Friends & Angels

     Yesterday was a bittersweet day.  Just like every February 7th is.  It was a hustle-bustle day of work, errands, photo shoot, and then a happy surprise when my old friend Chuck stopped past the PHouse to say hello.  I love that about the PHouse.  New friends come to huddle in our red leather chairs to get to know each other better.  Old friends come to share time together.  And my friends know that if they want to track me down they can do so either by facebooking me or strolling into the PHouse.  It's pretty much guaranteed.  It was fun catching up with Chuck.  We were legisaltive pages together in 85-86.  He and my many other Unicam friends have been on my mind because the legislature is back in full swing.
     Do you ever stop to think about your subconscious mind?  It's kind of the storeroom for your memories, experiences and beliefs.  It houses things that never leave you, but are not on your mind every moment.  Mine never ceases to amaze me.  Every February 7th that I wake up, I remember it's my high school boyfriend's birthday.  This year BL would have been 48.  We graduated the same year, but because I was all of five months older, he always joked about dating an "older woman".  He was my first love.  He was my sparring partner (we loved to argue for the sport of it) and he was my friend.  He was a jock.  Ruggedly handsome.  Tall, strong and pretty much invincible.  I still remember his phone number and that smirk he'd give me before he'd say something funny. I still have the 100 pennies he mailed to me after he lost a $1.00 bet.  Sadly, likewise I wake up on July 29th each year and remember that that is the day he died. He was 23.  He had had different girlfriends by then, but he'd still stay in touch.  We had plans to get together a week after that.  We joked that we should get back together.  This time as grown-ups.  He assured me I'd be his favorite ex-wife.  On the front shelf of my BL memories in my storeroom I remember those two phone calls.  The first from his cousin, telling me they were taking him to surgery.  We assured each other that if anyone could survive this, it was BL. The next call came.  I knew when the phone rang that he'd come up against something stronger than he was.  I didn't know that existed.  He was a big hearted softy, but he was a tough man.
     Do you  ever stop to think about coincidence?  You know, the chance happening of something in a suprising and remarkable way.  Well, BL has been on my mind because of the anniversary of his death.  And oddly enough, today I stumbled upon a blog written by the former wife of a friend of his.  It was written 3 years ago and is a tribute to BL's life.  He was her friend.  She did a beautiful job of remembering him, and through her words I could see and hear him, just as if I saw him yesterday.  She is a cousin of my sister in laws and we were just talking about her recent remarriage and her happiness.  That is coincidence.  I think finding the blog was something more than coincidence.  That was Bradley Layne.
     So today,  my BL storeroom in my subconscious mind is very much on my mind.  I am remembering the day I returned to Schuyler to say goodbye.  Gathering at Greg's house the night before to share stories and drink beer with all of our old friends.  Hearing his sister assure me that he was in a better place, where he wouldn't have to worry about paying bills and where he could eat all the ice cream he wanted.  Meeting Brenda in the parking lot of the Oak Ballroom the next day because she would not let me go to the funeral myself.  Going to the bar after we left the cemetary and sharing lots of hugs and tears with our friends.  And returning every now and then, always amazed that my subconscious GPS kicks in and I can walk staight to his grave.  Sometimes I take him a beer. I left flowers once, just because I know he would have thought that was a sissy thing to do.  I still carry his senior picture in my wallet, firmly believing that he has protected me all of these years that I traveled around the country working.  A few years ago when my purse was stolen, my biggest concern was that a note from him and his picture were gone forever.  I wrote to his mom and she happily sent me a replacement along with her thanks for remembering and loving him.  It's hard to believe that this year it will be 25 years since he left us.  I still talk to him.  I'm sure that he and my mom still sit around a table and beers.
     I am grateful for all of those happy and sad memories in my subconscious mind.  I'm grateful that I found Sandy's blog and mostly I am grateful for my angel.  BL is never going to bust through the PHouse door making funny comments about the place being too fussy or fancy and thanking me because at least I have a Budweiser for him.  So, I will toast him for his 48th birthday.  I will toast Chuck for making the time to stop by and catch up.  And I will toast all the other friends that have happened by or will do so soon.  Sharing this place with those here and not here is pretty cool.  Thanks for supporting us and letting me share a little bit.

The Wind and the Wee Wee Woman

     Windy weather has not been good to the Pour House.  When the wind blows people stay home.  Or they camp someplace.  They hunker down and wait for nicer weather.  I understand it's a bit trying, but it is Nebraska and it is usually windy.  I personally love the wind. 

     When I was a little girl, my brother and I stayed with my grandpa and grandma Potter quite often.  I loved (still do) the old farmhouse.  The only room in the house upstairs that was heated was the bathroom, so the rule was to keep the bathroom door closed to "save the heat" and keep all the other registers closed.  During winter months I would share my grandma's bed and Jack would sleep with grandpa.  Her room in the southwest corner of the house used to creak and moan with the sounds of the wind and snow.  We'd snuggle up under the cold sheets and wait to warm up. 

     Grandma used to read to me.  We had boxes of old school primers from when she and aunt Ardis used to teach elementary school.  I still have my favorite old primer on my shelf in my library and in it is my favorite story.  The Wee, Wee Woman is a short little tale about a frail little old maid who lives in a wee wee house, has a wee wee candle, wee wee table, wee wee bed... you get it.  As the wind would howl outside, I would listen to grandma read about how the wee wee woman heard a noise.  She got out of bed, lighted her candle, went downstairs, investigated and found nothing.  Oh, as the drama was building, and the wind was howling, I envisioned this little old lady in her tiny little house, afraid of what she could hear, but not find.  As you probably have figured out by now, she finally opens her wee wee cupboard and finds her nemesis.  OUT JUMPS BOO as portrayed by my grandma, who slept in a frilly nightgown and had toilet paper secured with pink tape and a hair cap to protect her hairdo, who also left her teeth in the cup downstairs in the laundry room, made quite a dramatic conslusion to this silly little story. 

     After BOO was discovered, I'd hop up on the bed, swing my arms until I caught the string that turned off the ceiling light and bedside lamp, and I'd snuggle back in to listen to the BOO outside.  I love stories and poems about the wind.  These past several days many have come to mind reminding me not only of the work but of my grandma, grandpa, aunt Ardis and my mom, who always had "a headache" when the wind blew.  The wind stirs memories.  Today, even though it is windy, it is a good day.  Have a nice evening.  Hang on to your hat and watch out for BOO!

 

THE WEE, WEE WOMAN

Once upon a time there was a wee, wee woman who lived all alone in a
wee, wee house.

One night this wee, wee woman lighted her wee, wee candle, crept softly
up her wee, wee stairs, got into her wee, wee bed, and fell fast
asleep. Soon this wee, wee woman was awakened by a noise. She jumped
out of her wee, wee bed, lighted her wee, wee candle and looked behind
her wee, wee door, but there was nothing there. Then she looked under
her wee, wee bed, but there was nothing there.

So this wee, wee woman took her wee, wee candle in her wee, wee hand,
crept softly down her wee, wee stairs and, when she reached the room
below, she looked under her wee, wee chair, but there was nothing
there. Then she looked into her wee, wee cupboard, but there was
nothing there. Then she looked behind her wee, wee stove, but there
was nothing there. Then she looked under her wee, wee table, but there
was nothing there.

So this wee, wee woman took her wee, wee candle in her wee, wee hand,
crept softly up her wee, wee stairs, got into her wee, wee bed and fell
fast asleep. Soon this wee, wee woman was awakened by a noise. She
jumped out of her wee, wee bed, lighted her wee, wee candle and looked
behind, her wee, wee door, but there was nothing there. Then she
looked under her wee, wee bed, but there was nothing there.

So this wee, wee woman took her wee, wee candle in her wee, wee hand,
crept softly down her wee, wee stairs, and, when she reached the room
below, she looked under her wee, wee chair, but there was nothing
there. Then she looked into her wee, wee cupboard, but there was
nothing there. Then she looked behind her wee, wee stove, but there
was nothing there. Then she looked under her wee, wee table, but there
was nothing there.

So this wee, wee woman took her wee, wee candle in her wee, wee hand,
crept softly up her wee, wee stairs, got into her wee, wee bed and fell
fast asleep. Soon this wee, wee woman was awakened by a noise. She
jumped out of her wee, wee bed, lighted her wee, wee candle and looked
behind her wee, wee door, but there was nothing there. Then she looked
under her wee, wee bed, but there was nothing there.

So this wee, wee woman took her wee, wee candle in her wee, wee hand,
crept softly down her wee, wee stairs, and, when she reached the room
below, she looked under her wee, wee chair, but there was nothing
there. Then she looked into her wee, wee cupboard, but there was
nothing there. Then she looked behind her wee, wee stove, but there
was nothing there. Then she looked under her wee, wee table and out
jumped–BOO!!!

In the Back of the Closet

Yesterday was a very good day.  I went to the Pour House to eagerly whip up 60 tea sandwiches for the afternoon event, happy to know that my crazy neighbor kids (nephew, niece, nephew) would be returning from their family vacation that evening.  Even though Sunday is the only day I can sleep in a little, I anticipated the likelihood that I'd be jostled from slumber by Jake's screaming and squealing from the front porch about something very exciting.  And, even though I don't see much of those kiddos, it's a comfort to know that they're growing up right next door.  I especially appreciate the fact that Joe, my almost-old-enough-to-drive-holy-shit-how-did-that-happen-better-stop-calling-him-PEANUT... well probably not, still stops in at my office to chat.  That's a cool thing for an auntie to enjoy.  It was also good because the ladies of the Hysterical Society (affectionately known) pulled off yet another spectacular afternoon tea event, complete with beautiful and delightfully good sandwiches, snacks and desserts, tea, a little wine, and a lot of laughter thanks to the humor of PruDENSE, singing life lesson songs to us, as she channeled the late Patsy Cline (and she did a heck of a job at it). The event helped us to raise funds as we continue efforts to restore the opera house. So, family was headed home, the weather was beautiful, the event was a success, I enjoyed some wine with friends and the PHouse was bustling with strangers from all over the state.  But, what made my day especially good was the gift that a kind young lady named Jennie delivered.

One of the saddest days I can remember was the day that my mom and uncle started dismantling my Grandma's home.  They'd decided it was time for Grams to go to an assisted living.  They packed her up, settled her in and then tore into the house like mad men.  They wanted it done.  Over.  Sort, pick, decide, argue... just get it cleaned out, cleaned up and on the market.  Boom.  Done.  And there it sat.  Gramps and Gram's house.  The place where we used to watch from the front door for hobos to hop off of the train.  The driveway where we used to wear the plastic wheels off of the scooter.  The house where "As the World Turns" provided the most drama during the weekdays, and the "Big Joe Polka Show" oompa'd away on the weekends when Gram would do laundry and iron every piece of it, organizing things on the massive kitchen table that Gramps built.  He'd gotten the round top from some bar somewhere and build a massive pedestal for it.  You could easily sit 10 people around it.  And when it was time for everything else from the house to go, ironically, it was so big that it stayed.  The family table got left behind. 

Gram's house soon sold to a young man who was getting married.  Gram was excited that his future young step-daughter was going to be living there.  "Good house for a young family" she'd say.  She'd always ask how her house was.  "Are they keeping it up?"  "How does the yard look?" I'd reassure her it still looked just like her house.  We drove past the house when we'd take our rides around the countryside.  After these new owners put it on the market, we stopped to pick up the real estate flier.  Gram was failing and didn't even recognize the house.  She looked at the flier.  Laughed.  Said "That's a LOT of MONEY" for that place!  Then she looked at the picture of the kitchen and, yes, she recognized that huge round table. Not the house, but the table. 

My Gram passed away in May.  She was 95.  She had a lot of hard years of work, little money and life struggles, but she had many happy years in that house.  It has again sold, to another young couple, and Gram's house is making another transition.  Jennie had told me that they were buying Grandma's house.  I immediately asked her if I could take a tour.  Yeah, kinda rude, but I know her and didn't think she'd think I was being nosey... just being sentimental.  She agreed... after they got settled.  Deal.  Weeks later, she mentioned that they were finding "things" she thought were probably my Gram's.  I said "SAVE IT ALL".  She did. And yesterday she delivered Christmas presents in August.  As she reached into the trunk to show me the hand-embroidered "FRANK AND CLARA 50th ANNIVERSARY" golden pillow, my eye immediately was drawn to the white plastic bag.  There it was.  The deep red and blue swirly paisley print was peering at me... saying "do you remember me?"  Indeed I did.  That 20 lb tablecloth was my Gram's favorite.  It was the fancier of those that she had (there were 3 in the bag).  She had to make it because that damn table was soooo biggg!  It was salvage upholstery fabric, in deep dark colors on a creamy white background... topped off with rich gold tassel trim.  Gramps wasn't fond of it.  It was kinda splashy.  But she loved it... and so I did too.  And, yesterday, on the 3rd month anniversary of her burial, Jennie brought a little bit of my Gram back to me. 

So, you see, yesterday was a very...VERY good day. I thanked Jennie a few times.  She was pretty calm.  It was matter-of-fact to her that "you should have these things... they were your family's".  Most everyone else would have thrown it all in a rag-bag or the dumpster.  But happily, this young woman was kind enough the have the foresight to think that I just might want it. And I did...do...and will always be appreciative.  I slipped over to my neighbors last night and delivered a second yellow summer cloth to my brother's back gate.  I texted him..."left you a little surprise... see if you remember".  He did.  And if and when these new owners decide to sell that big old good for nothin' table... he has FIRST DIBS as the next owner.  And when that happens we have the appropriate tablecloths for it.  What was left in the back of the closet made me very happy.  Thank you Jennie.

  Gram Clara B. Best kolache' maker around!  Love & Miss you.  Especially on Sundays.

Have Cause. Will Travel.

In our ongoing pursuit of promotion for our renovation and restoration project, a couple of the Friend Historical Society ladies joined the PHouse staff and we took off to toot our horn on June 8.  Destination Fairbury.  "What?" You might ask?  Why was Fairbury a potential "big deal"?  It was, after all, a repeat performance for the Pour House to do a wine tasting at the Stagecoach Antique Store.  But, baby this time we pulled out all the stops.  We catered the event (no I will not do it again... really... I mean it) and paired a lovely smoked brisket and horseradish crostini with a fantastic Barista Pinotage, Boursin and Beef puff pastry with the Arenal Sauvignon Blanc, blanched asparagus wrapped in crispy prosciutto was lovely with our Betty White, and of course we had various fresh fruits, savory cheeses and charcuterie, olives and sweet raspberry bars that topped off our new Bramble Berry Bliss.  Boy, did we put on the Ritz!  What was generally unknown was that we were hot on the heels of the field editor for Nebraska Life Magazine.  I got a tip that he was going to be there covering the First Friday in Fairbury event.

I have been pursuing the magazine for several months now, trying to convince them that there is a fantastic story to be told.  The story, of course, is the success of our renovation efforts of the Warren Building; the increasing popularity of the Pour House, the never-ending room flipping process to accommodate the many reservations for the San Carlo Room, the inquiries about making donations of art and artifacts to be placed on display in the Welcome Center, and the lovely art that hangs in the Mary Mary Quite Contrary Gallery, welcoming people to private events hosted there.  And, of course, the next major phase of our efforts... our grand-daddy grandiose grand plan to restore the Historic Warren Opera House to be both a theater for performance and film.  Much to my chagrin, as the many munching and sipping guests magically separated and the room cleared, there he was.  My target.  Off I went, to sell, sell, sell.

We talked about why I decided to put a wine bar in the middle of Busch Light country.  Why a town of barely 1200 people would support such a major project, and how a tiny non-profit historical society group (average age 67) could make such an impact on a town called Friend.  Impact, I explained, that was more than improving half of a city block. This is all-around impact.  Economic benefits, tourism that never existed for this town, community promotion, support for the school arts programing and probably most important to us personally, building friendships.  Women of varied ages and life experience have found their way to Maintenance Monday (M&M day), even if it's on a Wednesday evening, or an early Saturday morning and  many who do not even clean their own homes are in the Warren Building scrubbing toilets and mopping floors, dragging fifty pound garbage cans that wreak of stale beer and ceremoniously bitching about it. We are all scraps of this odd, but lovely patchwork quilt that is the force behind the project.  "Yes!" I proclaimed... we're a little weird..  no... quirky, but we've all got our eye on the proverbial restoration ball, and we mean business.  We are self identified as "Women of High Caliber".  We're gun owning, toilet scrubbing, cuss-word tossing over-achievers.  "Down right inspirational," I told him.  He looked at me like I was a nut.  Yet, on Monday, Nebraska Life Magazine contacted me to ask for more details, in writing. I immediately obliged, probably overwhelming the poor editor, but we are now in the hunt and I am hopeful.

That evening, after a lot of hard work and hot air, I followed our caravan of support back to Friend... my foot on the dash, drumming to my favorite REO songs (I'm a rock star when I drive)... thinking about what an inspiration we are.  Inspiration to each other, to the community, and to others across the state who are literally "WOWED" by what we've accomplished thus far.  I'm proud to be a part of this M&M Day (although I could really do without scrubbing the men's room) group and I have great confidence, as I sit in my new antique "chair of inspiration" I traded the Stagecoach Mall in lieu of mileage, that we are on the verge of great things.  Naysayers and undoers be damned!  Get out of the way, because the Women of High Caliber are on a roll!

Saving History

Christmas eve at the United Methodist Church in Dorchester was always a favorite.  We sometimes took part in the children's Christmas program, singing Christmas carols, and watching the Pastor and a select few re-enact a manger scene.  I'd look out into the dimly lit congregation to find my grandma and grandpa Potter smiling.  Then, we'd march along the end aisles with our little white candles, retake our seats and share our flame with friends and family.  I loved the old wooden church in Dorchester.  I was sad when the elders decided it was time to tear it down and rebuild.  I wanted to buy it and move it to the farm.  Grandpa thought I was nuts.  Sadly, someone did buy it, but did nothing with it and forced this former proud and prominent structure to it's demise.  I'd rather they would have burned it and let her go with dignity.

This past Monday there was a fire at the United Methodist Church in Friend.  The church is my neighbor.  It's a grand brick structure that boasts majesty that's more than a century old. My mom was the church secretary for many years, and I spent a good amount of time visiting her and "poking around" the church.  The interior was modest, but beautiful.  Elegant curved wooden beams and spindles adorned the ceiling.  I felt sick knowing that all of that smoke was undoubtedly from those beams, burning slowly.  They were solid.  Not new-fangled construction that would go up with a "poof".  I just knew that ceiling was fighting back, but it was losing.  As I stood and watched the smoke billowing from the eaves, I prayed that the Crete arial truck would get there quickly.  Our local firefighters were doing their very best, and were joined by Exeter and Dorchester volunteers as they battled against the flames.  I listened to the glass cracking and watched the leaded glass melting to pools of waste.  At last, Crete arrived!

When it was all said and done, and quiet overtook the neighborhood again, she was still standing.  The bricks were bruised with soot all along the roofline.  Once grand leaded glass windows were charred and empty holes.  The fire had been extinguished hours before, but the smell lingered.  I thought of the weddings I'd been to, the funerals, and my afternoons with my mom in that church.  No fire could take my memories.  Or anyone elses.  I prayed that it wouldn't take my neighbor.  She's the pillar of our "hood".

The next day I saw the infamous Danielson's van arrive bright and early.  "There is hope!" I  thought.  And again, the day after... more hope each time the van arrived.  I'm told that tomorrow, one week after the tragedy, that a decision will be made.  And I have hope.  Hope that this historic structure, who fought as diligently as those volunteers, can be saved and rebuilt.  New churches are not all they're cracked up to be.  Just like new court houses or even wine tasting rooms, they're lovely, efficient and compliant.  But they have little character, little ambiance and no history.  That is what makes old buildings unique.  It's the history of more than 100 years of joy and saddness in that church that makes it special.  Yes, it's the house of our Lord... and the worship place of its parishoners, but it's also a pillar of our community.  One that brings continues to bring hope to those of use who pray it can be saved.  I thank every volunteer who helped, in any way.  I also thank the committee from the Church who is working to make the best decision.  You've been described to me as "a committee of savers".  Amen and thank God.  I have hope that tomorrow goes well for all of us, including that grand old lady who is my neighbor.

From D. O'Neel's posts. Burned tresses in the ceiling.  Still beautiful!

Lawernce Welk for the Holidays

Husker game days are a little wack-o at the PHouse.  They are either completely boring, or blissfully busy.  Yesterday, as we bid Dr. Tom adieu, cheered Kenny Bell to the endzone and complemented Martinez because he didn't drop the ball... we were blissfully busy.  The day started with guests from Davenport who cruised in for some of the PHouse Red, Read Whine (sorry we sold out months ago), we welcomed a few members of the Historical Society and the Yorkshire Playhouse for some football cheer, and a presentation of funds from our melodrama fund raiser, and then kept a steady stream coming through the door. 

At a most appropriate slow-down, Mike happened to turn on the TV.  Now, if you know PHouse, unless it's a Husker football or volleyball game, the boob-tube doesn't go on.  But in some sort of karma event that began with my blog last week about the Lawerence Welk Show, the TV came on and THERE IT WAS!  Guy and Rolna were crooning away, looking dazed and adoringly at each other.  Next there was a marching Mr. Welk conducting his orchestra, and Myron breakin' out a tune on the accordian... dancing, singing, all in the simple bliss of about 1969 or so.

The very few of us that were perched there, sipping on adult beverages and recalling our youth, were having a marvelous time recalling names of the performers (Google on the iPad helped out), singing the old songs, talking about when there were 3 channels to choose from and the curved television screen was showing black and white.  We laughed about the new-fangled antenna that clipped on to the back of the TV, and how when I was little my dad would make me go outside at our cabin, even in the rain, to turn the antenna so we could get reception.  We pursuaded the lovely young Dani to come out of the kitchen to get a little "education" in genuine, traditional holiday celebration.  She didn't know who Lawerence Welk was... she'd never heard of Kenny Roger's, what... maybe third or fourth wife, who used to be on Hee Haw!  We schooled her in "Pettycoat Junction", and even schooled ourselves thanks to Google.  Appears that, while the sisters were innocently bathing away in the Railroad Tank, petticoats a flying in the wind...that their nudity was an innuendo for something a bit more racey.  And, as the theme song mentions curves, etc., that the "Shadey Rest" might just have been a crafty disguise for a whorehouse.  That, my friends, is clever.  All these years... who knew! 

Our laughter and fond memories seguayed to party telephone lines (no, Dani didn't know there was such a thing), and the deep mustard color of the band's 3-piece suits roused memories of harvest gold appliances and olive green rotary dial telephones.  The PHouse staff and our four guests at the time, were on memory lane.  And, when the singers assembled at the end of the Thanksgiving Tribute show, standing in front of a cozy fireplace, surrounded by piles and piles of plastic fruit on an banquet table...we all agreed that those more simple times were pretty great.  And the holiday shows, Welk's and the other formerly famous stars who did holiday tributes, were a tradition that, while kids today would think is totally stupid, were a good thing.  Funny enough, when I posted that we were watching Lawerence Welk, we had a friend, here in Friend, who was tripping down memory lane with us, only from the comfort of his home by the golf course! 

It was decided, as we all sang along to "Good night... Sleep tight... And happy dreams to you..." that we will be dedicating our 6PM happy hour next Saturday evening to Mr. Welk.  The previewed Christmas show was met with a round of applause and laughter, and it was clear that Mr. Welk is very welcome at the PHouse.  Just as the show came to an end, and the door opened welcoming our 7PM reservations, we all got back to work, just a little bit happier that we had shared those old memories with new friends.  And I have no doubt that Uncle Cap and Aunt Mary were looking down, smiling.

If you're up for some nostalgia next Saturday, stop by.  We'll be tuned in.  It was just too "Wunnerful, wunnerful!"  Have a good week and a Happy Thanksgiving.

Auf Wiedersehen!
Carey

Today We Are Specifically Thankful

Every day is a day to be thankful for.  Thankful for health, friends, happiness, and just general things.  But today takes on a specific and special meaning of "thanks" because it's Veteran's Day.  Hundreds have been all over Facebook thanking Veterans in general, and those specific to their families. 

I have a favorite veteran, who was born on this day in 1893.  My great uncle Cap was a vet.  Every veteran's day when we were with him, we'd pile in to the car with aunt Mary (the Mary Mary Quite Contrary Gallery's namesake) and we'd head out to the cemetary.  At the time I don't think I really "got it", but those ceremonies, and walking the cemetary, placing little flags near headstones, stays with me even 40 years later.  It was a proud day for Cap.  I think about Cap and Mary often.  They were the only people I knew that were born in the 1800's.  I always thought that was so cool.  They weren't fancy people.  Cap was a janitor.  He used to let us stand on the giant dust mop and he'd push us around the school floor.  I especially liked to help sweep the Dorchester science lab.  In fact, I loved it so much that I bought the lab when they dismantled the school for distruction.  It sits in storage, waiting for me to come up with a project to re-build it.  And I will.  Someday.  And the thoughts of my favorite vetran and his dust mop will remain.  I have some great photos of uncle Cap; on where he's sitting with other soldiers, in France, drinking wine.  The bar maidens are standing behind them, giggling.  Another is of Cap on his motorcycle.  I have a photo that used to hang in Cap's wood shop.  It's about 3 ft. long and is of his entire platoon.  When we were little, we'd go to the shop and scour the photograph, looking for uncle Cap.  I can still find him today.  Probably my most favorite was of him and other men standing in front of an airplane.  It was the first mail delivery made to Dorchester.  He was there.  I often wonder what he and Mary would think about our world today.  Everything is so fast-paced.  Sadly, it's pretty impersonal too.  I don't think they'd like it very much.  They were well suited for a sip of Kesslers and an evening of Lawrence Welk.  I am blessed that I got to grow up with these people, and to have so many clear and happy memories with them.

November is a sad month for me.  And today, 5 years ago, was the beginning of the end for my mom.  She'd been fighting such a hard battle with cancer, and on uncle Cap's birthday, her mind slipped away and she never spoke to us again.  She hung on for several days... this Friday will be the anniversary of her death, but the laughing, smiling, chatty Betty, who sipped wine and talked to me, left on Veteran's Day... uncle Cap's birthday.  It's a bittersweet day, I guess, because I have both happy and sad memories, and the national holiday is a consistent reminder, which is a good thing since I've been so busy that I honestly didn't know it was Halloween, until Halloween morning (thanks Tami).  It's also sad because my baby nephew Jake never knew her, and sometimes I'm afraid that his brother and sister are so busy that they don't take time to remember their grandmother.  So, today I am specifically thankful to our Veterans, for uncle Cap and for the holiday that reminds me what a wonderful mother I had, and what a great lady this world lost on November 16, 2007.

Today, take a moment to thank our Veterans, and to tell your mother that you love her.
Have a super day.  Stay warm.