THE SAFE PLACE

Tonight I was having feelings of impending doom, hovering just out of sight. Phil and I went for a walk--that is often just enough exercise to snap me out of it.

Some of our neighbors saw us and came out of their house to talk. After we left another neighbor drove into the cul-de-sac and stopped to talk.

We had a magazine article to give to another neighbor but when we got there they had just received a long distance phone call from their son. "We'll let you go," we said but the husband stayed to talk to us for a few minutes. He was so gracious, even though we knew he wanted to get back to the phone.

We came home and I got online and checked blogs. Some are funny and some tell of suffering. Some bloggers are suffering and still they write funny. Then I remembered a quote I put on this post. I decided not to surf the feelings I was having.

I decided to remember my neighbors. I decided to remember my friends, to think of you, out there, connected to me via the Internet. I thought of your goodness, the goodness of my neighbors and friends.

I decided to think of my family--which I consider my greatest blessing--I decided to think of Phil, who is my rock and gave me the chance to have a family. I remembered my original family, the one I came from, the one that goes back and back through the generations. I decided that you--neighbors, bloggers, family, Phil, especially Phil--are my safe place. I know many of you love me. I know you want my happiness. And so I got some. Sounds simple doesn't it, but it's true. I thought of all of you and I got happy.

Thanks for being there, for hanging on through tough times, for helping others by sharing your stories, your photos, quotes you find, and the wisdom you have. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for sharing your love.

You are my safe place.

SIX WORDS FOR GIFTS

Neighbors, bearing gifs, best is friendship.

NEIGHBORS BEARING GIFTS

Tonight three neighbors came over to sit on the lawn swings and visit. Honestly, I don't know how I rate such great friends. Not only do I enjoy their friendships but they brought gifts. Genny, whose garden is always at least two weeks ahead of ours, brought crookneck squash, the cutest tiny zucchini and bunches of broccoli. My crookneck hasn't even bloomed yet and my broccoli was interesting. You know the meaning of "interesting," don't you? It means, "Holy cow! What happened here? This isn't how things are supposed to go!" Then if things get really interesting you say, "Hey, this isn't my real life! Someone else has my real life. What is this anyway? Some weird person's life!"

My broccoli grew, started to make broccoli heads--tiny ones--and then, almost overnight it bloomed! I didn't get ANY broccoli. So, I am thrilled to have my neighbor's wonderful broccoli. I love broccoli. And I love my neighbor, Genny.

The other neighbor, Jo...let me backtrack. I am always trying to get my friends to join my personal history group. Perhaps I nag. Okay, I'll be honest. I nag. So, Jo was on the receiving end of my nagging. I'm sure I drove her nuts. She finally said, "I'll do it on my own." And she did!

Her daughter sent her one of those memory prompt books and told her mom, "I want this back on my birthday next year," but it didn't suit Jo's needs so she wrote her history and had it bound and gave it to her daughter for her birthday. She brought the finished product for me to read. I covered up her last name, in case of shyness.

I am on page seven and its been fascinating. I can't wait to read the rest of it.

This picture was taken about the time we moved in, years and years ago. I can't remember Jo looking like this, that's what happens when you are around people for years and years--you change, they change and you hardly know it.

Her daughter, the one in the middle in the back is one of my dearest friends, too. She is a gem. She came over tonight with Jo. She is always interested in my life, just like a good friend should be and I am interested in her life too. She has a fascinating life. But, not interesting, either. Her life is interesting in the non-wide-eyed way.

I am lucky. I have great friends. I hope you do too.

PICKING UP ELI

One of our neighbors, Eli's daddy called me, asking if I would look up a different neighbor's phone number for him. So, maybe all their phone books got left out in the rain or something, I gave it to him and he hung up. Pretty soon he called back. Would I go to Eli's preschool and pick up Eli? Eli's daddy wasn't home--therefore the mystery of having no one's phone number solved--and his wife was not home either.

If he only knew what I looked like. I just dyed my hair so at least I no longer look like I belong to the skunk family but my hair was wet and sticking up like a wet and furry animal that went through a knot hole, backwards.

I have no make-up on.

I just ate five almonds so I have nut fragments in my teeth. If there is anything that bugs me about old people--not that I'm old, but you know I'm always looking to the future for what I should or shouldn't do when I get there. So, nut fragments, blurry eyeglasses and crusty salt remnants under their eyes are what I see sometimes on old people. I had one symptom out of three.

I went to the preschool and who should be there but the woman Eli's daddy tried to call in the first place. She was picking up her preschooler and Eli.

"My mom's stuck," Eli said to nobody in particular.

"Are you picking up Eli?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, batting her big blue eyes that had just the right amount of eyeliner and mascara. "His mom called from Wal-Mart and asked me to. She called my cell phone just as I was driving in." She looked like she didn't have make-up on but had been digitally enhanced by someone who makes Oprah look age 25 on the covers of her magazine. She is also blond, the kind of blond that is sun bleached but probably came from expensive salon treatments, and it's thick and perfectly curled. And long. She must drive her husband wild with her digitally enhanced looks and that long lustrous hair. I noticed she is pregnant, child number five. Yup, she drives him wild.

"Oh, I said. Eli's daddy asked me to pick him up too."

"Oh," she said, looking at my wild-man-of-Borneo hair. "That was so nice of you," Which translated into, "And you came out looking like THAT?"

"My mom's stuck," Eli said.

Then the gorgeous neighbor smiled. I saw one of those diamond-facet-sparkling-rays-of-light coming off her perfectly white teeth. I promise, I did.

I smiled back, forgetting about the nut fragments until I saw her eyes widening. I could see the whites all around her pupils. "Alrighty, then.... I'll just take Eli home with me." Rather than send him home with you, who may have escaped from "the home."

"My Mom's stuck." Eli said to everyone as he left with the perfect neighbor.

I slunk home. I'm stuck too, I thought. And not at Wal-Mart.

BRIBING THE NEIGHBORS WITH BROWNIES

Yesterday I made brownies, partly because I wanted to eat one. Okay maybe two. But I didn’t want to eat a bunch. If a dozen were there, lookin at me, calling my name, I would eat ten of them. Phil would eat one and a half and then say something like, “These are too sweet.” He would throw the other half away.

When the brownies were done I put them on a plate and took them outside on faith. People were doing yard work and visiting with other neighbors. When they got finished with all that busy work I snagged them with the aroma of warm brownies. I got rid of the whole batch and had eleven neighbors sitting on the lawn swings, eating brownies and visiting. That’s what I call a successful batch. I got to have a brownie—okay, I ate two—okay, two and a half and all I have left is a dirty pan to wash. I have good memories of good friends and we visited until it was too dark to see. Phil had to go in early because the mosquitoes love him. I feel sorry for him. Before he left he said, “These brownies are too sweet,” so I don’t feel totally sorry for someone who doesn’t understand the mission of a good brownie.

Before bed I hugged him, I was sitting in the computer chair and he was standing so my ear was on his stomach area. My, his stomach is very busy. Movie production studios should make recordings of the active noises to use in horror films. Match those up with something slimy, climbing up from the foggy bog and you’d have a winner. All that sugar and chocolate could be put to productive use. He should look into it.