It's the Smallest Gifts that Matter

     On my desk I have saucer with two blue jay feathers, two dried clover flowers, a Jesus card, a rock, dried crab apple berries, some dried leaves and a dried dandelion flower. On my piano sitting on top of a jarred candle are dried sugar maple leaves.

     You might ask what these strange items are doing hanging around? Am I a hoarder, lover of all things nature, someone who can't through things away? Well...I'm a Nana, or Nanny or Nan, a Grandmother or a Granny (a funny name my next to youngest granddaughter called me one day). And, if you've ever had children or grandchildren, you realize quickly it's the smallest gifts that matter through the course of time. Gifts given on the spur of the moment, gifts given from the heart. These very important gifts need a place of honor and a place where they can be seen. These very small gifts have a story and a heartbeat.
     Such as the two blue jay feathers that were given to me by oldest granddaughter Shi, age 11. She brought them to me after an afternoon of exploring the yard and said, "Look Nanny, I found two blue bird feathers! You can have them!" So into my collection they went. Shi loves to explore, and reminds me of myself when I was her age, I was always wanting to explore nature.
     I found the two dried clovers in my purse after my youngest granddaughter, Boo Boo age 3, went home from a visit. We had been out in the front yard looking at and watering the flowers. She apparently decided to pick some flowers for me, and make it a surprise by placing them in my purse. Little Boo Boo is wise beyond her age and is always thoughtful.
     Joe Joe, age 8, gave me the Jesus card after he'd had a particularly difficult day at school. Somehow in his heart, it was Jesus who would see him through. He said, "Here Nana, here's Jesus. Don't you love Jesus? He's good to us." The Jesus card spent many months on the refrigerator door, so we could remember Jesus's goodness, and Joe Joe's gift. This year in school, Joe Joe is excelling! We are proud!
     The rock belongs to Mae Mae, age 4, she is a lover of rocks (like her Nana), and collects them continually. She is fascinated with all the rocks in the driveway, even though to me they all look gray and uneventful, but little Mae sees the beauty in their plainness and finds them all wonderful treasures. She also gave me the crab apple berries and asked to be lift to the tree so she could pick them. Mae says she wishes she could touch the air!  
     Bespectacled Drewy, age 8, looking like a little professor with his glasses gave me the dandelion and maple leaves. With a big and tender heart he loves all things science. His most recent gift to me was a drawing of his Kiwi Bombs. A mother and father and their offspring. After he left my house, I realized he must have been learning about traits in school and this was a creative assignment meant to teach children about why they look like both their parents.

     Although, my oldest grandson Trey, age 11, lives far away I have one of his gifts a candle bought for me one Christmas. It sits, and will always sit, on my bathroom sink. Trey, now looking like a young man, loves sports and Legos, and is always happy to see us when we visit.

     In my office, I also have my closet doors covered with art created by the grandkids. There's a large plump spotted cow, an octopus, a man made from envelopes, a watermelon slice and various paintings. They are there as small gifts given in love, and they are there to remind me that childhood doesn't last forever. These smallest gifts are helping me to remember to make each day a magic day and remind me that's it's always the smallest things that really matter in life. So true, so true....
   

My Father's Boots, Connected Me to My Roots

     How often when growing up do we believe we know more than our parents, or for some reason they are an embarrassment to us? For me, it took a trip to Nashville, Tn., at the age of 50, 25 years after my dad passed away, for me to come full circle with the feelings I had about his cowboy boots and the person he was.
     In late September, last year, I went to a workshop with spoken word artist Minton Sparks. She told us that the ground we were born over, comes up through us and out of us as writers. I guess that's the first time I really appreciated where I came from. Before that time, I felt it was not consequential to who I became as an adult.
     Although my family was very dysfunctional, we loved each other in our own way. One of my earliest memories is of wanting to be a cowgirl. Mom and Dad bought me a cowgirl outfit and boots to go alone with it. There was also a cowgirl hat that I kept attached to my bouncing head with a drawstring. At the age of three, I thought I was in style and very proud to have my picture made in this western getup.
     But soon, when I was four, mom began to go to church and I went along. Dad didn't attend very often. So, I began to see that other men wore dress shoes, not cowboy boots. This became an embarrassment to me that my Dad never wore dress shoes.
     It was much later in my life that I realized, he came from Colorado and the West--it was who he was. Many years later I fell in love with the West, the mountains, the canyons, the rocks and the deserts, many years later I would wear cowboy boots. Many years later I would understand where he came from, his roots and the reasons he was who he was.
     Recently I was privileged to read a poem I'd written at the Minton Sparks workshop at our local Spofest--a public presentation and performance of poets, writers and musicians. Below is my poem "Daddy's Boots," and some thoughts on my mom and dad:
      

     Daddy's Boots

Now, daddy loved his boots,

leather cowboy boots,

he shined them with Kiwi polish and a soft cloth,

and a special horsehair brush 

with a wooden handle,

buffing them to a proper shine,

bringing to the room the sent of polish, 

coffee and Prince Albert tobacco.

(I still have his brush,

used by my son to shine his boots.)

But, for all of his love for his boots, I was ashamed of them,

not of their shine, nor the smell of their polished leather,

nor the way the heels

smacked the concrete sidewalk when he came home at night,

but that they were... well, boots...

cowboy boots.

No one in my "World" wore cowboy boots.

I went to church with mama, 

and the men all wore proper leather loafers 

and dress-up laced shoes.

 But daddy came from Colorado,

he'd owned a Palomino,

and a cowboy hat--he loved the West,

he loved the wind and the mountains,

he loved Louis L'amour and John Wayne,

He loved sad country music the kind 

with a nasal twang.

(But all those memories of his past,

were lost to me in the prideful waters of my swirling youth,

because I knew how he was supposed to look,

I knew how he was supposed to act.) 

The day came when he would walk me down the aisle,

I was embarrassed,

because he insisted on wearing cowboy boots--

not proper leather loafers like a church going man would wear!

I was married in the fall and daddy wore his boots--

to my chagrin.

With his tux, 

with his bow-tie

with his cowboy boots he gave me away--much to his chagrin,

and his to sadness at lost opportunities

 and my loss of youth and my leap into adulthood.

And now, so many years later, many years after he's passed on,

I'm traveling, wearing cowboy boots with a skirt and a scarf,

and bangles, driving to Nashville to learn about where I came from,

and the people who made me who I am...

    

Daddy

Western snap shut shirts

Cowboy boots and Khaki pants,

Rolled up jeans,

Black hair, combed backed with a proper duck-bill,

Roll-your-own cigarettes and black coffee,

Prince Albert in a can,

Cans of beer clustered close by,

Country music,

 Home made omelets and fried potatoes,

a welder by trade,

flash burned eyes soothed 

by mama and potato poultices,

Army cook and survivor of WWII,

with mental scars produced by 

walking through Dachau,

Loved to take photographs.

Mama  

Simple cotton dresses, with simple buttons,

 made by a friend,

canvass tennis shoes,

a large purse full of everything anyone could need,

including her full-sized Bible,

Hair grayed much too soon,

pulled back in a bun,

Breakfast rolls and donuts,

Three Musketeers Bars,

Polk greens and watercress,

fried chicken and mashed potatoes,

Instant coffee, diet soda,

a cook in restaurants and maker of giant cream pies,

lover of dogs and children,

believer in God and the "Church,"

never learned to drive,

rider of cabs and the church bus,

A Writer of poems and songs.

     For a video presentation of "Daddy's Boots," please use this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gC-LTmHfC2I&list=UUuBt6CUBHLTQD1amOpvAm1g&index=8&feature=plcp

Bucket Lists and Such

     I've arrived at that certain age, when I've begun to see friends and peers pass away due to various causes, and now I've suddenly become aware of having begun a "Bucket List." Of course it wasn't called a bucket list per se, at that point in my life, but a "List of Things I Want to Do Sometime."
     A List of Things I Want to Do Sometime, sounds so much more full of life and hope, but alas Bucket List is much shorter in the vernacular. So, bucket list it is.
     Number one on my list is to travel to Nepal and hike to Mt. Everest Base Camp with the elevation of 17,600-feet. Originally it was, please don't laugh, to climb Mt. Everest. Yes that was my dream vacation, traveling to Kathmandu in May, hiking to base camp and then ascending to camps 1, 2, 3 and 4 at the South Col at 26,000-feet and then the final push to the Hillary Step and on to the summit rising at 29,028-feet. 
     I would daydream of climbing over and through the Khumbu icefall with my crampons strapped to my boots, swinging my ice ax. Ascending aluminum extension ladders across bottomless crevasses. Then ascending through the Western Cmw (a Welsh word pronounced koom, meaning valley), and finally with many hardships, freezing cold and danger, with my oxygen tank providing needed air, I would snap my photo at the top of the world.

As close as I'll probably get to the Everest experience--The Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

     Well, I'm not sure if my number-1 bucket list item will ever be crossed off, but it's an adventure to dream about. Other entries on my list is to visit Tuscany, Italy and Paris, France, fly in a hot air balloon in some exotic place, go to Bora Bora, to photograph wildlife in Africa's Maasai Mara and most recently to hike the Pacific Crest Trail or PCT, roughing it with my back pack and gear.
     The most recent bucket list idea came from reading Cheryl Strayed's New York Times Best Seller, "Wild--From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail." An excellent book about one woman's journey, by herself to find herself. Through the course of life we all need to find our self--to find what anchors us in this vast ocean of humanity. Maybe bucket lists provide that inward look into ourselves at a time when we realize  life is short and there is still so much to do, and see and people to connect with.
     Some of my bucket list ideas have been achieved--such as hiking and photographing the Wave in the Vermilion Cliffs Wilderness Area in Arizona, flying in a small plane and taking aerial photos, travelling the Western U.S., hiking in a slot canyon, having a greyhound for a pet, photographing the stars...and reconnecting with friends that I haven't visited with for a long time. So much to do in one lifetime--and not enough time. I guess I need to continue to work on my, can I say, "List of Things I Want to Do Sometime..." my Bucket List. I need to make every minute count!

Night sky and star trails near Louisville, Ky.

A Visit To L.A. and Hollywood, 2009

     It all began at 30,000-feet with the description of a Knob Noster, Mo., tomato.
     My seating arrangement for our flight to Los Angels, three years ago, was next to 75-year-old David Smith, a frail, bearded man in faded jeans, sneakers and a long sleeved, plaid, flannel shirt. Smith a retired physical science and mathematics teacher traveling back to Lompoc, Calf., informed me that he couldn’t hear very well or see very well so he carried a pair of small binoculars on his belt.
    He talked to my husband Roy and I about the universe, global warming, the law of gravity, how we are all forces of energy, God, the sad state of California’s highway system and the passing of his wife of 46 years.
     Smith also informed us that he grew up in Warrensburg and that his grandmother used to live on a farm in Knob Noster. As a child he would visit and help is uncle pick tomatoes.
     “Years later I can still taste the sweetness of that tomato,” he said. “It’s something you don’t forget.”
     When we arrived at LAX, he apologized for talking so much, and was whisked away in a wheel chair for a connecting flight to Santa Maria. Actually, we enjoyed letting him talk to us, and wished him well.
     Our trip Los Angeles was won by surprise when our daughter, Melissa Bedwell, signed us up through the Radio Lia show last summer. Finally able to make the trip, we decided to stay near Malibu. Our initial plans were to visit the famous Pink’s Hot Dog stand in Hollywood--but things never go as planned.

Roy and I along the shops on Rodeo Drive, in 2009.
C. 2009 Bemiss Photography

     Although a friend who lives in Sherman Oaks, Calf., gave us several ideas about places to eat near Malibu. Gladstone’s 4 Fish, Moonshadows and Saddle Peak Lodge, we choose Gladstone’s, a California causal kind of place with a weathered wood ceiling, vintage black and white photos of Pacific Coast Highway 1 and a beach side patio.
    I chose fresh stuffed prawns served with creamed spinach, fresh vegetables and bread. My husband chose the seafood sampler featuring grilled shrimp, salmon and scallops served on a bed of rice with a baked potato and corn. Both plates cost around $25. With drinks or salad and a tip, the total bill could hover around $90.
     Gladstone’s produces excellent meals; vegetables are fresh, the fish fresh and the flavor perfect. They offer breakfast and lunch and a variety of sandwiches.
     Moonshadows, also located along the beach, offers upscale gourmet food with excellent and artful presentation. Dinner prices range from $17 for wild boar and cranberry sausage with stone ground grits, to $27 for tiger shrimp with stone ground grits. Meals are prepared by executive chef, Joachim Weritz.
     Saddle Peak advises guests to wear business casual attire. Their dinner prices range from $36 for striped sea bass to $60 wood grilled cote de boeuf, or rib of beef.
     If you want to see Hollywood or places of interest in Los Angels, due to traffic congestion, I’d advise you to book a tour.

C. 2009 Bemiss Photography

     There are several to choose from. Our tour group Starline, explored the walk of fame and Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Kodak Theater home of the Academy Awards and designer shops along Rodeo Drive. We also stopped for lunch at the Farmer’s Market located at Third and Fairfax.

Grauman's Chinese Theater. C. 2009 Bemiss Photography

     The Farmer’s Market not only has stands of fresh fruit and vegetables, but also stands where fresh cuts of meat are sold and a multitude of outdoor places to eat. You can watch bakers and butchers work and find donut and ice cream stands, as well and eat at stands featuring foods from Brazil, Asia and France. There are pizza stands and Mexican cuisine, barbecue and gumbo, sushi and Starbucks. An eaters paradise.
     After leaving the market we traveled to downtown Los Angeles and took in the sights like the artfully constructed Walt Disney Concert Hall.  The Hall was built by Frank Gehry to resemble the sails of a ship; it is home to the L.A Philharmonic.

Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, Calif. C. 2009 Bemiss Photography 

     We also drove by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the La Brea Tar Pits. One last stop was to historic Olvera Street, the birthplace of L.A. Visitors to Olvera Street can stroll along listening to musicians, visit outdoor shops and sample Mexican cuisine. One can also take a self-guided tour the Avila Adobe, the oldest building in L.A. The adobe was the home of Don Francisco Avila, mayor of Los Angeles in 1810.
     On our last day in Los Angeles we decided to drive ourselves around the city--big mistake. We did make it to the Beverly Hills 2009 Affaire in the Gardens art show. The show under tents on the lawn displayed a wide variety of two and three dimensional art. We were privileged to talk with glass blowers Marcus Thesing of Long Beach and Mariusz Rynkiewicz of Everett, Washington, metal artist, Andy Byrne of Pine Grove, Calif., and photographer Robert Kawika Sheer originally from Hawaii.
     After leaving the art show we were finally on our way to Hollywood and Pink’s Hot Dog stand. But it never happened. Due to police and emergency vehicles circling several blocks in yellow crime tape, and the ensuing traffic snarl, along with the premier opening of the movie “Up,” at the El Capitan Theater, traveling became almost impossible.
      Although the majority of the trip was enjoyable, after all the hustle and bustle of big city life, we were happy to be home, where it was quiet, where the roads are drivable and where we decided to plant a tomato vine in honor of former Missourian, David Smith. Life couldn’t be “sweeter.”

Impressions of a Butterfly's Wings

     Grandson "Magoo" ran into my office this morning exclaiming, "Nanny, two white butterflies just crashed into the window!" His eyes were bright with wonder and my curiosity was piqued so we ran together to see if they had crash landed in a crumpled heap on the deck floor. But no, there were no broken winged, lame lepidoptera and no explanations had to be rehearsed on how these things just happen sometimes.

     While we are looking for the bombardiers we noticed the faint, almost unnoticeable traces of wings on the glass door. If we hadn't known what had happened, those small wing prints would have been thought of as finger smudges worthy of Windex and a cloth. But since neither of us had ever seen butterfly wing impressions on a glass, we were in awe. 

     If you looked closely you could see the impressions of the wing's scales and powdery iridescence. Science says a butterfly can never repair its wing once it becomes damaged or torn, but what's so amazing is that we can repair those fragile wings with glue, patience and a steady hand. Hopefully these butterflies weren't damaged in their encounter with our door, but they did leave part of themselves behind for us to see.  

Impression of our butterfly encounter imprinted on the glass door.

     To reward our new butterfly friends and to prevent them from injury, we decided to place a saucer of orange juice on the deck, in hopes they would return. This reminds me of how each day as we go about our lives and our business we "brush" against the lives of others leaving an impression, much like the wings of a butterfly--just as others, we meet, leave impressions upon us in return. 

     These "butterfly-like" encounters are often not noticed--and if they are, we believe them to just be the daily smudge of life worthy to be "wiped" away because we are too busy, we are too stressed, and life is filled with too many electronic devices for us to notice human interaction. Although some encounters may be unpleasant, many are positive. The smile of the person facing us in traffic, the eye contact and thank you of a busy store clerk, the kind nod of a complete stranger. We are sometimes just too busy to allow small dustings of human kindness to touch us. 

     How different the world would be if we took more time to notice the small inflections and positive impressions others leave on our lives. Could we change the course of our day or the course of our lives if we took the time to notice? Could we change the course of someone else's life? I myself have been guilty of dashing through my day, through the lives of my family and friends and through meetings to let the butterfly's wings make an impression. Maybe today was food for thought; I will try to be more perceptive and I will try to touch others I meet with a kind word. I hope to replace that frown of concentration with a smile and I will watch for the kindness of others and be grateful they came into my life, if even for an instant as fleeting as the flight of a butterfly's wings. And, If I've broken a few wings along the way, I hope, with some "glue" of kindness, patience and a steady hand I can repair the damage so they can fly again.  

       

Operation: Save Nana's Tree!

     Hot, hot, hot! That's what it is across most of the United States. We've been seeing temperature's from 99 to 108 for the last 10 days or so, and no rain. The grass is tuning brown. You have to be careful when walking outside barefooted, on the concrete or stepping over the metal threshold of the French doors, or you'll be doing the hip-hop, two-step while muttering, "Rats!" Well at least that's what I say, anyway.

My favorite tree, a birch losing its leaves.

      I've been getting up early in the morning to water my flowers and kitchen garden and to take the dogs for an abbreviated walk. So far the flowers and veggies are doing okay, with only an occasional bowing of their heads and curling of their leaves--nothing that a quick revival of the water hose can't correct. But a couple days ago, I noticed our beautiful birch tree shedding its leaves. Not just one or two, but a mass exodus of leafy canopy descending well before their autumn departure. That same night I watched the comedy movie, "A Thousand Words," with Eddie Murphy who learned the value of choosing the right words. Full of himself, every time he spoke a word a leaf fell from the tree. He was cautioned that if all the leaves fell off the tree it would die, and he would do the same.
     This particular birch is one my favorite trees in our yard. We have pin oaks, a catalpa, red buds, dogwoods, a cypress and several sugar maples. But, this particular tree has weeping limbs that descend gracefully, sweeping down to touch the ground and bark that elegantly curls. I like to use this tree as a backdrop for outdoor photos--and much to my husband's chagrin the graceful sweeping limbs slap him in the face when he mows--(I don't think he'd mind if it died!) We've actually had word's about him trimming it!!

Singing in the "rain." Water play helps my tree!

     I, on the other hand, don't want to lose this beautiful tree. So the other day I decided to connect several hoses together and water the poor thing for two hours. I have no idea if this amount of water helped, but it sure couldn't hurt. According to ABC news, in June there were over 3000 records set for the highest temp in in cities and towns across the U.S. And, already this month, 1000 more record temperatures have been made across the country. Supposedly, according to the meteorologists, there is no relief in sight for some time yet. 

The kids beaded up like little waxed cars!!

     So yesterday I devised a plan to "Save Nana's Tree." The grand kids wanted to play in the slippy side, so the most logical solution would be to place the water slide near my drought stricken tree. Because so many hoses were connected together the water pressure wasn't high enough for the slippy slide to work properly, so my daughter and I manned the hose with a sprayer attachment and sprayed the kids. It became a fun event for them as well as us, and a good teaching event about conservation. Such as what happens when it doesn't rain for a long time (plants and trees and crops die), and why the tree drops its leaves (to help it survive and to carpet the ground to preserve moisture).  
     As we sprayed the kids they beaded up with water drops like little waxed cars--which they thought was very funny. They got into the sport of it too and took the hose close to the trunk and sprayed the tree and spread it's fallen leaves out to further help keep the sun's rays from drying the ground.
     It looks like the simpleness of leaves failing from a tree, during the hot days of a summer drought, brought us together for a moment of fun and learning--priceless for a family! Maybe we even helped save Nana's tree--we'll see. 

Happy 4th!! Happy Shooting!

     Last fall I gave a photo class, at the local college, on shooting night photography. We explored shooting fireworks and night carnival rides to capturing the night sky with stars and star trails. What a fun class. The students were so eager to learn!

Fireworks shot with Nikon D-200 on tripod--ISO 100, F-11 or 16 at 15 sec. (C. Bemiss Photography) 

(C. Bemiss Photography)

     When shooting fireworks normally, as I taught the class, you need a tripod. Also it's best to shoot at ISO 50 to 100, at f-11 to 16, with an 8 to 15 second exposure. But as I've learned through trial and error, and as I've taught in my classes, once you know the rules it's okay sometimes to break them. Even Ansel Adams broke a few photography rules in his compositions. His "Moon over Hernandez," has the moon almost directly in the center of the frame--a no, no as far as composition goes, but it worked for this particular photo.

     Well, this past Saturday I decided to break from the norm and try hand holding my camera at a fireworks celebration at Bagnall Dam in Warsaw, Mo. It was a spectacular show, but I didn't want to drag my tripod along. The grandkids were coming along and this was supposed to more about having fun together than precise technique. So together we enjoyed the display camped out on the back bumper of my daughter's van, while the kids sat in their moon chairs.

     With experimentation, I decided to use an ISO of 400, at f-4.3 at 1/6th second exposure. To my delight the photos became almost flower-like, with some interesting abstractions and almost a deep space nebula effect.   

Hand holding my Nikon D-200 at ISO 400, f-4.3 at 1/6 sec. produced this flower-like image. (C. Bemiss Photography) 

A ring of fire created by fireworks giving an abstract look to the photo. (C. Bemiss Photography)

     This bears out the fact that once you know the rules, you should never be afraid to experiment--you might be pleasantly surprised at the end result. Enjoy your 4th of July!! If you are privileged to have fire works this year, get out your camera and enjoy the show, and enjoy time with your family and friends. Be thankful for freedom and liberty and America the Beautiful! Be creative!

Fireworks shot at 400 ISO--hand holding the camera created an otherworldly photo. (C. Bemiss Photography)

Little Boo Boo Walks--the Effects of Methamphetamine Addiction

     This coming Saturday, I'll read original poetry at the local Spofest--Celebration of the Spoken Word. I've decided to read a poem, that I haven't read for about a year. The poem below, "Little Boo Boo Walks," is about the effects of methamphetamine addiction not only on the addict, but on the children and surrounding family members. It is to be included in a textbook, that will be published this fall, written by sociologist, George Hendricks, Ph.D., of Methodist University, Fayetteville, N.C.

     Addiction doesn't only effect the user, but has far reaching tentacles. Missouri is, once again, the number one state in the nation for meth lab incidents--"little Boo Boo" is real. She is my granddaughter. Although, the end of this poem hasn't become a reality for her, a family member is a user and she is effected by the fallout. She is safe for now, but misses being with the father she loves. Her sorrow is our family's sorrow, as we watch the decent of someone we love walk into the abyss of darkness. Many other children haven't been as lucky as Boo Boo, but have perished in meth lab explosions or have been badly burned. And, many children are neglected and abused. 

     For those families who may need information or help with a loved one addicted to meth, The Sedalia, Missouri Chapter of Mother's against Meth-amphetamine (MAMa) has a new Executive Director, Claudia Kays. She can be contacted on Facebook at: Mother's against Meth-amphetamine Mo. Chapter, or by calling 660-202-9619.

     The national MAMa website, http://www.mamasite.net, provides additional resources can direct anyone needing information to state chapters for help with this devastating drug.

Little Boo Boo Walks

Boo Boo walks, little toes bare through the morning grass,

no one knows she's flown the coop.

Everyone just lets her pass.

Dew collects on her small bare feet, 

but Boo Boo doesn't mind she's free to walk through the Easter grass

and smiling butter flowers.

She stops to etch her toes in the gravelly gravel, 

making fun designs,

smelling the fresh morning breeze,

chubby rose checks flushing with the freedom of the winding road,

eyes blue as pastel robin's eggs,

seeing deeper than anyone thinks.

Little Boo Boo walks through the grass for close to a mile,

no one sees Boo Boo pass,

she's so small, 

a chubby cherub dressed in clothes from the thrift-store mall. 

She pads through the puddles of newly fallen rain,

and walks along the storm drain,

blonde curls creeping around her moistened face,

chubby hands pushing them out of place.

Until she reaches the city street, buzzing with cars and trucks,

and big yellow school buses all busy to get someplace.

Now little Boo Boo stands at the intersection of her life,

she pauses and lifts a pensive finger to her lips,

blue eyes scanning the busy scene,

taking in the surge of life, little Boo Boo standing sight unseen,

in the world of big adults she's not noticed in her pink thrift suit.

Back at home the house is abuzz, 

with the frantic activity of it's members, 

measuring and stirring and talking and tweaking and moving and calculating money in their heads.

(Everyone's been awake for weeks, moving endlessly in a crystal daze.)

Frantic, not of the missing Boo Boo, but of scoring the next sell and the next fix

the next never coming down off the ultimate high,

seeing visions, never eating, building a tower and tearing it down.

Boo Boo's daddy, that lusty pirate, whose ship crashed in the chemical sea,

laughs real hearty with his-comrades-in-arms,

"This batch is the best ever, just wait and see!"

Tattooed with skulls and death,

he lefts his fist to heaven saluting the demon gods of ice and flames.

But who is this lusty pirate?  Someone's son who lost his way...

A boy who set sail way to soon, one that used to play baseball, and skate on the lagoon.

The boy who sang the strains of Ava Maria, but replaced it with a death metal growl.

He loved to help in mama's kitchen, but now cooks his own speedy stew, 

it's worth money too. 

Boo Boo was his life's blood,

his special angel, the savior of his soul,

the one that would help him escape the demon dungeon,

 he'd built as his fate, 

 and when she was born he vowed to never let her down,

but that crystal sea came calling, wooing with it's lust,

His will power was lost,

so into it's deceiving light he drew,

leaving Boo Boo as an after thought,

the only one who could guide him through.

Now Boo Boo's standing at the intersection of her life,

she takes a step into the traffic seeking the other side,

where the flowers are blooming and a puppy barks

where the side walk travels on up the grassy knoll.

And as her pensive blue eyes look toward the horizon,

all the cars have come to a complete stop,

shock written across each occupant's face, 

each sits motionless as a tiny, 

curly haired, welfare angel toddles across the asphalt,

bare footed, her pink outfit wet from the morning dew. 

Then as Boo Boo reaches mid-stride,

a terrific explosion lights up the morning sky,

flames and smoke lap the spring air,

devouring the home that Boo Boo shared  

with that lusty pirate, the apple of her eye,

the tattooed daddy who loved her once,

 before the ice froze him to a flame. 

Little Boo Boo walks across the now quiet street

to the distant wail of fire trucks and police,

placing each foot step into a new destiny,

a homeless child, 

looking for her daddy,

will she ever know the man he was supposed to be?  

We all need Roots

         We all need roots to survive. A place to belong. Family from which we spring from--it's so obvious, without roots we can't survive. In some families their tree sprouts and grows strong through the generations leaving behind a legacy of tradition, culture and customs.

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     For others it's not so easy. They are born alone, live alone and die alone. Although they have roots somewhere, they are unaware of them or believe them unimportant. What roots they have, are small and stunted trying so hard to absorb the moisture of life, only to find their sense of belonging isn't strong enough to help them to survive.
     Recently, my little granddaughter, age four, brought me two weeds she'd plucked up that day. It was so sweet, the weeds looked like small palm trees.
     I said, "Wow, thank you, they look like palm trees!"
     She said, "They have roots too!"
     She's learned at an early age that even flowers and weeds need roots to live. She had previously brought wild flowers to me and asked why they didn't live longer in the water. I explained to her that once they are cut off, and are without their roots, they only live for a short time. I guess she took this to heart.

My granddaughter's flower--with roots! 

     My mother and dad are both gone, and I was my mother's only child. Not many relatives are left on either side for me, so feeling rather rootless, I began to search out my genealogy earlier this year. What I found was so rich. I wasn't rootless-- I had a heritage. I found relatives that had fought and died in the Revolutionary and Civil War, a three times great grandmother in eastern Missouri listed as a witch (she made the history book in Missouri!), a great grandfather who was a prominent rancher in Colorado, relatives that had married Native Americans when our country was new and some Knights and blue bloods in England! My mother came from very humble beginnings and further back in her tree there were Barons, Lords and Ladies! I was amazed!

     Biological roots aren't always possible, for those that are adopted. But even though these roots spring from a different source they give solidarity and purpose. One great grandmother was adopted by a officer and family at Ft. Garland and was a pioneer resident to Colorado--she bore 11 children and was the first post mistress at St. Mary's in Colorado.

My father Leonard Benson and Mother Lucille and me as a baby 1961.

     
     These relatives bring color and drama into our lives, stories and legends. They help us belong to humanity, to nationalities and tribes and languages. They are our stories and our life, the ground we were born over. Without roots, we have no meaning, I'm so glad to have found mine!

Fear of Flying

     I'm an outdoor and nature photographer, among other things, and one challenge I've always wanted to take on was aerial photography. This may not seem strange to others, but since I've always had a fear of flying, aerial photography was something I wanted to accomplish. It's all about facing one's fears!
     Usually when I travel, it's on the ground. I didn't fly anywhere until sometime in my 40's. I remember one time, after 9/11, that I was sitting on a United flight waiting for take-off in the throes of a panic attack. My heart started racing, I felt like I couldn't breath, I began to sweat and I was hanging onto the armrests with claw-like hands. I guess my eyes were as big as a summer melon. After the plane took off, I settled down, but still clung the the armrests--just in case. If we crashed, I'd hang on to my chair at least!
     Every time I got ready to fly I just knew the plane would crash. I could imagine it in my mind. Once a friend said, "Don't jinx yourself! Think positive thoughts!" Eventually I learned to do just that. To push aside the fear, and enjoy the ride.

Clouds shot with a Nikon D200 from plane window--at about 30,000-feet.

     My last flying trip was to New Orleans last summer. It was a great flight, my friend let me sit by the window and the clouds were amazing! I shot several cloud scenes through the plane window, enhancing them in Photoshop later. It's unreal how brave I am with my camera in tow. Shooting clouds through a window can be done, easily, if you position the camera where there's no interior reflection. Because it's usually bright when photographing clouds, hand holding isn't a problem. I shot the images at an ISO of 200 at 1/500 a second at f-11. After getting home I was able to refine them, making them a little more saturated and adjusting the contrast.
     Although I'm still a little timid about flying, I completed my first aerial photo assignment earlier this year. I flew in a small Cessna for over two hours with just enough room for the pilot and me. Flying in a small plane is a quite different experience than soaring in a jet. We were skimming along between 1000 to 3000-feet and it felt like I was the one flying. Of course the pilot was very good at his job or I might have another story to tell.

Winter landscape in Kansas shot from a small Cessna at about 1500-feet.

Face your fears--touch the clouds!

     To get the assigned shots we had to open my window and allow the wind current to keep the flap open. Sometimes the pilot reached over and propped it open with his arm-as he was flying the craft. Most of the photos were taken at ISO-800, at 1/1600 second at f-9. Some were taken with a AF-S Nikkor 70-300 mm VR ED (vibration reduction and extra-low dispersion glass) lens while others were take with a AF-S Nikkor 18-70mm lens.

     This assignment allowed me to come full circle--face my fears, and believe in myself and get some great shots! We are often faced with challenges, whether it be on the job or in life, if we allow our fears to get the best of us, they will become phobias and we might just miss out on wonderful adventure. Life is short, dance while you can and fly too--touch the clouds!

Rhoda's Restaurant

     When my children were young, we used to check out "Rhoda's Restaurant," by Robert Tallon, from the library.  It was one of many favorites--such as "Cowboy Sam," and "Chilly Billy" (the little man in the fridge who turns on the light.)
     I decided to look up some of these memorable children's books and found that "Chilly Billy," by Peter Mayle is a collectible selling new for $449 on Amazon.com--seven used "Chilly Billy's" only cost $129 each. "Rhoda's Restaurant," also a collectable, on the other hand, only costs $39.95 new and $29.95 used. Goodness! I should have bought these books back in the 80's!
     My kids used to "play" Rhoda's Restaurant too. Getting out my pots and pans and canned goods, plates and forks and even some non-perishable foods. I even got into the mode by playing Rhoda herself as I cooked supper. Well this tradition has trickled down to the grandkids.

     On Monday, three of them were spending the day with me. So we played Scrabble, and Legos and then ShiAnn, the oldest, decided to play restaurant. Well, of course we needed a name for this establishment--so I suggested Rhoda's--a family tradition to say the least!
     Out came the pots and pans, plastic cookie tubs (recycled as our version of prestigious Tupperware), utensils, fancy paper plates, the tea kettle, pan spray, cheese grater and an odd assortment of other kitchen doodads. Soon we were cooking up pretend spaghetti, pizza, hot tea, biscuits and gravy and all kinds of yummy restaurant fare--Rhoda would have been proud!
     But of course, what's a restaurant without some music. ShiAnn asked me what type of music should we play--I suggested soft and elegant. On goes the T.V.-- switched to the music channel and our restaurant becomes refined. She soon got tired of elegant, and switched to a childrens's music station. Now we are listening to "This Old Man," blue grass style with banjo's and fiddles. Then "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the ole banjo." Amazing! We've decided this must be a dancing restaurant. Dinah blends into the "Yellow Submarine," so now we are floating around in the living room and dining room.
      Then ShiAnn ups the ante by changing to the Salsa station. "Yellow Submarine" to "La Maldaosa" by Joe Veras! No more floating, the music has become a hurricane of motion--what fun!! All this time little Merci, the preschool dancing queen has been patiently washing utensils for our "restaurant." Beeboping her curled head to the booming sounds.

     I really must purchase "Rhoda's Restaurant," we need to have that book on hand. I wonder when Robert Tallon penned that simple children's book if he ever thougth it could bring such joy. I'm sure he hoped it would!

Some Monsters are Real

     When I was a child, I was often afraid to sleep in my room at night. I was afraid of the dark and afraid that a monster was under the bed or that large bugs were crawling on my covers. Often, I would cover my head to feel safe before calling out to mom.
     This is a normal part of childhood, I guess. We've all, at some time or other, been afraid of clowns, bugs and those proverbial "monsters!" But times have changed. It seems the world has become a scary place for real, not just in our childhood imaginations.
     In the 60's, when I was going up, we could leave our windows open at night. We'd fall asleep enjoying the fresh breeze, and the night sounds of crickets and frogs. But now I would never leave my windows up at night, especially if my grandchildren are staying. If the windows are up during the day, I close them at night and I lock them. We live in a small town of around 20,000 not in a metro area, but still not too far from where I live, about a year ago, an intruder crawled through an open window and assaulted a woman.
     News reports are becoming more prevalent about children disappearing from their beds while the family is sleeping. I friend I spoke with recently said her sons are grown but she and her husband are overprotective of their small daughter--she still sleeps with them at night. They are afraid to leave her alone in her room. Afraid of the "monsters," who seem to lurk where you least expect them. Like the people you trust to watch out for your children. From family members to babysitters, daycare providers, school teachers and military personnel-- unfortunately the "monsters" hide among the good in society. Now days, as parents and grandparents we have to scrutinize everyone--it's sad to know that anyone of these "good" people who surround our children could turn out to be the boogeyman. Times have changed.
     Granted, there have always been child predators but with the rise of the internet, and the click of a mouse these "monsters" have access to a world of info, that years ago wasn't as easily available. The rise of instant news brings us the reports of these predators faster too. There are also more people who populate the Earth--as The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children says we are a "global society."

     Educating our little ones on real "monsters" is helpful, although as parents and grandparents I'm not sure we'll ever be able to sleep well at night, again.

The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children suggests these tips for educating children:
 Knowing My Rules for Safety

I CHECK FIRST with my parents, guardians, or other trusted adults before going anywhere, helping anyone, accepting anything, or getting into a car.

I TAKE A FRIEND with me when going places or playing outside.

I TELL people "NO" if they try to touch me or hurt me. It’s OK for me to stand up for myself.

I TELL my trusted adult if anything makes me feel sad, scared, or confused.
Sometimes there are people who trick or hurt others. No one has the right to do that to you. So use these rules, and remember you are STRONG, are SMART, and have the right to be SAFE. Always

CHECK FIRST
TAKE A FRIEND
TELL PEOPLE “NO” IF THEY TRY TO TOUCH YOU OR HURT YOU
TELL AN ADULT YOU TRUST IF ANYTHING HAPPENS

On Death and Dying

     My daughter told me on Memorial Day that the kids were painting happy pictures for Poppy and me, because so many people had died on this day and they wanted to cheer us up. She also said the three of them had become preoccupied with her death and our death and what would happen to them if we all died.
     I think there must be a certain age when kids become aware of death--her children are 10, eight and four. I remember worrying about my mom dying when I was a child, maybe around the age of eight to 10. She had told me if anything ever happened to her, I'd go live with my pastor's family. The reasoning behind this was, she had no family near by and my father wouldn't have been able to raise me on his own due to addiction problems.

     Possibly the fears of death for my grandchildren have been reinforced by recent events. Twelve weeks ago today my best friend passed away--Delisa Curtis Cox--a beautiful spirited woman, who loved God, family and helping others. She brought sunshine and music to a room, she brought grace, smiles and respect to all those around her. Never would I have thought she would leave us so young and so early, at age 50 with stage four cancer. She always loved children, and although her two son's are married she didn't have any grandchildren of her own yet. I always thought she would grow old continuing to help people and that and her house would be full of family and beautiful curly headed grandchildren. My grandchildren saw the sadness and loss I, and my other friend Lisa Weisgerber, felt--we had been three childhood friends--now there was just the two of us...

From left, Delisa Cox, myself and Lisa Weisgerber

     When she passed away Tuesday, March 6th, my daughter and her children went with us to Louisiana for the service. On a rainy Thursday, we drove across states, rain coming down in sheets for 12 hours--it seemed the whole of heaven was weeping for the loss on Earth of such a beautiful soul. Soon after her memorial service, the music store where Shiann takes violin lessons had a sudden loss, also. A guitar teacher in his 50's suddenly and unexpectedly died, leaving everyone who knew him shocked at the loss.
     Then the Saturday, before Memorial Day, the grandkid's former school librarian, age 38, died after a six year battle with brain cancer. She leaves behind small children and husband. On Sunday, a woman their mother works with lost her 48 year old husband to a sudden heart problem. Another, sudden loss.
     After so many loses soon the world, to a child, takes on a sinister slant and an ominous cloud hangs over the brightness of childhood. It does for adults, too. There are some questions to life where there are no answers. Where it seems God has chosen to become a silent observer. We are taught not to question Him, but in our hearts we do, because we are only human.
     We can only comfort the living, while trying not to think about our own mortality. We cling to the brightness of knowing and hoping the ones we love are in a better place. And, we hold them in our hearts as sacred treasures. In December before my friend, Delisa, passed away she told me she'd had a dream of us running in a field together,  holding hands--we were laughing and happy. I believe we will again someday...

Flags and Flowers

     Today is Memorial Day--the signal for summer and a day to remember our relatives who have passed on and those Veterans who have served our Country. On Saturday, we took five of our grandkids to the cemetery to place flowers on my mom and dad's graves. Our daughter Melissa was the one who remembered to gather the flowers and suggest we go. As usual the cemetery was beautiful, masses of flowers, hanging baskets, wind chimes and American flags waving in the warm southern breeze. For a couple of the grandkids this was their first time to a graveyard. They were fascinated with the flowers and flags.
     Little Boo Boo age three wanted to gather the flowers from the graves and we had to explain to her why she couldn't. Then all five wanted to know about the flags and if the Veteran's all had died in the war or only half of them. I told the kids that some may have died in wars but many came home and died in old age here in America. Soon they saw a marble statue of Jesus--hands outstretched--and they began to run toward Him saying, "Let's run to Jesus!"

     Across the sunlit grass among the flags and flowers, across the field of dead, the field of green grass they ran  little people full of life, dressed in colorful summer clothes, giggling, waving their arms. I watched transfixed in their joy of life and sun, and summer, and flags and flowers, and Jesus, and all that children see that we don't take time for any more. I soon followed. They were touching the toes of Jesus and sitting on the brick wall surrounding the figure, and dancing in the cool green of the grass. Soon little Joe looked up and said, "Is Jesus buried here too?"
     "No," I said. And I explained again what the statue symbolized and how the scripture Matthew 11:28 inscribed there, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," meant--that when you lose someone you love and feel very sad, Jesus is there to help you and make you feel better. (That was my interpretation, I guess the scripture was really talking to those who had died receiving rest, but they kids seemed pleased with my logic.)
     Soon all the suntanned legs ran back to their great grandparent's graves and prepared to leave. On our way out, we drove around looking at the splendor of flagged and flowered graves. If those buried there could see, I'm sure they smiled at the sight of little children skimming across the grass bringing life, love and laughter to the quietness. As we drove away ShiAnn age 10 said, "I feel very sad for all these people, some of them are very old." Three year old, Annalynn replied solemnly, "Yeah, and some of them died." Out of the mouth of babes...

Dogs, Dirt and Part of the Pack

     I woke up at 5:00 a.m.--my head hurt, my arms hurt so by 5:30 I decided to get up, go take an Ibuprofen and try to sleep in my office on the futon until 6:00. I knew at 6:00 both greyhounds would wake up like clockwork and be ready to go outside. Prancing, dancing with their tongues hanging out in fresh faced grins! The cat, Mallory, came into the office with me --just to monitor my whereabouts. Honestly I think the cat and dogs work together.
     Soon she jumped off the futon and went into the back of the house--and then I heard the click-clack of Dottie's feet. She loves my office, and she was coming in gently, quietly to check on me. It was 5:48 a.m.....Ugh! Daylight was creeping through the blinds--sleeping was finished. Might as well face the day with my happy hounds.
     Well she gently sniffed me with a most pleased look, and of course, I couldn't just lay there and disappoint her! As I got up she wagged her tail. But, down the hall I could hear Ace laying on his fluffy bed whining--I'm guessing the cat heard Ace whining, so she went to investigate--Dottie very tired of hearing Ace cry in his bed decided to find me herself and take care of the situation! Just like a woman! For some reason it hasn't dawned on Ace that he can come find me too--he just lays there and cries.
     Anyway, I'm up early with swollen eyes (allergies I guess), the hounds eat, play in the yard, and chase and bark at squirrels and Mallory sits in the grass daring us to come get her while Roy and I have coffee on the deck. Then we all go for a 3/4-mile walk. Except the cat.
     Walking makes me remember how when we first got Dottie, last December, she wasn't fond of the grand kids, although Ace loves them to death. Over the last several months she's began to recognize them as part of our "pack." She has her special spot by a large tree in the backyard where she and Ace try digging to China everyday. She also loves to lay in the dusty hole/holes they've created. Well, yesterday Drew was using the Tonka trucks to dig and load "Dottie's" dirt. She observed him for a while then came over and curled up in her dusty-hole.  I figured she was going to be incensed and make Drew leave but no--she apparently thought he was a pup who loved to dig, and that was quite all right with her, and she wold share her dirt.

Drew is now part of Dottie's "pack!"

     Sometimes I think I should have been an animal behaviorist--I just love watching how they all interact with each other. Actually my childhood friend told me last year, that instead of me wanting to be the "kid" when we played house as children, I always wanted to be the dog or cat!! I would crawl around on my hands and knees either meowing or barking. She told me laughing, "We never could figure out what you wanted, you wouldn't speak English!" Strange...I don't remember that at all--but it fits my personality to to tee. I'm just glad they let me be part of their "pack!"

Summer begins!

     So today, summer began--the grand kids are out of school for their first full day and they spent it with me! We took the greyhounds Ace and Dottie for a walk, ate Popsicles, harvested leaves from the "Magic Tree," (a  catulpa), made a tent with sheets, water colored and played in the dirt (dug by the hounds.) Actually the kids did most of these activities--except for walking the hounds. I thought that might end badly if the hounds decided to chase a squirrel! 

     Miss Mallory the cat came outside for a rare view of the world and she decided to play and roll in the dirt too!! Yay for me! Shiann and I tried to pat her clean and puff her clean but to no avail!! So to the tub she went, yes the tub. The last time I tried to scrub a cat, I was 4 and was almost clawed to death. I also at the same age, out of curiosity, put a clothespin on a cat's tail, but that's another story....So needless to say I was a little worried, but she was fairly cooperative. Shiann helped me dry her and Miss Mallory is no worse for the wear.
     Now we wait for Mama and Poppy to come home so we can all go out to eat and then to Drew's (age 8) first ever baseball game.