Tempus Fugit - Time Flies

It is said that time flies, and it does. Never has this been more clear to me than right now. Now, at the middle-point of my life, I can see how fast things travel. It seems like only yesterday, I was getting ready to go to Germany and arranging to get my passport. I realized today that my passport expired at the beginning of June. 10 years is a blink of an eye, but it was a productive blink.

In that time, we've had two grand kids, I found my passion (Philosophy). We have moved at least a couple of times. We've been homeless and re-established our home again. My husband and I have both changed careers. There have been ups and downs to our marriage. We have lost beloved members of our family to cancer, some of us have defeated it, and still others are fighting for their lives against it.

What hit me this morning is the lack of time that we spend with one another. In our day-to-day lives, how much time do we really spend with each other? Sure, you're constantly with people, but are you connecting with them? Are your kids watching videos or listening to their personal listening devices, or playing their video games while you drive them to yet another practice? Or are you talking to them? Are you listening to their day? Are you spending the precious time that you have doing something that builds that relationship? I spent all day with my kids yesterday, and I am pretty sure that nothing we talked about had any substance.

And what about your spouse? Do the two of you fall into bed at the end of the week, sleep like the dead, and then make love on Saturday morning (like an appointment) just so that you can say you spent quality time with them? When was the last time you asked them what they thought about the immortality of the soul or what they think it means to be married? When was the last time you made a real connection with your spouse, so much so that you really thought you got to something real? I'm betting that it wasn't recently. For me, it's not as often as I would like.

When was the last time you made real eye contact with someone you were talking to? Not business contact, but the real, personal contact that says, "I care about what you are saying to me and I care about you." It's so rare these days that it's noteworthy when it happens to me. I remember it.

As I am preparing for my father to die (and it's coming soon) and watching my grandson grow from a toddler and into a pre-schooler, I am struck by how little time we have. What do we spend our time on?

I have spent mine on making money, making a name for myself, ferrying my kids and husband all over the city. My 5 year old car has 175,000 miles on it. I put 161,000 of those on it. At a mile a minute, that's over 2,683 hours in the car. Driving. That doesn't include waiting. I have spent even more time than that sitting at a computer keyboard reading about the horrors of the world or reading about who said what to whom --essentially gossip and self-gossip.

I have also spent a good deal of time getting to know my children and my husband. I have helped them navigate the rough waters of being grown-ups. I have spent time sitting in offices listening to people pour their hearts out to me (unbidden) that they wish they'd had more time with the people that mattered to them. Those interactions are the ones that I treasure and these are the things that last.

Money and stuff can be replaced --you can have everything one day and be bankrupt the next, and on top of the world the next week. Honor is fleeting and completely in the hands of others --you can have a good name one day, and be worthless in the eyes of the world the next. Pleasure is fleeting and always leaves you wanting more.

Time, however, is completely limited. Whether we spend it glued to our screens, or glued to our chair at work, or glued to our steering wheel, is completely up to us. I have spent far too much time doing things that do not build relationships with the people who matter most to me. I have spent far too much time doing things that I really hate or that are abhorrent to me. I have not used the time that I had with my friends and family to it's best advantage choosing to be face down in my phone or occupied with what I was going to do next, or what I wished was happening instead of this interaction.

This mid-life seat at the top of the hill that allows me to see what has led to where I am and what comes next. And, like any good scout, I am paying attention to the shadowy spots, the rocks and boulders that could complicate my descent. I can collect wood and berries and hunt for food along the way, but choosing the path and companions carefully can make that job easier or harder.

How will I use my time best? Gather the right team, plan the descent and look forward to the rest at the end.

(c) Katie O'Keefe, 2016. All rights reserved.
Photo credit: "Time Flies" at QuotesGram, Chanda Enos, 2016. 

Looking at the Moon

"Barn burned down. Now I can see the moon." - Mizuta Masahide

Saturday morning ,my husband and I took a "staycation." We wandered down to German Village to go exploring and found Helen Winnemore's. Helen Winnemore's  is a beautiful shop with handcrafted art items, to wear, to use and to just be beautiful, too. As you come through the door, you are offered coffee, tea or water as you browse. It's like coming to your cool artist friend's house and hanging out.

As I sipped on my coffee (handed to me in a handmade pottery mug) I spotted the pendant pictured above from across the room. I was intrigued by the shapes and metals that went into making it. As the crowd looking at the display cleared away a bit, I moved over to get a closer look and was caught off guard by the quote on it.

Tears sprang to my eyes and my throat closed around the cold lump that used to be my voice. "Yes, the barn has certainly burned to the ground," I thought.

Every now and then, I allow myself a moment of grief over my voice. And that's what this was - a moment.

Somehow, this quote, centuries old and composed of nine words, put into perspective three years of upheaval. From the thyroidectomy that stole my voice and career, to my children's marital struggles, to the birth of two new grandchildren, to a new major, a new career, and new home, this past three years has been a lesson in change management to rival all others. We have lost so much, yet we have gained immeasurably.

Most people would see Masahide's quote as somewhat Pollyanna-ish, but I don't. In thinking about the idea of a barn, we must realize that the barn is a link between past, present, and future. It is not just a place of shelter, but a place of storage as well as a place of investment. In losing the barn, Masahide has lost his food, his animals, his shelter, all of his security and possibly his memories, too. In other words, the loss of a barn is no small thing.

But instead of grieving, he focuses in the next sentence on the positive - he can see the moon. The moon, with all her elusive and silvery beauty is a symbol of dreams and inspiration, but in addition, the moon inspires the movement of tides and is feminine, so it's a symbol of new life, as well.

What the 17th century samurai has to say to us is more prescient than we might imagine. It is in chaining ourselves to the things that we have stored up for ourselves, in clinging to the memories of what has come before, in making plans for the future that may never yield a harvest --in short, imagining that we have control over our lives --that we lose our ability to live.

In trying to control what comes next, we lose the opportunity to see things that are unusual and paths that take us to more beautiful places than we had planned for ourselves. In mooring ourselves in the memories of what has come before, we lose the ability to see the places where we might go next, or even worse, fall into the hole we didn't see while looking over our shoulders. In feeling smugly satisfied with our present state, we lock ourselves into a stasis where we refuse to take risks, and therefore, refuse to grow.

In my own life, I can see these opportunities presenting themselves to me again. I miss singing and directing a choir, but I enjoy my new career, too. Renovating people's lives through the provision of education is very rewarding work and I get to participate in that work every day.  But even now the world is shifting under my feet again. Rather than thinking of these tremors as bad things, I can choose to think of them simply as change. Heraclitus tells us, "One cannot step into the same river twice."  I think this is true.

Relationships shift, projects get complex, and change is the only constant in our lives. How we look at that change makes all the difference. So, instead of crying over the smouldering remnants of the barn, I believe I'll look at the moon and see what path she illuminates for me.

Photo Credit: PacificGallery.net, 2015 - Pendant for sale on their site found here. 

A Full Church

Will my church be full or empty?

In my family it's not a matter of if you will get cancer, but where and when. All four of my grandparents and one of my uncles have tangled with (and lost to) cancer. I have already battled thyroid cancer and I am staring down a second biopsy for breast cancer in just a couple of weeks. I don't really want to talk about dying here, though that's an inescapable part of the conversation. I want to talk about the way we live.

I was very young when my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. He died when I was 7 so I don't remember many of the details of his illness. What I do remember is being at the funeral home the day of the funeral and all I could see were knees in dark dress pants. I actually got lost in the crowd of business suits thinking I was still standing next to my dad. Later that day, I remember exiting the limousine at St. Patrick Church and walking through a crowd of people standing all the way out to the sidewalk. I didn't realize what that meant as a small child.

It wasn't until my uncle died of cancer about 7 years ago and there was a similar traffic jam at the funeral home and the church that I realized that both of these men had made a tremendous impact on the community around them. The church was absolutely packed for both of their funerals and the crowds spilled out onto the sidewalks with people whose lives were touched in a very real way by these men. At my uncle's funeral, I heard story after story from people who he had cared for and whose lives were better for him being in it -not because it was him, but because God called him to serve the poor and the lonely, and he heeded that call.

When I think of these men, I think of the Just Man as described in  Psalm 112: 9 "Open-handed he gives to the poor; his righteousness endures forever; his horn shall be exalted in honor."

My brother is currently fighting cancer and right now he's fighting off pneumonia and a sinus infection, too. It's hard to watch him go through this. John has always been the one who was more active, more in shape, more driven, more generous, really - kind of more "everything". He is a great friend and a wonderful and supportive brother. To see him scrambled and gasping for breath was disturbing to say the least.

In my grief over my brother's illness, I have realized that John's church will be full. Over the years, he has served the community in many ways - inviting those without family around to share Thanksgiving with us; donating time, money and toys to struggling local families; working as a volunteer firefighter; giving of his substance to people when ever and where ever they needed him. He, like his grandfather and uncle before him, has made an impact on his community, and, God willing, will continue to have an impact for years to come.

I want my church to be full when I die, too -not because I am so awesome (I am not), not because I am ready to die (again, I am not) -but because I am ready to live. I am ready for God to use me to really make a difference in people's lives. I am not so sure that my life right now is one that inspires a full church at my funeral, but I hope that I can live up to that charge. Just like the cancer, it seems to be a family tradition.

Photo Attribution: St. Patrick Church, Columbus, OH by Nheyob (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

The Acrobat

My Little Green Car - The 1976 Datsun B210 - Best. Car. Ever. 

I let the clutch out very slowly and pushed on the accelerator.  I listened for the pitch of the car’s engine to tell me when I had enough power to make the turn and get up and over the hill.  I thought I had it right, so I let out the clutch all the way and the car lurched forward and died. I’d let the clutch out too fast.  As it began drifting backward toward the car behind me, I stomped on the brake and the honking commenced.

Crap! I could feel the tears of frustration begin to sting my eyes as I started the car again.   I was going to be stuck on that little hill forever.

Mom took a deep breath and said, “They’ll wait.  If they get antsy, they’ll go around.  Third time’s the charm.  Just take it easy and give her a little more gas.  It’s all about balance.”  My mother had the patience of Job.

I’d bought the car for $200 two weeks before my 19^th birthday, even though I had absolutely no idea how to drive a standard shift car.  It was a little, dark green, ’76 Datsun B-210.   I couldn’t drive it, but, oh, I loved it.  It was sporty, gas-efficient, and, best of all, it had an after-market Pioneer digital cassette deck stereo system in it that kicked butt. 

I missed the independence that a car gave me after selling my first car.  It had been a 1969 Plymouth Belvedere with a bored-out 6 cylinder engine.  It could pass anything but a gas station.  I missed long rides with my music and the thrum of the big engine.  I missed being able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to go, (as long as I had the gas money).  I longed to pop in my U2 cassettes and listen to the stereo system of my new car at top volume, with all the windows down, blazing down the freeway like I used to in the Mighty Thunder Wagon.  The only way I was going to reclaim my independence was taking the leap and learning to drive a stick. 

Mom had been raised on a ranch in Arizona and had learned to drive when she was about 12.  Because they lived 50 miles across the Arizona-Sonora Desert from the nearest town, it had been essential that my mom and her sister know how to drive in case something happened and they had to go for help.  So, as soon as Mom could reach the pedals in the International Harvester pickup with “three on the tree”, her Daddy had taught her to drive.

Once, my dad had bought a VW van.  Mom drove like the car was an extension of her body: smoothly and confidently.  Dad could not master the VW clutch.  Every time he drove, we’d hold on to the panic handles for dear life.  Eventually, he killed the van.  We’d been on the freeway on our way to Pataskala.  He was so mad that he walked all the way home.  As he ranted, he vowed he was never going to own another standard shift car, much less a foreign car.  So, though most of my friends learned to drive from their fathers, Mom taught me the ropes.  She was unflappable.

As I sat on that hill with all the traffic behind me waiting, ever so patiently, I thought about equilibrium.  Mom watched the traffic on Karl Road for an opening so I could make the turn.

“Okay, kid, here comes your break.  Now, push down on the accelerator and ease off your clutch until the gears pull at the car, just a little bit.  Try not to let it grind.”

I began to let out the clutch and push on the accelerator and the pitch of the engine dropped until the gear engaged.  It caught with a sound like an enormous zipper would make and I grimaced.  That sounded expensive.  The car moved forward slightly.  I eased back a little on the accelerator and found the balance point between the clutch and accelerator to keep it steady on the hill until I was ready to move.  The car I was waiting for made a right turn without signaling.

Nice, I thought.  I could’ve made that turn anytime.  Now I have to hurry.

“All right now,” Mom was saying, “push down that accelerator and let go of the clutch.  One motion, honey.  Go. Go. Go.”

I hit the pedal on the right a little too hard and let my foot off the clutch a little too quickly.  The car shot forward and shuddered like a bowl of Jello in an earthquake as I turned to the left.  With a final lurch, a squeal of tire tread and a clank of the flywheel, I was off!  Finally!

“Good job, kid.”  Mom smiled, “That’s the toughest thing to learn: turning left at the top of a hill at a busy intersection.  Good job.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“You hungry, Mom?”  I pulled up to another stop light just as it was turning red.  I engaged the clutch, let off the accelerator and shifted the car back into first gear as I began to brake and waited for the light.

Mom sighed, “I guess it’s time for lunch, isn’t it?”  I nodded.  She continued, “Well, let’s stop and get something and then we’ll lurch on home.”  She chuckled.  I made a face at her. The light changed and I let out the clutch and pushed the accelerator.  I took off smoothly, as if I’d driven the car for years.

“There you go!  You got it!”  Mom was pleased.  She settled back into her seat.  I hadn’t noticed how tense she’d gotten.  “See. It’s all about balance, kid.  Once you learn how to balance, everything else is easy.”

#7QT: Miracles of these 7 Days

I think this is my first time joining Quick Takes in more than a year. But this week, it fits. 

You can see why this is so fun if you head over to Conversion Diary and follow some of the links.

It's crazy - There are a hundred bloggers who take part in this!  

Add your voice to the crowd, if you'd like.

1. Surgery Day
I was nervous, but not overly nervous. I'd been through surgery before, but nothing prepared me for how bad I'd feel. My daughter took a picture, just a couple of hours after the surgery (I'm not sharing it because the incision is really gross and I am absolutely gray from tip to toe.)
My pastor came to anoint me and I began to start to feel better shortly afterward. In fact, it was remarkable how much better I felt from hour to hour. The body is an amazing creation and prayer is powerful!

2. Struggling to Pray
Overnight and into the next morning, I still felt pretty miserable. my oxygen level would drop and I would lose track of where I was. I thought that maybe I could pray for everyone who was praying for me, but no dice. I got a few words into the Our Father and started having a dream about being on my way to get ice cream. But I was still wide awake.

When I snapped out of it, I felt bad because I couldn't even use my time to pray. I had to just lay there and dream about ice cream that I couldn't eat. While I was busy feeling sorry for myself (here it comes:) I thought of "Footprints in the Sand" and the fact of the matter was, that God was carrying me. My friends had brought me to him and placed me in His lap. I had to surrender control and I wasn't prepared to do that. That's why MY Footprints dream looks like this:

3. Learning to Suffer
I remember getting my wisdom teeth pulled on Good Friday when I was 18. I was in so much pain by Easter Sunday that I had to leave the church and sit on the porch in the front. That's where Sr. Marie found me sitting. I was crying,and she sat with me for a few minutes. We talked about suffering and she told me that everyone has their Good Friday just not at the same time, but Easter Sunday was coming, even if I didn't feel it today. It wasn't until this past Sunday, that I understood what she meant.

When we suffer, God does not abandon us. He tries to help us. But like a willful toddler, I was wiggling out of His grasp to try to walk for myself - only I was too weak. It was only when I surrendered that God showed me how many people were praying for me and that they could handle the prayer part. All I had to do was give Him the suffering and He'd know what to do with it.

4. Resting in the Lord
By Monday, I had discovered that I was becoming anxious about the second biopsy. I hadn't heard anything, and wouldn't until Thursday. I couldn't do anything useful, really, but rest.

Late Monday night, after everyone else was in bed and I was up for pain meds, again, I realized that God could use my sufferings. I had wondered about this "redemptive suffering" thing for my entire life and in a flash, I felt like I had a better grasp of what it meant to "offer it up". I offered my suffering for someone else who needed a hand with theirs.

Almost instantly, it was like the floodgates opened, and I couldn't shut it off! The ideas just kept coming. And they were good!

5. Searching for God's Fingerprints
As I worked on my new ideas, I began to research the science behind our reactions to liturgical music. What makes music so powerful? I actually came up with answers. I began to write. After about 2,000 words, I realized I had a series.

"What Is It with Music? The Physical Reasons that Music is Good for Your Spiritual Life" was born. The response has been very positive and the next in the series will be about the effect of tempo and mode on our bodies.

I could see God's fingerprints all over our physical responses to music and how they serve us when we attend Mass and sing together. We are so wonderfully made. All the beautiful things that we create are a reflection of His Goodness.

I began to sift through websites of friends who are visual artists and make note of how these individual pieces of art are as unique as the flowers that God creates. We assist Him in manifesting His goodness and beauty when we use our talents to create.

6. Finding God in Creation, Expressing His Beauty through the Arts
I found the blog of a young artist who I had watched grow up in my parish. She had five lovely works of art that I shared as part of Moxie Wife's Five Favorites link party. The reaction was tremendous. People loved it!

I asked the ladies at Catholic Mom if we had anyone who did spotlight interviews of artists (like we do with Techies and Bloggers) and they said no, but we should! So in the space of a few hours we had a plan: The goal is to discuss how our Faith informs our work as artists, even if the artwork is not specifically religious in nature. That lens throws new light and life on an artist's work and I was suddenly excited to share that with people.

I was energized. I hadn't forgotten about my biopsy results, which were still looming, but I decided that whatever God wanted from me was what I would lay before Him.

7. A Miracle
Yesterday morning, I couldn't sleep. I woke up at 3 AM and began to write. I had sent out 11 requests for interviews and some of them were already coming back saying they would love to participate. This new idea was going to become a reality!
There was so much to do! What if I had cancer and would need treatment?

By 10 AM I was sitting in the Doctor's office waiting.

My thyroid had been a huge mess. There had been nodules all over it and it was huge - one side had been 6.5 cm and the other had been 7 cm. The doctor had been very surprised that the first biopsy was negative. The second one was mostly negative, too. There had been cancer, but it had been very small and self contained and they had gotten it all.

No chemo.
No radiation.
My incision looks good and my vocal cords look like they are mending, too.
I'm telling you, folks. It's a miracle.

I came home rejuvenated and refreshed and...

took a nap.

Thank you for your prayers.
I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful Michael and I are to all of you. Please know that you will be in our prayers always. May God bless your kindness to us in this time of uncertainty.

The Lunch Date

With shuffling steps

They entered the shop.

He held the door for her

(He always does.)

She asked about soups,

“Why’dja run outta broccoli?”

The man smiled and joked,

“’Cause they knew you were comin’.”

He gave her a chuckle.

She hid a smirk.

They decided on coffee and donuts instead.

“I’d like that on china,” he politely requested.

“But I’ll take mine in paper,” she quietly contested.

With battle lines drawn

They’ll continue their flirting

‘Til the last drop is drunk

And the sun,

(which shines so brightly)

Is called the moon.

Immortality and Other Second Chances

"Look toward Him and be radiant and your faces may not blush for shame.
This poor one cried out and the LORD heard and from all his distress He saved him."
Psalm 34: 6-7

This past week I received a diagnosis that I was sort of expecting. After extensive testing my doctors have discovered two nodules on my thyroid gland. We already knew it was big, but now there are nodules on it and it has to come out. The further threat is that these nodules might be cancerous. The blood work looks good, but there are other biomarkers that don't look so good.

Usually, people with overactive thyroids are given radioactive iodine to kill the thyroid and then they are monitored for new lumps and bumps over the rest of their lifetime. But not so with me. In the course of my testing, we discovered that I am very allergic to the iodine. So surgery is the only option for me.

So, out it comes!

The thyroid gland sits at the base of the throat and surrounds the windpipe. Just behind the thyroid are the vocal nerves. In order to get at the gland, they will have to cut an incision in my neck and move all the muscles aside so that they can see what they're doing. Everything is so tightly packed in there, that they don't do laparoscopic surgery. This means that for the first several weeks of recovery, my speaking voice will be hoarse. My singing voice will be out of commission for about three to four months. If it is not damaged by the surgery (and there is no cancer - please, Lord, no cancer!) I should be able to sing again by the summer.

I'm worried.
Okay, I'm terrified.

There have been times, in the depths of my depression that I have wished for some deadly disease to take me quietly. Something that I wouldn't have to explain to God. I have hated my life - and that is a very sad thing. There is so much joy in my life, but all I could see was the suffering.

And that's the dark part. But that's not the end of the story.

This is old hat, but here goes: You never appreciate what you have until you might lose it. 

I have always appreciated my voice. Maybe I've appreciated it too much, in fact. While I have been off chasing my muse, everyone else has had to stand by and wait for me. My husband put college aside for me. My children have done without me for large expanses of time. My faith is intimately connected to my voice and my ability to sing for Mass.  It is an exercise in humility for me to NOT sing (and to ignore those who sing poorly) during Mass.

So many, many times I have bristled with the idea that I could do something so much better than someone who already had the job. I have harmed friendships and careers with my ambition. And where has that left me? Busy to the point of a breakdown. Lonely, though I have many friends. And frightened that the thing on which I have built my life, (and in many respects, my faith,) is going to be taken away.

But, there is hope. There is always hope - because we have a Savior. And he is so good to us.

For me, that hope came to me while singing for the funeral of a woman who was just a little bit older than me. As I sang the familiar parts of the Requiem Mass and listened to the readings I had heard a thousand times over I was reminded of God's great generosity.

The first reading was Isaiah 25:6-7, 9:

On this mountain the LORD of hosts will provide for all peoples. On this mountain he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, the web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces; the reproach of his people he will remove from the whole earth; for the LORD has spoken. On that day it will be said: "Behold our God, to whom we looked to save us! This is the LORD for whom we looked; let us rejoice and be glad that he has saved us!"

I know that I need to trust that God has a plan for my life. I have no idea what that plan is. Maybe that's why things have rolled out the way they have over the past several weeks. There have been many new doors opened to me - and some closed, too.

I may have years left or I may die tomorrow. There is no way for me to know when I will be called. The best I can do is to live for God in the time I have - however long that time may be.

So, in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang, I found a prayer today while beta testing an app that I thought fit the bill pretty well:

Prayer Against Depression

by St. Ignatius of Loyola

O Christ Jesus

When all is darkness

And we feel our weakness and helplessness,

Give us the sense of Your Presence,

Your Love and Your Strength.

Help us to have perfect trust

In Your protecting love

And strengthening power,

So that nothing may frighten or worry us,

For, living close to You,

We shall see Your Hand,

Your Purpose, Your Will through all things.

(via Catholic Short Prayers App - http://shortprayers.valent.co/)

Finding Direction

There are times in my life when I feel very keenly that the world is unraveling quickly. I don't know if this is a function of my struggles with mental illness or if it's a real sense that time is moving past more swiftly as I age. 

As things move along, I find myself stumbling into walls of frustration and down hallways of worry. And, in my worry, I begin to go in many different directions at once. Then, suddenly, everything becomes scattered and disorganized.

Me: Are we going in the right direction?
Myself: I can't tell. Let's try another path.
Me: Is this the right way?
Myself: Maybe, but this one looks good, too.
I: Well, we can't go all three ways at once! Pick one!

It's at these moments that I find myself searching out the solace of the Mass and quiet time with the Blessed Sacrament.

Spending time alone and quiet in adoration or at least at a prayerful mass is essential to my health, both as a person, and as a Catholic. It's in those silences that I can hear the "Holy GPS Voice" telling me where the next turn should be.

There is a lovely hymn, the text of which is by Bl. John Henry Newman, that reminds me to be patient and to trust God when I can't see where I'm going.

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene; one step enough for me.

But, in order to see the next step, I have to keep my eyes fixed on God. He is the lamp that lights the way. Sometimes I need a reminder that no matter what "noise" is going on in my life, if I keep my attention on the Blessed Sacrament, I will find my way. God will not let me fall unless I pull my hand from His like a runaway toddler.

Focus - Pray - Trust

It seems so simple, but it is so hard to do.

A Summer of Music, A Butter Cow & Cold, Delicious Milk

Once upon a time, I was a teenager.

Yes, that's me in my amazing, polyester uniform.
Oh, the glasses! Oh, the mullet!
Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?

I know. It's hard for me to believe, too.

The summer I was 17 was a magical summer. Having completed my junior year in high school, I was already looking toward realizing my dream of being a professional musician. To that end, my choir director, Mrs. Essman, nominated me for a few awards and opportunities. One was the National Choral Award, (which I won). The second was a scholarship to the Governor's Summer School for the Arts at Ohio University, (which I was awarded). And the third was the one that would change my life in more ways than I could have imagined.

When I got the notification that I had been accepted into the ranks of the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir, I was ecstatic. Just a few short months later, I reported for practices a week before the Ohio State Fair opened. At the time, The Ohio State Fair was the longest state fair in the United States, clocking in at 21 days. So, in the end, I was holed up on a bunk bed, in an un-air-conditioned dorm (right across from a very smelly sheep barn) for an entire month.  Not that I was complaining. As the oldest of five kids, I was glad to get out of the house and off on my own.

My first wave of homesickness hit me when I arrived in the cafeteria for dinner the first night. None of us were quite sure what the entree was. We assumed it was meat, but it had been pre-chewed and re-formed into pork chop shaped objects then covered in a layer of gooey sauce that resembled brown Elmer's glue, more than gravy. We dubbed it Mystery Meat and resolved to find a better spot to eat from then on.

More often than not, our hang out was the Wendy's tent. But after a few days, Wendy's got expensive and so we opted, instead, for the fresh farm goodness of the Dairy Barn's swiss cheese sandwiches, fresh milk, and ice cream cones. You could eat like a king for about $2.00. But the best part of the Dairy Barn was the air conditioning.

Each year, the American Dairy Association honors someone, or something uniquely "Ohioan" by creating a sculpture in butter and displaying it with a cow and calf, also sculpted out of butter. Even though the sculptures are kept in a cooler, to maintain the constant temperature in the summer heat, the whole building had to be air conditioned. We spent many evenings in the Dairy Barn just fascinated by the Butter Cow Display. How could you make something that realistic looking out of butter?  Actually, it was pretty cool. In addition to being, well...cooler than our dorms.

When the Fair began we sang.
And sang. And sang.
And we marched and marched.

We'd have between 4 and 6 shows per day and we hoofed it from spot to spot. I, being a foolish girl, had decided to come forward to volunteer my bass-drum playing skills to the drum corps and that was why the 1986 AOSFYC boasted the very first all-girl drum corps in the fair's history. We were very proud of ourselves until it was 98 degrees and we had to march the entire length of the mile-long fairgrounds carrying our big, heavy drums. Then we were just tired. And very thirsty.

So back to the dairy barn we went.
Tell you what: Milk never tasted so good.

This year is the 50th Anniversary of the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir.  Founded in 1963 by Glenville Thomas, the choir has marched in the Parade of Roses, The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and has sung all over Europe and the United States.  Each year, students from all over Ohio submit applications for the positions within the choir. In my year, there were 310 positions and more than 1,500 applications. Some years were smaller, but none were bigger.  Added all together over the lifetime of the choir more than 8,000 students have made their way through this program. That's a large impact.

Interestingly enough, it all comes back to the Dairy Barn again this year. Glenville Thomas and the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir are the honorees this year for Butter Cow.  It's a massive sculpture and took 6 people to complete. Check out this video to see how it's put together.

We used to go with our kids every year. Invariably, we would stop off in the Dairy Barn to see the Butter Cow and have ice cream and sandwiches, but as the kids got older, it got hard to go.  I haven't been to the fair for a few years now. Too busy. Too hot. Too expensive.

But this year, I think I need to make a pilgrimage to see the Butter Cow and have a swiss cheese sandwich in the Dairy Barn with my husband. After all, you can still eat like a king for $4.00.

And I need a picture with that Butter Cow. 
(I wonder if I can find my shirt?)

If you're in the area, you can visit the Butter Cow, too. The Ohio State Fair runs July 24th - August 4th, 2013. For more information about what's happening at the fair, click here.

How It Happened

I was standing in the gymnasium when I saw him for the first time.  His hair was the color of a slightly oxidized penny and he had a voice and a laugh as big as the whole room.  A mutual friend brought him over to introduce me and, suddenly, I was this full-sized leprechaun's new best friend even though I couldn't remember what his name was.

We sat together in the folding chairs under the yellowish glare of the mercury lights that illuminated the basketball court.  We traded snarky comments about the joy of denim chasuables on which each teen that came before us and each teen that would come after us could leave their mark.  Some had just left a signature.  Some had left primitive rainbows.  Some had left smarmy "I will always love all of you!"s with hearts.

For some, this would be the zenith of a sharp arc of religious fervor that began two weeks ago when they signed up for this retreat and would end in a month when the priest gave a rare homily on chastity or obedience.  Or perhaps they'd last a month, until they were too tired to get up for mass one Sunday morning after a good party the night before. Or perhaps their faith would be eroded away by creeping relativism.  Left to their own devices to determine right from wrong, they would melt away; one to agnosticism, one to the local mega-church and another to paganism - places where they felt like they could control God and His plans for their lives.

Still others would work to burnish their newly minted faith awakening by trying to continue the feelings of warmth and joy they were experiencing today.  These would last a few more years, until they found that being a Catholic isn't always fun and sometimes it's downright uncomfortable.

But for others, it would mark a change in their whole lives; others like my new best friend and me.
As the strains of "Somewhere Out There" died away, we rolled our eyes loudly, and the crowd gathered in a huge circle for a group hug.  We drifted apart, and I forgot all about him.

In a couple of years, though, it would be this new best friend who would track me down by calling all of my classmates until he found me.  It would be he who would rescue my faith from springing up and withering away, by transplanting it into the dark, rich loam of truth and love.  It would be he who divided every care with me and doubled every one of my joys.

There are those that speak of how God sees time.  They speak of the eternal now.  As I age, I begin to see what that means.  Suddenly, twenty-six years seems like the blink of an eye.

Chicken McNuggets and Christmas

I don't know why, but of all other times of the year, Christmas brings with it a craving for certain things. Those of you who know me know that I am rarely parted from my Dr. Pepper. It is a staple at my house. My children tease me mercilessly about being an addict. I actually count the cans before I go to bed and before I leave in the morning to see if anyone has taken any without permission. I am still not sure if that says more about me or about them.

But, during the holiday season, I drink Coca Cola. Yes, Coke is "it" for me in December. I love how it tastes in December. It's so biting and fresh! Actually, I think it's those adorable Santa Claus drawings on their labeling.

Chicken McNuggets are also a hot item for me during Christmas. And although my favorite sauce is Barbecue, I will frequently branch out into such wild things as "Sweet and Sour". There is something about McDonald's Chicken McNuggets that make it a Christmas thing. Maybe it was all those years of getting McDonald's Gift Certificates in my stocking and then going out to shop the big clearance sales with my best friends. We always thought we were so cool, walking to Northland, finding the deals and then hitting McDonald's on the way back to my friend's house. It was even more cool to get to pick out my own lunch and not have to get whatever my mom thought I ought to have. Invariably, I chose Chicken McNuggets. I am certain that it had nothing to do with the wonderful ad campaign they ran for Chicken McNuggets all during the holiday season (with a roaring fire and a very plush looking stocking with McDonald's Gift Certificates (just like the ones I got in my stocking)).

And so it is, that this year, I have discovered that I am a creature of advertising. Half-starved from working to catch up from an entire month off of work and armed with a McDonald's Gift Card, I headed to the drive-thru this afternoon. This year, McDonald's is advertising their McRib sandwich and, despite the fact that I am allergic to pork, I actually considered ordering one. But somewhere inside of me, that little girl with a fistful of McDonald's Gift Certificates said, "No, thank you. I'd like a 10 piece McNugget with barbecue sauce and a medium Coke."

Sometimes the strangest things become holiday traditions.

The woman in the mirror

Some mornings I wake up, look in the mirror and find a beautiful, self-possessed 40 year old woman looking back at me. Her grey hair is not a distraction from her face, but adds to its mature beauty. Her eyes are bright and open. Her cheeks rosy and her lips full and pink. Her face is gracefully rounded, but pleasant in its aspect.

And then there is most days...

Most days I slump into the bathroom click on the light and squint away the last vestiges of the sleep that wasn't quite enough to start my day. I look in the mirror and I see a haggard middle aged woman, whose grey hair blends in with her grey complexion. Her eyes are ringed with bags under the rings under the circles under her eyes. Jowls hang from the jawline of her puffy face.

What makes the difference? It's the same woman. I used to think it was a lack of sleep, but I have had nights when I have been out late having fun only to get up the next morning to the "beautiful one".

Maybe it is attitude. Maybe it is feeling loved and lovable. Maybe it is feeling comfortable with who I am, where I have been and where I am going that makes me look bright and beautiful. Maybe its the dull day-to-day grind that makes me look like I've been drug through a knothole backwards.

I just think it's interesting. All the same features are there, but somehow, they look different to me.

Photo: Old Woman/Young Woman Optical Illusion.

Cleaning Revisited

Kind of like "Brideshead Revisited"...
(OK, maybe not.)

Once Upon a Time....
I was the cleaning lady for my office. The building I work in is pretty substantial and I was the only one cleaning it. It took me about 6 hours each week to clean it (working really, really fast) and still I was getting home pretty late at night, so I asked them to find someone else for that task. Not only was it getting in the way of family life, I was exhausted! They found a new person, but now, that person has moved on and I, seeing that things were starting to get out of control again, stupidly volunteered for part of the job again.

I hate to clean. It is, in fact, the thing-most-likely-to-stick-my-butt-to-a-chair. If I even think of cleaning, I will become paralyzed, my butt will become fused to whatever chair I am sitting on and I will be unable to clean at all. But today, I discovered the antidote!

I was asked to start cleaning when I got here, instead of waiting until the afternoon. This, in essence, made it impossible for me to think about cleaning, I just had to do it. Now, it is 3:00 in the afternoon and having cleaned the three bathrooms, the kitchen, and having swept and mopped the entire first floor, I am ready to take on everything else in the building.

Of course, I don't HAVE to, since that's not what I was asked to do... More's the pity for me and them. I would have done an excellent job. Instead, right now I am sitting here admiring my shiny, clean marble hallway and thinking, "Darn, I'm awesome..." I'd better look out before someone knocks me off my cloud.

But that's the secret. Start in the morning before I develop an apologia for why I don't have time or energy. Gosh! It almost makes me like cleaning.

The To-Do List

Once upon a time, about 20 years ago, I had a friend introduce me to the "to do list". Now, let it be said that to do lists are generally a good thing. When kept in balance with the rest of one's life, they increase productivity and help get your back end moving when you feel like you just can't do anything.

Anyway, I was coming out of a depression and couldn't seem to motivate myself to do anything at all. So my friend said, "This evening, write down 5 things to do tomorrow. They can be as simple as 'get dressed'. Then, as you complete the items, cross them off. It will make you feel better." And she was right. I started small and gradually got to the point where my to-do list was a vital part of my evening ritual.

And then came Franklin-Covey...
Franklin-Covey is the to-do list on steroids. It is a brilliant instrument of time management. It is amazing how many things you can get done in a day by listing and prioritizing things. My to do list grew from 5 items to about 25 items. And some days I add more things to the list than I take off. No one ever warned me about the to do list and how it can take over.

As imaged by Franklin-Covey, the to-do list does not assist your life, it rules it. The list directs how you will live, when you will eat, how long you will sleep. Everything goes on the list. It also demands that you carry a heavy binder everywhere you go. But don't worry, it all changed again...enter the Palm Pilot.

I have one of these now (I know, I am only about 8 years behind the curve). I like it (probably because I am devoted to gadgets). It is more convenient than the big binder, and I can still prioritize my to do list. It beeps at me when something is due. It reminds me to do things like LOOK at my to do list. But, somehow it seems to take so much more time to enter everything into the to do list. I feel like (and maybe this is just because I am still getting used to it) I spend half my time attending to the list, thereby cutting into the time I have to attend to the item I am putting on the list.

This could take some getting used to. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't go back to paper and pen and 5 important things. But, this will save a lot of trees in the end and the reality is that I have become so dependent on my to do list, that shrinking it, would cause problems. And with all the things I have been forgetting to do recently, writing things down is essential.

So palm pilot it is...that is until I get a snazzier cell phone.

The Surprise Party

Well, I turned 40 on Thursday. People keep asking me how it feels and I tell them, "40 feels a lot like 39, only slower".

My husband and mother threw a surprise party for me on Thursday evening and it was lovely, but not a surprise. Mom wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, but my husband decided that they couldn't really surprise me with the party (I always find out), so he would surprise me with the guest list. I wasn't allowed to ask who was invited or who was coming or "Did you invite...?" I just had to take what rolled out. And what rolled out was lovely Old friends, new friends, long-lost friends, friends I see everyday...

As I sat looking at the crowd of assembled people trying to delicately eat some hot wings and barbecue meatballs, I was reminded of some past surprise parties. This was not the first time Mom had tried to surprise me.

When I turned 16, she threw a surprise party for me and only three people came. I wasn't particularly sad, but I knew that Mom was. I had a lot of fun making custom pizzas with my three friends, one of whom had moved to another school earlier in the year. Later, I found out that she had invited a ton of people and that some of them had even said they would come, but didn't show up. Now, of course, I know that life happens and the best-laid plans sometimes go awry. I can remember, though, at 16, feeling a little sorry for myself that more of my friends didn't come.

When I turned 21, my husband helped my mother with the party. This is truly one of my favorite stories. My husband and his sister, Julie, were supposed to keep me out of the house while it was being cleaned up (with 3 little brothers and sisters still at home this was no small task). I guess Mom announced to everyone, after we left, what they would be doing today, whereupon my Dad went to the basement and began to sort old computers. As if anyone was going to be in the basement! Oh well...

Anyway, because Julie and Michael couldn't keep me interested in shopping for long enough, I came home early. Mom was in a state and couldn't figure out how to get me upstairs so that people could arrive. And even if she got me upstairs, she couldn't get people in the house without me knowing. Finally, when the first guest arrived (my mother-in-law-to-be) Mom lost her cool and told me about the surprise. I had had no idea. I was so shocked and thrilled. Michael sent me upstairs to get changed into something a little more party-like and as I was curling my hair, my friends, Missy and Kristen came running up the stairs shouting "Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!" I remember laughing and smiling so much that evening.

But, nothing beats the 40th. They had to get a room at a local parish in order to get all the people in. I don't know how many people came, but it was a lot. And, as my mother-in-law always says, all the right people came. They always do. Everyone had a good time. Everyone had plenty to eat (and it was so good, Mom)! And, I am humbled, truly humbled, by all of these people's good wishes and kindnesses and those of the people who called me to let me know that they could not attend but were thinking of me.

As I was sitting there, surveying all the people in the room through misty eyes, one of my close friends leaned over my shoulder and said to me, "Now, when you feel like no one cares, just look around this room in your memory and remember how many lives you have touched and how many people care."

I can't believe I have so many friends. I wonder, sometimes, what they see. But, I am grateful, all the same.

Photo: St. Pixel's Blog - Sharona

Apologies

I simply have to say it:
I have decided that men NEVER say, "I'm sorry."
(My husband is a very notable exception.)

They say things like, "I'm sorry you feel that way," or "I'm sorry if I upset you," (this one is usually trotted out because there are tears and they want you to stop crying). But, men never just say, "I'm sorry."

Sometimes, if a man is feeling exceptionally bad about something he said, he will compliment you in the presence of others. It's always a heart-felt compliment and it's a dead give-away. That's just how he says, "I'm sorry." But why not just SAY it? I just don't understand it!

Then, there are the men who resort to my personal favorite; they act like nothing happened. This is especially popular with men who want you to accept the blame for the incident, even if it is totally their fault. Once they figure out that they were wrong and you are not going to take the blame, they just want to sweep the whole thing under the rug.

I must confess that I am inclined to allow them to do this, because I know by the time we get to that point, they're sorry. I am not sure why I let them get away with it. Part of it is the act of forgiveness. Part of it is just wishing to get on with my life. I guess I just allow them to save whatever is left of their dignity after they realize that they were in the wrong, and then hope that they give me the same courtesy later.

Of course, they never have to apologize to me, because I am always apologizing to them. In fact, one of my new year's resolutions was to stand up for myself, to stop apologizing for everything under the sun and only apologize when it was really my fault and there was something I could have done (or not done) to have averted the situation.

It's not that I won't accept blame for the things I do wrong. I am not opposed to accepting blame when it is justified. This is simply a matter of meaning what I say. In apologizing for everything, I have, perhaps, become somewhat insincere.

Maybe that's what men fear, being considered insincere. But, it sure would be nice to hear those two little words every now and then...

How long to sing this song?

One of my favorite bands in the world is U2. Way back in the day (before they were really, really cool to listen to) I had a tape of them in concert called "Live at Red Rocks" (circa 1984).

The final song on the album is a song called "40". The lyrics for "40" are taken from Psalm 40, "I waited patiently for the Lord. He inclined and heard my cry..." The refrain is "How long to sing this song?" Which appears no where in the Psalm, but Bono just added it in. For some reason, this song has always been a comfort to me in times of trial.

But really, Bono doesn't seem to mean it as a comfort, but more as a kvetch. As if to say, "OK God, I am waiting patiently, but how long to I have to sing this song?" It's really quite a funny paradox of theme. A reminder of the patience that is rewarded with good things from God, and then the impatience that the singer feels when asked to wait longer and be more patient. It's such a human thing. It's one of the things I like about Bono's lyrics. They are so very human and show his search for God's presence in the world.

Right now, I am trying to wait patiently for God to straighten some things out.

But, I am not being very patient today. I keep asking, "How long, O Lord? How much more are you going to ask of me?" And "40" keeps playing in my head, reminding me to be patient, but also nagging that it seems to be taking an awfully long time to straighten things out.

But, if all of time is as one moment for God, the delay probably doesn't seem so long to Him. Our "eternities" are just a blink for Him, after all. And the really cool thing about that concept is that it's all already finished, too. There is no waiting. It's all done and this is the answer. (Religion is so weird and so cool like that.)

So, I keep asking, "How long?"
And God answers, "Until it's time."
And the really impatient me says, "So, um...when will that be?"
But the older, wiser me knows it's already done. It will all be OK.

What are you doing New Year's?

For the past 20 years there has only been on New Year's Eve party I have ever attended. If your last name is O'Keefe and part of your family tree includes Gini (my mother-in-law) there is only one party: her party. It isn't that she's selfish and doesn't want us to have fun that she's not included in, but more to the point, she wants to know that we are all safe. And, besides, why would you want to go anywhere else? Read on, and you'll see what I mean.

When Gini was young, her father was in the diplomatic corps in Occupied Japan. I believe they lived there for about 5 years before returning to the U.S. It became a tradition in their family to eat Chinese food on New Year's Eve. After all, it has all the elements of a good "lucky" New Year's feast: you know, pork and cabbage. So, these days, Gini puts on the Chinese Buffet to end all others every New Year's Eve.

The family begins to gather at about 5 or 6 in the evening and we all help to assemble the Egg Roll filling. Then we roll them. Throughout the night, Mike will fry up several at a time so they are always fresh and hot. Gini makes her absolutely-not-to-be-believed Sweet and Sour Pork and Fried Rice. And, of course, there are the usual drinks, served from the Art Deco bar that she and I found at an Antique Shop 5 years ago.

The nice thing about having Chinese Food on New Year's is that you can eat a lot of it. Every 20 minutes or so, you're hungry again, so the joy lasts all night.

My other favorite tradition of New Year's Eve at the O'Keefe's: Peanut Brittle. My father-in-law's family used to run a confectionery in town back in the 30's, 40's and 50's, and into the 60's. Mike still makes the BEST peanut brittle ever. The peanuts are always delicious and the brittle part (that sugary stuff that sticks it all together) is so clear that you can see light through it. It absolutely melts in your mouth. Then, there is the fudge and all the cookies and dips and cheese balls. Yes...it IS all about the food.

People that we see once or twice a year as well as family and friends of all the siblings (there are 6 kids in my husband's family) circulate through the kitchen (where all good parties happen). They have a bite to eat and talk about their families and what they are up to. We all talk and laugh about the passing year, hitting all the taboo subjects like politics and religion. We express our hopes for the coming year and talk a good game about our newest resolutions. We marinate in the cigarette smoke (Gini and her friends are big smokers , as are most of Michael's siblings) and pray that we don't have sinus infections in the morning. But, we wouldn't want to miss out on the conversation by going to the not-smoke-filled room... And we would never just not show up: The rule is "If you don't show up, you get talked about."

At about 11:59, we turn on the Times Square celebration and watch the ball drop, giving each other kisses and hugs to ring in the New Year and drinking toasts with Champagne, or Gran Spumante, or sparkling grape juice, or 7up - if you had too much Chinese Food.

By about 12:30, it's all over and we head for home to sleep off that 15th Egg Roll we had at 12:10 and remember why we make that New Year's Resolution to lose weight each year.

Happy New Year!!!

The Birthday Party

The Princess turned 13 today.

I am getting old and she is getting big. I cannot believe it has only been 13 years since I held her in my arms and nursed her right after she was born. I can still remember her sweet little cry when she couldn't her her father and I talking. She would hush to hear us every time we'd talk and fuss when we were quiet. I still remember how well she fit into the crook of my arm, unlike her ginormous brother who I had to use both arms to hold! She was petite and beautiful and a miracle!

And she is still a miracle... I am always amazed at her strength and poise. When she is tormented at school, she almost always has a way to turn the situation around on her tormentors. When she sees injustice being done to her friends, she stands up for them. When a friend comes to her with a problem she is always ready to help, but never compromises her principles. This is not your average 13 year old.

The Princess had a party to which she invited all of her friends. We had a blast. It was chaotic and noisy and a lot of fun. We ate pizza and subs and made the messiest cake ever.

I wish I had a camera because I TOTALLY would have won the messiest, ugliest cake of the year award. The store was out of frosting for cakes, so my husband bought marshmallow cream instead. We baked a devil's food layer cake and put the marshmallow cream between the layers, unfortunately, as the marshmallow settled, the cake began to slide. I stuck it together with bamboo skewers and put more marshmallow cream on the top and then topped it with rainbow sprinkles. It looked kind of like a sundae cake.

When it came time to light the candles on the cake, we realized that we had forgotten to get candles, so I lit the skewers and had her blow them out. Then, as my husband cut the cake, it literally started disintegrating right there on the platter. By the time we had enough pieces to go around, it was mostly chunks of chocolate cake covered in marshmallow cream goop. It was delicious and messy and sticky and it got everywhere.

Really, it was hilarious.

Maybe you had to be there...

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!!! We love you!

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

If you know me personally, you are already laughing. That's because you know what my house looks like.

My new task set at work is cleaning. When he asked me to take it on, I looked at my boss, wrinkled my brow and said, "Um...you've never been to my house."

"No. I haven't," he replied. I smiled at him ruefully, knowing that my neat-freak boss was never, ever going to be invited to my house, much as I like him. He'd have a heart-attack.

I kind of chuckled, "I am notoriously bad at housekeeping, you know."

He gave me his best "Mona Lisa smile", which usually means I am annoying him. "But, in fairness," I continued quickly, "I used to be able to keep house...Then I had kids..."

He raised his eyebrow at me and drawled, "Well, you'll either love it or hate it."

But, now three weeks into the deal I am coming to grips with something. I like cleaning. I like looking at the floor I just mopped and seeing that it shines. I like walking back into the restroom I just cleaned and smelling that familiar chemical-y smell of cleanliness. I like finding that little spot that no one else has touched since God was a boy and getting it clean. I like looking at the clean, streak-free windows of the office doors after I use Windex and a squeegee on them. And, as always, I like the sense of having done a good job.

Cleaning creates its own energy. When I was a young mother, my mother-in-law and I were on the phone one Saturday morning and I commented that I needed to clean the house, but I was just totally unmotivated. I was so tired. She told me, "Energy begets energy. Just start with something small and everything else will get done."

She told me that every morning when she got up, she'd throw a load of laundry in the washer to start while she made breakfast for the family. That way at least one thing would have gotten done, even if she burnt the house down making the eggs. While she drank her coffee, she'd make a list of everything she needed to accomplish. Then, after the kids went off to school, she'd fold it (now, it didn't always get put away...but it was clean). Then she'd move on to the next task.

My mother-in-law was right (she usually is). If I start with a small routine task and I make a plan, it all gets done. But still, I hate the idea of getting started. Sometimes it just seems overwhelming.

Then again...(see my last post.)