proper meme in a long time, so when I was asked to put my iPod/MP3* player on shuffle and list all the songs, no skipping, I thought it would be a cool thing.

This is my list of the first twenty songs that came up on shuffle:

Cold As Ice – Foreigner
Some Nights – Fun
No Sunlight – Death Cab for Cutie
Who We Are – from Hunger Games – Imagine Dragons
Long, Long Way From Home – Foreigner
One Day More – Les Mis
Balthazar, Impresario – Frank Turner
Bixby Canyon Bridge – Death Cab for Cutie
Half-Truism – Offspring
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida – Iron Butterfly
Agony – from Into the Woods
Wanted Dead or Alive – Bon Jovi
Bad Moon Rising – Credence Clearwater Revival
Hey You – Bachman Turner OverDrive
Night Moves – Bob Seger
The Blood of Cu Chulainn (instrumental)
Eye of the Tiger – Survivor
Dumbledore’s Army – WROCK music – Andrew Blake
You Get What You Give – New Radicals
The Gambler – KennyRogers

Typically when I talk about my musical tastes, I describe it as either twenty years old or twenty minutes. There is no in between. In looking at this list, I can see that my Supernatural soundtrack has taken over a bit – that is mostly the classic rock that you see here. I’ve also noticed that when I say ‘twenty years old’ at this point, I mean thirty since I’m talking about the 80s synth pop and second British invasion plus alternative.

I still listen to alternative. In fact, it’s the only thing I listen to on the car radio. My sister or my husband will tell me about a new song they think I’ll like, and I have to disappoint them by saying that I’ve been listening to that on my radio station for almost a year, sometimes more. See Flogging Molly, Frank Turner, Fun, Death Cab for Cutie, Adele, and Mumford and Sons.

It looks like at least four genres up there. Or more. Let’s see: country, wrock, classic rock, rock, alternative, top 40, Broadway soundtrack.

I like to sing in the car. The music up loud, the windows open, singing the wrong words. It is so freeing!

I’ve often said that the only musical instrument I play is the car radio. However, when I was in middle school, I could play bits on the piano: Stairway to Heaven including one chord, the theme from All in the Family, Do Re Me from A Sound of Music. I could also play bits of Color My World on the guitar, but that’s it. My fingers are too small for guitar playing.

I tried to take violin in elementary school. I was okay, but my pinky wouldn’t reach across, and I couldn’t make. I still have a very small pinky.

In college I took Folk Music in America and part of the class was assembling a lap dulcimer and learning how to play it. I could play Go Tell Aunt Rhody and Simple Gifts (my favorite) in my sleep. My friend taught us Smoke on the Water. Each note had a number, so after a time I could play anything albeit slowly. It’s made out of cardboard and it’s twenty-seven years old, but I still have it and it still works. I can even tune it since it’s tuned to itself. I could never read music, but I’m learning a bit from the church’s hymnal. You can teach an old dog new tricks.

This is a recent picture of it. My daughter took it to school during music week.

Every time I think I have no interest in music, one of these memes comes along to remind me that I really do like music and sometimes I need to remember that.

School’s Out. Almost.

The top picture is one that I took at my recent Diocesan enrichment. I love photos from different perspectives. I learned how during a workshop at the last writer’s conference I went to sponsored by the IWWG. It was given by author/photographer Carren Strock and she taught us about focusing our eyes, taking things from different angles, photos through things, etc. Personally, I love doors, and take several pictures of doors wherever I go.

The second photo was taken by my son. He recently visited the state capital and this was my favorite picture. He loved the architechture and the chandaliers and pillars, and I loved hearing him describing how he viewed it all and why he choose to take certain pictures from certain angles.

It’s kind of neat to see things that I do, but don’t talk about getting taken over by my kids. It’s that reminder that they are always hearing and learning whether we, as adults realize it or not. It’s good to remember.

Today is the big office clean up, and the beginning of my summer writing project of a vignette for each of the special things that I mentioned in my journal submission about my office. I will also finish my memoir homework for Tuesday’s class – the last until the Fall.

Monday, I’m going to the printing place and hope that they can get me a nice print of the cell phone photo of the tree sketch that is lost in the mail. I am also going to try to hunt down the photos from the Easter Vigil, so I can get some of those printed. I was going to do that yesterday, but things didn’t work out.

I will also attempt to phone two friends, possibly meet with one before the kids get out of school.

Monday also begins the last full week of school. Not horrified, but not ready for summer break.

I’m laying carrots down for the Fall. I can get there. Right? Right?

Saw Frozen last night. I really liked it although there were some parts that I thought less of. All in all a good movie and as I mentioned I had no idea of spoilers so it was kind of cool to see something that I had no idea at all of the storyline.

After seeing the gifset three times in the last two days, I want to see The Devil Wears Prada. I’m going to see if Redbox offers it (we don’t have Netflix anymore), and hopefully I can borrow it on Wednesday and watch it.

I’m trying to be more consistent. Any advice for that or any prompts, fiction or non-fiction, writing or photography, hit me up.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there: dads, stepdads, uncles, godfathers (*waves*), father figures. Have a beautiful weekend.

Basement Refuge

Prompt – Was there a place you liked to sit and hide when you were a child?

My basement was my refuge. We had half of a green velvet couch down there tucked against the paneled box where the oil tank lived, so generally it was a warm, cozy place. It had one arm rest. It must have been a sectional sofa when it was in my grandparents’ apartment and I do vividly remember it there too. The arm faced the television on one of those wheeled stands complete with its rabbit ears and an Atari console. I remember lying down on it, my legs thrown over the arm, my head uncomfortably angled to watch the baseball game. I don’t recall if those years were as a Mets fan or a Yankees fan, Doug Flynn or Bucky Dent and I even spent a season as a Red Sox fan for Carl Yastrzemski. I think at this time Phil Rizzuto was a sportscaster and I thought watching the games so intently made me qualified to play one day despite my handicapping non-athleticism.

Also in the basement was a colloquial bar with many, many bottles of liquor: Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal, Dewar, others. It was very common to receive a bottle as a gift, not me, I was 11 or 12, but my parents even though they didn’t drink. I was, however allowed to bring one bottle to college if I remember correctly. The bottles were lined up nicely on the shelf and behind the bar counter was space for glasses and ice buckets. It even had its own light and switch.

On top of the bar was kept the stereo. Very large, very boxy with a clear plexiglass or plastic cover, it took up a third of the bar. Two large speakers stood on either side of it, although my huge headphones were usually plugged in. Here, I was a Beatle singing along to a box set long since warped in a basement flood. I sang loudly and of course, beautifully. They were all still alive and so in 1978 and ’79 there was that small chance that they would reunite. I think we still had an intense dislike for Yoko Ono although that somewhat mellowed after John died.

No one bothered me down there and I liked it like that. It was always my turn to choose the television programs and no one was ever in my seat.

Sylvia

Prompt – someone important in your life with whom you’ve lost touch with

Lost touch with seems to be an accidental or choice of losing touch, so I’ll stick to live people, although that doesn’t much narrow the list down. Faces assail my mind until one remains: Sylvia.

Oh, how I love Sylvia. Short and plump, coffee colored skin with a head of loose dark curls that she kept short-ish. She had a round face and a flat nose and the voice of angels. She had a way of moving as if she were floating on air or about to dance. Not just a skip in her step, but a hop and a pirouette too. Her voice soft and lilting, but more that brilliant combination of mother, sister, spiritual healer from New Orleans, Louisiana, a place that for me holds the mystical and mysteries and a longing place to try it just once.

Her husband was an NCO, a Staff Sargent, I think in the Marines. She had three kids who were about my age at the time or barely younger.

She used her softness to get her point across. We taught together for the US Navy’s child development program until she became the assistant director, one step down from where she truly belonged. She brought multi-cultural education to a place that should have had it all along considering the clientele. She taught me how to make the perfect sweet potato pie even though my own mother did not understand the concept of Dessert rather than side dish. As an aside, when I was recently in Virginia, McDonald’s had sweet potato pie instead of pumpkin. I’d consider moving south just for that.

Sylvia was encouraging and smart and strong and delicate. She was comfortable in her own skin with a bright smile. She wore loose, bright, colorful clothes and sandals with the most beautiful huge to my eye necklaces, bracelets and earrings. Her rings were simple to fit her small hands.

She inspired and awed me and the thought of her makes me smile.

In Hand

Write about something that feels comfortable in your hand

I have many of these things that I hold, touch, rub, play with, not as bad as a smoker fiddling with a cigarette, but relatively close. You’ve already met Bob and despite what looks like a bulky outside, he really does fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. I’ve held him on car rides through ice; I clutched him flying over the Atlantic, rubbed across the chips in his casing during an MRI and slept with him in my hand in a hotel room. I can always find him if I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s hopped away.

Until Bob, I hadn’t really thought about all of the other talismans that I’ve had over the years. In high school and college, I played Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) and would roll the dice around in my palm under the table while my other hand held a pen. Although roll around is a bit of an inaccuracy since most of the dice were an assortment of odd shapes.

During those games, I also held what was known at the time as a worry stone. It was a small oval polished rock like thing with an indentation for your thumb to rub over it, made to rest in your hand. The rubbing was supposed to be comforting during times of stress and I suppose it was. It was procured at Kmart on the other side of town, and is long since lost, but I have other stones with words of encouragement or comfort on them: Breathe, Balance, xoxo (although that one was more because of the color) and I thought I had one that said Thrive.

Also at college, when I had to do any kind of public speaking, I held my friend’s matchbox from RIT. That was the school he longed to go to, and as his good luck charm, it transferred to me. I still have one of those matchsticks somewhere in my boxes of memorabilia.

When I’m at my therapist, I almost always wear a scarf so I can play with the ends or the fringe.

I have a Welsh spoon key chain that I rub with my thumb when I’m driving sometimes and a smooth stone from a medieval Welsh castle that I hold occasionally.

Last Easter, at the church, they gave out a small metal cross for Lent. This year, it was a small ceramic heart. I often hold them in my hand and in the case of the cross, I found it very comforting during some very stressful times as my medication was being adjusted. Rosaries are still a bit foreign in my hand, but they are also more utilitarian, for prayer rather than comfortable for just being held.

I am definitely one for symbolism and assigning importance to objects. I believe that some of that is due to the material world we live in. I also know how much some people care for me, but I get anxious and worrisome and a bit paranoid, but re-reading a birthday card or a book inscription or even just holding something that they gave me for a moment or two reminds me of the love they have for me and I for them.

I do like to hold things and think of what they remind me of. Most of them are calming just by their presence, and some of them need a closed palm to keep the good feels inside and close. At church, after the Lord’s Prayer, if someone has held my hand, I keep my hand closed to keep the warmth of that touch with me a little longer, and in this last week, for that brief moment between receiving the Eucharist and placing it gently on my tongue, I close my palm around it.

My charm bracelet gives me this kind of feeling. The charms symbolize different feelings, wants and peoples and I move around the chain pressing my thumb and forefinger together as I stop at each charm like a mini-hug.

Those are a few of my favorite things that burst from my heart but still manage to fit in my hand.

Cardigans

“Take this and wrap yourself in the love of strangers and friends whenever you need warmth.”

This was part of the message I received on a recent gift given to me and I was reminded of it when it came time to write about cardigans. When I was a kid I never liked them. I don’t know why. At some point, that changed, but it took forever to find one that worked for me. I didn’t want zippers or hoods. Those were too much like the sweatshirts I wore all the time as a teenager. They were a reminder of something not quite right.

The cardigans I was looking for had to have buttons down the front, no pockets, no hoods, no ski designs. I worked in a sporting goods store. I hated ski designs. It took forever, but I finally found the perfect one. It was a green, but not the green that I liked. It took so long to find; I bought it anyway. Ironically, the color was a sage green, a color that I now love most of all. It had wide and thin knitted stripes and some kind of design every other strip. It was a crew neck collar, and it buttoned all the way to the top, although the top button was hard to do on the thick double-knit collar. I loved it. There was something writerly about it; the imaginations of going places. I can’t quite explain it. I wore it long after I wore it out. I think I still have it, but I couldn’t find it for today.

Oh, and cardigans don’t mess up your hair.

Now, however, I do wear hoods and zippers, and pockets are a handy addition, but I’m still averse to jersey/sweatshirt fabric. I like wool or wool-like, small knits rather than cable knit.

The one I’m wearing right now was a gift for Christmas, and it is the perfect color to go with anything and everything and the perfect weight for every season. Light enough for a summer sweater, just enough warmth for under a winter coat or heavier sweater and shawl.

If it is somehow too warm, I have taken to wrapping the sleeves around my waist and wearing it that way, so it is always handy and ready for the chill of an air conditioner turned up too high. I am never without a sweater. Well, almost never. And cardigans are always my preference.

My favorite part of the cardigan is pulling it closed. Not buttoning it, but pulling it tight like a hug, like that message I wrote at the top of the page. There is something extra in being wrapped in a cardigan. It brings me memories of Welsh mountain fireplaces and stories under a lamplight, even though in most of those memories I have no cardigan, only its feel.

Some of the warmth I know comes from one of my favorite people known for his cardigans and his tennis sneakers: Mr. Fred Rogers. There is no one warmer than Mr. Rogers. His daily welcome into his home, his soothing voice, his wise and kind words, and of course the feeling that you are the only one he is talking to and that you matter just because you’re you. You felt his love and wanted to visit forever. I don’t know if he made cardigans both uncool and cool again for me, but he is the warmest wearer of them all.

My oldest son, who will be seventeen at the end of this week, was not a huge fan of cardigans, but he loved Mr. Rogers. Unfortunately, iconic Mr. Rogers passed away before my two little ones were born and sadly, they don’t know him as well. Zachary watched Arthur (the cartoon aardvark) and Mr. Rogers every day on PBS. It was a glorious day when Mr. Rogers appeared animated on the Arthur series.

We once wrote a letter to Mr. Rogers, asking for his television schedule and thanking him for his daily friendship. We were both surprised and not when he actually answered. He sent us a packet with the television schedule of topics he would be sharing with his viewers and two separate letters; one for my son and one for me. He signed my son’s “Mr. Rogers” and mine “Fred”. It was wonderful and I still take it out and re-read it now and then.

Cardigans have a feeling all their own and like fresh-baked cookies are better when shared.

Griffins and Ginger Snaps

-I write, and I have a blog because of course I do-

GGS