tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48110833067872129642024-03-17T15:26:48.381-07:00If I Were to Be HonestAlexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-12835157902330797992024-01-19T13:00:00.000-08:002024-01-19T13:01:52.930-08:00Goodbye "Carole"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40gpeIoRykiEbwTICNB2yNWJLwW5jk8O6DtUK5gfqTqebr576DrXnmLLzyKB0NvYVdBRxkmMD6h7emYroCSeQjT1a0s9Fi_EqhAW-bDWD0iSm355K-swZT1dLnjoIar8hHh5fEeHUAYQZ8sAMYSIeO4ver9e5rAH-69ElGe5fzxbn_GP-tl6e3e-UrNc/s600/pad.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40gpeIoRykiEbwTICNB2yNWJLwW5jk8O6DtUK5gfqTqebr576DrXnmLLzyKB0NvYVdBRxkmMD6h7emYroCSeQjT1a0s9Fi_EqhAW-bDWD0iSm355K-swZT1dLnjoIar8hHh5fEeHUAYQZ8sAMYSIeO4ver9e5rAH-69ElGe5fzxbn_GP-tl6e3e-UrNc/w400-h400/pad.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> This is not my Paddington, but you get the idea.<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"> Yesterday, before I woke up, I dreamt I spoke with a friend I haven't spoken to for many years. I hadn't been able to look her up over the years because I don't know what name she used after she was divorced, and so we had lost touch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> When I was a young girl, I graduated from high school at sixteen and went on to college. A young man I dated was friends with many people from other colleges and so I met a woman I will call Carole. My boyfriend had been a mutual friend of Carole and her husband. Carole was a college student from a wealthy family who had married into a wealthy family. She was navigating learning to be a wife while going to college, while also being a twenty something with friends. I remember her as particularly kind and generous. She once tried to lend me her Mercedes while my car was being repaired.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> I became a friend and confidante to Carole, and she became a slightly older friend and chief "encourager" to me. Life was hard for us both. I was navigating being the youngest person in my college class and having family issues, and she was navigating being a young wife to a man she didn't understand. We did our best to support each other. However, I was young enough not to be able to offer much more than encouragement myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> Before long these days ended. I moved and attended a different college, and she admitted that her husband was abusive, and she moved away before finally getting a divorce. We spoke in notes a few more times, but last time we spoke she had a new job and new life, and I wasn't sure whether I would be a reminder of those tough days with her first marriage.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> In the busy years that followed we lost touch. Over the years, I have thought about her from time to time, but I have not been sure what last name she used after her divorce, or whether she remarried afterward.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> In my dream yesterday morning, she told me "My name is Stevenson. I use my maiden name".</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That morning, I looked up the woman I will call "Carole Stevenson" for the purpose of this post. There she was. After relocating, my friend had become a businesswoman. She married briefly and had a daughter. She was divorced again and moved to another state. Eventually, her daughter grew up, married, and had a son. My friend was diagnosed with cancer and was taken care of by her second former husband until her death last year. In her obituary was a lovely fairly recent picture that was so clearly the woman I had known all those years ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> The really funny thing about this is that one December, she and I went shopping in Morristown, New Jersey. I believe it was Bamberger's that had the large Paddington bear with the hat, the raincoat, and wellington boots. I remember commenting that I loved Paddington and that I had read all the stories as a child. The bear was a fortune and so I didn't give it any thought. Carole must have returned another day and bought it for me, because she gave it to me in a large shopping bag as a Christmas present that year. The bear was not only cherished by me, but it lived on a shelf in every one of my children's rooms at some time or another through the years. It is still a point of fascination for my grandson.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> I don't understand how Carole could have been young, lived an entire life, and died, and I could have grandchildren now, and Paddington Bear looks as new as he did that first day in Bamberger's.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> Carole, you have been missed from my life, but I was happy to trade your presence if it meant a new start and chance for happiness for you. I will always remember you fondly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-53121626006669260092023-12-01T05:52:00.000-08:002023-12-01T05:52:46.337-08:00The Fight Against Bitterness<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ngux3f5C7iu6LP5UNv6BLebMOnaKue4aUZayZW_gvQByeZz_F4Omd-Kffs7Lo6TTrw9cMN1z6VRPwcQ8eE6480hp_JfEs7QktetzjA28NQsOhnSNLzWwTUUyxBlKRzar2ow_qo6UA-DSATLDeQfLbRA22U_t0YpUwJc9cZzjRFVS4XLIg9PknCBwtfA/s1383/flowers.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1108" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ngux3f5C7iu6LP5UNv6BLebMOnaKue4aUZayZW_gvQByeZz_F4Omd-Kffs7Lo6TTrw9cMN1z6VRPwcQ8eE6480hp_JfEs7QktetzjA28NQsOhnSNLzWwTUUyxBlKRzar2ow_qo6UA-DSATLDeQfLbRA22U_t0YpUwJc9cZzjRFVS4XLIg9PknCBwtfA/w512-h640/flowers.jpeg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p> <br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;">
Some years ago, a friend of mine who was a physician had charges
brought against him, that I agreed, were unfair. The entire matter
could have been handled much better than it was. Eventually, the matter
was settled, although he did lose a very large amount of money spent for
legal fees. He asked me to pray for him, and his request was very
specific. He asked that I pray that he not become bitter. I told him
that I would, but that he never would become bitter. That's just not his
personality, and that he loved people and God too much to fall into
such a place. I was correct about that. He continued his practice, and
his life, still supporting people he believed were good, still leading
family and students in the right way, and still being a shining light
for many. He died in his 90s.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">
Now, I stand at a similar crossroad. My son Daniel died at 12,
presumably due to a sudden heart rhythm disturbance, fifteen years ago.
A year ago, my son Matthew died at 32, just after an influenza vaccine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">
Both of the professions in which I made a living have gone
mad. They are training providers quickly and the result are poorly
trained practitioners with insufficient clinical who are too
interventionist and show poor judgment all too often. The COVID debacle
is another issue. Our current American government is another. Hospital
systems are being taken over by accountants when physicians should
still head up major clinical decision-making, and too many times, they
no longer do. Changes in health insurance and its expense, and inflation
generally are making life difficult for many.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">
Everywhere I look the things that made life worth investing in and
working for, have been degraded. My Trust and Will planning has also
been decimated by the loss of two of my sons.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">
It would be easy for me to look at all that has been taken from my life
and from the lives of my remaining children and young grandchildren.
Sometimes, these losses really do eclipse the many good things that have
also fallen into this life.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">
And so I ask you now to pray for me, and for my family. Please pray
that I continue to meet the challenges of this life and that I do not
become bitter at the continuing losses. Please pray that I continue to
be able to see the way forward and move in a way that inspires my
friends, my readers and my family. Thank you. May God bless you all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-92066993205622031632023-10-23T08:53:00.003-07:002024-03-17T15:26:15.258-07:00From All Those Years Ago<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VKLitlUD1iVu_qKaiabgBMYEbOviLHXP0BvW9hCxR6lCupwJJnz8RhxzwA0tj1cShcDO-RmpBzJMASf_kr2-7Ia9SJ3rJS8jnWLowaAyxSgN4DEW_onUkNnn7sKygimSb_c4BiUHrVPN3dFd20mhGf9V67Y2Rb2n4MQ9KG4XeO6wTy9sb28poxo-uTw/s512/indirPWT(87).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VKLitlUD1iVu_qKaiabgBMYEbOviLHXP0BvW9hCxR6lCupwJJnz8RhxzwA0tj1cShcDO-RmpBzJMASf_kr2-7Ia9SJ3rJS8jnWLowaAyxSgN4DEW_onUkNnn7sKygimSb_c4BiUHrVPN3dFd20mhGf9V67Y2Rb2n4MQ9KG4XeO6wTy9sb28poxo-uTw/w400-h400/indirPWT(87).png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> From all those years ago<br /></p><p> <br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> I don't talk about this much, but when I was 20, and in college, I got married during the Summer break. We had two close friends accompany us as witnesses, and went to a lovely country church. We'd had all the premarital counseling, and then to a reception of sorts at a favorite inn before going home to our very first apartment. Just a couple of weeks later, I returned to college for my final year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> We both had some things in common. We both enjoyed international and domestic travel. We both had problems at home, from which each of us were seeking an escape. I did well in the last year of college, and then, we had planned that I would work while he completed his final year. However, in that first year of marriage, even when the pressure was off, he wasn't thrilled about following through with our plans and completing college. I had been serious about being married and so when I saw there were some problems, fairly quickly, we entered marital counseling. Some of it worked and some of it left us realizing that we were poorly suited for one another in a number of respects and had very different expectations of life in general.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Eventually, we moved out of state, and he did not adapt particularly well there. I won't go in to additional detail because I believed then, and now, that when you were married to someone, you owe them silence on the subject of their failings and shortcomings. We had an amicable divorce.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> In the years that followed, he turned up like a friend from time to time. He was generally supportive of my remarriage, and he was probably relieved not to have the responsibilities, as my husband and I had four children. My husband would occasionally help him when he had a question about his car or by explaining something a mechanic had said to him. Eventually, he moved back to his home state, and from the occasional card, we gathered that he was happy there, and things were going as expected. Then, the cards stopped.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Those years were busy and so I didn't worry too much when the cards stopped. I had built a life after him, and I hoped he had done the same. I actually thought he had probably built a life with someone else, just as I had, and that we were simply not important enough to keep contact, and that was okay. Then, the years passed. The kids grew up, attended college, each of my parents passed, and then my youngest son died suddenly. I thought it a little strange that no matter how much went wrong in my life, that no one I'd known was in touch with him or ever let him know. I did think it was strange that we hadn't gotten a card from him. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> It took all I had to recover from the losses of those years, and one of the ways I did that was to write. My first two books were published and released in 2012, and a total of six have been released following that time. By now, not hearing from my former husband had to be deliberate. He couldn't possibly be dead. I remembered his social security number and so I ran it through the death registry, and it wasn't there, and so he had to have been alive somewhere. More years passed, and we heard nothing, and the relatives he had that I knew, were dead.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Almost a year ago, we lost our thirty two year old son, some hours after a flu vaccine. We also lost a number of friends and acquaintances during the COVID era, some of which followed their COVID injections. Within the backdrop of this terrible loss, I began to touch base with many friends I hadn't heard from in some time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Eventually, I contacted a cousin of my former husband. I learned that after he moved back to the Northeast, that he learned that he had a very rare type of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. From the outset, his chances of recovery or survival were not good, and so he focused on palliative rather than curative care. He also didn't share much about his condition to very many people while trying to enjoy the time he had remaining. Eventually, he had a controversial surgery, and was left for the rest of his life in a wheelchair. He spent the remainder of his life in a nursing home. Two close friends from high school were there for him. I am told that they asked a number of times I he wanted me to be contacted, but he never did, and he was quite clear on this.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> He died in 2006, long before either of my parents or my sons, Daniel or Matthew, died. He has been gone from the Earth for years, and I never knew. I never even had an inkling, which is so very strange because I am the woman who knew when my daughter had been in a car accident, when she was merely five minutes late home from work. (I had simply seen a picture of her in my head, that she was very frightened, while driving.) I didn't even feel his absence from the Earth in all those years. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Life moves quickly. Make sure that you stay in touch with those who were important in your life. I had always hoped that he would reach a point in his life where he would want a marriage and then find someone who would share his interests. It makes me sad that this likely did not happen for him. I also hate the thought that he suffered, even though I hear that he closed out his life on his own terms, as much as was possible. May he rest in peace.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-48191505984631727082023-10-03T08:48:00.002-07:002023-10-03T08:48:49.021-07:00Welcome to the Third World<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2uRFsVTvt_trYvjm-TfKdZkXMEuNLXdBWmRaOhCRYBWZyHxF7d_hBxfFAfeOW08VgJWFMTP79NJRdEKsikhVWZpndKejKN50hhDxT4AficnplzejcHYISByGJRB_sqYvxlqMd-T0lfMIsuQovBIgaNATqjYJ1jSp8VTt1lKHiXMkoT6jIOZ6VUnk2DPE/s900/stripmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2uRFsVTvt_trYvjm-TfKdZkXMEuNLXdBWmRaOhCRYBWZyHxF7d_hBxfFAfeOW08VgJWFMTP79NJRdEKsikhVWZpndKejKN50hhDxT4AficnplzejcHYISByGJRB_sqYvxlqMd-T0lfMIsuQovBIgaNATqjYJ1jSp8VTt1lKHiXMkoT6jIOZ6VUnk2DPE/s320/stripmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> A mall similar to the one discussed. <br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> We live in a rural place but sometimes we make it to one of three small Southern cities for shopping, or something else. We no longer go very often, and so the changes in these places seem very clear and obvious to us.</p><p> Yesterday, my daughter, grandson and I went shopping in a particular shopping center that we used much more about twenty years ago. Two of our kids were in college in that city, and for that reason, they or I were at the shopping center sometimes three times a week. It was a bit upscale and had some good shopping, a medical supply shop, an electronics shop,a bank, a Tuesday Morning, a large chain grocers, about seven good restaurants, and some physicians, dentists and veterinarian's offices. One of the restaurants had a very reasonable Asian buffet, and so when the kids who were in college needed something, or when they needed some extra money or something, I used to meet them there for lunch.</p><p> I fully understand that malls have a lifespan. Upscale malls don't remain upscale malls. As they age, they may or may not find their original occupant stores remaining with them. Some stores will go out of business. Others might find a less expensive commercial rental arrangements. The only constant anywhere is change.</p><p> About five years ago, the medical supply store moved away. A Dollar Tree moved in. The great Asian buffet closed. Two bus stops were placed inside the mall. The bus stop brought more customers, but it also brought elderly and disabled customers. I stopped at the mall one day and a woman asked me if I could help her with her copay to the methadone clinic. I didn't but I did some checking. Yes indeed, there is a methadone clinic on the bus line, and they do actually charge a copay. Shortly after, a vehicle that says Mall Security began making regular sweeps throughout the mall.</p><p> A couple of times when I had stopped to shop in Tuesday Morning, the police were in another part of the mall. There had been fist fights, and a couple of times a shop owner had called to have someone with a psychiatric problem removed from their store. The family and I joked that it might not be safe for us to be shopping there any more.</p><p> Last year, Tuesday Morning, which is a business that has existed in the US for fifty years with many branches, closed its doors. Their store remains empty. A number of other stores have closed since, including some restaurants. I am told the homeless bring sleeping bags and sleep within the courtyard of one of the empty restaurants.</p><p> Yesterday, we stopped by during the day because our errand took us to the area. My grandson wanted to make a quick trip to the Dollar Tree. When I tried to use the bathroom there, there were signs up that said that the bathrooms were not for customers, and were for employees only. This was funny because it's exclusively self checkout with only one employee overseeing your checkout. So, before leaving I went to Roses, which I remembered from ten years ago has a bathroom in the front of the store. They have a sign that says, "See Customer Service for Key to Bathroom". When I got to customer service, there was a woman using a walked with a walking cast on her left leg. She had come for the bathroom key, and customer service didn't have one and knew nothing about one. She was yelling at them because Dollar Tree hadn't let her use the bathroom either. I told her that the Food Lion across the mall, had a bathroom. She said she couldn't walk as far as that. She told the employees in the Roses that she was going to urinate in their grass outside. They shrugged.</p><p> As I drove to the Food Lion, a store that the manager has told me is dying in that location, I noticed signs saying that public urination and defecation is prohibited there. Welcome to the Third World. I don't shop much outside my own county any more. I order the few things I need online and they arrive at our office. We pick them up and take them to the farm. I have no way of gauging if this is occurring at other locations here in the South. If it is, then it may end shopping as we know it in the US. Why would women with young children ever take them to such a place ? Why would anyone go to lunch in a shopping center like this ? Why would one shop there and incur risk, when they could buy whatever it is online ?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-64496323955997277372023-06-04T08:03:00.004-07:002023-06-20T14:55:22.269-07:00Remembering Dr. Leo Masciulli<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhs28f3-lzek2kt_T7Plu1FRR-0HlUboJSnhrtJFXt0OJL65vmSgT1uOCkdUE9qoAOihJ4dl5PiQC-R9ZwHUG-IyZKInlpoxbiJUwZNTDenMdBNsRKjl6CzV7JPLMIes2-nxGRJxzJkixg5MSyWdRO25_f99mfR1BE1QO4ckWesWPc1pwnKqbXBnv/s1200/pakiflowers.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhs28f3-lzek2kt_T7Plu1FRR-0HlUboJSnhrtJFXt0OJL65vmSgT1uOCkdUE9qoAOihJ4dl5PiQC-R9ZwHUG-IyZKInlpoxbiJUwZNTDenMdBNsRKjl6CzV7JPLMIes2-nxGRJxzJkixg5MSyWdRO25_f99mfR1BE1QO4ckWesWPc1pwnKqbXBnv/s400/pakiflowers.jpg" /></a></div><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> Some years ago, when I was still in college and still a teenager, working on getting my RN, I worked for a major teaching hospital, on a surgical unit as an LPN. I learned a great deal from this job, and it probably contributed to my learning about the profession, as much as college did.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Since it was an academic hospital, I met everyone from attending physicians, to specialist physicians, interns, residents, fellows, and everyone in between. I still remember many of those people, and the important things they taught me in the course of caring for patients.
This week, I took one of my adult children to an ophthalmologist who is also a retinal specialist. I could not help but think of the very first physician of this type that I had met. I was nineteen years old when working at<i> Middlesex General Hospital</i>, which later became the<i> Robert S. Woods Johnson Medical Center</i> where many physicians are trained. There was a fairly young attending physician named Dr. Leo Masciulli. He was notable not just because he was young, but because he genuinely loved what he was doing. When patients came in with a detached retina, and were blind, and often frankly hopeless, he was excited by the challenge of restoring their sight in that eye. He also came armed with a series of jokes which very much set the patients at ease, and sometimes, the stressed out nursing staff also. The doctor was also intrigued by all the new equipment that had come out in ophthalmology and he was thrilled when he found someone who had a few minutes so he could show them the new piece of equipment and how it could possibly help someone to restore their sight, or possibly to avoid losing it in the first place. I don't think I ever saw him discouraged, annoyed, or bored. I also never heard him say a cross word to anyone, and we were working in a place where the stakes were high and stress was high also.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I am lucky that I remember almost all of the names of the physicians and other medical specialists I worked with at the absolute start of my career. I have kept in touch with some of them, followed the careers of others, and sent flowers sometimes, when some of them passed. A lot of physicians don't live a long lifespan. Even when they are calm, cool and collected, the work and the stress takes a toll. Even when they appear to have a work life balance, many of them don't live the lifespan we might anticipate for them.
When I got home from the retinal specialist, I looked up Dr. Leo, and found that he had died in 2011. From the comments left by those who worked with him, knew him, and loved him, he hadn't changed much over the years. He remained passionate about his craft and about laser surgery. He still joked. Unsurprisingly, he was devoted to his family and to his grands, and he loved golf. I was happy to leave my own recollections of him. Rest in peace, Dr. Leo.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-26750438785510124362023-04-11T16:48:00.003-07:002023-04-11T16:58:09.699-07:00Thoughts on the Increasing Rates of Suicide<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubZzHTYuJRtXmFAoOz7TxW-un2xJ2a7FRpMsLbFD70f9ItqPSiUBdRjjqj6Wrg4NeJF9smX9IjCWWMrAJqGG_SRIEF_VB0Rt5aJRiSaFhyhmDWw-6Q0SI6WsXDeMKsTrxCM9PLNvSx32yZ8mO25tyQRjFViHbHUMnB89EyM3r5lU7z9U_wxe4arQA/s800/bridge7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubZzHTYuJRtXmFAoOz7TxW-un2xJ2a7FRpMsLbFD70f9ItqPSiUBdRjjqj6Wrg4NeJF9smX9IjCWWMrAJqGG_SRIEF_VB0Rt5aJRiSaFhyhmDWw-6Q0SI6WsXDeMKsTrxCM9PLNvSx32yZ8mO25tyQRjFViHbHUMnB89EyM3r5lU7z9U_wxe4arQA/w640-h426/bridge7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> This week, in order to renew several of my professional licenses, I had to do an awful lot of continuing education. Normally, I do some all year long and so there's no need to catch up. This year, probably because my son Matthew died, I have not been keeping up with many of the things I normally do. So, I had to spend quite a few hours playing catch up. Some licenses specify courses you must take while others simply specify a certain number of continuing education hours. For one of these licenses, I needed to take a course on Suicide.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Suicide was a big focus in college when we studied psychiatric nursing, and before we did state psychiatric clinicals and private hospital clinicals also. Since suicide is a point of focus in almost every specialty, such as cancer, psychiatric nursing, critical care, neurology, transplant units etc., almost everywhere I have ever worked has required some type of continuing education on recognizing suicidal behavior in your patient or a coworker. So this eight hour course, and lengthy exam is about the thirtieth time I have had to focus on the subject.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> As I began to take the course, I had to think of my father. My father believed that people who were terminally ill, in pain, or in some other type of psychic pain should be entitled to receive physician assistance to safely and comfortably effect their own suicide. I vehemently disagreed. Many times I told my father that many different combinations of drugs exist enabling those who are in their final stages of life to be comfortable and make use of those final days, which are also very valuable. Our final days can be used for goodbyes, for final touches to our Will, to place the names of loved ones on our property in order to settle our estates more readily, or for simple reflection or for prayer. This was one of the few things my Dad and I disagreed about. I did agree however, that when he died, I was to allow whatever pain medication was correct and necessary, even if it possibly shortened his life by hours or days. Like any other promise I made of such import, I kept it when the time came, even hiring a Nurse Thanatologist who could properly and safely administer what was needed. I am also grateful to my father for not considering suicide in those last days which are very cherished memories at least for me, and I suspect they were important moments for him as well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> The latest information on suicide, according to the course is that almost everyone is at risk. Girls between 10-14 are at risk. Physicians and dentists are at risk. Those who have experienced trauma or loss in the last year are at risk. Veterans are at risk, probably forever. Those with seizures, Crohn's disease, Multiple Sclerosis, issues of addiction, are all at risk. Those who have had a friend commit suicide, or who have had a family member commit suicide are also, Those who gamble or use alcohol are also at risk. Young people who are bullied and those who have an eating disorder are also at risk of suicide. Professionals in the field say that we are to ask people who are having a difficult time if they are contemplating suicide. Their opinion is that the person being asked will be glad for the opportunity to talk, rather than think they are being given permission to act toward self harm. I hope they are correct.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> So despite the fact that I have now taken a course of the same subject for more than 30 times, as has anyone else in healthcare, the problem continues to worsen. Suicide by all means is increasing not only in the United States, but in many places in the world as well. Apparently, requiring the attendance of courses on suicide so many times is not reducing the suicide rate, in either health care or in the general population.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Now that we have established that just about everyone you know is at risk for committing suicide, I want to say a few things about it. I have now lost two sons suddenly. One died fifteen years ago at 12 1/2 of a supposed spontaneous heart rhythm disturbance. Another son died after having turned 32, about 39 hours after having an influenza vaccine. So, I suppose we have established that I too must be at risk.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> What are the reasons we should not commit suicide ? Now this is from me, and not any continuing education course. First, because if we end our lives and take ourselves out of play then we will not be present on Earth to see things improve. Yes, nothing, including the bad times, last forever. Suicide is a permanent solution to temporary problems. Secondly, because when we commit suicide, we transfer the pain from ourselves to everyone else who loved us. This is probably not the legacy you had in mind. Third, because every drop of life is precious. As my father was dying in the ICU, I got a physician order to allow him to have bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale. He truly enjoyed drinking this favorite drink from his youth while talking to his daughter. These drops of last days and moments of life are very special and should not be disrupted. We also should not disrupt any of the last tasks we may have on Earth before we are called. Lastly, we must not commit suicide because God grants us this life and the time in it, and believe me, He calls us when He is ready for us, just as God called two of my sons at a moment's notice.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Perhaps our strategy as a nation needs to change with regard to suicide. Perhaps people who commit suicide are not people with an undiagnosed psychiatric issue that missed being treated. Perhaps they are simply people who have been beaten down by the world and have found almost no encouragement in the schoolyards, the schools, the universities, the hospitals, the employers, the restaurants, or anywhere else. I am not saying that we need to baby the world. I don't want that. I am saying that bullying is unacceptable anywhere and must stop. I am saying that nurses and physicians, pharmacists, and EMTs need to have access and required hours with a counselor, just as police and veterans often do. Things we see and do, and have experienced change us, sometimes always and forever. We need to recognize this and make kindness and decency more of the rule than the exception. Why can't Christian counselors discuss suicide ? Perhaps the largest problem with so much suicide is that people are spiritually injured and are constantly batted over the head by a mandatorily secular world. God is the most important reason I would never commit suicide, and I'll bet He is for an awful lot of other people also.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> On the evaluation of the course I took, I found it difficult simply to answer without expressing my annoyance and anger. I told them that there was one group they had failed to identify as at risk. People who had to take a course on the current state of affairs in the world on suicide for eight hours straight and who'd been required to take a similar course thirty times since 1981, probably were at as much risk as any other group they had listed. It seems forcing us all to take these courses isn't making much difference to anyone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Perhaps we can, "Love one another".</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-23618313032580166702023-03-23T12:36:00.003-07:002023-03-23T13:59:46.333-07:00I Came By This Honestly: Packrat Revelations<p> </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7Du4PsVWYDT6yDJaLf8PNQTX69O8ciqp6BeW7VuAOx-RsEER2okkiRJ-LQI8Lw7qET3kwscPlQVg5S_I1OpMEyewhqj2o6qra5TVjFQaKqz34xBtqYhv2a4TBIvHM15sVBMNSx85qRJ-mkZ5kDKNB7_gqwQuYuSaqVzBVWTuxGjctQxwXCk239GG/s800/122C.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7Du4PsVWYDT6yDJaLf8PNQTX69O8ciqp6BeW7VuAOx-RsEER2okkiRJ-LQI8Lw7qET3kwscPlQVg5S_I1OpMEyewhqj2o6qra5TVjFQaKqz34xBtqYhv2a4TBIvHM15sVBMNSx85qRJ-mkZ5kDKNB7_gqwQuYuSaqVzBVWTuxGjctQxwXCk239GG/w640-h426/122C.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> When I was a little girl, I became aware that I had a lot more stuff than a lot of girls and boys my age. I didn't think a lot about it because we had only two children in my family, and a lot of families had four or five children. Obviously, I thought, the toys, books, and furniture would need to be spread out between more children than they needed to be at my house. Also in those years, a lot of families in the US moved every few years for their father's job. My parents were a little unusual in the era. They both had established careers and had traveled extensively internationally before marrying and having children. The large home they bought and restored wasn't to be a home for a few years, but a home for all seasons. They weren't concerned with being able to move easily with children every couple of years, and so they didn't mind collecting furniture, decorative items or books.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Since my parents were consumed by the labor of love of restoring their post civil war manse, many weekends were spent at auctions, estate sales, second hand shops, garage sales, and even at bona fide antique shops. In that era especially, one could buy some lovely things without spending a great deal of money. When friends came to my birthday parties, they were surprised that I had such a large bedroom with a high ceiling and a chandelier. I had a canopy bed, a French provincial desk, a large bookcase, and two large closets. It's a good thing we didn't open the closets while they were there, because they were filled with dress up clothes and lots of dolls. My desk and my bookcase were busy places. I might have been one of the few eight year olds who actually had a file cabinet with paperwork kept in alphabetical order. The arrangement of that side of the room probably looked as if I were practicing law rather than childhood. My large bookcase had an entire Worldbook encyclopedia a family had sold us while moving at their garage sale, for about five dollars. I wasn't particularly neat in those years. The more things a child has, the harder it is for them to keep them in an orderly fashion. Although I usually knew where most things were, the room probably wasn't always as neat as one might expect a little girl to keep it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> At about thirteen, I got tired of my locker in school, my desk and my desk at home being messy. My mother reported that one day, out of the blue, I cleaned everything, and put it all in order, and kept it that way from then on. I just got tired of having misplaced a couple of important assignments for school, I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I was aware that most children donated, gave away to friends or younger siblings, or sold toys or possessions each year, usually before their birthdays or Christmas. We never did that. If we liked it enough to give it space, then it was likely remaining there until it was replaced, or wore out. Other than mattresses or refrigerators, I don't think my parents bought very much that was new. What they did buy was usually very nice though.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> When I finished high school and went to college, I was sixteen. My mother thought that it was time to find homes for a lot of the items I had in my youth, particularly the collection of soft toys I'd won at the annual fair. She rented flea market tables, and one Saturday I sold jewelry, clothing, girl scout regalia, shoes, bags, books,soft toys, some dolls, jewel boxes, my French telephone, and every game imaginable. My mother also brought some things from the house to be sold there. My mother set the prices for everything, and had a label on each piece. I couldn't believe how much people paid for some of the things I'd had for years, but I understood. In order to begin to collect things that would become a part of my adulthood, I needed to part with at least some of the items that had graced my youth. It was also time for other people to enjoy some of the things I'd had.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I managed a minimalist existence throughout college, and for a few years after getting married. It helped that my first house was tiny and that the space constraints alone dictated that I couldn't collect very much. We collected the normal items when my first son and daughter were born. Then, like many American families, we moved about every four years, in part for jobs and also in order to acquire a larger home, as our family grew. Eventually, those moves took us to other states.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> By the 1990s, we had recouped the space I had known as a child, and we had a large family. They each had a lot of books and items they cared about. In this era, a lot of people like modern decor and the minimalist thinking had entered full swing. A lot of suburbanites felt economically stable and so they parted with most things rather readily thinking that if ever they needed one again that they could simply buy another one. I wasn't this way. I kept disaster supplies, large fans in case the air conditioning went out, vaporizers, baby baths long after we had babies, glassware, silverware, and pet supplies. I kept everything organized. When a friend needed a vaporizer, I could run a new one over to her.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> As my children grew, my ancestors passed. I became the curator to pictures, possessions, Bibles and a few antiques that belonged to aunts and ancestors. When my in-laws passed early, we acquired more.I will admit to occasionally being frustrated as to what to keep, as no one can keep it all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> As our children were in college and in high school, each of my parents passed. They had divorced when I had been a young adult and they had each had time to amass at least twenty years worth of household goods, antiques, books, and documents on their own. My father, who passed the year after my mother, had almost three floors of things, some of which were valuable. It took years to go through many of these items.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Recently, I was reading about my paternal grandmother's family who settled in Nova Scotia, in the 1730s. The family had retained every document that concerned their businesses, their estates, and their correspondence to one another, a lot of which discussed the history and their concerns at the time. These documents have become a part of the Nova Scotia Archives and have been uploaded to the internet for historical purposes. As I read through their correspondence, I recognized these people. They kept everything, and accounted for everything in inventories when someone died, for tax purposes. They kept everyone's correspondence! If they'd had photographs in the 1730s, I know they would have kept those too ! I realized that my family has likely not changed much since the 1770s. We still write a lot of letters to one another. We still hold on to whatever we can. We still love our children as much as we have loved life itself. I might be a family historian and a pack rat, but I came by this honestly. There is probably a marker in our DNA which will eventually be found to account for our detail to record keeping, and for the safekeeping of family records. Perhaps I have never wanted to be a minimalist anyway.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-38633369772269468102023-03-21T04:35:00.002-07:002023-03-21T07:55:52.704-07:00Goodnight Nanci Griffith<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTX7GMkPKNGiFFibk22GKQSvif3QXIwgkI5UcqnW9pkC5aLoPo-eriCIOCxMoiqHwRhYSBpyQ1nKVkXWmjodenjyjYk590Hsj5Zh8kN0bSh5A1InJ3kCPiI8QTWhhHEQeeewRCUlxwk41zRJvMjlfLtLssmjFo5h1sWVbxNCvx1knHVILSS7iWEag/s1581/nanci.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1581" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTX7GMkPKNGiFFibk22GKQSvif3QXIwgkI5UcqnW9pkC5aLoPo-eriCIOCxMoiqHwRhYSBpyQ1nKVkXWmjodenjyjYk590Hsj5Zh8kN0bSh5A1InJ3kCPiI8QTWhhHEQeeewRCUlxwk41zRJvMjlfLtLssmjFo5h1sWVbxNCvx1knHVILSS7iWEag/w400-h266/nanci.webp" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"> I try to acknowledge the passings of people whose art, whose thinking or whose music has touched me, and who have made my own time here on the big blue ball a little softer or a bit more enjoyable. As people in the flesh suits we don't live forever, but sometimes our art, our music or our influence lives longer than we inhabit the flesh suit itself. Once in awhile, I miss hearing about what would have been a pivotal passing for me, and I hope for you too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Texas born Nanci Griffith was singing professionally, playing guitar and writing songs from age twelve onward, and it showed if you watched her perform as an adult. Every intonation, every inflection, every movement, was professional and deliberate, all while she appeared to be completely natural and comfortable, as if you had stopped by after work to visit a friend. Her songwriting was perfect. It was relatable to the many, and yet the work of a poetess, as well. She was good at blending worlds. Listening to her, you might wonder if she were a folk singer, or a country singer, and yet she called what she did <b><i>rockabilly.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i> </i></b> She toured with folk, rock, and even Irish music royalty. She received a grammy and numerous awards and was inducted to Halls of Fame, and yet she was quiet, just making her own music. I learned last evening, that Nanci Griffith died in August of 2021, and that I hadn't heard a word. I hate it when I miss hearing about a passing that would have moved me, or reminded me that time on the big blue ball is passing very fast for us all. Despite the fact that Nanci Griffith survived both breast and thyroid cancer in the 1990s, her passing is said to have been of natural causes. She was 68.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> If you get a chance today, and in the future, please listed to some of her works. Her songwriting and performances were nothing short of amazing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3AP6Ee7SFY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3AP6Ee7SFY</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cazUqIIEKb4"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cazUqIIEKb4</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">and with friends</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORMUqhofLGw"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORMUqhofLGw</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-53525091774557527212022-10-21T13:27:00.005-07:002022-10-22T12:50:41.894-07:00For the Love of Wedgwood Jasperware<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7r1EgkSxWdIcm2ECSSxzaIdurmfjBDRihU3GQa8jurF5YJz1P-NqSKsjFQMk3fnrGA0dDDOsdhnv1sHENeF6ZNRejYOgOyHs0MUbnM1-dMjyq8S7rusLw-f5a4rZmWTRWESSdYCJhKuuxJNlKEEmRCG7zpyxpAmvzZvy0z3Yw8FO2rgFDy7TsF0Ns/s1600/cig.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1098" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7r1EgkSxWdIcm2ECSSxzaIdurmfjBDRihU3GQa8jurF5YJz1P-NqSKsjFQMk3fnrGA0dDDOsdhnv1sHENeF6ZNRejYOgOyHs0MUbnM1-dMjyq8S7rusLw-f5a4rZmWTRWESSdYCJhKuuxJNlKEEmRCG7zpyxpAmvzZvy0z3Yw8FO2rgFDy7TsF0Ns/s320/cig.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> My mother was British, and she married my father while he was in England. I know that originally they had tried to raise their family there, but my father, after college, found earning a living there, and finding adequate housing in the UK difficult, and so the couple moved first to California with his own family, and then eventually when he got a very good job, to the East Coast. This move was not without its challenges though. My mother missed her sisters, her parents and friends very much, and their choice to raise a family in a rural home resulted in some degree of isolation for her.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5enyh0H4rF-Hh7ET5oyopoZIAjdFOS59p1qKX4nAea4UDKgQGdrPH-tfC7onDKjh_ehHu9BMMplO6YCdB6LBNyM6TKSJ0pzn2duUFl8-QDO_0Il7K8ujK_bqmEjbYEk4oUP-TUFGl7qcgmGT3Yn7fY8Pr4AnyxfcbeX6LoPHsyGxEqwENvbgFUi5/s1600/tea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5enyh0H4rF-Hh7ET5oyopoZIAjdFOS59p1qKX4nAea4UDKgQGdrPH-tfC7onDKjh_ehHu9BMMplO6YCdB6LBNyM6TKSJ0pzn2duUFl8-QDO_0Il7K8ujK_bqmEjbYEk4oUP-TUFGl7qcgmGT3Yn7fY8Pr4AnyxfcbeX6LoPHsyGxEqwENvbgFUi5/s320/tea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> My mother was a lover of Wedgwood jasperware. Not only did it remind her of England, and its history, but my parents had been given a number of pieces as wedding presents. For her, it was symbolic of people and familiar places, and of a life left behind. When my parents had restored their post Civil War manse, it was decorated with Wedgwood jasperware. My mother preferred the pale "Wedgwood" blue, but ultimately also had navy blue pieces, some older blue cobalt blue pieces, some green and the yellow "primrose" variety also.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2uJ5nUCo1WYsKTnA1HywlHHy1yS3RUrMA7OEw2Mcl_t_GThng-21ecVWeBpNSjhkwgMrN9Gl32gjxeRBpj45xNRBV2g3A-s8bFiFLtPzDbiLPg8aTUHm0pSHR8eY1_F__6trwbu6qaiiYbdsmfZrFcl6yKssp8Y0td6yn5UXh_9wf9U_Z8OV80iq/s1264/bljasp.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2uJ5nUCo1WYsKTnA1HywlHHy1yS3RUrMA7OEw2Mcl_t_GThng-21ecVWeBpNSjhkwgMrN9Gl32gjxeRBpj45xNRBV2g3A-s8bFiFLtPzDbiLPg8aTUHm0pSHR8eY1_F__6trwbu6qaiiYbdsmfZrFcl6yKssp8Y0td6yn5UXh_9wf9U_Z8OV80iq/w380-h400/bljasp.png" width="380" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;">The Winters in rural Northwestern NJ were long, and the snows were often deep. My brother and I were therefore relegated through the Winter, after sledding etc. to large stretches of time inside, with the television, with books and occasionally even board games. A few times, my brother and I inadvertently broke a piece of Wedgwood. I believe, in total, we broke two ashtrays and some years later, I broke a larger dish. When Wedgwood became broken my mother yelled, cried, and then withdrew. Even as children, we realized how special these tokens of her life from England were. We hadn't intended to break them, and yet, they were in our living room, in an era when families didn't also have a family room or play room. Breakage had been inevitable, and yet we felt badly having done it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQS1OoOxXeyHpbVCsL5_GhRnzZh08PaQfu5bpW5nmOFtlIg-83Ljq97NTgEQMS-DqO-OAoZqzaidZly1jfGtlHXXlzoGdz_e_ntYA2tTNVMXjZdq544PTYNOPe6q0LmoYRRCbsWeddjomKGBMZqcHS-A3RfhEF_rcy4AuWkYUFqWYFhBIOlodGaY6/s1019/vase.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="688" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQS1OoOxXeyHpbVCsL5_GhRnzZh08PaQfu5bpW5nmOFtlIg-83Ljq97NTgEQMS-DqO-OAoZqzaidZly1jfGtlHXXlzoGdz_e_ntYA2tTNVMXjZdq544PTYNOPe6q0LmoYRRCbsWeddjomKGBMZqcHS-A3RfhEF_rcy4AuWkYUFqWYFhBIOlodGaY6/w270-h400/vase.png" width="270" /></a></span></p><p><br /> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLr2tHVOTscavvAZrC2_QlMNKoh2vDR1JE0E7NzTiM7-pt4zFMIdK0Pd314Zo7ELuJNawxDD62bGSk8dtQGW7J5GbkMMkFKwNloDDF_LwmMY2BC4hxwFDjIF2de5S7AJU12LbuEqG7oE9nK_ZOv-EgKeK6J8U4n9FxvqEONd4OJ5nKPEUuJdSdTIn/s400/basalt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="219" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLr2tHVOTscavvAZrC2_QlMNKoh2vDR1JE0E7NzTiM7-pt4zFMIdK0Pd314Zo7ELuJNawxDD62bGSk8dtQGW7J5GbkMMkFKwNloDDF_LwmMY2BC4hxwFDjIF2de5S7AJU12LbuEqG7oE9nK_ZOv-EgKeK6J8U4n9FxvqEONd4OJ5nKPEUuJdSdTIn/w219-h400/basalt.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> Over the years, my mother's collection gradually grew, and her children grew up and no longer played with Nerf balls in the formal living room. After college, I began to set up my own home. You would think that English Wedgwood might not have appealed to me when I used to get into so much trouble on the rare occasion that I broke one. I was fortunate that my first few pieces came to me from consignment shops. I also didn't really care if they were the traditional blue. I liked almost all the colors of Wedgwood jasperware, and so I was quite happy with any that I could afford.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS8AraS1sFuP13n3kf6eIeyRnu9Jf9sexAzrsGGu3karkbv09PXXb3NYH_d4OJZw8UGEYJQinhbWvfV779gYuy2vWveGdf5c0XKuTqQTwHZcEEHfpI7vjYRU8J3DXdOtTud59L02e3A_gjePScl6RjW696qKQ0ywQxHcWFpBXcLba2OAP6tMlxSEg/s400/jade.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="400" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS8AraS1sFuP13n3kf6eIeyRnu9Jf9sexAzrsGGu3karkbv09PXXb3NYH_d4OJZw8UGEYJQinhbWvfV779gYuy2vWveGdf5c0XKuTqQTwHZcEEHfpI7vjYRU8J3DXdOtTud59L02e3A_gjePScl6RjW696qKQ0ywQxHcWFpBXcLba2OAP6tMlxSEg/s320/jade.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aZuD7EiJpPcaQ82REfdhX0WfzwASf4_MKhna79DYND4P__jkzVCVjoddz_HWbpZNKWY7JsCj2teb4vGKHXhsX90kaTloASiVVMqRmOs-zCSUrbCrCQxrrxp9uRz2EwZ_1LCLvQf9Hh3LdnAYLkn1YnqI_H0ZTueqT5aNQqjGocixBYAeJmDkpEHO/s1016/ylw.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="981" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aZuD7EiJpPcaQ82REfdhX0WfzwASf4_MKhna79DYND4P__jkzVCVjoddz_HWbpZNKWY7JsCj2teb4vGKHXhsX90kaTloASiVVMqRmOs-zCSUrbCrCQxrrxp9uRz2EwZ_1LCLvQf9Hh3LdnAYLkn1YnqI_H0ZTueqT5aNQqjGocixBYAeJmDkpEHO/s320/ylw.png" width="309" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> When my children were born, I moved a couple of pieces off coffee tables, but most of it I left out. It existed to be enjoyed. However, I told myself that when my own children broke it, that I didn't want them feeling as badly as I had, and so I decided to make people more important than things. If they broke a piece, I decided that I would try to repair it, and if I couldn't be, then I wouldn't be upset about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJdtMh96E-MhAVt7IqoNvjPkOmnbKGnXqkLvqpT_i4H_sIJBiQRQDm-ctGV4G8IhQr7079HqPWXtIAkfyQAljNSrKw9tw9HLaWTOEG1q_aYvMMBEJcBob1R6DHTbaMFpz3RVP9oYGIOuF4E4ftozbZZY7ijrMzyq88sef8ZwVTfMx386awES5J2aO/s1600/antique.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJdtMh96E-MhAVt7IqoNvjPkOmnbKGnXqkLvqpT_i4H_sIJBiQRQDm-ctGV4G8IhQr7079HqPWXtIAkfyQAljNSrKw9tw9HLaWTOEG1q_aYvMMBEJcBob1R6DHTbaMFpz3RVP9oYGIOuF4E4ftozbZZY7ijrMzyq88sef8ZwVTfMx386awES5J2aO/w300-h400/antique.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> As my children grew, Wedgwood jasperware fell out of vogue for a time, and I was able to purchase even some of the rare and antique pieces fairly cheaply. In addition, people who needed to give me a gift for Christmas or other occasions, knew I had Wedgwood, and so it tended to become the "go to" gift for me. During its less popular days, I amassed a significant collection of all colors, and then when my mother died, I inherited many of her pieces.</span></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLk096hKW-XpT9jc51Mw3IP8fmlClg285l4DC-4aL0OCU4rQBCkTj9nnw6qlnMQqHDRqNDZUdSIDPXQVz0acpwZH8EAkUkSw58E3vFB4OPFGHxlVMXN2oNB6HI5YfkaGLxzVfNUPjkHG4G0ssLJCZXDktxoWdi1gI4Qa-1UsQIJFzhETNy7RlKK4Tw/s400/bud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="223" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLk096hKW-XpT9jc51Mw3IP8fmlClg285l4DC-4aL0OCU4rQBCkTj9nnw6qlnMQqHDRqNDZUdSIDPXQVz0acpwZH8EAkUkSw58E3vFB4OPFGHxlVMXN2oNB6HI5YfkaGLxzVfNUPjkHG4G0ssLJCZXDktxoWdi1gI4Qa-1UsQIJFzhETNy7RlKK4Tw/s320/bud.jpg" width="178" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> In all the years Wedgwood jasperware has graced my home, none of my five children, and the foster kids, ever broke any. One of my sons accidentally broke a piece of bone china in the master bedroom once, but they were injured sufficiently by it that we left in an ambulance and the child had stitches when the spurting blood had stopped. The grands haven't broken any either. I feel badly for my mother sometimes, thinking that when I broke hers, I wish I could have reached into the future and handed her whichever pieces she wanted, at that time. I appreciate the artistry, but it has never carried such symbolism that I would have been devastated when a piece of it was broken.</span></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZGSSW0uVO4xcVf-8BJFLxb_FSAu-S0N2EqknbTeNZS27Cnv-DfUgeBZV6BWRjU9-vxSgQs1gtqLVAmtiOPO14FJOHD4znFVcEDvJQ_Vcl6TxbEv94muySZm-oFbt4dWSE7chOmCvpS43lfit6hmro0tzt8i1_3R2-k1gyx5ps8k7ZsszQBwgQVm6/s1600/cobalt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZGSSW0uVO4xcVf-8BJFLxb_FSAu-S0N2EqknbTeNZS27Cnv-DfUgeBZV6BWRjU9-vxSgQs1gtqLVAmtiOPO14FJOHD4znFVcEDvJQ_Vcl6TxbEv94muySZm-oFbt4dWSE7chOmCvpS43lfit6hmro0tzt8i1_3R2-k1gyx5ps8k7ZsszQBwgQVm6/s320/cobalt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> I am still fortunate enough to receive gifts of Wedgwood from time to time. My eldest son and his wife found a rare item when away, and presented it to me when they got back. When the 2011 earthquake hit, and broke homes in half, damaged the National Cathedral, the Rotunda at the University of Virginia, and caused two schools to be condemned and need to be rebuilt from scratch, I could have lost some Wedgwood then, but I didn't. A small but perfect piece of cloisonne on the mantle rolled off and was badly dented on the hearth, but all the Wedgwood was in its place. Consistent with my loving pieces for artistry and not necessarily value, it's still on the mantle, turned to show its perfect side.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-iBfMcXWYSMK_uc-sxwQucZ74J-SHTeiX-hXbpzt9oksy8UE6L6bnRgLlP6rTwndJjWmj5o7sXxL_8wibpIENomOCTdB2UcGoG_jovAucVepJYVpMhuRj7wDbJiu0KOFRv5HgBrtKuMXsxAYOXtww7RqQmhEK3DYi_wgoqPUpBab5KhXCaZlrmBM/s794/impbowl.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="794" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-iBfMcXWYSMK_uc-sxwQucZ74J-SHTeiX-hXbpzt9oksy8UE6L6bnRgLlP6rTwndJjWmj5o7sXxL_8wibpIENomOCTdB2UcGoG_jovAucVepJYVpMhuRj7wDbJiu0KOFRv5HgBrtKuMXsxAYOXtww7RqQmhEK3DYi_wgoqPUpBab5KhXCaZlrmBM/s320/impbowl.webp" width="320" /></a></p><br /> <br /><p></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> If you like Wedgwood jasperware, although its price is recovering, it is still an excellent price considering the craftsmanship and the artistry. You might consider beginning your own collection of whatever varieties you like.</span></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuAFhK81zGqny7Cc4mKVqkcYIfYm8S4I3fXfLiIC9aExGZ-tbqg5a0CMGOMJZQYoiWzsQnQM1NNVhzWlL5YGGp2odJuM39m_YUtZqNw1S21SJ9n2pNi6_KkWE9-Ht58il4eENHfhnDXch2nUkOk4EOhYKCx_yJjAAd4-66nCbz7wRlWZOGbANQaVp/s1325/crim.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1092" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuAFhK81zGqny7Cc4mKVqkcYIfYm8S4I3fXfLiIC9aExGZ-tbqg5a0CMGOMJZQYoiWzsQnQM1NNVhzWlL5YGGp2odJuM39m_YUtZqNw1S21SJ9n2pNi6_KkWE9-Ht58il4eENHfhnDXch2nUkOk4EOhYKCx_yJjAAd4-66nCbz7wRlWZOGbANQaVp/s320/crim.png" width="264" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuk5dzaRIwoJdmG8Kfvgk92VFs7r4xAvOhzlXiV1jt309rO-RocY-OAQVUt2p58s03YDIgvrXrDy-TRdAtrptmhZVq9aEI6Qcw0BiU75UichQh0KsGR40vADkPAqLwNGZqvhGN4EC2gmjPDs0_6QfHYbcLei-Kmr10jina3enZFLozzipWz-WqySCo/s1059/jas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="794" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuk5dzaRIwoJdmG8Kfvgk92VFs7r4xAvOhzlXiV1jt309rO-RocY-OAQVUt2p58s03YDIgvrXrDy-TRdAtrptmhZVq9aEI6Qcw0BiU75UichQh0KsGR40vADkPAqLwNGZqvhGN4EC2gmjPDs0_6QfHYbcLei-Kmr10jina3enZFLozzipWz-WqySCo/s320/jas.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;">I have one last Wedgwood project going on in my home. I am having Wedgwood medallions embedded above the granite the surround of my fireplace. If it's good enough for Thomas Jefferson's Monticello, then it's certainly good enough for me.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> From Jefferson's Monticello. Photograph by Michael Dunne</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwbxN1l6bOtw_npFlMk5CmhipgBqFj1z6IPGuWaqV2Tpo15EUFrKaQaC3Ag_kdgt59AJvVIgsYDMYWUadNCcXenYnkcT3tS418pHALZx7wAbPdnmU5iZ5JJ3ufwBfS5fR6L-HPG3Te4LeV7X51y1CBDeb32HCHz7AOjNOwaYXVjKRKSAgPoOMki6L/s1365/jeffmonticelloMichael%20Dunne.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwbxN1l6bOtw_npFlMk5CmhipgBqFj1z6IPGuWaqV2Tpo15EUFrKaQaC3Ag_kdgt59AJvVIgsYDMYWUadNCcXenYnkcT3tS418pHALZx7wAbPdnmU5iZ5JJ3ufwBfS5fR6L-HPG3Te4LeV7X51y1CBDeb32HCHz7AOjNOwaYXVjKRKSAgPoOMki6L/w375-h400/jeffmonticelloMichael%20Dunne.webp" width="375" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> If I were to be honest, I think I would say that there is nothing wrong with loving things of beauty, whether they were made by God, as in the case of natural beauty, or made by man from the clays and materials left on Earth by God, for man to use. Loving items of beauty is fine, so long as we do not place them above people or they occupy too important a place in our lives.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-25689284259819137832022-08-04T14:42:00.003-07:002022-08-04T14:46:02.561-07:00Refugees Found a Rural Area<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpacwJNej5TBc2aJaRXoVcAXpr9PylWEiINC7L5bRz0Ts3k55aUXNg0rYxKuHPbo6haCbvTols0unAAY48kO1DoXC3RIy9Fp68p7DQxjj2P_g1Sn2KWQhKYD563hT9lu5FD8eqYDAJ4xMwXgSDnR3LO6G1MCGXKtRk4SA7Om0DsWHnKX0QAlhN9Yv/s800/trees88.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="800" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpacwJNej5TBc2aJaRXoVcAXpr9PylWEiINC7L5bRz0Ts3k55aUXNg0rYxKuHPbo6haCbvTols0unAAY48kO1DoXC3RIy9Fp68p7DQxjj2P_g1Sn2KWQhKYD563hT9lu5FD8eqYDAJ4xMwXgSDnR3LO6G1MCGXKtRk4SA7Om0DsWHnKX0QAlhN9Yv/w640-h424/trees88.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"> Today I had an afternoon dentist's appointment a distance away in a neighboring rural county. I hate going to the dentist. Between braces, dental work, wisdom tooth extractions, I can honestly say that some of my worst experiences as a young person occurred in the dentist's chair. As much as I know that many, many advances in materials, technique and comfort have occurred in my lifetime, I probably have some degree of post traumatic stress when it comes to the dentist. I once had a root canal where the dentist accidentally entered my sinus above my palate while drilling. I don't seem to forget those things. I have done a good job making sure that my children and my grands don't fear the dentist, and get everything they need done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> My dental appointment today was a long one, and it was very hot. The only thing that kept me sane during the drilling was thinking that I might go to a little grocery store nearby and pick up some watermelon, some berries and some ice cream. I tried my best to transport my mind to the store as she drilled. During the visit, I had some unexpected discomfort and so she gave additional Novocaine. My tongue, chin and lips are still pretty numb.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> By the time I got out of the dentist's office, a thunderstorm was clearly coming, and it didn't look like my trip to the nearby grocery was going to be nearly as pleasant as I had imagined. I was very numb. It didn't matter, I thought, as the dentist has us wear a mask on coming and going. Normally, I throw the mask away when I get to the car, but this time, I think I might keep it for the store. I don't want anyone to see me drooling and as numb as I am, I might.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> On the way to to store, I went through a drive-through and got a tall drink. I was absolutely amazed to see that I couldn't purse my lips around the straw enough to drink. Finally, I looked in the rear view mirror and coordinated some sips. Then I drove to the store. Between the store and a pharmacy there is a shady grassy area with a number of people sitting there. It was 95 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. Why are these people sitting in the shade ? I wondered. As I drove past, I saw they had signs. They turned out to be a family who are here illegally and are panhandling. They had precious young children and they looked as if they might be from one of the countries in South America. I noticed that the people in this small rural place were doing their best to ignore them. I can't fathom how someone would leave their own country with very young children not knowing where they might go. I would venture to guess that in this small Southern conservative town that most people go to church. Most people here would help puppies left in a box under the shady trees. However, this is a difficult time. Gasoline is so expensive now that the man in front of me who had some kind of a card that allowed him to pump gas without paying in advance like I do, drove off without paying today. Jobs are not plentiful in rural areas. Lots of businesses have closed. The solar installation people went out of business, and many of the restaurants are gone now for good. People can't afford to pay for the things they need, and they certainly can't pay to arrange for a place for an illegal alien family to stay in a hotel. People in this town don't want to pay for their welfare or WIC when lots of people who need welfare or Medicaid can't get it. As the COVID emergency ends, many people have been kicked off Medicaid in our state.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> And yet, my heart hurts as I decide I don't feel like going shopping . I decided to head for home before the storm hits. Perhaps I couldn't stand to take ice cream and berries home to my family when I wanted to buy gatorade for the family sitting under the trees. I don't think the children will dehydrate and die there. There are three rural churches that will do something for these people. The employees at the small Goodwill will also do something. But again, we can't keep doing this. We do not have the reserves that our present federal government seems to think we do. People shouldn't make grueling trips with young children when they have no idea where they are going, and they have no money.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> As I drove home I wondered what memories the young children would keep from sitting in the grass on a hot day with their large family. What kind of citizens will they become if they remain in the US ? Should children believe that no one cares as they sit as refugees on the edge of a strip mall ? If I were to be honest, I don't have easy answers other than our own government should be preventing the entry of people who could well die on the journey. I am no better than anyone, as I did nothing but get myself home.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-41277999404356660002021-02-07T13:54:00.009-08:002021-06-15T12:02:21.896-07:00With Twenty Years, Came Many Losses<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmpKpj_OTmTl7DMT_4eITrTMJdUthFwyNSIKxlGT2Epde-Pa4ORZBZYizNGWoLmbaJeIAb7CMysC01qHonyJ2xs5hUkdOqQw7OEEAAK9p7w75P3KnFDysqGz-82rTvQ1lqIFhgQwKfYU/s600/0barboursville.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmpKpj_OTmTl7DMT_4eITrTMJdUthFwyNSIKxlGT2Epde-Pa4ORZBZYizNGWoLmbaJeIAb7CMysC01qHonyJ2xs5hUkdOqQw7OEEAAK9p7w75P3KnFDysqGz-82rTvQ1lqIFhgQwKfYU/w640-h456/0barboursville.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <br /></p><p> <b> <span style="font-size: large;"> When I was a fairly young adult, we lived in a large house in the suburbs. My husband commuted to a full time job and by the time we had four children, I worked part time as a registered nurse in an intensive care unit. We weren't very happy with some of the social engineering ideas that the local schools were attempting to teach our children, and so we began to homeschool. Academically, our kids did well, but we were still concerned that they were becoming far better consumers than we wanted them to be. They knew all the fast food restaurants and what was on sale, and what they sold as Costco, when we wanted them to learn about animals, repairing mechanical items, and reading for detail. We eventually realized that we wanted to give them the childhoods that we had, and that this was only possible in a very rural area where we could keep cows, goats, horses and other animals. We needed to live in a place where my husband could teach my sons how to change the oil and rebuild an engine, not in a place that restricted the number of dogs you could own to two.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span> When our youngest was less than a year, we bought about forty acres in a rural area, and then not too long after bought additional land from a neighbor and so our holdings there totaled ninety acres. There weren't houses for sale in the area, and so we needed to build one. One weekend, we found a builder we liked, and we marked out where we wanted the house sited, and work began. The house was completed quickly, and by Spring we moved our family to the country. This was an adjustment. My husband drove more than an hour to work now, and our children had no pizza delivery or any Chinese food in the entire county. It didn't take long for them to find things to fill their days. One began to paint on canvas, another began to sculpt, and two became very interested in computers and computer languages. We started an alpaca farm. We had eight dogs, and the kids raised chickens and rabbits.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span> It's hard to believe that twenty years have now passed since the courageous choice to move to a very rural county. One of the benefits of doing so is that with fewer people present, one tends to get to know people in a rural county better than you might have otherwise. There is also a generosity of spirit that doesn't exist within the suburbs. One neighbor will drive another to the city for his cancer treatments, and will do so sometimes for months. One neighbor will give another a horse when he realizes that he has proper housing and would enjoy one. It isn't at all unusual for people to give a piano to a family who has a child who wishes to learn. We have had the blessing of being included by the rugged individualists who make up this county and who have played a part in building who our children became, and we will be forever grateful for this, and for our decision to have come here.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span> Of course, time moves on. As the kids neared college, we sold the original forty acres and the house, and built another. Some of our beloved neighbors moved out of state. Our youngest son died suddenly, leaving us sorrowful. My husband lost the job he'd had for many years, and started his own business, which reduced our income and our financial security. Our remaining children went to college. Today, our children have businesses, homes, and two of those children have their own children now.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> I don't often look at the obituaries, but I did this week because I'd heard that one of our friends had died. When I did, I learned that fifteen people in our rural community had died within the last thirty days! A couple of them who had worked in farming had been treated for cancer. Another one was a man who considered giving his business to one of our sons when his own son died suddenly, and now would not be able to take over his father's business. Another was a couple who died within a week of one another. Two of them were women who were very active in charitable and church endeavors locally. In rural places, we are dependent upon one another and so there may not be the same divisions that might exist elsewhere between different races. Almost half of the people who died this week were African Americans whose families have lived here for a hundred years or more. I want to cry when I remember that they welcomed us. Some of them brought us freshly baked bread when our son died, and others were thrilled to get our duck eggs when we still had them. Fifteen people gone within thirty days is a lot of people from a rural place. A few had cancer. Some had Type II diabetes. One had an autoimmune illness. There were three heart attacks or myocardial infarctions. Whether the remaining deaths had to do with influenzas, COVID-19 or the flurry of supposed COVID-19 immunizations, I don't know. I know only that I will remember all of these decent people who positively impacted the life we lived here in both the good and the bad times, and who also shaped the type of people our own children became.</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> In the years following our son's death, we adopted a teen, in an attempt to make more sense of the insensible and sudden loss of our son. Our community was welcoming to a new son, who easily could have been met with suspicion. We are thankful for the welcome given to him too.</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> This month our family grieves the loss of fifteen people from our area who welcomed us, shared with us, and actually modeled scripture for us, during the last twenty years of many changes in this country. We have gratitude for having known them. May God bless them all, and comfort their families in this new age of 2021. <br /></span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span> <br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span> </span> <br /></b></span></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-25167955506564415892021-01-28T11:55:00.001-08:002021-01-28T11:55:03.999-08:00The Ethics of the Internet Search<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_hIYbs7_UnkBJKiw_oICs4Nul0wEz1UYwZG5uLLJ5EHCS-w2mxGlZtHJvq8hIjPqCXDRNcyI1rHjuFkYfs_Pc93PWipMQ6SUNjRs6cy-8pJnczemA5iJaeXj-25bXz4Fi0j_UGJRsdQ/s1067/felzen3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_hIYbs7_UnkBJKiw_oICs4Nul0wEz1UYwZG5uLLJ5EHCS-w2mxGlZtHJvq8hIjPqCXDRNcyI1rHjuFkYfs_Pc93PWipMQ6SUNjRs6cy-8pJnczemA5iJaeXj-25bXz4Fi0j_UGJRsdQ/w480-h640/felzen3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <br /></p><p> </p><p> I was online recently with someone from my high school, and he asked me if I had kept in touch with a particular girl that I had known when she and I were about fourteen or fifteen. I honestly hadn't thought of her in thirty years. The friend who asked thought she may have died, since no one from the town where our high school is located seems to know where she is, and one of them thought someone with her last name had died. This wouldn't be an incredible surprise, if true, because almost half of our high school classmates have died, which is way more than actuarial tables would have predicted for people our age. A large number of my classmates died in one car accidents within their first few years of driving in the Northeastern Winters. A few died in serious car accidents while in college, including one of my closest friends, whom I occasionally still see in dreams when I am having a particularly difficult time with something here on Earth. Among my classmates from high school, there have been a smattering of suicides from college age, through to the present, and one of us died in a fire. In the last few years several of our class died of cancer, and two of lupus. I didn't set out to keep precise records of what has happened to us, but it has worked out that way.<br /></p><p><span> </span><span> </span> I hadn't thought about the girl my friend asked me about for a long time, but when I did think of her, I had many happy memories. She and I had not really been friends, but we shared about eight or nine classes together within a couple of years, and so we knew one another fairly well. So, when I had a chance, I did an internet search with the things I knew of her. It took only about twenty minutes to find that she had left the state just after high school, and had married twice. She went to college in another state, and now had two children. She had become a fairly recent grandmother, and still worked in health care. I did not have the same luck in locating her siblings, one of which I knew. One of them had died, and I presume this is what my friend heard, when he assumed that she had been the one who had passed. Although the searching was nothing my friend could not have done himself had he spent the time, I decided not to divulge all that I learned to him. Had my friend wished to stay in touch with people from her high school, then she would have, just as I stay in touch with selected people from that time. It appears that she hasn't wanted to. Perhaps such a beautiful girl had a stalker in high school. I could believe that she would have. I told my friend that she was alive, had married twice and lived out of state, and that seemed to satisfy his curiosity. "But is she still <i>beautiful?</i>", he asked. I have no idea, but if I had to guess, my guess would be that she still is.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-61583190355394820472020-11-29T15:00:00.008-08:002020-11-29T15:04:06.339-08:00Learning to Accept Your Moments of Clarity<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikt5gca547F9Jxr6E9Pf4Fgd4LWJjdlcp5LTZLOeQ3_gKiCDvpHmZXUOqIo8g2LbtwICCgvvtCKaN9bim8JaA_yjtDCEXYLYYd7fd3d22xaMviPwBow-SHYYnRkUqMfm_K8fVcuEiST5Q/s800/FBbathrmview.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="800" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikt5gca547F9Jxr6E9Pf4Fgd4LWJjdlcp5LTZLOeQ3_gKiCDvpHmZXUOqIo8g2LbtwICCgvvtCKaN9bim8JaA_yjtDCEXYLYYd7fd3d22xaMviPwBow-SHYYnRkUqMfm_K8fVcuEiST5Q/w400-h258/FBbathrmview.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /> Sometimes in this life, there are moments of clarity in which we know something that we should not yet know. I don't believe that I am actually unusual in this, as I think most people, if they are reflective, and honest and have a decent memory will remember such circumstances.</p><p> When my Dad was young, he had one of these moments. As he listened to the radio and heard Hitler, he believed that he, and the rest of the world would be drawn into a world war and that my father might lose his own life, if he did not choose his role in this war carefully. His family, including uncles and aunts who were teachers, principals and professors tried to allay his fears and tell him that the war was simply a European phenomenon, but somehow my father knew. This motivated him to become a Merchant Marine Radio Operator at sixteen, when just after Pearl Harbor, funds were quickly funneled to the programs teaching such skills. My father had many such moments of clarity in his lifetime, some were positive, and some were sad, but they did allow him to plan in a manner which benefited those he loved.</p><p> I too can remember such moments of clarity. On a class trip I took in middle school to George Washington's home, Mount Vernon, I had a strange and sad feeling. I felt a strong draw South and I wished we weren't returning to the Northeast. Somehow I knew that the best years of my life would be spent South of the place I was standing, and I remember that strange feeling, that pull, to this day.</p><p><span> </span> Eventually, as a young married adult with then two small children I had eventually moved to a suburb of Richmond, Virginia. At one point, I accepted a job at what was then St. Luke's Hospital in Richmond's western end. Traveling to the hospital in those first weeks from my new home, took me on roads that were not yet familiar. At one point after work, even through I knew that I was supposed to take the highway heading East, for some reason I was drawn to the West. My head knew that the house we had just bought was East of the hospital some distance, but again I was strangely drawn West, believing that my long term home was certainly West of the hospital. I traveled West for about twenty minutes past miles and miles of evergreens and oaks beside the highway. Eventually, I took the next exit and turned around and went home, but I didn't forget this. Ten years later, we bought ninety acres in that place to which I had been traveling. We built a farm there, and raised a total of five children there. Indeed, that area had been the place in which I have been happiest.</p><p> I also recall, that a few days before the birth of my third child, we were in the car and headed for the hospital. I had been having some complications and thought it was likely that I would be admitted that day, and I was afraid. All at once, we made a left at St. Matthew's Church. In that moment I knew that the baby I would have in the next couple of days would be a boy, and his name would be Matthew. I could envision him as a child, with blond hair, green eyes, and very quick and bright. Although we'd had ultrasounds, we had not been told our child's sex. Three days later, in the morning, Matthew was born, and as a child, he became exactly who I had imagined in those frightened moments before his birth.</p><p><span> </span> It's a shame that we can't will these moments of occasional clarity that human beings have sometimes. Perhaps all we can do, is accept these flashes of clarity when they do come. May your life bring you as many pleasant moments of this type of clarity as is possible.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-14400832514767746702020-08-28T15:05:00.000-07:002020-09-12T06:47:27.872-07:00A Contrarian View of Decluttering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> If I were to be honest, I don't really understand people who are enthralled with decluttering mavens. My first apartment had lots of space and I didn't have to worry much about measuring before I acquired something new. In sharp contrast, the first house I owned, right after that, was very small square footage and out in the country. I had to part with most of my furniture from my first apartment to my first home ownership experience. In a small square footage house each piece of furniture and its scale had to be carefully considered before acquiring it and bringing it home. It took a while but I became very good at selecting small items and keeping everything in its place. Once we had small children, even with an addition to my small house, the house was too small. We sold it and moved to another state to a house that was larger, but not large. Then, every few years we sold and moved up to a larger home each time, but also we put more money down each time in an attempt to get closer to being debt free.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> In most of these houses, everything was organized and I either didn't have the space or the time for clutter. Most things had an assigned space, and most of the time things were in it. Eventually, with five children in total, we had a lot of things. The last two homes we have had, we built, and the last one has outbuildings we added. Now, we have a lot of things. However, I am still not racing to declutter.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> Some people feel liberated when they part even with most of the things they have. These are the people to which the decluttering mavens are speaking. I am not one of these people. I have worked very hard to select and to acquire the items that are in my home. I don't acquire things on a whim. If I don't really like it, or it doesn't have a memory attached to the item, then it's not there in the first place. I also don't feel particularly happy if I donate something to Goodwill, and then find in two weeks that I or someone I know really needed it after all. See, I have a better memory than most people. I still remember the lovely bronze towel racks I planned to put in my first house in the 1980s. Then I found that they didn't really fit there. Rather than taking them with me on the out of state move to see if they worked in the new house, I sold them. I have regretted that sale in every house I have been since, but most of all when my daughter bought her own house, as a twenty-something and those bronze towel racks would have worked beautifully in either one of her bathrooms!</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> I also have the memory of having bought a beautiful wrought iron carriage lamp at a garage sale in the 1980s before moving from that first house. I had no idea where I would use it, but it was perfect, beautiful, and had been rewired. I knew that if I held onto it, that someday I would find a perfect place for it. It took until 2006, but when we had a large barn built, with fencing around it, and I needed a glorious lamp outside a particular door, and it was perfect. From 1986 to 2006, it sat wrapped in sponge and bubble wrap, being unwrapped periodically each time we moved. Each time, I chose to hold on to it.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> Decluttering mavens tell us that if you haven't used it in six months that you should get rid of it. I am certainly glad I didn't get rid of my alpaca scale (for crias, or baby alpacas), my incubator for chicken, guinea or grouse eggs. I am glad I still have the incandescent light set designed to keep young or sick birds warm. I am glad that I still have Elizabethan collars for every dog size, and collars and leashes as well. I have a fair amount of horse gear in the tack room, and I plan to hold on to it. We should part with the items we wish to sell or donate, and we should hold on and make appropriate accomodations for the items we truly wish to keep. I don't need someone telling me which items those are. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> There are some specific decluttering challenges which come to us. My youngest son died in 2008, and for the longest time I held on to everything that he had loved. It was almost as if I felt as if he returned he would be unhappy that I had parted with it. It took a long time before I was able to part with things so that others would enjoy as much as he did. Finally, as time passed I was able to part with his things. I still kept a core of things that held special memories of him for our family. I also experienced the challenge of both of my parents passing away within a year of one another. They had been divorced when I was an adult, and so there had been time for them to establish their own residences and acquire full households. I sold or donated most things because they were each in other areas than I. Eventually, I decided I was sufficiently grief stricken that I should place the remaining items in storage, and then review and sell or donate these items when it wasn't such an emotional hardship to do so. Honestly, I have been pawing through this stuff for years. However, I am glad I did. When my daughter bought her home, she actually selected some of the antique furniture that my mother, and then my father had. Some of those items will remain in the family. It also gave me time to consign some of the items and to actually locate some things I thought may have been lost.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> Although it's true that things are simply things, sometimes they mean more than that. My mother's antique copper pots and teapot sat on a shelf in every house I remember. They now sit on a shelf in my own country kitchen. Some of her Wedgewood jasperware collection sits with mine. My Dad's thousands of pages of correspondence to family, friends and some notables, was very helpful to me when I wrote a book on him which was released in 2017. Things are simply <i>things</i>, however they were made by materials left here on Earth by God, and then lovingly turned into a memory by people. Stuff is not the problem. Recognizing the intrinsic value of the items you have and then deciding how best to honor those items can be. I know that everything cannot be kept. I realize that if my baby granddaughter does not love dolls, that my dolls are going to eventually need to find a loving home. The ultimate disposal of the items I have loved is up to me, not to a decluttering maven. Sorry, Marie Kondo. I will be doing it all myself, and I won't be made to feel guilty as I enjoy the memories as one by one, I dust, package and find new homes or even a museum or two for my father's books.</span></b><br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-53232900784326820802020-05-16T15:56:00.000-07:002020-08-15T16:53:03.993-07:00The White Converted Barn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Not at all as it was.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I grew up in a rather rural part of the Northeast with severe winters, white Christmases, and Halloweens cold enough that we almost always had to wear a costume that could be worn with a coat over it. We had a large home that my parents were restoring, in an area where most of the rural homes had been built between 1750 and 1880. My parents had a lot of interesting friends, some of whom lived locally and others who visited us from New York, or sometimes even from Europe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> One couple of my parent's friends lived only about a mile from us. The husband worked, and they lived in Manhattan much of the time, and they came out to their home near us, a couple of weekends a month. At first, they had another neighbor watching their home while they were in the city, but eventually when the original neighbor returned to work full-time, as a lot of women in that era did, my mother agreed to keep an eye on their home. Later, the arrangement evolved. In exchange for excellent money, at the time, my mother agreed to change the sheets there, and keep the place vacuumed and cleaned, so that when they did arrive, they could simply relax rather than have another house to maintain. My mother actually enjoyed going there once a week, making a cup of tea while watching their kitchen television, while working at her own pace in someone else's home. When she was finished, she would pick up the check they always left in the same place for her. My British mother had been a high level banking employee in London, but after she married my father, and while her children were young, she was mostly at home. This was a chance to have her own money for birthdays, and for vacations. During the summers when school was out, from the time when I was about nine, I went with her, as our friends had said I could swim in their pool.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> My mother had been actually an excellent choice to manage their home in their absence. Just as she was with her own home, she was detail oriented. She noticed everything, and maintained whatever she could as if a realtor were coming tomorrow. While my mother ran the vacuum, and dusted, I played the grand piano in the living room, and then changed to use the kidney shaped pool. Even now, I remember the house as if I visited yesterday. It also had the most remarkable guest house, which my mother also occasionally needed to enter and to maintain.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The main house had been a stone barn that had been converted to a residence, and rested on a large, mostly wooded acreage. The entrance we used most often, opened to a kitchen to the left, and on the right, to a dining area. To the far right, there was also a door which opened to slate steps that reached to a slate and iron terrace, which overlooked the kidney shaped swimming pool. In the summers, there were red geraniums in cast iron containers, outside the house and on the terrace. From the inside, beyond the kitchen, there were several steps which led to a cathedral ceilinged living room. There was an exceptional black grand piano, a comfortable leather couch, some coffee tables and art and ceramics on shelves. There was also a fireplace that I don't think they used very often. They had magazine racks with some of the nicest magazines I had seen on design, things to do in New York, etc. The living room had the widest plank wood floors I believe I have seen anywhere. This was the first house I had seen that had been decorated in an eclectic yet expensive fashion. The owners traveled the world as part of the husband's job, and brought interesting objects home from foreign countries, and then placed them somewhere in their country home. To the right of the living room, there were stairs which led to the basement and to the laundry area. There were also stairs which led up to a landing and more stairs to a bathroom, a master suite and two more bedrooms. The guest house also had several bedrooms, and a bathroom, though as I child I thought it strange that it did not have a kitchen also.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> My parents house was being restored and was very much in keeping with what I later learned was consistent with the English country style. However, our friends with the barn style house, kept the house itself consistent with a stone and wooden structure from the 1770s, with some antiques, but they also incorporated quality furnishings and design pieces that were contemporary. I don't know how they did it, but it amounted to what I will call <b>timeless eclectic</b>. Every piece was beautiful, interesting, and belonged where they chose to put it. They also tended to buy the most expensive kitchen appliances. It was the first time I ever saw a Bosch dishwasher. Somehow, their house was always comfortable, yet not fussy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Eventually, as I grew, the time came for the husband to retire. They would keep their apartment in Manhattan, but they would spend much more time at their barn home nearby. I was finally able to meet some of their family, including their grandson, who was about my age. They also built a small pool house by the pool. My mother was no longer needed to care for their home, which by then, was a relief to her, as she wished to spend several months in England visiting family. We still saw the friends who owned the barn house quite often, especially since they bought a beautiful German Shepherd who often came to visit with us, as soon as they made even a day trip to New York. They also cleaned out their house a couple of times, and asked if there was anything we wanted. I wanted it all ! Items from their house didn't just remind me of them, but of the serenity and eclectic nature of their property. I enjoyed their magazines, some French tiles they parted with, and some other small items.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I grew up and went to college early, my father once again took a job where he now traveled around the world. My mother was more available, and spent more time with her friends who had the barn home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> After college, I left the state, married and bought my first home. I had children, and was focused on my own life and tasks. I know that my parents continued to be close friends with the family who had the barn house. Eventually, one and then the other of them died. I was glad that I had kept the small items from their home that they had given us. I remembered them both fondly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> As many families did in the years which followed, we tended to buy a home, do some improvements, and then sell about every four years as our family grew. Although I favored colonials, I still found a way to incorporate the items given to us by the family with the barn home. The last two homes we have owned have also been on large acreage, and have been homes we built as farm houses.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Some time ago, I decided to look up the address of the barn house where I had so many happy memories, of both the home, the dog, the pool and of course, the dear people who had lived there. The house is no longer there as I remember it. After their passing, it sold to a couple who changed it from the estate it was, to the estate it is now, closer to their own vision. The estate that was worth about a million when I was a teen, is assessed for several million dollars now. Sadly, from internet pictures taken the last time it sold, the house I remember exists now, only in my memory. I had not understood how much this special place had meant to me, and I am sad that it doesn't exist, as in my recollection.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I suppose elements of it exist in some ways in my own life. I have similar entrance gates to my farm, as the barn house did. My home rests on large acreage with a cleared area around the house, but with many trees. An ash tray, some tiles from France, and some art pieces from France, all given to us by barn house owners, still rest on shelves in my dining room and living room. The decor of our home was always important to me and as a result I think, two of my five children hold art degrees, and as an offshoot, are exceptional interior designers in their own homes. In summer, the front porch of my farm house has deep red geraniums, for the fragrance, as much as for the appearance. A Thermador stove with a griddle sits in my kitchen. I have to laugh when I realize that like the barn home owners, I too own a second home I don't get to as often as I would like. I have a person who looks after it as carefully as my mother did their home, and I get smart phone pictures of it periodically so that I can see all is well, and when something is changed or maintained.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I probably don't need to remind you that some of the people, the places and even the homes your children see will shape their choices, their dreams, and their futures, possibly all their lives, just as the barn house has, all of mine.</span><br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-1658401458226389072020-05-10T18:42:00.000-07:002020-05-12T17:55:39.942-07:00An Unexpected Loss<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> I don't usually mention this, but some years ago, when I was in college, I was married. My first husband and I were married when I had one year remaining of college, and I had attended college early. We had a simple wedding at a beautiful old white church with red double doors, and then, we enjoyed a dinner with our friends at what is still one of my favorite restaurants, in that particular state. The restaurant and the hotel remain open and quite popular, even today. The day after the wedding, we looked for an apartment near enough to the college. We had planned that he would work, I would finish school, and then I would work, and then he would complete his own degree. Shortly after the wedding, we found a garden apartment with one bedroom. I still remember the oak floors, the brick construction, the tiled bathroom, the generous closets, and the gas stove and oven. It was a good rental value, even at that time. We started with minimal furniture, and didn't gather much more in the time that we lived there. I remember wallpapering a large mural of a life-like forest to one living room wall.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> In our early twenties, most of us don't know ourselves particularly well, let alone another person. It didn't take a lot of time before we realized that we were very different people. He disliked that I couldn't travel when studying for exams, and I didn't understand why he wasn't as practical as I was. He wanted to buy a new car, while I wanted to start saving for a house. He wanted to go out to a restaurant most nights, while I wanted to figure out what I could cook that would be both inexpensive and tasty. I wanted him to complete his degree, and he wanted to continue working. We were pretty good friends, but we didn't have common goals.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> It took a few years for us both to realize that although we were good friends and had commonalities, that our goals for the future were not the same, and that marrying had been a mistake. Neither of us found this very easy to admit, and so we saw a wonderful marriage counselor, at first with the objective of making our marriage healthier and stronger, and then eventually with the objective of figuring out how to let it go.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> When we did decide to divorce, it was challenging. We both wanted an amicable divorce, and thought we could keep it non-adversarial, especially since there was little money between us, and because we both tried to give one another the few furnishings we'd managed to acquire, to that point. We would each keep the cars with which we had come in to the marriage. We hoped to use one attorney who would represent us both. There was no such thing as a "no fault divorce" in that state at the time, and so we were placed in the difficult position of one of us needing to sue the other for something. He eventually allowed me to sue him for abandonment. Of course, that meant that the divorce took a lot of time because he had to meet the statutory definition of abandonment. By then, I was making more money, and so I paid for the separation agreement and for the divorce itself. For the most part, it was amicable. We both believed that we had each made a mistake and that we truly had different goals and objectives. I remember that we tried hard not to blame one another.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> In the years which followed, he moved out of state. I eventually moved also, and married someone whose goals were more in alignment with mine. I have never really discussed the things which caused us to end my first marriage because more than anything else, I believe you owe the person you are or were married to, silence with particular regard to your difficulties or the other person's shortcomings. I really did hope that he would find someone to whom he was better suited, as I had. In the years which followed, as my present husband and I raised our family, my first husband and I lost touch. At some point, we stopped sending Christmas cards. I no longer had his address, and surprisingly, he wasn't active on social media. In the years in which I raised children, I rarely thought of him.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> This week I learned that he has died. I am stunned. He was too young to have died, and I have no idea what happened. His parents are dead, and there is no one to ask. None of my friends still knew him. I am not grief stricken, but I am shocked. No, I think the word is <i>gobsmacked</i>. How could someone I was once married to, be dead ? Death wasn't supposed to happen to either of us for thirty or more years.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> I don't need to cry, but I am not sure how to move forward, either. All of a sudden the one remaining piece of antique furniture he gave me, and the one antique lamp and rocking chair have become very precious to me. I didn't mean to divorce him and then never exchange as much as a Christmas card again. I hoped he would marry again, and although I know he dated a college professor for some years, he never did. Now, there is no one on Earth but me who knows of those early days in the apartment with our friends from college, and funny friends from the garden apartments. When we could, we went to New York, to museums, and fairly often to Montreal. Those days weren't a hundred percent bad. They simply should have been a dear friendship, rather than a marriage. I'm sorry for anything I did, knowingly or unknowingly that hurt him and perhaps made him choose never to marry again. At this moment I can't shake that perhaps I am in part responsible for his not marrying again. I hope the remainder of his life was good. I am..........sorry.</b></span><br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-41042277563198495452020-02-16T07:43:00.002-08:002020-02-16T13:23:59.322-08:00When My Books Are Sold Out on Amazon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It has come to my attention that Amazon is sold out of one of my books, and that they claim that there is a 1-3 month wait on another two of them. If you wish to get any of these books, in softcover versions or electronic ones, you can go to the following sources:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG35mt1OpgmhdvyZfClgKQSo12fu9WMEWc4P7xanxrsUcEmT8YbrlLz9yLCKZYLpBgc85paUia_ffmxqYEzvRgBBPh4AB1eshtU21XJQsqcZbCgEEVGN2nxR2kezz2jBDvlPdIrZRCys/s1600/ActCoverLDK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG35mt1OpgmhdvyZfClgKQSo12fu9WMEWc4P7xanxrsUcEmT8YbrlLz9yLCKZYLpBgc85paUia_ffmxqYEzvRgBBPh4AB1eshtU21XJQsqcZbCgEEVGN2nxR2kezz2jBDvlPdIrZRCys/s400/ActCoverLDK.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Title: <b> "Lawrence DeWolfe Kelsey: The Life of the Explorer</b><br />
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<b> This book is ALWAYS available at:</b><br />
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<b><a href="https://booklocker.com/books/9550.html">https://booklocker.com/books/9550.html</a></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVQQ4-n-NVltRT3K4KMTU3qYdlbYbBB0aNB3IPN6cWhyGkWcGnFPSEtjyc8fY-doNucVA1eyDJTqfNvW1Lit3JONsLX_SvkmjxXA-1-vQqqlwE26XrG-mJqNQvVXyngZRIphogj0YMLQ/s1600/port1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="334" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVQQ4-n-NVltRT3K4KMTU3qYdlbYbBB0aNB3IPN6cWhyGkWcGnFPSEtjyc8fY-doNucVA1eyDJTqfNvW1Lit3JONsLX_SvkmjxXA-1-vQqqlwE26XrG-mJqNQvVXyngZRIphogj0YMLQ/s400/port1.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
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Title: <b> " Portsoy Woods"</b><br />
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<b> is also ALWAYS available at: </b><br />
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<a href="https://booklocker.com/books/8874.html"><b> https://booklocker.com/books/8874.html</b></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqEooPRGdt-m65w5Wqs3dAX5zYKyi25RJGgUGpk5A34KDu8TbyZ-J8v6B3td5Das3kQ0KKASL4NDVZyHNOs1V_GBKFG8ipoIq8l_823RyA21r1HgRwfFpGnTnCz2L_0OlP2C6teA8tDnQ/s1600/WestBookl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqEooPRGdt-m65w5Wqs3dAX5zYKyi25RJGgUGpk5A34KDu8TbyZ-J8v6B3td5Das3kQ0KKASL4NDVZyHNOs1V_GBKFG8ipoIq8l_823RyA21r1HgRwfFpGnTnCz2L_0OlP2C6teA8tDnQ/s400/WestBookl.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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Title: <b>"Westward: The Novel"</b><br />
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<b> is ALWAYS available at:</b><br />
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<b> <a href="https://booklocker.com/books/9981.html"> https://booklocker.com/books/9981.html </a></b><br />
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Thank you !<br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-27558179428996009852019-12-24T17:10:00.001-08:002019-12-26T16:32:03.979-08:00Christmas Comparisons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> If I were to be honest, I would have to tell you that I stand in awe of how different the Christmases of my youth and teen years are from the family Christmases my own family has today.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>When I was a child, we lived in the Northeast, in a rural area, and it was always a white Christmas. Many years it wasn't just a white Christmas, but a Christmas where even a four wheel drive Jeep couldn't make it down the driveway. Sometimes, ice storms would turn the property to grasses and trees seemingly encased in glass. By Christmas, my mother would have been working for several months. First, she would have found a baby sitter so that she could travel fifty miles either alone or with friends to New York City to buy gifts. Sometimes, she would travel to Morristown, in New Jersey to buy things, or sometimes to a store in Morris County called "Two Guys".</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> My mother was British, and she worked hard to provide the type of Christmas that she might have had in England, had she been there. We always had a genuine tree that was as tall as our homes twelve foot ceilings. It was always decorated from head to toe. It also had Christmas crackers on it, sent from England, that when opened with a loud "pop", had a small toy inside. Christmas dinner was always at our home, and featured a huge turkey, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables, several desserts. There were nuts, olives, hors d'oeuvres, and alcoholic drinks for the adults. Our Christmases were spent with my mother's closest friend and her husband, who were also expatriates here in the US. Their children, who were friends of mine, had been born here. We also wore our finest clothing, and looked the very best that we would all year. At some time during the day, my mother called her relatives in England, and my father carefully timed each call, because in those days, overseas calls cost a fortune. As much as my mother enjoyed the calls, there was desperation in her voice as she spoke to them, knowing that she might not see them again, or that they may not live until her next visit home, which usually occurred about every four years, in lieu of beach vacations or vacations my friends might have had here to destinations within the US.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> Today, our Christmases are very different. My children grew up in the American South in even a more rural area than the one in which I grew up. We almost never have snow at Christmas here. In fact, in 1989, I didn't need to wear a coat for that entire Winter. We usually get a couple of snows each year, in January through March. Most of the time we ignore them, as they melt all by themselves. I don't buy the abundance of gifts my mother did. My kids have what they need through the year, and don't really need much. In the past I have bought something they asked for, either from a catalog or online. Sometimes, I buy a gift certificate for a shop they love. We don't dress up quite the way we did when I was a child. We have horses, sheep, alpacas, a large number of dogs, chickens, guineas, and other animals and they too will need attention, exercise, and feeding even on Christmas Day. We all wear slacks or jeans and perhaps a festive shirt. My mother was an exceptional hostess and cook. I am really not. My husband is content to get a large turkey in the oven, and to make the stuffing that was passed down in his family. Because we have one child who is a Type I diabetic from childhood, the excesses of Christmas, gently left our table, one by one over the years. We have turkey, broccoli, potatoes, carrots, peas, stuffing, and gravy, and often a salad. We serve one dessert which has a sugar free alternative, side by side. Since all of our English relatives, and both my parents have died, along with our youngest son, there is no one to call. The kids gather for Christmas, and we have the meal cleared up and the dishes done within a couple of hours. I don't mind cleaning up, and it goes quickly. Sometimes we gather and sing, and then our children who are grown and have homes, depart.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> For many years when the kids were small, I worked as a registered nurse. I had to work on Christmas Day and so we celebrated the day after, which I had off. The children were never any the wiser. Even today, we occasionally move Christmas by a day or so, if someone needs to be accommodated.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> If I were to be honest, both types of Christmases are magical, and both are bittersweet, My mother worked very hard to give everyone a Christmas to remember, and she lived in fear of the day that her children would be grown and her loved ones in England would be gone. She feared the very Christmases I have now. My children are grown, and there are two little grandchildren now. These are not times to dread, but times to celebrate, as I am so proud of the people my children have become. We no longer have relatives outside our immediate family, but I know that they reside in Heaven and that we will see them again. We also have wonderful friends who are like family. Even among the changes in Christmas, there is still joy to be found. Merry Christmas everyone.</b></span><br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-78121287810158978512019-11-25T15:22:00.002-08:002019-11-25T15:22:17.362-08:00On Leaving it All<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwISGuYpn9WzSkTvrtKpjBY96J5h5wie_I37LTy4ZHFwc0OVupO_ryXZyxMFrMm4jTvI6mrGMQPACwSyT_60FEHqHis3WKBWvtnUAiS0gbYiaGJw4dNCG2Kt1KecLRudSzLRj6l9gpJ8/s1600/fallpei.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwISGuYpn9WzSkTvrtKpjBY96J5h5wie_I37LTy4ZHFwc0OVupO_ryXZyxMFrMm4jTvI6mrGMQPACwSyT_60FEHqHis3WKBWvtnUAiS0gbYiaGJw4dNCG2Kt1KecLRudSzLRj6l9gpJ8/s640/fallpei.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> A bit more than twenty years ago, my children, my husband and I moved out to a profoundly rural area. When we arrived, there were no restaurants, no pizza, no Chinese food, no internet, and often no police. We traded suburban life with all of its woes and temporary advantages to one with almost limitless space, where our kids could raise livestock, chase their chickens, truly explore hobbies, hike, and grow up with fewer distractions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Our experiment worked. Our homeschooled kids were academically quite successful, and went on to college, and universities and were successful in the careers they chose. One of our children passed away, the result of a cardiac arrhythmic syndrome which had not been identified, and took his life one morning, this time of year, about eleven years ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In a sense as a tribute to the son who passed, we continued to live here. We needed to provide an excellent home to the animals our son had known. As if keeping a promise to him, we kept the homestead fairly similar to how it had been during his time here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I can't help but notice that in the past few months, four families who were decidedly cornerstones to this area, have placed their homes or farms for sale. I tell myself that this is natural. Not everyone wishes to age in place. Some return to towns and cities in old age for ease of getting to the doctor or the pharmacy, at least. And yet, I am saddened to see these families leave. Some of them have been in the area longer than we have. Their departure will make our family the old timers in the area. This means we cannot avoid the realization that we all age, and that eventually, we will either depart from this area, or die here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If I were to be honest, I would say that although I dislike the idea of dying in this place, I like the idea of leaving it all by choice even less. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-13629603208912393732019-08-31T09:29:00.000-07:002019-08-31T15:16:09.988-07:00A Moment for Tears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVmb10LMvWTM9AA0tHN5xUmtlcVjOmtAZd5SMto4ANiBcVqwUulra07_34FJKT5Re1Xuped4KDayo1y2YMTdNKutNtNTcEuMStcgiYfgfLbXPi0t8zjhUJqYR1y0b_BTGT3bPJrE1_K4/s1600/NSStMarysBay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="800" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVmb10LMvWTM9AA0tHN5xUmtlcVjOmtAZd5SMto4ANiBcVqwUulra07_34FJKT5Re1Xuped4KDayo1y2YMTdNKutNtNTcEuMStcgiYfgfLbXPi0t8zjhUJqYR1y0b_BTGT3bPJrE1_K4/s640/NSStMarysBay.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I was doing
some internet research early this week for a book project on which I
am working, and I accidentally came across an obituary with a
familiar name. It took me a moment to think of why I remembered the
name, and exactly who the person had been. She had been a classmate
of mine in high school. Although I don’t think we were ever really
friends, we shared a seat in almost all the most challenging classes
in our school, when they were still divided into classrooms of high
performers, average students, and those benefiting from some
remediation. I suppose in the lingo of today, she would have been
within my academic cohort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I graduated
from high school one year early to attend college in an era where
this was considered sacrilege, but I had my father’s approval.
Although I continued contact with about four classmates over the
years from my high school class, I didn’t really keep in touch with
the others, and I didn’t return to the area. I did hear when
several of our class died in separate car crashes and one in a fire,
and I grieved them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I graduated
from two colleges and started a career as a registered nurse. The
closest I came to hearing from anyone at the high school was during
the time I had the school psychologist as a patient. He was a dear
man who saw the school quite differently than I had. As my twenties
progressed, I married, became the mother of two babies in rapid
succession, and moved out of state as I balanced career, parenthood,
and a new house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Over the years,
the several careers I have enjoyed had to mesh with the lives of the
five children I eventually had. During a more bullish economy, we
sold our homes and moved about every five years, being careful to put
more money down on each home. I rarely gave thought to high school,
although I did stay in touch with close friends from there, and from
college. As time progressed, more and more of my friends from high
school and college were spread over the country. Many of my college
friends became college professors. One became a physician after
having been a registered nurse. Some became entrepreneurs. I
learned that from my high school class five had become engineers, two
had become physicians, one had become a nurse practitioner. One had
become an artist. Four became teachers. Eventually, my own high
school class blurred a little bit with the students a year older or a
year younger who were there at the same time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">This week,
when I saw my classmate’s obituary, I remembered that she was a
lovely girl. She was bright, always happy, and was very attractive
and had thick blonde hair. She was never negative about anything we
had to do there. She always tried her best, and she was good at
sports, academics, and anything social. I remembered that she was
really good in tennis, and that she had the distinction of being an
academic standout as well as a varsity cheerleader. I remembered
that one of her brothers was in school with us, and that they were
always glad to see one another. I remember once thinking while
watching her laugh as we played soccer, that blondes must really have
more fun.She
had flourished in high school where I had scrambled to get away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">While I had
been raising children, developing careers, and enjoying friends in
another state, my classmate had attended three universities and
graduated as an artist. She returned to our home </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">state,
married and had two children. She became a part of the challenging
and highly political art world which will chew you up and spit you
out faster than any high school will.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Today, my
classmate is gone from Earth. She left two children who are doing
well. She was divorced before she died, and the obituary gives no
clue as to how she passed. I can hardly imagine the young smiling
woman I knew divorcing anyone. As I recall, we weren’t really
friends and yet I knew her middle name when I saw her obituary. I
remembered where she lived, how she looked, her brother and what he
planned to study in college. She had been resilient, in a place where
I hadn’t been. Perhaps I had not yet been worthy of being her
friend. I grieve her life cut short. I grieve the time she will not
be spending with her young adult children. She will miss living long
enough to see her grandchildren here on Earth. </span>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I think she left
something important to me that she doesn’t even know about. She
left me the example of always smiling, of doing your level best
wherever you are. She always bloomed where she was planted, where I
might have whined about the soil. I think she might also have
taught me that the people you might see every day, and who might not
seem important in your life, might actually be important to you
later. I took a moment away from the book I was writing to cry for
her. I think you probably lived a pretty good life if a classmate
from many years ago thinks of you kindly, and cries at the thought of
your passing.</span></div>
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-20163547579552626382019-05-12T06:25:00.001-07:002019-05-12T06:25:19.434-07:00On Climate Change Shaming <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPvBuQKO9qiT1M4WuLFXe2x5xNpeKRz9YDx-tptz1diH_TloN6MR17TSw_klaSNi2JrC3zN6ZHzC7Qw3gdWDiFibjsRJaOz6OFQ9K6iO57Fmx6F7nqM_LvnGSVJmSB9QvF9_WcqKNjCTI/s1600/0barboursville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPvBuQKO9qiT1M4WuLFXe2x5xNpeKRz9YDx-tptz1diH_TloN6MR17TSw_klaSNi2JrC3zN6ZHzC7Qw3gdWDiFibjsRJaOz6OFQ9K6iO57Fmx6F7nqM_LvnGSVJmSB9QvF9_WcqKNjCTI/s400/0barboursville.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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If I were to be honest, I would tell you that I am sick to death of hearing about climate change. I was raised to conserve everything, pollute as little as possible, to avoid packaging, and to coexist with the animals and the planet, and so when others, particularly from other nations who know nothing about me or how I live, tell me I must change, it's all I can do not to laugh at the wasteful misguided souls who lecture me.<br />
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I live on a large acreage farm surrounded by woods. I grow a great deal of our own food, our own eggs and our own chickens. We coexist with the animals here which include turkeys, bears, fox, raccoons, poisonous and non-poisonous snakes, coyotes, squirrels, and opossum. We leave the farm about once weekly and lump all our trips into one to conserve resources, and because we don't wish to be away too long from our rescue horses, sheep, alpacas, dogs, cats, and all manner of poultry. We are essentially organic here. There is one intervention we allow, and that's rabies immunizations for all the animals who are mammals, because rabies in such rural places in the US is endemic. I own other farms, and they are managed organically as well.<br />
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I haven't boarded a plane in about seven years. I drive proficiently, but as little as possible. I work hard to impact the planet as little as possible, basically because a lot of the American Indian values made sense to me, and because one of my parents hailed from post war Europe, and the other went to college there for an extended period. They weren't known to waste much either.<br />
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The fact is that if you build a home below sea level, as in New Orleans or in Bangladesh, that cataclysmic flooding will occur. If your government steals the aid freely given by other nations and misappropriates a small fraction of the remainder, then starvation will result. There will be periodic glacial melting, and then reforming of Antarctic glaciers. There will be some degree of climate change as the Earth ages and moves on. There will be cataclysmic disasters. Why? Because there have been before.<br />
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More than seventy percent of the Earth consists of oceans. Does it really make sense to you that actions of people who reside on less than 30% of the planet are changing the environment ? I lean more toward the idea that the planet will gradually change. It will heat and it will cool whether we stop driving cars or manufacturing anything at all. Before you tell me that I am hopelessly out of touch, let me tell you that I hold a degree in Environmental Studies, and I am not yet convinced that anything we do to change the gradual progressions of our planet can do anything at all.<br />
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So I will continue with my low impact activities here on Earth. You continue with your obsession with electronics, addiction to Starbucks, letting social media think for you, and shaming those who don't look, speak or think exactly as you do. Chances are, we will both live until we both die, and we will do so, on the planet's time.<br />
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<br />Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-65629454502147654722018-10-09T09:07:00.001-07:002018-10-09T09:07:26.269-07:00 Westward: The Novel is Released for Sale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgvsPIF-d07irMwuPH5qLMQPvSX3xltncu6oKb1JpWdrNH6N2UwDqo5sYBU4r2vi6psUUNGEhrPIwUbtNHMsSnyvyOnnZy00Xlg48_72rBCTh6tiBo2ObQeMlrn4HldYHYvSvlvQB0CCW/s1600/GoodWestw.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="907" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgvsPIF-d07irMwuPH5qLMQPvSX3xltncu6oKb1JpWdrNH6N2UwDqo5sYBU4r2vi6psUUNGEhrPIwUbtNHMsSnyvyOnnZy00Xlg48_72rBCTh6tiBo2ObQeMlrn4HldYHYvSvlvQB0CCW/s400/GoodWestw.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Although I have written fact based or true books in the past, I also
occasionally write novels. This is my second novel which was released
for sale this week. It is available in soft cover versions and in varietal electronic versions.<br />
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For those who are interested in learning about it, or purchasing it, it is available at this link:<br />
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<a href="https://booklocker.com/books/9981.html"> https://booklocker.com/books/9981.html</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J4VK99P">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J4VK99P</a><br />
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It is also up at the other stores:<br />
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<a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/westward-jane-alexandra-krehbiel/1129481765">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/westward-jane-alexandra-krehbiel/1129481765</a><br />
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<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/westward-the-novel/id1438371156">https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/westward-the-novel/id1438371156</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/westward-the-novel">https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/westward-the-novel</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<b>About the Book</b>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">
Larissa (Lara) Crowell is a registered nurse with four
young children.Now that her husband has made the transition from police
officer to attorney, she hopes to be able to remain at home with their
four young children. The sudden death of her husband causes her to have
to return to work. This is the story of her adjustment and triumphs as
she learns to combine both the world of being a breadwinner and a
parent. It also traces her eventual meeting of the second great love of
her life, and of her learning to trust him enough to blend him into her
close family with her children. Sometimes the challenges you anticipate
are not the ones that actually occur. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"> Thank you for considering reading it also.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span> If I were to be honest, I would tell you that making a living as an
author is nearly impossible. Despite this, I have friends who are
successful authors. One of them told me that recently she spent a
million dollars promoting her last book, and it worked.<br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-89547193514210412992018-10-08T08:34:00.002-07:002018-10-08T08:51:23.035-07:00My Parents are Long Overdue an Apology<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswkCxouT2qmzdVQonhNYK9YSP4kYtbgIpIb1SgukJfgk7aCILDlr2hOuWpmPJar-ZL_tUjXSN9Y6ME-d2o1chyzVw3BQM33t-2FC_YzTv3XS8gDuXVUUnTsJICoD9bLERxgUA1GI2Kqg/s1600/geraniums.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswkCxouT2qmzdVQonhNYK9YSP4kYtbgIpIb1SgukJfgk7aCILDlr2hOuWpmPJar-ZL_tUjXSN9Y6ME-d2o1chyzVw3BQM33t-2FC_YzTv3XS8gDuXVUUnTsJICoD9bLERxgUA1GI2Kqg/s400/geraniums.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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If I were to be honest, I would have to say that I owe both of my parents an apology. When I was in high school, in the Northeast, my parents were often at the school complaining about one choice or another. At the time, this was embarrassing. So the school was giving three extra points on your final English grade for attending all of the sporting events that semester, and my parents found this objectionable. They also found some of the progressive mumbo jumbo we were being taught, a waste of our time when there were so many other things we needed to be taught that would be useful in college. "What do you care what the masses are being taught as long as your own kids know which end it up ?" "It's bigger than that", said my parents. "When history is diluted and the masses no longer now it then they are sitting ducks for whatever propaganda a particular group wishes to perpetrate." As a teen I did not see my parents efforts as a positive thing. I did not see that they were taking time off from their jobs to help to suggest a course correction on the high school level.<br />
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It has taken quite a few years for me to understand the actions of my parents. My college days are complete, my career is established and my own children, born in my twenties, have now completed college. Both of my parents have moved on. When my son told me that his life was threatened by other students when they were unsure as to whether he would vote their way, in an upcoming election for then President Obama, I was stunned. Why couldn't they vote their conscience, and leave my kids to vote their own ? I decided to come each week and have lunch with each of my kids who were, at the time, attending a large urban university. I learned a great deal on these visits. I learned that there were professors who were really doing a great job and who were an exceptional educational value. I learned that there were courses in women's studies, some of which were perpetrating myths and lies that in no way approximated any experiences I had ever had in terms of growing up in this country. I learned what I had already known, which is that although racism may always be the folly of a few, that the young people in this country, by in large, understand that we all have more in common with one another, than we have differences, and that we need the contributions of everyone to solve all of our nations and our world's problems. I learned that a lot of college students may have borrowed money for university, that many of them are starving during the semester. My kids brought instant oatmeal and brown sugar for their friends, so that during the semesters, they all had a healthy, quick and inexpensive breakfast.<br />
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My parents were right. Don't tell your kids what to think. Don't let your teachers, your professors and your schools do it either. Teach them to read. Expose them to broad ranging books, and let them choose farther afield than you might. Talk to them. Let them express their views to you, and express yours to them. Be respectful and polite. If more people had taken the time my parents had, we might not have the rage and devisiveness we have in our country. True discussion is rare, and when someone makes headway, the other responds with threats or with vulgar language. No one wins.<br />
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I had a total of five children, and now I have a grandchild. I have a lot of skin in the game. I care as to how tomorrow looks. Stop insulting one another. Start listening as to why your opponent believes as she does. Explain gently, why you do not. Stop the name calling. To solve problems, we are going to have to work together.<br />
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Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-44882526185003841452018-07-23T17:46:00.000-07:002018-07-23T17:46:07.779-07:00Fix Your Algorithm <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pzdmMAPNpJLSVSbNZgTNi7_8v8YfVwJNuGeBC_rnHBI1rXPe6bdfEu4lc2li2j4GGn4UQUJe6wgYksixo5rciUlwh8Lejtyp7CxN0VWSk76P7nSrV_JK8EgiHSR6Dk668rz_zO7IyR8/s1600/saferingzusa.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="500" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pzdmMAPNpJLSVSbNZgTNi7_8v8YfVwJNuGeBC_rnHBI1rXPe6bdfEu4lc2li2j4GGn4UQUJe6wgYksixo5rciUlwh8Lejtyp7CxN0VWSk76P7nSrV_JK8EgiHSR6Dk668rz_zO7IyR8/s640/saferingzusa.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The company selling these is SaferingzUSA</td></tr>
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If I were to be honest then I would have to tell you that Google and Facebook are getting on my nerves. A few weeks ago, I realized that the car seat I have for my young grandson is too small and so I googled some carseats, and went to the Wal-Mart website. The following day I bought one, installed it and now when I take my little grandson out, he'll be more comfortable and safe. Every day since then, on everything I do online I receive information on toddler car seats of every color and design imaginable.<br />
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About five months ago, I was in the throes of writing my fifth book, a second novel. In one of the chapters, there is a wedding scene, and a honeymoon afterward. It's been a while since I've been on a honeymoon, and so I looked up online some of the rooms and what potential packages were available in the specific place that my characters had planned to go. For five months now I have been deluged with ads for honeymoon packages, not only for the place I researched briefly, but for lots of other places as well. I have also been getting a fair smattering of ads for ethical diamond engagement rings, and even for conflict-free diamonds. Tell me, if your diamond is conflict free, will your marriage be? Is that the unspoken promise here? I have also been deluged with ads for silicone wedding bands. Silicone wedding bands ? Really? I am at a loss as to how to tell Google that not only am I not getting married, but no one in my household is either.<br />
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Recently, because two of my friends have rheumatoid arthritis and I am aware of much better treatment options now, I looked up the current protocols for treatment. I am a registered nurse and a couple of years ago I took a continuing education course on it. It wasn't at all a strange thing for me to be looking up one time only. Now, I am deluged with coupons and information from drug companies trying to sell me on their drug for rheumatoid arthritis. I am also receiving offers from major medical centers to be part of a study for experimental treatment. I am getting so much mail on RA, I am beginning to think they know something I don't.<br />
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I understand that algorithms used by Google, Facebook and other companies help to target the ads and information I receive, but for writers especially, this is excessive. What happens if I look up thermite and seek a recipe for a book project ? What happens if I do some research on an AR-15 because my character wants a quality weapon rather than an inferior substitute ? What happens if I look up gonorrhea ? Does a public health official arrive with a shot of Rocephin ?<br />
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It might be good business to send information concerning hotel rooms to anyone looking at them, for up to a week. It might be a good idea to send information on toddler car seats to parents and grandparents for a week after an inquiry has taken place. There is no way I should be getting some of these ads when the book being researched is now completed, edited, getting its cover, and then is about to be released. Google and Facebook, fix your algorithm !<br />
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<br />Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811083306787212964.post-3352412762917108892018-06-11T08:06:00.002-07:002018-06-11T08:06:33.984-07:00 Learning As We Grow <br />
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If I were to be honest, I would have to admit that there is a lot that we normally don't understand as young people. As our children grow and as we are propelled into knowing of new experiences both as ourselves and vicariously through our children, we get glimpses of some of life's truths and if we are paying attention, we might actually learn from them.<br />
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Some time ago, a couple of my friends married partners that were much younger than they were. My fundamental belief on this was that many different relationships work for many different people and that as long as the people themselves are happy that it's no one's business but their own. I held that belief and yet I did not understand. Wouldn't you wish to have known the same television programs growing up as your mate? Wouldn't you like to know the same songs? How superficial all of that really is.<br />
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I realized only this week that all of those concerns are superficial things. Sometimes who we love is less about the flesh, and much more about the soul. I am afraid that some of my friends discovered the concept of loving the soul of another human being long before I understood it.<br />
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<br />Alexandra of Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17383184282535835905noreply@blogger.com0