tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16445460779623683632024-03-05T01:37:37.555-06:00A bit of blissBliss can be found in small things and small moments through a heart attuned to gratitude and praise to the Lord.
"The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places; Indeed my heritage is beautiful to me. I will bless the Lord who has counseled me; Indeed my mind counsels me in the night.
You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever."
Psalms 16: 6-7,11
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-10847902268838093922018-04-17T23:45:00.001-05:002019-01-11T16:15:43.935-06:00Still three eggs in nest<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iXewwf7bpkn_P-KYWndjTCLaiAWM87WLOCk53nh60apd6uJkhtPOvQCNYqGULX7iJvQ7xJzwUGUI46ajk4J73OYx5bxzoTDqldW56eh4SmWwoBnD1aMDXv-lEWxFsg2G9rhbsSMYeAEu/s1600/IMG_0990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iXewwf7bpkn_P-KYWndjTCLaiAWM87WLOCk53nh60apd6uJkhtPOvQCNYqGULX7iJvQ7xJzwUGUI46ajk4J73OYx5bxzoTDqldW56eh4SmWwoBnD1aMDXv-lEWxFsg2G9rhbsSMYeAEu/s400/IMG_0990.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Mama robin did not stir or seem the least bit perturbed when</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I snapped this picture today, standing just about three</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">feet away from her.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After two cold nights with temperatures below freezing, the weather returned to spring today and by the end of the day it had warmed to about 70 degrees. I don't think any of the three robins' nests I observed last year endured nights that chilly.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">No more eggs have been laid in this nest since Saturday, so it seems <span style="background-color: white;">the mama is finished and just waiting for the babies to come. I'm still wondering about the first egg laid, when the other mama was on the nest, and if it is still viable. The last time I saw her on the nest was last Thursday morning. I don't know if she was on the egg at all Thursday night, nor do I know when the second mama arrived. My first sighting of her was on Friday morning. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">The first egg is due to hatch next Wednesday, April 25. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Usually all the eggs hatch within a 24 hour period. Since there were two days between the laying of the first and second eggs, it will be interesting to see how that goes.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black;">~~~<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</span></div>
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<br />Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-86801673137029987922018-04-15T23:36:00.002-05:002018-04-15T23:36:43.852-05:00Another rainy day of nesting <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGyn6syjrUhdmmtuAPcl6Tdt6l7hN4zvKxMU0sgihoGP51DHZgShSyuQsZ5D-rg0ikbC59zs66vyTJJkllNIBLxkpT52Yj7cdMvbHpMIV08S2jE8C8DZ-bV75i9iwdPc_h-hgVedujTVt/s1600/IMG_0976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGyn6syjrUhdmmtuAPcl6Tdt6l7hN4zvKxMU0sgihoGP51DHZgShSyuQsZ5D-rg0ikbC59zs66vyTJJkllNIBLxkpT52Yj7cdMvbHpMIV08S2jE8C8DZ-bV75i9iwdPc_h-hgVedujTVt/s320/IMG_0976.JPG" width="240" /></a>At my first peek of the nest this morning, it appeared mama robin was sleeping while keeping the eggs warm. Why not? It was still raining. Maybe the sound of the rain on the satellite dish made her sleepy.<br />
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And it probably gets boring, spending hours confined to a small space. I remember last year, seeing a mama robin yawn while sitting on her nest. I had no idea birds yawned.<br />
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Mama robin rarely left the nest today, taking only a few breaks. When the rain cleared in mid afternoon, I approached the nest with my camera. Again, she never moved or seemed the least bit concerned when I moved closer and snapped a couple photos.<br />
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Around 7 this evening, I returned to the nest while she was taking a break. There were still three eggs..same as yesterday... in the nest. I'm wondering if there will be more. Two of the three robins' nests I observed last year had four eggs in each nest. The third had five egg<br />
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~~~<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</div>
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Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-40556646707052297812018-04-14T22:13:00.000-05:002018-04-14T22:13:27.760-05:00Nest has three eggs<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9fm1nhCz8m35-iHwB2IXQfkRwLvZXhukyMyoc3jUZJFXZBGyMveobWOzDqHe6kM11faPCiOFFrFe53Gt-OHN_1uBzoZgkFLDSjP6-WrvFoWaB_kvBGLfFNPP_jeX4DXWLshM4AcW2En9/s1600/IMG_0964+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9fm1nhCz8m35-iHwB2IXQfkRwLvZXhukyMyoc3jUZJFXZBGyMveobWOzDqHe6kM11faPCiOFFrFe53Gt-OHN_1uBzoZgkFLDSjP6-WrvFoWaB_kvBGLfFNPP_jeX4DXWLshM4AcW2En9/s640/IMG_0964+%25282%2529.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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While the sun was still shining, early this morning, I checked the eggs in the nest and found there were still just the two.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qEfWDlC4JnIXZrysr82jQrYMNMfM38zryuPak1jnDQE4PmU521x7_ueezWZCIAjBV6fwmTfMhKjP2Dnh6Wmrxg-85Vdg0IW3NDle8FZ6bu5JZi34GEZmgCYKB8RClbCJemqDEdv3eYaz/s1600/IMG_0967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qEfWDlC4JnIXZrysr82jQrYMNMfM38zryuPak1jnDQE4PmU521x7_ueezWZCIAjBV6fwmTfMhKjP2Dnh6Wmrxg-85Vdg0IW3NDle8FZ6bu5JZi34GEZmgCYKB8RClbCJemqDEdv3eYaz/s200/IMG_0967.JPG" width="150" /></a>The mama with the pointed beak was still in the nest. Again, she remained still and on the nest while I snapped pictures of her. Shortly after this, the rain moved in and settled in for most of the day. Each time I looked in the direction of the nest, I saw the mama sitting on it. She took only a few breaks today.<br />
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Late this afternoon, I returned to the nest while the mama was taking a break. There were three eggs in it. I'm still wondering about the viability of the first egg.<br />
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I only saw the mama off the nest twice today. She may have wanted to make sure the eggs stayed dry. <br />
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~~~<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">B</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">~~~</span></div>
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<br />Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-27346131416807699522018-04-13T22:53:00.001-05:002018-04-13T22:53:10.092-05:00One nest, two eggs and two mamas? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhG8DHGsdJ5Iq3S6iEA8CQBFIXQ-X90-rYc3YnTe-Zbca_ht5cFM3D5OSgCFHUc9rlELagLgfekiBGdqkgxNN1OE7x-pLgs3Z6Q5t440bz_HfRtmlVyv4_WW-cJWGGhgqgWzRQlp20NSXw/s1600/IMG_0953+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhG8DHGsdJ5Iq3S6iEA8CQBFIXQ-X90-rYc3YnTe-Zbca_ht5cFM3D5OSgCFHUc9rlELagLgfekiBGdqkgxNN1OE7x-pLgs3Z6Q5t440bz_HfRtmlVyv4_WW-cJWGGhgqgWzRQlp20NSXw/s320/IMG_0953+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the second mama robin seen in this nest this week.</td></tr>
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This morning, while mulling over that no egg was laid in the robin's nest yesterday, I picked up my binoculars and looked toward the nest. To my surprise, there was a new mama sitting on the nest. Her pert and pointed beak looked the same as most of the robins I see in my yard.<br />
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But what had happened to the mama who sat in the nest on Wednesday and laid the first egg? The mama with the wide and crooked beak that looked so much like a fledgling from a nest last year in the same site. Had something happened to her? Was that the reason no additional egg was laid in the nest yesterday?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3TpCIjcJoy0VBZYu3Pbh2Hb31UfpR3I31MD2BqA0ZlXdmB6kl2vhHCez1uF1XSt5c-7N5ks8PlFgiKBK5SRfw-l_81phaSfBYGl1NvtAueeXOCziMbiKelF1ywRFKiEB-mbR0l7NY0ZB/s1600/IMG_0954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3TpCIjcJoy0VBZYu3Pbh2Hb31UfpR3I31MD2BqA0ZlXdmB6kl2vhHCez1uF1XSt5c-7N5ks8PlFgiKBK5SRfw-l_81phaSfBYGl1NvtAueeXOCziMbiKelF1ywRFKiEB-mbR0l7NY0ZB/s320/IMG_0954.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The first egg was laid in this nest on Wednesday,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">and the second was laid on Friday of this week.</span></div>
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Usually, one egg is laid each day, until the nest </div>
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is complete.</div>
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When I went outside to take pictures of the new mama, I was surprised that she allowed me to get close to the nest and take several photos of her. This, too, reminded me of last year's nest. The mama of that nest also allowed me to get close to the nest, even after the eggs hatched.<br />
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According to literature, robins and cardinals will sometimes share a nest. During my research, I didn't find any literature about two robins sharing a nest. The coming days will reveal if two mama robins are sharing this nest or if it has been taken over by another mother robin.<br />
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Since the first egg was left unattended for most of the second day, I wonder if the baby will survive. The mama sitting on the nest Wednesday took long breaks from the nest. After seeing her on the nest early yesterday morning, I did not see her at all during the afternoon. I did check the nest several times to see if a second egg had been laid. During those checks, I did not have to wait for the mama to leave the nest, because she wasn't on it. When I did the last check, it was almost dark and a mama was on the nest, facing inward with her tailfeathers extending out of the nest.<br />
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Late this afternoon, while the mama took a break from the nest, I checked and a second egg had been laid. This new mama rarely leaves the nest, except for short breaks.<br />
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~~~<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-61022903997328456172018-04-12T22:20:00.004-05:002018-04-12T22:33:34.577-05:00New mama in this nest<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXUp-mdlVq4aGE6hh8O4PJabx3gYyXdzeHl3kYcX1UchoMwN6tn1sEcsjBwQOry2iVyZsvFtulfUKCZh-1EMzJdp0EvQRQCWiNJS1aK4pRJzP74uP0tDMGV-dUiAFwHe-z_Q4ytffzKXr/s1600/IMG_3505+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXUp-mdlVq4aGE6hh8O4PJabx3gYyXdzeHl3kYcX1UchoMwN6tn1sEcsjBwQOry2iVyZsvFtulfUKCZh-1EMzJdp0EvQRQCWiNJS1aK4pRJzP74uP0tDMGV-dUiAFwHe-z_Q4ytffzKXr/s320/IMG_3505+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The mama robin in the new nest has a beak like </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">the baby in</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">this picture. This picture was made the day this baby fledged</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">from the same nesting site last year.</span></div>
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After mild overnight temperatures and a high in the mid 70s today, it seems like spring has finally arrived. To be sure, mama robins spending cool nights in nests can appreciate these warming temperatures.<br />
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This morning, I brought out my binoculars for a few looks at the nest from a bedroom window. For the first few looks, I only saw an empty nest, except for the one egg that was laid yesterday. Finally, I caught the mama in the nest. She was turned around and looking out of the nest. Sometimes, the mamas do turn around in the nest to face outward, but other times they sit on the nest in the same position they entered, with their tail feathers extending over the entrance to the nest.<br />
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With the mama looking out of the nest this morning, I got a good look at her. This was not the same mama that built a nest here last year. But there was something familiar about her. I noticed right away that she had the same beak as one of the babies that fledged from this nest last year.<br />
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That baby had a distinct beak that looked somewhat deformed. It seemed to give the baby bird a perpetual scowl. It was a broad and crooked beak that I didn't see on any of the other fledglings in the the three robins' nest I observed last year.<br />
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Seeing the mama with this beak made me wonder if she might have been one of the babies from this nest last year. The baby with this particular beak seemed to be the bossy one in the nest, so I named it Bossy. It was also the largest of the four babies and the first to fledge. It was concerning to me that this baby fledged on the 11th day, presumably three days early. But it stayed on the ground near the nest until the other babies fledged, and I watched the parents care for it, along with those still in the nest.<br />
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Tomorrow, I am going to try and get a picture of the mother on the nest and compare it to the baby from last year. That's also something I plan to research: Do robins return as adults to the site of the nests from which they fledged to build their own nests?<br />
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I checked the nest late this afternoon and early evening to see if a second egg had been laid today. There was none. Usually, an egg is laid every day until there are <br />
3-5 eggs in the nest. Yesterday's egg was laid late in the day, so I thought that might be the pattern for this nest. It will be interesting to see how the egg-laying continues, especially since all the eggs usually hatch within 24 hours<br />
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~~~<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-64075169898061565092018-04-11T21:52:00.004-05:002018-04-11T21:52:27.105-05:00The first egg is in the nest<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh0ZM4KBn-izFz3paBT96wjKIahnHgs37hR6D0KBninU0XpzCmAyPJAZBW5R3JylwpOeDsg_CHyr5la5mtLNSlCyQmfJrlqBy_OGeumVAoLAHarjOiRtLfRZ5HdR2eSrzdv_fGMDrXbYU/s1600/IMG_0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh0ZM4KBn-izFz3paBT96wjKIahnHgs37hR6D0KBninU0XpzCmAyPJAZBW5R3JylwpOeDsg_CHyr5la5mtLNSlCyQmfJrlqBy_OGeumVAoLAHarjOiRtLfRZ5HdR2eSrzdv_fGMDrXbYU/s320/IMG_0935.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Late this afternoon (April 11, 2018), the first egg appeared</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">in</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> this</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> robin's nest, located in a satellite dish. Robins' eggs </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">typically hatch in 14 days.</span></div>
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After near freezing temperatures in the early morning hours, the sun returned today and by afternoon the warmth of the day, reached into the mid 60s. After a frigid weekend, the temperatures had remained cold on Monday and Tuesday. Still, I checked the nest both days and found nothing. <div>
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During the chilly morning hours today, I watched the robin parents scooting about on the ground near the nesting site but didn't see either of them going into the nest. Throughout the day I would occasionally pick up my binnoculars (left conveniently near a window in sight of the nest) and zoom into the nest but never saw the mama sitting there.</div>
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With tomorrow's temperature expected to rise into the mid 70s, I wondered if she would then start sitting on the nest and lay the first egg. When I returned home late this afternoon, I decided to take one last look at the nest for the day. Ahhh, it was there. One beautiful blue egg was in the nest. </div>
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From my observations of three robins' nests last year, I know that the first baby will hatch 14 days after the first egg is laid. According to literature, the babies hatch in order that the eggs are layed. With the appearance of the first egg, it's going to be an exciting four weeks watching this nest.</div>
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~~~<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</div>
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Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-36110387727867196822018-04-11T21:04:00.003-05:002018-04-11T21:04:25.233-05:00The nest is ready<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcN3YKld74bdlde2E30hyphenhyphenisbVsym-QzUYNhO82-5dBynrzvvKbzAOiul0-zF8LdODGC1bsuhZvldJUu7FauvsP5gKDpZPQTwBFLIcCBh0PAxBDOwOELmF0jp2DB5M2dh3eCtQ2k1wuyem/s1600/IMG_0933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcN3YKld74bdlde2E30hyphenhyphenisbVsym-QzUYNhO82-5dBynrzvvKbzAOiul0-zF8LdODGC1bsuhZvldJUu7FauvsP5gKDpZPQTwBFLIcCBh0PAxBDOwOELmF0jp2DB5M2dh3eCtQ2k1wuyem/s320/IMG_0933.JPG" width="240" /></a>As I watched this robin's nest come together, I noted the parents didn't seem to be in a great hurry to finish the nest.<br />
<br />
Earlier in the week they began bringing nesting materials to the back enclosed part of the satellite dish and just dumped them there.<br />
<br />
A few days later, the pile of leaves and grass were taking the form of a nest. By the weekend, the circular form had added a few inches of depth, providing sufficient space for the 3-5 eggs usually laid the by the mother robin.<br />
<br />
Freezing temperatures returned for the weekend, and although both parents were frequently moving about on the ground underneath the satellite dish, there was no sign of activity inside the nest.<br />
<br />
Apparently, the mother was waiting for warmer temperatures before laying eggs.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">B</span>~~~</div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-54131068898512149982018-04-05T13:19:00.003-05:002018-04-05T13:19:38.257-05:00Nesting season is here<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRrQEapR2EhmMooJ6Neulxm2Kn905NOC0OTu-PE2UZA1VeIExVv56cTBe93CB0AlsCj5bKnC0VElWBtm0PViZ8jbOSgGSxBqwRyQJ7nYdTRhdetqDPNE8f8rw__dQNLv9d56roAG6LSlS/s1600/IMG_0930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRrQEapR2EhmMooJ6Neulxm2Kn905NOC0OTu-PE2UZA1VeIExVv56cTBe93CB0AlsCj5bKnC0VElWBtm0PViZ8jbOSgGSxBqwRyQJ7nYdTRhdetqDPNE8f8rw__dQNLv9d56roAG6LSlS/s320/IMG_0930.JPG" width="240" /></a>Last week, it occurred to me that maybe we should remove a robin's nest that had been left inside our satellite dish for a year. After reading that robins rarely reused a nest, but sometimes doves did use vacated nests, I had decided to leave the nest there, hoping that a pair doves would use it for their nestlings.<br />
<br />
Since doves have a later nesting season than robins, I kept an eye on the doves that like to hang out on our roof and checked the nest often for eggs. Maybe the doves decided the dish would be too hot for sitting on eggs in the middle of summer, because there was no sign of nesting activity after the baby robins fledged in mid May last spring.<br />
<br />
The dish had provided me with a perfect spot for observing the beautiful blue eggs from the time they were laid until the babies poked holes in them and hatched. It was an exciting four weeks, watching the mother sitting on the nest, the babies pecking their featherless bodies out of their shells and then the feeding frenzy as both parents brought food to the nest.<br />
<br />
The parents became so accustomed to my face and voice that they stopped squawking when I came near the nest. The four babies also seemed to recognize my face and voice, because when each of them fledged and were on the ground near the nest, they stopped long enough for me to take close-up pictures. It was fun and sad watching them try their wings. In a moment, their world had expanded from a tiny nest to a wondrous expanse of land and sky. And then they were gone.<br />
<br />
For several weeks, I've noticed that some of the robins in the yard looked to be pairing up for the upcoming nesting season. I was hoping some of them would consider the satellite dish for a nest. Thinking that those scouting for a nesting site might think the satellite dish was already taken, we removed the leftover nest.<br />
<br />
Boom! A few days later, signs of a new nest appeared. It's taken a few days for the nest to take form, and it looks bigger than the one from last year, with a mixture of materials that include leaves and dried grass.<br />
<br />
This dish provides a great place for a spring nest. It doesn't get that hot, and it offers protection during spring thunderstorms.<br />
<br />
When I checked the dish this morning, all the nesting material had been plumped down and looks ready for the first egg to be laid.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">B</span>~~~<br />
04-04-2018</div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-36206809255050976312017-01-10T00:39:00.000-06:002017-01-10T00:39:16.031-06:00Riding the Rails: Lafayette to Los Angeles Part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rt0wE91iU9cB-7azbuGixhyyTf2bnIeMYmbB-jcwlPByq_p69tkLvcaYwIouweGsyUCEO5F8s1HgGRMcvXkwnF5ernQsq4hc0ixLmiYbRnAuVBtfmKsUKIk74c9X1YcS_jniWH3nxOcr/s1600/DSC00809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rt0wE91iU9cB-7azbuGixhyyTf2bnIeMYmbB-jcwlPByq_p69tkLvcaYwIouweGsyUCEO5F8s1HgGRMcvXkwnF5ernQsq4hc0ixLmiYbRnAuVBtfmKsUKIk74c9X1YcS_jniWH3nxOcr/s320/DSC00809.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Waiting for the Sunset Limited at Lafayette, La.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“I wouldn’t leave my car here for two weeks,” the young woman wearing a security guard uniform told me flatly, when I asked for directions to the free parking for Amtrak passengers and if there were restrictions on the length of time a vehicle could be left.<br />
<br />
“There is no security here at night after 10:30,” she informed me. Following her gaze toward the entrance to the Transit Center, I saw what appeared to be a number of loiterers. I felt a little uneasy in this parking lot at 11:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
“These trains are late a lot, and sometimes they are up to 16 or more hours late and come in here in the middle of the night,” she continued.<br />
<br />
“What about parking garages?” I asked. “Are there any close by?”<br />
<br />
“They’re too far away to carry your luggage,” she answered. “And this not a safe area at night.”<br />
<br />
“Are the taxis here at night?”<br />
<br />
“No.” she replied. “And if you call one, they may or may not show up. So many times, bus passengers have called a taxi, thinking their ride wasn’t going to show up. Then their ride gets here before the taxi, and the taxi driver is left high and dry. And if they do come, it could be an hour after you call. You can’t depend on them at night.”<br />
<br />
After driving more than 700 miles from our home in Tennessee, my husband, 15-year-old son and 12-year-old daughter had just arrived at the Transit Center in Lafayette, La., to board a train for our first long distance Amtak trip. This was an unstaffed station that only opened for about an hour for departures and arrivals. We had just gotten into town after spending the previous night with friends near Laurel, Miss. We still had about three hours to wait for the train.<br />
<br />
We were expecting adventure on the trip but not before boarding the train. <br />
<a name='more'></a>The area around the station did not look safe at mid day. I wondered if we should just turn around and go home.<br />
<br />
During the trip planning I had called the airport for information about parking and shuttle service. Parking was available there for a daily fee, as well as shuttle service. We headed over to the airport, which was close by and easy to find. At the shuttle service office, we learned that pick-up was available 24 hours a day. When I explained to the young woman there about the possibility of a late train arrival, she contacted the owner. He gave us his card and said to call on our return trip when we reached a certain town, and the shuttle would be waiting for us, regardless of the hour.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, it seemed like we had been rescued by a “Good Samaritan.” The owner also discounted the shuttle rate for us, and then offered to take us somewhere to eat before returning to the station. After we arrived back at the station, he made sure it was unlocked before dropping us off. He told us he provided this same service regularly to some local Jesuits who came in from trips on late buses. The airport parking and shuttle were unplanned expenses but provided much peace of mind.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
The air conditioned waiting room provided welcoming relief from the sweltering late June heat. A few loiterers were sitting in the small room, making for an uncomfortable presence for me, especially the one who kept staring at us and our luggage.<br />
<br />
A tall elderly man walked over and asked my husband how far we were going on the train. He told him we were going to California. The man said he was returning to his home in Oceanside, Calif., after attending the funeral of his son-in-law, who had been killed on an oil rig in Louisiana. He also mentioned he was 85 years old and loved to travel by train.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, a middle-age black couple entered the waiting room. The wife told me she had just called “Julie,” the automated Amtrak agent, and that our train, Sunset Limited, was running about 20 minutes late. She told me that she and her husband, a minister in Baton Rouge, were traveling to Los Angeles to attend a family reunion. She and her husband would be returning on the same train the same date as we were. This was a pleasant surprise. Now I knew we would not be the only passengers getting off at this station on the return trip.<br />
<br />
As we continued chatting, we heard a train whistle. All seven of us went out on the platform and watched as a freight train rolled by. It wasn’t long before we heard another whistle, and this train slowed to a stop. The minister’s wife told me that she and her husband were going to get seats on the lower level where immobile passengers and others with special needs usually ride. She said they wanted to help look after those passengers.<br />
<br />
An attendant stepped off onto the platform and took our tickets. We followed her to the upper level, where she showed us to two pairs of seats on the right side of the train. She put two tags above our seats that read “Los Angeles.” All of our luggage fit into the bins above our seats. On the floor, I found room for the cooler I had brought, containing soft drinks, water, my favorite yogurt, homemade muffins and other snacks. Additional water, soft drinks and snacks were packed in our luggage.<br />
<br />
I asked if any bedrooms were still available and the attendant shook her head “no.”<br />
“They’re all sold out, “ she said. “We have two large groups traveling on this train from New Orleans to Los Angeles. One group is going to a wedding and the other one to a family reunion.”<br />
<br />
As we settled into our deep blue seats, I was surprised at how big and comfortable they were. They were designed like huge recliners with all the positioning options. I was glad I had kept my lightweight track suit on in spite of the heat in Lafayette. The air conditioning was very cool, but not uncomfortably cool. In a few minutes, I would go in search of the snack bar and a cup of coffee. But for now, I just wanted to settle back in my traveling recliner and watch the Cajun country go by.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the train clickity clacked at a leisurely pace toward Texas, our attendant made her way through the car, stopping at each seat to take dinner reservations in the dining room. When she stopped at our seats, our kids took one look at the menu and said they wanted to eat in the snack bar. Eating in the dining room is considered part of the train experience, but my husband and I decided to eat with our kids from the snack bar.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div>
Although there were several kids riding in our car, someone joked that it could be called the “quiet car.” At this point in the trip, nearly all the kids were fully engrossed in the tech toys they had brought along. A few babies were riding in the adjoining car, and all of them were peaceful. Many of the couples riding with us were middle aged. One gentleman said he was 83 and still working as an architect. A builder in the adjoining car joined him for a few minutes for a conversation about building trades. In the back of our car, several young men were riding together. One of them was a Larry the Cable Guy look-a-like, complete with the button front shirt and cut-off sleeves. He also had a black-eye and slightly puffy face. Whatever had caused this was not a problem on the train. He and his friends were very quiet.</div>
<br />
We had boarded the train at 4:15 p.m. and by 5 p.m. some passengers were heading to the dining room for the early reservations. Walking through the cars for the first time was not that difficult, although some passengers would grab the backs of seats as they walked. We quickly learned how to open the doors between cars to get to the snack bar. Steps at the front of our car led to the lower level where the restrooms and dressing room were located. This was another benefit of riding on a train. If you got tired of sitting, you could take a little walk.<br />
<br />
My first cup of Amtrak coffee (learned later that it was Green Mountain Coffee, although currently another organic coffee brand is served on board) more than met my high standards, and I was pleased to find the snack bar menu had a varied selection–pizza, assorted sandwiches and even kosher (Hebrew) hot dogs, chips, ice cream, pastries and beverages.<br />
<br />
A congenial and peaceful atmosphere settled over our car. It wasn’t long before the train rolled into St. Charles, La., and stopped at the station there. St. Charles was very interesting, where we caught glimpses of ships and oil rigs. And then we were in Orange, Texas, where we would begin more than 900 miles of travel across the state of Texas. It was dusk when the train stopped at Beaumont. After picking up a few passengers there, the train rolled slowly by a baseball park, and we could see a game in progress under the bright lights of the field.<br />
<br />
A freight train was having problems ahead of us, so the Sunset took a different route into Houston, which put us about three hours behind. Pillows were passed out to everyone in our car, and the lights were dimmed. Some passengers closed the curtains at their seats. I left mine open. After we finally got into Houston, about 11 p.m., more passengers took the few remaining seats in our car. When the train left Houston, it picked up speed and the sound from the tracks became quite noisy. The conductor and car attendant made frequent trips back and forth, walking at a brisk pace. But these were the only sounds of the night. I didn’t hear any of the babies crying or loud snoring from the adults. It wasn’t long before I fell asleep in my fully reclined seat.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-43749351105047417932017-01-10T00:35:00.000-06:002017-01-10T00:35:22.751-06:00Riding the Rails: Lafayette to Los Angeles Part 2<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FanJiSFOqeKTj6HMWDl9T6zokaDFw5YBPJPlB3VoVk6ldwWDHj92IzPl1XlYpgSUY1xvraDJh1OLc0xKzSyZOJF5gTr1yGKlsYfZIFnUBF3OXvwXBTuqUwDRX0Jph7rJk7AQn3n5EpNp/s1600/DSC00822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FanJiSFOqeKTj6HMWDl9T6zokaDFw5YBPJPlB3VoVk6ldwWDHj92IzPl1XlYpgSUY1xvraDJh1OLc0xKzSyZOJF5gTr1yGKlsYfZIFnUBF3OXvwXBTuqUwDRX0Jph7rJk7AQn3n5EpNp/s320/DSC00822.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the Pecos River in West Texas from a dirty train window.</td></tr>
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Awakening, I realized the train had stopped. From my window, I could see bright lights and a flurry of activity on the platform below. It was 5:30 a.m, and we had arrived in San Antonio, the time we were supposed to be leaving.<br />
<br />
In San Antonio, a coach and a sleeper car from the Texas Eagle, which had arrived earlier from Chicago, were attached to the end of our car. This was going to take some time, so I got up and went out on the platform where a few passengers had gathered, mainly smokers.<br />
<br />
Around 8:30 a.m., we left San Antonio, passing by the Alamo. In the distance we could see the hill country. The train turned south, and we were heading into the prairie.<br />
<br />
After leaving the prairie, we stopped at Del Rio, which had a pretty pink stucco station and looked new. From there, we caught our first glimpse of Mexico, just beyond the Amistad National Recreation Area. A park ranger boarded the train and talked about the history of the area and the terrain and pointed out landmarks, such as the Pecos River Bridge, once one of the tallest bridges in the country. He told us to keep an eye out for the miniature deer that roamed the area.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Not long after we left Del Rio, we rode through some small canyons at a pretty good speed, giving the sensation of riding a small but fun roller coaster. Another park ranger gave a narrative about the Big Bend National Park, as the train skirted it. We also learned that some of the towns we would be going by were lures for artists. I could see why this was true. The train seemed to be continuously looping around the same mountain ranges that changed colors on each side–sometimes emanating pastel hues and then changing to black and gold. It was amazing to watch these color changes from the same mountain ranges. Well... at least for the first dozen times. As hard as I tried to maintain an appreciation for this beauty, it did begin to wear off after several hours.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">***</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the day wore on, the children in our car tired of their techno toys and brought out the cards and board games they had brought for the trip. A teenage boy, who had been riding on the lower level with his grandmother, came up to our car and joined the kids. This boy was getting a lot of attention on the train because of his size. He was over six feet and probably weighed 300 pounds or more. The first question asked of him was his age. He said he was 15. And next, "Do you play football?" He answered, "Yes." He reminded me of William Perry, the former player for the Chicago Bears, who was affectionately called “The Refrigerator” or “The Fridge.” Since I never learned this kid’s name, I will call him “The Refrigerator Kid.”</div>
<br />
I was first struck by the way The Refrigerator Kid’s demeanor changed in regard to the people he was around. When I saw him in the lower level hall talking to his sweet-faced grandmother, he reminded me of a little boy in the way he deferred to her, obviously with great love and respect. Upstairs with the kids, he acted more like an adolescent, laughing and joking with them. And then he decided to flirt with our car attendant.<br />
<br />
Our car attendant was a young, attractive black woman, who seemed very mature and well grounded. She was attentive and conversational with everyone in the car, but the middle-aged and older women especially liked talking to her.<br />
<br />
As she was taking dinner reservations for the second night, The Refrigerator Kid said, “When we get back to LA, I want to take you out on a date.”<br />
<br />
She was not amused or taking this comment lightly. “I could get in trouble for even talking to you about going on a date,” she told him. “I am 31 years old.”<br />
<br />
“It don’t matter to me that you are 31,” he shot back.<br />
<br />
“Well, it matters to me that you are 15, and this conversation is over,” she said.<br />
<br />
The middle-aged women, sitting nearby and listening, applauded her with smiles. One of them scolded him and said, “Don’t you be trying to get her in trouble.”<br />
<br />
As soon as the car attendant moved on, he was back in adolescent mode, cutting up and laughing with the kids. Something about this kid pulled at my heart strings. Maybe it was because everyone constantly commented on his size. I wondered if this bothered him. Maybe it was because he said he was an only child who lived with his parents in "the hood," as he called it (Compton). Maybe it was because he at times bragged about where he lived but was so clean cut, well mannered and NEVER spoke any profanities or obscenities. In fact, there seemed to be an innocence in his baby face and loneliness behind his bright smile. At times, I would catch a wistful look on his face as he watched some of the kids with their parents. He just seemed to want to belong somewhere.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"> ***</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
We had left San Antonio at 8:30 a.m. and around 4:30 p.m. I spotted a stretch of I-10. All day, we had traveled without meeting any freight trains. We hadn’t gone into the siding once, and we had made up the lost time of the night before. But there was still no sign of being close to El Paso. Some college kids had gotten off at whistle stops along the way, and a few passengers had boarded. In some of these small towns, we could see where the blacktop roads actually ended. With no bus service in this part of the state, Amtrak provides the only public transportation for residents who need a way to get to colleges, major medical facilities and even airports.</div>
</div>
<br />
All day the train had rolled by well maintained fencing, but it was difficult to see what the fencing was keeping in or out. Few houses were visible, and the ones we saw were usually set way back with nothing but land around them. Throughout the day, the train had been climbing, ever gently, without any sense of pulling or struggling, and we were now at just over 4,000 feet, the highest elevation we would reach on the trip. And we were now in the desert.<br />
<br />
Finally, after several spotty looks at I-10, we traveled alongside the interstate for a while. I thought for sure we were close to El Paso. It wasn’t long before we saw some cultivation in the desert. On one side of the tracks, the desert was suddenly green but still barren on the opposite side. Ahead of this, we began rolling through some neighborhoods. My husband and I noticed air conditioning units were placed on the roofs of the houses and wondered why. .<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnzBub0woVK8c-2ilyZHC2dZrIvZMyV9jtaHmLXuyi88CACJ9-7WI6_Q3WYiWvxU1rPArU3EG5XXOdwivmyXtqvSCTHhVpKByqTZxKCNbzG0CCeG2Db6zg3KadJDLeVg3NoNFr3KpChWb/s1600/DSC00834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnzBub0woVK8c-2ilyZHC2dZrIvZMyV9jtaHmLXuyi88CACJ9-7WI6_Q3WYiWvxU1rPArU3EG5XXOdwivmyXtqvSCTHhVpKByqTZxKCNbzG0CCeG2Db6zg3KadJDLeVg3NoNFr3KpChWb/s320/DSC00834.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
As the train approached El Paso, we were fascinated by the wall of mountains of what appeared to be solid black rock. On one section of the mountains, I could see what looked to be a very rough road scaling the side.<br />
<br />
Since we had arrived on schedule, we were given some time to get off the train and go inside the beautiful and historic station.<br />
<br />
After leaving the train station, we traveled past a hillside covered with small houses, and it was here, that we learned we were within 30 feet of Mexico. Our kids were fascinated to “see” Mexico from their seat.<br />
<br />
Leaving El Paso, we were immediately in New Mexico and back in the desert. And then we were<br />
stopped in the desert. Freight traffic was heavy here. For a while we would stop and then go a little ways and then stop again. At times, it was hard to tell if we were moving or stopped. The freights would be moving so fast next to us, that it seemed like we were moving, too. It was getting dark, and some of the scrubby bushes in the desert looked like people walking. At first, I thought I was “seeing things” until the woman in the seat in front of me said, “Are those people or bushes?” It was a relief to learn that it wasn’t just my eyes that were being tricked.<br />
<br />
For more than an hour, we waited while freight trains zoomed by. Some of them were extremely long. It was completely dark when we began moving. The Continental Divide was just ahead, but we wouldn’t be able to see anything now.<br />
<br />
Just like the night before, the train picked up speed again. And in spite of the noise from the wheels, I was getting sleepy. I wanted to stay awake and see the lights of Tucson. A few people in our car were still awake and talking softly. All the kids were sleeping.<br />
<br />
I had brought some fleece throws for each of us to use for blankets. They were the perfect size for our seats and provided just the right amount of warmth at night when the car grew cooler. Snuggling under my throw, I tried to keep my eyes open.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, I awoke as some passengers were gathering their luggage to deboard at Maricopa, near Phoenix. I had missed Tucson. No need to try and stay awake now.<br />
<br />
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<br />Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-46690266782644106382017-01-10T00:22:00.000-06:002017-01-10T00:26:11.666-06:00Riding the Rails: Lafayette to Los Angeles Part 3<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYypcbJHalGS_IwlkQVvl8S7zfrS4kr1oVEyocJeDDzKxtRZx3oan3HRHr8ohUPKgch6MN9VhVavBJgWH7i7_-KJD4_uCeh1c1NWPYc_bu_yZb639jfLGrpwcUzfeQsMo6Rd82Y2wRLBu/s1600/DSC00853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYypcbJHalGS_IwlkQVvl8S7zfrS4kr1oVEyocJeDDzKxtRZx3oan3HRHr8ohUPKgch6MN9VhVavBJgWH7i7_-KJD4_uCeh1c1NWPYc_bu_yZb639jfLGrpwcUzfeQsMo6Rd82Y2wRLBu/s640/DSC00853.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Windmill farm in Palm Springs, Calif.</td></tr>
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When I woke up, the train was still and quiet. My watch said 5:30. But I didn’t know what time zone we were in and couldn’t remember if I had reset my watch. Looking out the window, I could see the sun coming up in the desert. In the distance was a highway. It looked like an interstate. </div>
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As quietly as I could, I took a change of clothes from my luggage and headed to the dressing room. As I walked through through the coach car, I didn’t see anyone awake. When I got to the dressing room, one of the women in the wedding party on board, was finishing her make up. She had a huge make up case. Before leaving, she took paper towels and washed down the counter and sink and then wiped them dry. I was so inspired by this that I did the same when I left.</div>
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As I left the dressing room, I saw the elderly gentleman from Oceanside, Calif., standing in the hall looking out the window of the door. I asked him if he knew where we were.</div>
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“We are about 50 miles east of Yuma, Arizona, and running about five hours late,” he answered, adding, “I won’t get home until about 5 this afternoon.”</div>
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On my way to the snack bar to get coffee, I met the conductor and asked him why we were five hours late. He said that during the night there had been a mechanical problem, and they had to wait for a freight to bring a part to fix it. </div>
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In a few minutes, the train started moving...slowly. We passed through red rock formations, and the scenery just became picture postcard gorgeous. As we continued on toYuma, the landscape unfolded into one breathtaking scene after another. I woke my husband up, so he wouldn’t miss any of it. On time, the train would have rolled through all this beauty in the dark.</div>
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At Yuma, immigration officials came on board and went from car to car. They stayed on board for quite some time, checking the IDs and luggage of some passengers. They seemed especially interested in two passengers, who had just boarded–a woman and a teenage boy. Both were wearing long black leather coats covered with colorful artwork on the front and back. From the time they had boarded, they had roamed the cars, going from one to another, without ever taking a seat. The officials checked the IDs of these two and searched their luggage. They spoke with them for an extended period of time. The two finally took seats at the back of our car.</div>
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Leaving Yuma, the train crossed the Colorado River and headed north into the California desert toward Palm Springs. The train dragged through the desert, stopping continuously for freights. But this desert was very different from the deserts we had traveled through the day before. We passed many citrus groves and saw many other areas of development. This desert was inhabited. It was amazing to see what a little water could do. We passed the <a href="http://www.saltonsea.ca.gov/">Salton Sea</a> on the left, which is actually a salt lake, with no outlets, and the largest lake in California, measuring 35 miles in length and 15 miles in width. Because of the salt content, surface travel on the lake is very fast. We could see campers and RVs near the shore and boaters on the water.</div>
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After they returned from breakfast, passengers in the wedding party continued to discuss the five hour delay. Instead of arriving in Los Angeles at 10:10 a.m., the train would be arriving in Palm Springs around that time. When the wedding party reported this delay to family members in LA, they offered to pick them up in Palm Springs. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8QT6ExC6KjJmO8lWDB6IxnTF0uvww73aS4aGtxKvkdpHh8PqDdPu_YanDZ5e4uJiRgris7mqIw9PLep5_o22gYVhln61RH5xvm7xW_BzhUL0zm6QNSUEoS50H1MDsVbqI6HL3oPjCO6I/s1600/DSC00854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8QT6ExC6KjJmO8lWDB6IxnTF0uvww73aS4aGtxKvkdpHh8PqDdPu_YanDZ5e4uJiRgris7mqIw9PLep5_o22gYVhln61RH5xvm7xW_BzhUL0zm6QNSUEoS50H1MDsVbqI6HL3oPjCO6I/s320/DSC00854.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Checking out the 112 degrees in Palm Springs.</td></tr>
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All morning, the desert scenery had been spectacular and even more so as we neared Palm Springs. We stared in awe at the snow covered mountains, towering above the desert, where it was 112 degrees, and the windmill farms. When the train stopped at Palm Springs, I went down to the platform. I wanted to see what 112 degrees felt like. It was hot! The Baton Rouge couple was on the platform and asked me to take some photos of them with their camera. I had my camera with me, so they took a photo of me, too.</div>
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After the wedding party got off the train in Palm Springs, our car was nearly empty. Freight traffic was still heavy, and we stopped often. But even when moving, the train was going very slow. Even now, I find it so incredible that it took us almost five hours to get to LA. When we did stop, I don’t remember being stopped for long periods of time. We wound our way around Riverside and then Ontario. Along the way, we would pass by more citrus groves and sometimes ranches. We rolled through neighborhoods and behind houses, where I found it very interesting that so many homes had washers and dryers placed outdoors on patios and porches. </div>
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It was of no concern to my family that we were still about five hours late, since we couldn’t check into our hotel until 3 p.m. It was cool and comfortable on the train, and we had access to soft drinks, coffee, snacks and lunch. It was a very pleasant ride. <span style="text-align: left;">Coming into Los Angeles on the train from the East gave a view of the broad but irregular plain of the city and the hills rising on each side. The distant skyline looked small in comparison to the vast area of the city.</span></div>
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Now that our car had thinned out, the remaining passengers just kind of moved around in the empty seats. The teenage boy who had boarded in Yuma came back and took an empty seat across from a teenage black girl who had been traveling alone. She was seated behind my husband and daughter. This girl was the cool kid on board. She had the cool phone of the summer (2006) and a cool ringtone, which was also used for her wake-up song each morning. Her phone was a pink Razar. (yeah, I know...but it WAS cool in 2006.) And her ringtone was a hit song that year, “I’m Bossy.” Although a quiet girl, she got a lot of attention from the kids. She was one of those people who always looks stylish no matter what they are wearing–stylish in an unfussy and unstudied way. </div>
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The Yuma kid began a conversation with her that could be heard by all the remaining passengers. It was quite evident she had no interest in him, but she was polite. Then he began cussing and dropping F bombs in each sentence. We had traveled more than 2,000 miles without hearing anyone use this kind of language. Our pleasant ride had turned very unpleasant. </div>
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A few minutes later, I heard someone coming up the steps from the lower level. I looked back and there was The Refrigerator Kid. I had thought he was traveling with the wedding party and was surprised to see he was still here. He stood for a moment, surveying the remaining passengers, and then began walking toward the back of the car. When he got to the teenage girl’s seat, he plopped down in an empty seat in front of the Yuma kid. He turned sideways in the seat, leaned his back against the window and set his eyes on the girl. The Yuma kid didn’t say another word – for the rest of the trip.</div>
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Looking directly at the girl, The Refrigerator Kid asked her, “What are you going to do when you get to LA?”</div>
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“I’m going to visit some schools I’m interested in,” she answered, adding, “I just graduated from high school.”</div>
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“How old are you?” he asked.</div>
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“Seventeen. I’ll be 18 next month.”</div>
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“I thought you would be older than that,” he said, sounding surprised. “Do you drive?”</div>
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“Yeah,”</div>
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“Do you have a car?” he wanted to know.</div>
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“Yes.”</div>
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“What kind?”</div>
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“A 1998 Honda Accord.”</div>
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“Why didn’t you drive to LA?” he asked.</div>
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“My parents didn’t want me to drive on my first trip here,” she told him.</div>
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“Well, I’m not going to LA,” he told her. “I’m from LA,” he said, with emphasis on the 'from.' </div>
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“I play football at my high school, and our games our televised. They show our games on TV in LA," he said, with pride.</div>
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“Cool,” she said.</div>
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When she didn't say anything more, he tried a new approach for her interest. “I might join a gang,” he went on. “Of course, I would have to kill someone if I did.”</div>
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“You aren’t going to kill anyone,” she said, firmly, looking him in the eye.</div>
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Seeing that he had still failed to impress her, he moved on to another subject. “I think I’m going to get a tattoo when I get home. What kind did you think I should get?”</div>
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“I don’t think you should get one,” she said, disapprovingly.</div>
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At this point in the conversation, his expression changed, seemingly struck with the realization that in a few minutes this girl would be stepping off the train, and then followed by the resignation that he most likely would never see her again. She would be moving on to her college career, and he would be returning to his parents, his neighborhood, his football team and his school, and all that was a part of that. The day before, he had told some kids on the train that he was an only child and lived with both his parents. The look on his face seemed to say that he didn't want this trip to end..</div>
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An apartment complex suddenly caught his attention as the train rolled on closer to downtown LA, and he said, “There’s a ghetto. But it’s not as tough as the one I live in,” he bragged.</div>
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He had now turned his attention away from the girl and was our self-appointed tour guide. “They're filming a movie over there,” he said, pointing to a side street. </div>
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Sure enough, there was a heavy utility-type truck with a bucket extended in the middle of the street. Inside the bucket stood a man holding a camera pointed toward a house.</div>
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As the train turned toward the downtown buildings, he said, “You’ve heard of the Twin Towers and 9/11? Well, LA has Twin Towers, too. There they are. One of them is a jail, and it has a swimming pool.” (A year or so later when Paris Hilton was arrested and jailed, this information was confirmed in news reports.)</div>
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Before we left the train, I wanted to say something to The Refrigerator Kid. I wasn’t sure what to say to him. I just wanted to encourage him in some way. “Stay in school and finish high school.” “Make your grandmother proud of you.” “Stay away from gangs.....” </div>
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Then the train was pulling alongside the platform at LAX. Next to us, I saw a Pacific Surfliner, the train we would be taking to Anaheim. “Maybe we could board this one and not have to wait for another one,” I thought.</div>
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Forgetting about talking to the Kid, I grabbed some of our luggage and headed in the direction of the Surfliner. I looked back to see if my kids were following and saw the Refrigerator Kid looking toward my family...with that same wistful look on his face I had seen several times on the train, when he was around kids and their families. I looked backed toward the Surfliner, and it was moving. “Oh well, another one would be along in a few minutes,” I shrugged.</div>
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I looked back toward the Sunset, and this time I didn’t see the Refrigerator Kid. “Did you see where he went?” I asked my daughter.</div>
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“He went down the steps with his grandmother,” she said. </div>
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“I’m going to see if I can catch up with them,” I told her. “I want to say something to him.” </div>
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I ran down the steps and looked down the tunnels. There was no sign of them. I went back up the steps and told my daughter, “They must have gotten on a tram. They’re already gone.”</div>
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About a dozen of the passengers we had traveled with on the Sunset were waiting with us for the next Surfliner. As I stood there, still haunted by the Kid’s face, I wondered, “What would he have thought if I had caught up with them and said whatever I thought to say? What could I have said in a split second that might impact his life for good?” I didn’t know the answer, but I felt compelled to do something. I didn’t even know his name.<br />
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But God did. I could pray for him. </div>
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Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-64212939247985405942017-01-10T00:21:00.001-06:002017-01-10T00:21:59.514-06:00Riding the Rails: Los Angeles to Lafayette Part 1<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_xBjGGmsDWqgW8_DqZp3hyphenhyphenApJS1wXSZtQpdSpIH9DKVvfd_TKO8aVjpIEvrp4-iYzXi-0pUl61sH8fH125HFg6ehd0o08-m_IQ3sdWAdSRF4XrOQr44xDeNT2ecCnTpUXRfuSP0NPdCe/s1600/Imported+Photos+00011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_xBjGGmsDWqgW8_DqZp3hyphenhyphenApJS1wXSZtQpdSpIH9DKVvfd_TKO8aVjpIEvrp4-iYzXi-0pUl61sH8fH125HFg6ehd0o08-m_IQ3sdWAdSRF4XrOQr44xDeNT2ecCnTpUXRfuSP0NPdCe/s320/Imported+Photos+00011.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Waiting room at LAX Union Station.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It’s was nearly 11 a.m. as we arrived at the Amtrak Station in Anaheim, Calif., located behind the Los Angeles Angels’ Stadium. The temperature felt like it had already reached 90, just like it had for the last seven days of our stay. During our visit the year, also in July, the temperatures had stayed in the 70s range.<br />
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The air conditioning in the ticket office was welcoming, but the agent directed us to some steps outside that would take us up to the platform, where we would wait for the Pacific Surfliner that would take us back to Los Angeles Union Station. There, we would board the Sunset Limited 2 for our return trip to Lafayette, La.<br />
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Benches lined a walkway next to the station’s platform. While my husband, son and daughter walked along the platform, I sat down next to an older black woman, who was fanning herself with a wide brim brown hat that matched the lightweight floral dress that reached to her ankles. She was a thin woman, and her carefully styled hair fell just above her shoulders. She had an air of grace about her that extended to the slight movements of her hat.<br />
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Without turning toward me or smiling, she said, “I will be so glad to get home and away from this heat.”<br />
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“Where do you live?” I asked, thinking maybe she was from the Northwest.<br />
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“I live in Oxnard,” she replied. “We are about an hour north of LA, and the weather is always wonderful. The temperature is rarely above the 70s.”<br />
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In spite of her apparent refinement, she seemed friendly. “Have you always lived in California?” I asked.<br />
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“All but the 10 years I lived in China,” she answered. “I went to China to teach English. I didn’t know a soul there, nor could I speak a word of the language of the people I was going to teach. I was supposed to teach for a year and ended up staying there for 10 years.”<br />
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We chatted about her work in China until we heard the train whistle.<br />
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As the train moved briskly toward Los Angeles, I thought about the hour and half we had spent on I-5, a few days before, crawling in the same direction. In about 20 minutes, the train pulled into LA’s Union Station. We gathered our luggage and tried to catch up with a tram, stopped near by. But it started moving before we reached it.<br />
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As we carried part of our luggage into one of the tunnels, I made a mental note: In the future, only bring luggage that has wheels. The tunnel was long, and there was no signage. When the tunnel we were walking in intersected with another tunnel, we just followed those around us and turned left. We hadn’t gone far when we came to an enclosed area that appeared to be a ticket counter. Stopping there, an agent directed us to the waiting area, just to the right.<br />
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The beautiful Spanish waiting room was large, and although without air conditioning, was still comfortable. Most of the chairs had peeling yellow leather but were still comfortable. (On a visit to the station a few years later, we found all the seats had been refurbished.) We had about an hour to wait until time to board the train, which originated at LA.<br />
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A few minutes later, the Baton Rouge couple, whom we had traveled with on Sunset Limited 1, came through the front entrance of the station and sat down near us. I asked her if she knew if The Refrigerator Kid and his grandmother had been traveling with the reunion group or wedding party on the trip out.<br />
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“He and his grandmother were traveling alone,” she said. “I didn’t know them. He was a great big kid, but he acted like a little kid a lot of the time.”<br />
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“He looked like a very lonely kid,” I said. She agreed that he probably was lonely.<br />
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As we talked, we noticed a line forming in front of the ticket counter. We gathered our luggage and joined the line. While we were waiting in line, my son told me that as soon as we were told to board, he was going to run to get the seat with the electrical outlet. We had learned on the way out that there was only one outlet in each car. (On all the trains we’ve traveled since this trip, all the seats had electrical outlets.) Some kids had the seat with the outlet on the way out and kept their techno toys plugged in all the time. We had to charge phones in the outlet downstairs.<br />
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As soon as the boarding announcement was made, my son sprinted off down the tunnel. I hoped he knew where he was going. The rest of us were moving much slower, as we lugged and rolled luggage. When I got to the train and boarded, I saw my son already seated with his headphones on and playing a DVD on his laptop. I put my luggage in the bin overhead and sat down next to him<br />
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A couple with three young blonde daughters took seats behind my family. The husband said they were from Fresno and had spent the night on a train traveling to Los Angeles. He said he was a first grade teacher, and his family was traveling with him to Orlando to attend a teachers conference. They would be taking the train to New Orleans, and then renting a car for the remainder of the trip. While in Orlando, they planned to take the girls to Disney World. All three girls, who appeared to range in age from about 4-8, were daddy’s girls and began fussing about who would sit next to daddy. He worked out a rotation for sitting with him, and the girls returned to good humor. They were all excited about riding on the train and about visiting Disney World.<br />
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A Buddhist monk sat down alone in the seat in front of my son and me. He was dressed in a garment that looked like a robe and was barefoot. He was traveling with an Asian couple who were riding in the adjoining car. The three of them were going to Houston. This couple would come back periodically and check on him. They also brought him food. The monk only left his seat to go downstairs to the restroom.<br />
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As the train began slowly moving, we retraced our route into the city the week before. When the train went by the apartment buildings that The Refrigerator Kid had called the ‘hood,’ I noticed a converted school bus sitting in the parking area. Painted on the side of the bus was ‘Dream Center.’ Nearby was a volleyball net, and a group of kids, some looked like college students, were playing volleyball. I remembered the name, ‘Dream Center’ from an episode of ‘Oprah,’ with the founders of Dream Center talking about their work with Katrina victims who had relocated to Los Angeles. I found it interesting that volunteers of Dream Center had come to the ‘hood’ to play volleyball with kids, instead of taking the kids out to another location to play.<br />
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When the train stopped at Ontario, a young couple with a tow-headed toddler boy boarded and took seats behind the Fresno Family. The husband was an Air Force pilot, stationed at Laughlin Air Force Base at Del Rio. They had traveled to Ontario to attend a wedding anniversary celebration. The wife, who was pregnant and four weeks away from her due date and not allowed to fly, had her blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless blue top. The couple said they had enjoyed the train trip out, and their son was very excited about riding on a train. Each time the little boy walked through the car with one of his parents, he was all smiles. Since the Air Force Couple had the last seat in the back of the car, the wife made a pallet in the extra space at the end of the car for herself and the little boy to take naps and to sleep at night. She said she had been sleeping on a pallet at home to relieve back pain.<br />
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Almost as soon as the train left the Ontario station, it stopped again, near the Ontario Airport. A car attendant had come through with DVD player rentals. The Air Force Couple rented one and so did the Fresno Family. During our two-hour stop waiting for three freight trains, they watched a movie.<br />
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In front of me, the Monk took out a small bag that held thin strips of leather. He began weaving strips of leather together. It wasn’t long before he had completed a bracelet that he gave to the toddler of the Air Force Couple. He continued to weave those thin strips of leather into bracelets. He made a bracelet for each child in our car, including my two children.<br />
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Finally, the train began moving again. It was still daylight when we reached Palm Springs, but we were already three hours behind schedule. As we moved slowly through the California desert, I lost count of the number of times we stopped for freights. After the sun went down, lights from homes and business stretched across the desert as far as I could see. Yes, this was a different kind of desert.<br />
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Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-15961143981729556012017-01-10T00:19:00.000-06:002017-01-10T01:14:36.337-06:00Riding the Rails: Los Angeles to Lafayette Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">
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style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span>SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1<![endif]--><!--[if supportFields]><span
style='mso-element:field-end'></span><![endif]-->Leaving the California desert
behind, the Sunset Limited crossed the Colorado River and made its way into the
Amtrak station in Yuma, Arizona. It was about 11 p.m. With the lights in our
coach car dimmed for sleeping, most of the passengers were doing just
that–sleeping. In the seat next to me, my son was sleeping soundly, as well as
my husband and daughter in their seats across the aisle. </div>
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Behind me, the Fresno Family and
the Air Force Family</div>
had all been asleep for an hour or more. In front of me,
the little Buddhist monk had stretched out across his seat and the adjoining
empty seat. All around me seats were reclined for sleeping or passengers were
taking advantage of an empty seat and stretched out across two seats.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DAKBOM0S5SMIkHAzpvwZYnW_AElSNBeSFRjdweQSu7Q-ozogYX1y45mpKPL6uBT2Pf3TuQPg6ZDjMtbVGHTUuxky0_S1X6K0DfBz7x_dcf6UmHXEOekd7xOA073msr-HG7pn76qh6nY4/s1600/continentaldivide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DAKBOM0S5SMIkHAzpvwZYnW_AElSNBeSFRjdweQSu7Q-ozogYX1y45mpKPL6uBT2Pf3TuQPg6ZDjMtbVGHTUuxky0_S1X6K0DfBz7x_dcf6UmHXEOekd7xOA073msr-HG7pn76qh6nY4/s320/continentaldivide.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Located between Lordsburg and Deming, New Mexico, this<br />
is the lowest elevation for a rail crossing of the Continental<br />
Divide in the country.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as I was thinking I was the
only passenger still awake, I saw a young man return to his seat directly in
front of my husband and daughter. He was a slim young man with short neatly
trimmed red hair, parted to one side. He appeared to be in his early thirties.
He was carrying a clear plastic cup containing beer, which he had purchased at
the snack bar. He put his cup inside a cup holder at his seat and picked up a
laptop. From my seat, I could see his laptop screen and found myself looking at
it with amazement. He appeared to be working with photos and videos and was
applying text to them. But it was what he was doing with the text that caught
my attention. He seemed to be experimenting with different formats, and at one
point, he had flames of fire shooting out from the letters. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>At the sound of footsteps on the
stairs leading into our car, I looked toward the front and watched as a new
passenger stopped at the first row of seats. Tall and skinny, he looked to be
in his late forties. His gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail that reached
to his mid-shoulders. He put his bag into the bin above the seats, and then
turned and looked back into the car. Still standing, his gaze rested on me. He
was really creepy, so I glared back at him. We were still sitting in the Yuma
station, and I was planning to go downstairs to the dressing room to remove my
contact lenses. But this guy was acting strange. He would sit down for a minute
and then stand up. And he kept looking back into the car. The red-haired guy
was still working on his computer and sipping slowly on his beer. It looked
like he was going to be up for a while, and I was glad. I decided to wait about
going down to the dressing room. For all I knew, that creepy guy might follow
me.</div>
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A few minutes later, a woman
from the adjoining car came through on her way to the dressing room, and I
followed her and removed my contacts. When I returned to the car, the conductor
and car attendant were both at the seat of the creepy guy looking at his ID.
Then they searched his luggage. Apparently, nothing threatening was found, and
he sat down. But a few minutes later, he was up again and walked into the
adjoining car. He wasn’t gone long, and when he came back to his seat, he
turned slightly to look back at the red-haired guy and me. He had just sat down when the conductor
returned and had another conversation with him. This continued until I fell
asleep. The conductor and car attendant or both were at his seat, constantly
talking to him. I never felt afraid, because I knew the conductor was keeping
close tabs on this guy. </div>
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When I awoke about 5 a.m., the
creepy guy’s seat was empty, and I assumed he had gotten off the train
somewhere during the night. The sun was coming up as we rolled into Tucson. It
was tricky keeping up with the time in Arizona, because the state does not
observe daylight saving time. But when I went to the snack bar, it was open and
I returned with two cups of coffee. I woke my husband up, handed him a cup of
coffee and pointed out a large cactus in the desert. This was the first time we
had seen large cacti on the trip. The train was still running about five hours
late, otherwise; we would have sped by all this scenery in darkness. </div>
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As we passed Davis Monthan Air
Force Base, we saw some of the thousands of planes which stand “mothballed” in
the aircraft “boneyard,” where they are preserved by the dry desert air. This
was a very interesting sight, and I was very glad the train was late, so we
could see it.</div>
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A few minutes later, we reached
Vail. This was the part of the trip I had dreaded on the way out, although we
went through it then in darkness. It is here that two rail bridges overlap.
Westbound trains take the higher bridge and eastbound trains the lower. For
some reason, reading about these bridges made me fearful of them. Westbound
trains begin a descent crossing the bridge, and eastbound trains begin
climbing. Actually at the overlap, there was a third bridge. I don’t know why
or when it is used, but none of the bridges were scary. As we crossed the
bridge and started into the canyons, I
could feel the train pulling–briefly. But this was the only time during the
trip, I felt the train pull while it was climbing. </div>
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The train was clicking along
without any stops for freights. It wasn’t long before we were back in New
Mexico. As soon as we left Lordsburg, New Mexico, we began seeing billboards
advertising the Continental Divide, which is crossed between Lordsburg and
Deming. This is the lowest elevation for a rail crossing of the Continental
Divide in the country. My husband and I began looking for the crossing. After
the billboards disappeared, we figured we had somehow missed it. Then we
spotted it...and laughed. There in the desert was a sign that stated
“Continental Divide Elev. 4,585 Ft. And that’s all there was...just a sign.</div>
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Now that I had seen the “sign,”
I returned to the snack bar for more coffee and breakfast. Most of the
passengers in our car had gone to the dining room for breakfast. But our kids
still preferred the snack bar, so we brought food back to our seats. </div>
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When we reached El Paso, the
train had made up two hours of our schedule, so we were now just three hours
behind. As the train sat in the station at El Paso, I looked out the window and
saw a police car parked next to the platform. And standing on the platform,
next to a young woman with long dark hair, was the creepy guy who had boarded
in Yuma. Surprised that he was still on the trip, I wondered why the police
were talking to him. And why was that young woman with him?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Just then the Fresno Family
returned from the dining room. “Do you know why the police are talking to those
two?” I asked them. “Yes!” squealed one of the little girls. “She has a snake
in her bag.” </div>
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“Are you sure?” I asked in
disbelief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Fresno mom nodded her head
and said, “Yes, we saw it on our way to the dining room. She was riding in the
next car and had it out, wrapped around her neck. The other passengers reported
her to the conductor, and he told her to choose between the snake and her seat.
She told him, ‘I choose my snake.’ So he told her she had to get off the train.
Then that guy tried to defend her and they put him off, too.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I kept my eyes on the scene
on the platform, I saw the woman take a burlap bag from her backpack and hand
it to the policeman. As the the police lead the woman and the creepy guy away
from the platform, I realized I had walked right by her seat on my way to the
snack bar. Apparently, the creepy guy had moved into the next car during the
night.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
After the train wound its way
out of El Paso, we were back in the West Texas desert, where we would travel
the rest of the day. As we rolled through tiny towns and communities and passed
by schools in the late afternoon, we could see residents walking laps around
the school grounds.</div>
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Around 9:30 p.m., the car
attendant came back and told the Air Force couple that the train would soon be
arriving in Del Rio. As they gathered up their things, we all wished them well
with their new baby and said “good bye.” Their little boy was still awake and
still smiling.</div>
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As the train left Del Rio, all
the passengers in our car prepared seats for sleeping, including the red-haired
computer guy and me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jerking motions from the train,
as the Texas Eagle cars were taken off at San Antonio, woke me briefly, but I
was soon fast asleep, again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon waking the next morning, I
wasn’t sure where we were, but the scenery was green and pastoral. After I
returned from the snack bar with coffee, I saw signs for Sugarland and knew we
were getting close to Houston, I was pleased that we were still just running
three hours behind. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At Houston, most of the
passengers in our car got off the train, including the Buddhist monk. An older
couple came on board with a teenage girl and helped her find a seat. It was
about 8 a.m., and the girl looked very sleepy. She was carrying a bed pillow
and blanket. She took a seat a few rows up from my husband and daughter and
then stretched out across both seats. She pulled the blanket up around her
head, partially covering her blonde hair and seemed to fall asleep,
immediately. The older couple, her grandparents, told the conductor she was 15
and going to Lafayette. The conductor assured her grandparents that she would
be watched closely. And she was. The conductor and car attendant checked on her
frequently, while she slept. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the train traveled slightly
north from the station, we approached Houston Lake. The tracks were just above
the water, and it was more than a little scary crossing the lake, with the
train swaying slightly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now the only passengers left
in our car, in addition to the teen girl, were the Fresno Family, the
red-haired computer guy and my family. My husband and I talked to the Fresno
couple about their life in California. The husband was originally from
Michigan, but his wife had never traveled outside California. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still just three hours behind
schedule, I had no worries about arriving late at night at the Lafayette station.
We hadn’t stopped for any freight trains all morning, and the miles were just
zipping by. Pretty soon, our trip would be over. Once we were back in
Louisiana, it seemed like we were just flying by all the little towns. And then
it was time for me to call the owner of the shuttle service. Now I wanted to
slow the train down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing next to the door, as we
neared Lafayette, I told the conductor, “I don’t want to get off. I don’t know
when I’ll get to ride a train, again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s the way I felt the first
15 years I worked on this train,” he said, wryly. “For the last 15, I haven’t
felt that way as much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the train pulled into the
station, it looked much different from the day we had boarded. It was 2:30 on a
Friday afternoon, and the platform was crowded with people waving and welcoming
the train. I don’t know if most of those people were there to board the train
for New Orleans or if some passengers were getting a huge welcoming party. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The shuttle owner was waiting
among the crowd and showed us to the executive car he had brought to drive us
to the airport to pick up our car. </div>
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<br /></div>
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What a wonderful trip! And now
we had our first 5,000 rail miles under our belt.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcmCMIVHXyeuXAiAS5VIc4R58crQpazAIve6a4baQvqZ_01K9PIEMHuJFQWROBalEJl9xg3SUNyWwzMdi928f0xf2CwzqYQoqoH8gFK30eKInTILF-Kjz1mB8OwxXB73EzKqVwTYU4vVt/s1600/continentaldivide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcmCMIVHXyeuXAiAS5VIc4R58crQpazAIve6a4baQvqZ_01K9PIEMHuJFQWROBalEJl9xg3SUNyWwzMdi928f0xf2CwzqYQoqoH8gFK30eKInTILF-Kjz1mB8OwxXB73EzKqVwTYU4vVt/s320/continentaldivide.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-45289542343299714862012-04-24T19:31:00.000-05:002012-04-24T19:31:01.528-05:00A Poem<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">
<i>April is National Poetry Month and here is another poem I like. Many years ago, I heard a woman recite this poem, using a tapestry to show the messy underside that we see in our lives and the beautiful top side seen by God.</i></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My life is just a weaving, between my God and me,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not choose the colors, He works in steadily.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Some times he weaves in sorrow, and I in foolish pride</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why</span></div>
<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver’s hand</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ANONYMOUS</span></div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-29050355318182316872012-04-22T14:39:00.000-05:002012-04-22T14:49:23.680-05:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">"People are often unreasonable and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.</span></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
</span><span style="line-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway.</blockquote>
</div>
</span></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway.</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. </span></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was never between you and them anyway."</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">― Mother Teresa</span></div>
</span>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-79208330896339434632012-04-18T14:14:00.004-05:002012-04-18T14:22:32.493-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">April</span><br />
<br />
April! April! April! </div><div style="text-align: center;">With a mist of green on the trees--</div><div style="text-align: center;">And a scent of the warm brown broken earth</div><div style="text-align: center;">On every wandering breeze;</div><div style="text-align: center;">What, though thou be changeful,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Though thy gold turns to grey again,</div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a robin out yonder singing,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Singing in the rain.</div><div style="text-align: center;">April April April </div><div style="text-align: center;">'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Thou laggard so lovely and late,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes</div><div style="text-align: center;">When hearts have learned to wait? </div><div style="text-align: center;">She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes</div><div style="text-align: center;">Full long and patiently.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Come now--tell us, sweeting.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Virna Sheard</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-51128180366762942122012-04-16T21:11:00.001-05:002012-04-16T21:13:53.895-05:00Little red coffee makerFive years ago, when we were renovating our house, I took down the last of the wallpaper we had hung in the ‘90s, which was still on the kitchen walls. After painting the kitchen and dining room butter yellow, I hung red and white plaid window treatments and looked for other red accents to achieve the cheery and lively atmosphere I wanted.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE9Hq8V3BuHgYM8JYOydXoNCBu5zK0-bLkftkT7Irm1SVcazORLaDr9A1keUMksIoESGceuqfxB6ojhOTVQZ6HdP72uWdbsbyVA9keseT7No2k3ASFaOub3ET_WQDs2geyDfZT6p08-gP/s1600/DSC00430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE9Hq8V3BuHgYM8JYOydXoNCBu5zK0-bLkftkT7Irm1SVcazORLaDr9A1keUMksIoESGceuqfxB6ojhOTVQZ6HdP72uWdbsbyVA9keseT7No2k3ASFaOub3ET_WQDs2geyDfZT6p08-gP/s320/DSC00430.JPG" width="240" /></a>Around that time, my toaster stopped working, and I was already using my back-up coffee maker, a four-cup Mr. Coffee that I kept for taking on trips. (I’ve never found a clean coffee maker in a hotel or vacation condo, unless the place was brand new.) When I looked for replacements, I found a pretty red toaster in a retro design and several red coffee makers. After reading a bunch of reviews, I decided on a red four-cup coffee maker, that had the two features I valued most– pause and serve and an automatic cut-off 20 minutes after the coffee had brewed. Both the toaster and coffee maker were Cuisinart products.<br />
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From one pot, my husband and I could fill our mugs with about 12 ounces of freshly brewed coffee. Although, we had to brew another pot for refills, we considered this a small inconvenience for always having fresh coffee. So for three years or more, we would make coffee several times a day. One day, I turned on the coffee maker, which we kept filled with water and a clean filter and coffee, and nothing happened. We had now had the coffee maker for about three and a half years. It had a three-year warranty.<br />
<br />
So, I went online trying to find the same coffee maker and, of course, in the color red. When I Googled “red coffee maker” the one I had immediately came up on the search engine. But I couldn’t find one in stock– anywhere. It seemed this coffee maker was now a discontinued item.<br />
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A few minutes later, I went back to the kitchen and flipped the switch again on the coffee maker. This time, the light came on and the brewing started. But I wondered how long it would last. I decided to send an e-mail to Cuisinart telling them what a wonderful coffee maker this was and how much I and all those Google searchers liked the color red. I sent the e-mail in January 2011, and didn’t get a reply.<br />
<br />
But the following June, I searched again for the red coffee maker and found it at <a href="http://www1.macys.com/shop/product/cuisinart-dcc-450r-coffee-maker-4-cup-red?ID=563965&CategoryID=24732&LinkType=#fn=BRAND%3DCuisinart%26sp%3D1%26spc%3D32%26ruleId%3D69%26slotId%3D18">Macy’s</a>, with a couple of changes and a bit of a price increase. Now the automatic cut-off feature was set at 30 minutes and the plastic housing on the unit was BPA free. Even better. And Macy’s had the coffee makers included in their Father’s Day sale, so I was able to buy my replacement/back-up at the same price I paid for the original one..<br />
<br />
Not too long after I bought the replacement, my little red coffee maker did go out. But I had no complaints about it. It had lasted four years and been well used. I brought out the replacement and was so glad I could still enjoy the color red on my counter, while my coffee brewed. Oh yes, I already have another replacement for the one I’m using now.<br />
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I can’t say for sure that my e-mail had anything to do with Cuisinart bringing back the little red coffee maker. Maybe they received a lot of e-mails requesting the return of this coffee maker and the 12-cup red coffee maker. Since then, Cuisinart has also brought back a 12-cup coffee maker in red.<br />
<br />
This was not the first time I have e-mailed a company about a discontinued product and provided them with a few facts to support consumer interest in the product. In the case of the coffee maker, I mentioned in the e-mail about the coffee maker popping up immediately in the Google search. I also noted that the inexpensive price could mean that those looking for a replacement might just buy two. That’s what I did.<br />
<br />
When I have written to companies about other discontinued products, sometimes I will tell them what these products are selling for on eBay or Amazon. It sure doesn’t hurt to let companies know what consumers want.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>B</i></span></div><div><br />
</div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-33158974443772998662012-04-14T20:58:00.003-05:002012-04-14T21:12:12.226-05:00Remixes, relevancy and real<div style="text-align: left;">While channel surfing one night last week, I noticed a Chicago concert was coming up on the Directv concert channel. Although their performance was on very late, I decided to stay up and watch at least some of it or until I heard my favorite song, “You’re the Inspiration.”</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/wM-XhQeFzW4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>For more than 30 years, I have been a fan of Chicago and have attended several concerts, although the last one was nearly 23 years ago, while my husband and I were dating. Chicago was touring with the Beach Boys that year, and they performed each other’s songs. It was pretty amazing to hear both bands playing each other’s music, while staying true to their own “sound.”<br />
<br />
Chicago’s music in concert always sounded just like their records–or even better. I also appreciated the wholesome atmosphere at their concerts. It wasn’t unusual to see three generations of a family sitting together enjoying the music. And lots of music – real music – is what concert-goers got–no gimmicks or pyrotechnics or even very much conversation from the stage. Just a long set list of wonderful music. It was wonderful to watch the ease of this band on stage as they seemed to effortlessly play through the difficult arrangements of their songs.<br />
<br />
Some skilled and talented musicians I have known have told me Chicago’s arrangements have complex rifts and bridges and are very difficult for many musicians to learn. It’s rare to hear any other bands covering Chicago’s music.Over the years, several band members have left Chicago, and their replacements have blended in with the band’s special sound. Musically, I have held the band in high esteem because of the song writing contributions of most the members, as well as their beautiful arrangements and strong vocals. Chicago could always be counted on for REAL music.<br />
<br />
At the opening of the concert on Directv, I noticed something different right away. The band introduced the online winner of a contest conducted on their <a href="http://www.chicagotheband.com/">Web site</a>, who would be singing solo her favorite Chicago song. She did a decent job of singing, accompanied by the band, and I’m sure it was a big thrill for her. But it was a departure for the band, who had in the past avoided the gimmicky route. Another change from the last time I had seen a concert or televised Chicago performance was that Bill Champlin, who had been a powerful vocalist for the group, had been replaced by Lou Pardini. As usual though, the band had chosen the right replacement, and Pardini sounded great and blended right in with Chicago’s sound. Jason Scheff, who replaced Peter Cetera in1985, was still with the band. Scheff’s voice seemed thinner and sounded strained when he reached for notes, and on vocals he formerly sang solo, he was now accompanied by Pardini and Robert Lamm, leader and founding member of the band. Still, these were changes that were probably acceptable to most fans.<br />
<br />
As the band launched into “I’m a Man,” I was surprised at how trim and fit they all were, including the founding members who are now well into their ‘60s. Lamm, who never looks like he ages, was wearing his usual suit and tie, with a loosened collar. None of the guys looked beaten up by life or a rock and roll lifestyle.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t heard “I’m a Man,” in a while, so I wasn’t sure if it sounded different. But when the band started singing “Just You ‘n Me,” I knew something was not right. All the melody had been stripped from that beautiful, sweet and happy song. This continued with each successive song, and some songs were performed with only partial vocals. Of course, Chicago is known for its heavy brass sound, but for this performance, they seemed to have abandoned vocals for instruments, going for 5-8 minutes with just instruments. Finally, “Saturday in the Park” came up on the set list, and Lamm performed it in its original form. But their performance then continued with remixes of their beautiful classics. Remixes void of any melody. REAL music has a melody. I stopped watching. I didn’t want to hear a remix of “You’re the Inspiration.”<br />
<br />
After I turned off the TV, I thought to myself, “Well, no need to follow their tour schedule anymore. I wouldn’t travel or pay to see any of that.” I couldn’t believe what I had just seen and heard from my favorite band..<br />
<br />
Why did they do this?<br />
<br />
According to some music critics, Chicago’s music is second only to the Beach Boys. As fan of both bands, I would say Chicago is on par with the Beach Boys<br />
<br />
But clearly last week’s performance showed Chicago was changing its music for a younger audience in an attempt to be cool and relevant to a new generation. But why? What does Chicago have to prove at this point? Why cheapen great music? Is it just for the sake of relevancy? And when does real stop being relevant?<br />
<br />
As I thought about this, I was reminded of a speaker/author I had recently seen on a television program, who had made the statement: “What is ‘real’ about us is what doesn’t change.” He had shown some photos of himself from infancy onward to his current age of 70 to demonstrate that his constantly changing physical appearance wasn’t the “real”part of him. He asked, “What is the ‘real’ part of you?” An interesting question...<br />
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I was also reminded of how the word “relevant” is currently used by some groups, who advocate a remix of sorts to Jesus and Christianity in order to appeal to a younger generation.<br />
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It’s not a new idea. It’s been tried many times. The created tries to repackage and remix the creator.<br />
<br />
What is real about Jesus?<br />
<br />
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and yes forever.” Hebrews 13:8<br />
<br />
Does Jesus NEED the cool factor?<br />
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“For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities–all things have been created by Him and for Him.”Colossians 1:16<br />
<br />
Just some thoughts about remixes, relevancy and real...<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">B</span></i></div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-10422891222281797952012-04-08T01:04:00.003-05:002012-04-10T21:14:34.251-05:00Remembering Easter 35 years agoIt was April 9, 1977, and the day before Easter. We were packed and ready to hit the road for Blytheville, Ark., where my brother, Danny and his wife, Kathy, were stationed in the Air Force. In those days, it was hard being separated from a sibling living 300 miles away. We understood the homesickness of our brother and sister-in-law living a military life, and we felt their loneliness.<br />
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When Danny had called and invited us to visit them at Easter, we started making plans. We arranged time off from work and somehow came up with the money for gas and motel rooms. My brother, David, and I would be driving. I would be following David in his car, and hopefully, we wouldn’t get separated in Nashville. I was 27 years old and had never driven in Nashville. I was dreading it.<br />
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We met at Mama’s early that Saturday morning. David pulled up in his beat-up Javelin that had a missing gear and four bald tires. My seven-year-old Buick was in a little better shape. At least the tires had some tread. And...we both had CB radios. David, who was 19, bounded out of his car with the energy of three or four people and started loading both cars. Inside David’s car sat his 18-year-old wife, Debbie, holding their 8-month-old daughter, Stephanie. David was two months away from being 20 years and celebrating his second wedding anniversary.<br />
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One thing about my car, it was big and roomy. Riding with me were my mother, sister Gaile, who was 25, and her three small children, Robin, 4, and two-year-old twins, Lannie and Jason, along with my baby sister, Susie,15. My younger sister, Teresa, 18, and brother Terry, 17, rode with David.<br />
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As we prepared to leave, David and I checked the channels on our radios, and I reminded him I was “Silver Girl” and to please keep me in his rear view mirror. As we drove toward the interstate, everyone was laughing and joking–except me. I was worried about getting separated and lost in Nashville.<br />
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The trip, which took about six hours, went very smooth. I managed to keep up with David going through Nashville and the other turns we made after leaving the interstate and heading to Dyersburg and then crossing the Mississippi River for the first time. Now, when I look back on that day, I see so much grace over us. There was no Weather Channel to consult back then, and we were headed for “tornado alley” during the height of tornado season. But all went well. We didn’t have any car trouble or weather problems.<br />
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We found our motel without any problem and checked into our rooms. It wasn’t a chain and had a name that sounded western. I don’t remember what it was called, but there were western scenes painted on the sides of it. Inside, it was nicely decorated and very clean and comfortable. Danny and Kathy met us, and we followed them back for a tour of the base.<br />
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The next morning, we joined Danny and Kathy at the church they attended, Glad Tidings Assembly of God. As we walked into the church, we all suddenly became aware of the harsh breathing and croupy cough coming from the baby. As Debbie and David stood huddled at the back of the church wondering whether to stay or leave with the baby, Danny alerted the pastor who immediately called the congregation into prayer. As the room quieted for prayer, Stephanie’s breathing could be heard all over the room. David walked with Debbie as she carried Stephanie to the altar. Many left their seats to gather around the parents and child, who were strangers in their midst. The prayer wasn’t that long, and as soon as it was over, the sound of Stephanie’s labored breathing was gone. Church services hadn’t even started yet, and a baby had been healed Watching this baby healed before our very eyes was amazing to all who witnessed it.<br />
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Many Easters have come and gone since then. Some I remember and some I don’t. But I will always remember that Easter Sunday, April 10, 1977. I remember the love for a brother who was living 300 miles away and how much we missed him. I remember the love and fun our family experienced on the trip to visit him. I remember the love shown by a church for the strangers who visited that day and stood with them in faith and love. I remember the love of our God, our Lord Jesus, who we went to worship and to remember His resurrection, and how He showed up in power to heal a baby before it was even time for services to start.Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-66857473390689690802011-07-01T15:22:00.002-05:002011-07-01T16:25:31.478-05:00Angie Baby: What's the real story?<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/OgSAMDCwSuo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>A while back, I wished someone named Angie a happy birthday, and the title of Helen Reddy’s 1974 hit “Angie Baby” suddenly popped into my head. Although it is my favorite Helen Reddy tune, it wasn’t on my iPod’s 70s Favs playlist, and I hadn’t heard the song in years. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As it would happen, that very week I heard the song on my car radio, played by a local radio station. Listening to the catchy melody and upbeat tempo, I was reminded again how much I liked this song and made a mental note to search for it on YouTube the next time I indulged my guilty pleasure of watching videos set to oldies from the ‘60s and ‘70s.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The melody stayed with me, and soon I found myself at YouTube not only listening to the song but watching an animated video someone had created to interpret the lyrics. The song tells a story about a girl named “Angie” who lives in a make-believe world, or “well maybe” as the hook goes. Since the song is telling a story, you do try to listen to the lyrics. When the song came out in the ‘70s, my interpretation of the lyrics was that it was just a fantasy tale with a humorous twist of putting a guy in her radio. Actually, I thought the song was kind of sad and funny, a combination often experienced in real life events.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the video and song ended, I began reading some of the comments left by other viewers. Almost all agreed that the video was well done and followed the lyrics with a literal interpretation. One of my favorite scenes in the video was of Angie sitting under a pink tree during the chorus. I couldn’t help chuckling near the end of the video when she was dancing around to “It’s nice to be insane, No one asks you to explain, Radio beside you.” What surprised me was that many of the comments mentioned “creepy” in describing the lyrics, and some thought the video had a creepiness about it. I realize the word “creepy” is overused these days about as much as “awesome” and loosely covers anything outside a comfort zone, whereas “awesome” generally means “good with an exclamation mark” But I reserve “creepy” for extremely scary, and I just didn’t think the song or video was scary.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Some comments pointed to heavy symbolism with sinister meanings, and others thought the song was political, promoting empowerment of women. I started to wonder if I even wanted the song on my play list. As I read the comments, I also began questioning my own interpretation: Angie could be anyone who was lonely or an outcast. She found solace in the music coming from her radio. Her bedroom was her sanctuary from the world, and from there her imagination could take her to a place of acceptance and admiration. In that place, all the attention was on her. But what was on the mind of Alan O’Day, who wrote the song?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After a quick trip to <a href="http://www.alanoday.com/">Alan O’Day’s</a> Web site, I learned that the lyric story was actually based on a teenage girl who had once lived in his neighborhood and who had seemed “socially retarded.” He barely knew the girl, who was quiet and kept to herself, but sometimes he wondered how she spent her time. Remembering his own childhood as a sickly kid spending much time in bed and depending on a radio for company, the song began in his mind as a composite of the life of a reclusive teenage girl and a lonely sick kid. While working on the song, he shared what he had written with someone, and it was suggested that he change the word “slow” in describing Angie to “touched.” From there, the lyrics took on the fantasy elements, with O”Day intentionally writing a chorus [“livin’ in a world of make believe...well maybe”] that allows the listener to indulge his/her imagination.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Listeners’ wild speculations about the lyrics have led to some comparisons between “Angie Baby” and Bobby Gentry’s “Ode to Billy Joe,” according to O’Day’s account, in “The Story of Angie Baby” on his Web site. He also maintains that the song was not written as a “Women’s Lib” song. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In addition to “Angie Baby,” which reached Billboard’s Number 1 spot in 1974, he also had a Number 1 hit in 1977 with another song he penned and recorded, “Undercover Angel.” In 1983, he began writing children’s songs for the Muppet Babies and has since concentrated his writing talents on uplifting songs for children that have been used for many Disney projects and National Geographic videos. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/WyG30MxOONw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>After reading all this new information from the songwriter himself, I’m relieved to know my favorite Helen Redding song has no hidden messages or agenda but instead has a bit of whimsy added to a tale of a lonely girl living in a dream world, and when confronted with evil, doesn’t become a victim but sends her would-be perpetrator to live inside her radio and takes him out when it suits her. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">“Angie baby, you’re a special lady, livin’ in a world of make believe...well, maybe.”</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><em>Now, click on the video at the top right and see how you think it follows the interpretation of the song. The second video, lower right, is from a recent song, "I Hear Voices" by Alan O'Day. It's actually a tender love song, and the video is sweet.</em><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em>B</em></div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-30726713176641534302011-06-27T11:34:00.003-05:002021-04-17T12:40:37.048-05:00Siren song of the chain saw<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: initial; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Clinging to early morning slumber, I turned my head toward the voice calling to me and managed a semi-conscious “What?”<br />
<br />
“I’m going to walk.” Why was my husband telling me he was going for a walk? He went for a walk most mornings. <br />
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“When I get back,” he continued, “we are going to cut down a tree.”<br />
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“Who’s cutting down a tree,?” I asked, still not fully awake.<br />
<br />
My husband called out the names of two neighbor men. I asked him if the guy next door would be helping and he said, “No, he wanted to, but he has an appointment this morning.”<br />
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“Where is the tree you’re going cut down,” I wanted to know.<br />
<br />
“The tree that’s blocking the sun from my garden,” my husband said, as he went out the garage door.<br />
<br />
Now fully awake, I walked to the window to see if I could figure out which tree he was talking about. I saw two trees, both blue spruce trees, on opposite sides of the garden. One of them had been decorated for a Christmas tree the first year my husband had lived in this house. The other tree was OUR first Christmas tree.... a tree, we had bought and decorated together during our first month of marriage. So which tree was he planning to cut down? After 20 years, I could no longer remember which one was OUR tree and wondered if he did.<br />
<br />
As I continued to stare at the trees, sentimentality gave way to a feeling of imminent danger. Both trees had grown far above the lines that extended from the nearby utility poles. I didn’t know if they were power lines or telephone lines, but to me, this looked like a job for professionals.<br />
<br />
When my husband returned, I told him that I was concerned about the height of the trees and how the tree might fall after it was cut.<br />
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“We’ve got it all figured out,” he told me, excitement somewhat softening the impatience in his voice, as he hurried to get outside to join one neighbor who was already stationed next to the tree with the ladder he had brought over.<br />
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Following my husband to the tree, the neighbor greeted us both with a smile, signaling that he was eager to get started on this project. My husband could barely contain his own excitement.<br />
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“Guys, I just don’t think you all should be trying to cut down such a tall tree,” I told them. At these words, the neighbor’s smile instantly died. He looked crestfallen. So did my husband.<br />
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“We’re going to use ropes,” said my husband, as he tried to reassure me. “We’ve been planning this for days. We know how to do it.”<br />
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Just then, our other neighbor arrived with the chain saw. <br />
<br />
I said, “Okay guys, I’m going into the house to pray.”<br />
<br />
After I went back into the house, I picked up my cell phone and walked to the window to watch the guys. I said a prayer and kept the phone in my hand just in case I needed to call 911. <br />
<br />
Taking their places next to the ladder with the ropes, my husband and neighbor, both smiling once again, each kept a steady hand on the ladder, while the neighbor, who had brought the chain saw, climbed the ladder to begin work.<br />
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Until now, I had never seen any chain-saw work up close. I was only familiar with the sound, which to me, is one of the most annoying sounds around. But as I watched the neighbor on the ladder move the chain saw back and forth like a wand, I thought, “How graceful is that?”<br />
<br />
My husband and the other neighbor both kept their eyes fixed on the guy with the chain saw. Each time he pointed the saw to a branch of the tree, it seemed to be moving through nothing but air, as it smoothly and seemingly effortlessly brought branch after branch sailing toward the ground. As irritating as the sound was, it was fascinating to watch the chain saw in action. <br />
<br />
“No wonder most guys want one of these things,” I thought, as I continued to watch.<br />
<br />
About this time, I saw our other neighbor, the one who had had an appointment, run into our yard and join the guys at the ladder. In the 20 years we had lived next door to this guy, I had never seen him so dressed up. It must have been a pretty important appointment. But he hadn’t taken the time to change out of his good clothes before joining the guys gathered around the chain saw. I wondered if he had even waited until his wife had fully stopped the car, before scurrying to get in on the action.<br />
<br />
Finally, the tree was down and the clean-up was finished. All the guys returned home, and supposedly all the thrills of this event were over. But no...<br />
<br />
Throughout the afternoon, whenever the phone rang, my husband would tell each caller about the tree that had been cut down that morning and each time, he seemed to relish the retelling of all the details. <br />
<br />
When my husband’s 92-year-old father called and was told about the tree, he seemed to have lots of questions. And my husband was clearly delighted to answer each one. “Yeah...” I heard him telling his father. “It was at least 30 feet tall.”<br />
<br />
The call from my husband’s father had come about two months before his passing, during a time when he was home between hospital stays. After my husband got off the phone, I said, “Your dad seemed to really perk up while you were telling him about cutting down that tree.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” agreed my husband. “He would have liked to have helped us.”<br />
<br />
Sometime later, I asked my husband if he knew which tree had been cut down? His tree or OUR tree? It was OUR tree.<br />
<br />
“We should have cut ‘em both down,” he said. “The other one is shading the garden, too.”<br />
<br />
For some reason, it really didn’t bother me that the tree was gone. That 30-foot monstrosity looked nothing like our first Christmas tree. I had to admit that the yard looked much better with it gone. And we had more yard.<br />
<br />
“Next time, you all can cut down those ratty looking hemlocks in the backyard that the hornets build their nests in,” I told my husband. He just stared back blankly at me.<br />
<br />
“Hmm...aren’t hemlocks challenging enough?”<br />
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<em>B</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYJ0Bb9z4rMlwtjTUrLyTSNxKdrf5QglznU5N0wHEOpFsyLoVJmmSl6JMeIsWDmd2mXCbIVkTjiop52uZWX6OFirqsyneUyhQV1Rn5D4hn5NNuA3R_i0K7DxPk3G9VAEq6jEK2H3bW0DE8/s1600/siren+notes.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-88011987801227260242011-06-14T11:29:00.001-05:002011-06-20T23:40:54.607-05:00The Fourth Rule<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYLd_rqTp4hFmm5luE4eBaya0Ey_vjxTHDvyov79tYJ1pZNZOoEdrrtdYanoammg1qoLGyBBz_pO6ezUB85XW5FtKX-dzJlcERYGfkNMjPliAGTC3VaXGfzPjI7OWSu5A7fu_yr9Srbq4/s1600/rules+graphic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYLd_rqTp4hFmm5luE4eBaya0Ey_vjxTHDvyov79tYJ1pZNZOoEdrrtdYanoammg1qoLGyBBz_pO6ezUB85XW5FtKX-dzJlcERYGfkNMjPliAGTC3VaXGfzPjI7OWSu5A7fu_yr9Srbq4/s320/rules+graphic.jpg" t8="true" width="320px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What makes for a perfect summer? If anyone had asked me that question at the age of 11, my list would have been pretty short: swimming, playing neighborhood baseball, catching lightening bugs, popsicles of any kind and bicycle riding.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Everything on that list was actually part of my summer enjoyment except for the last one – bicycle riding. I didn’t own a bicycle and had never ridden one. In fact, I didn’t know how to ride a bike. In my neighborhood, few kids did own a bike and those who did were boys. During the summer months, I would wistfully watch them slowly pedaling by, and it just seemed to me that all the sights, sounds and smells of summer could be more fully appreciated during a leisurely bicycle ride. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_DnDZhY1geE5uGWQPrdV3w7M4UjkL0zb6uKfmpL1roe0xyYZZWX9NdApWbhUcLy4xfCj4ync_ymp9jCr4g19Cfkjif-FLRUs2Leu3Ritx5HV-NZJyS3-uM98OLjhVZvUpNZ6qZ5wtzh/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_DnDZhY1geE5uGWQPrdV3w7M4UjkL0zb6uKfmpL1roe0xyYZZWX9NdApWbhUcLy4xfCj4ync_ymp9jCr4g19Cfkjif-FLRUs2Leu3Ritx5HV-NZJyS3-uM98OLjhVZvUpNZ6qZ5wtzh/s200/bike.jpg" t8="true" width="200px" /></a>The greatest obstacle preventing me from this pleasure was not just the fact that I didn’t own a bicycle but that I was forbidden to even be on a bicycle. I grew up in a home where there was a short list of rules to follow: no sassing, come straight home from school, stay out of the neighbors’ houses and stay off bicycles.</div><br />
At one time or another, I had broken all of the first three rules and received either a reprimand or spanking. Neither of my parents did a lot of spanking, and I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the times I was spanked by either of them. My daddy consistently and speedily dealt with the breaking of any rules, so we knew what to expect. With only a few rules to remember, most of the time we could stay out of trouble. <br />
<br />
Since I was prone to sassiness, it was usually the first rule I had the most trouble with. Sometimes daddy would only reprimand if the sassing was directed at him – but never at mama. Sassing mama in front of him always meant a spanking was coming my way.<br />
<br />
I could understand the purpose of the first three rules: learning respect for authority from the first rule; learning responsibility and consideration for others from the second rule {We had no phone at our house, so lateness was a big worry for my parents.}; and from the third rule, respecting the property and privacy of others.{When I was growing up, this was a standing rule for most kids.}<br />
<br />
Although I had never had an opportunity to disobey the fourth rule, it was always reiterated by daddy whenever he went over rules. I knew without being told why it was on the list. My parents had lost their first child at five months. One day, he was a healthy baby who came down with sniffles. Taken right away to the doctor to treat his first cold, he was put on an antibiotic as a precaution. In spite of proactive treatment, the sniffles progressed to pneumonia which took his life. Needless to say, this loss was life changing for both of them.<br />
<br />
Years later, when more babies were born to them, both my parents carried a floating anxiety about the well being of their children. For my mother, her anxieties seemed mostly focused inside the home and keeping her children and house as free of germs as possible. She strongly enforced rules of hygiene, not allowing us to eat or drink after each other or anyone else. <br />
<br />
But daddy’s anxieties seemed more focused on lurking dangers outside the home. For this reason, we usually lived within walking distance to school, so we wouldn't have to ride a bus. During times of snow, when there would still be lingering ice on the roads, he would walk us to school a little early to make sure we were out of the way of any sliding car. I knew the reason for the fourth rule was his fear of us being injured on a bicycle. I understood the reason, but I still longed to ride a bicycle. Really, I just wanted to learn to ride a bike, even though I had little hope of owning one.<br />
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We lived on a gravel road with all the houses on one side, facing a narrow stretch of low-lying land, thick with weeds and bushes, that bordered a creek. On the edge of the thicket, next to the road, sweet peas, blooming pink and fragrant, crawled toward clumps of orange tiger lilies.Wild pink roses climbed and wrapped around any bushes nearby. Hidden among the bushes and honeysuckle vines were blackberry bushes. Every day, kids in the neighborhood would walk the length of the road picking all the ripe berries off the bushes. Some days we would check morning and afternoon for ripe berries. Although there were quite a few bushes, you could never find enough blackberries for a pie, because of the constant gleaning from so many kids. <br />
<br />
During those long summer days, we stayed outside nearly all day, and the only awareness of time was when mama called us for lunch {or dinner as we called it} and later for supper. After supper, we went back outside until bedtime. <br />
<br />
One afternoon, sometime between dinner and supper, I decided to go look for blackberries. I found enough to fill each hand, and as I walked back down the dusty road toward home, I was met by the skinny dark-haired girl who lived next door, who was riding a shiny red boy’s bicycle. She rode up to me and stopped.<br />
<br />
“Whose bicycle is that?” I asked her, curious to know who, in our neighborhood, had a new bike.<br />
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“It’s my brother’s,” she said, her brown eyes brimming with excitement. “He just got it, today.”<br />
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“When did you learn to ride a bike?” I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d seen her riding.<br />
<br />
“Oh, I just learned to ride today,” she answered, breezily. “It’s easy. I learned to ride in just a few minutes. <br />
<br />
"You learned to ride in just a few minutes?" I marveled.<br />
“I can teach you,” she offered. “Do you want to learn how to ride?”<br />
<br />
Did I ever! Finally, here was the opportunity I had been longing for. As I accepted her offer, rule four never entered my mind.<br />
<br />
Handing her my berries, I sat down on the seat and waited for further instructions. After showing me how to apply the brakes, she said I must first learn to balance the bicycle. She would hold the back of the bike while I pedaled. <br />
<br />
Thrilled beyond words, I pushed the pedals forward, and as the bicycle smoothly glided along, I marveled at the joy of it. It was just as wonderful as I thought it would be.<br />
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As I rode past my house, I asked her, “How am I doing?”<br />
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“You’re doing great!" she called after me, adding, "Now slow down a little and turn the handle bars a little to your left, so you can turn around."<br />
Thinking her voice sounded a little distant, I looked back and saw she was standing in the road just past her own house. <br />
<br />
“How long have I been riding on my own?” I yelled back to her. <br />
<br />
“Since you rode by your house,” she yelled back, laughing.<br />
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After successfully making the turn, I rode back to where she was standing and told her, “I want to ride down the road again, this time all by myself.”<br />
<br />
She agreed and said confidently, “You’re learning fast, just like I did.”<br />
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Starting off again, this time without any help, I rode down the same stretch of road and turned around. On the return trip, I looked toward my house to see if my younger sister was watching. She was watching and so was the man standing behind her – my daddy.<br />
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I rode up to where my friend was still standing in the road, and without a word got off the bike and moved the handle bars toward her. Then I walked up the sidewalk in front of my house to present myself to daddy and whatever punishment was coming my way.<br />
<br />
My friend, who knew nothing about the fourth rule, followed me and squealed to my daddy, “Did you see her? Wasn’t she doing great?” Not waiting for his answer, she raved on, “And I taught her! I just now taught her to ride a bike!”<br />
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As I stared down at the sidewalk, I heard my daddy begin to speak, “You were doing pretty good out there. Is this the first time you’ve been on a bicycle?”<br />
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I nodded my head upward. <br />
<br />
“Yes, it was the first time she has been on a bike, and I taught her to ride,” chimed in my friend, her voice spilling over with pride at her own achievement of teaching me on the same day she learned to ride herself. <br />
<br />
“I just learned to ride today, and I taught her,” she said, looking at daddy for affirmation of this amazing feat. <br />
<br />
“Wasn’t she doing good?” she asked daddy, again, still unable to wait for him to answer.<br />
<br />
“Yes, she was,” daddy agreed with her.<br />
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Turning toward me, daddy said, “Well, if you are going to ride a bicycle, you need to be watching what is in front of you and stay out of the way of cars. Stay off busy streets, and don’t try to do any tricks.”<br />
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I couldn’t believe my ears. Not only was I not getting punished, but now it seemed I had permission to ride a bicycle. Just to be clear, I asked, “Can I get back on the bicycle and ride down the road again?”<br />
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“Yeah,” he said, and added, “I’m going to stand here and watch you.” <br />
<br />
Until her brother came to reclaim his new bicycle, my friend and I took turns riding it down the road and back. For me, the joy was now exponential. In one afternoon, I had learned to ride a bike, and now with my daddy’s permission.<br />
<br />
The day my daddy reversed his decision about his fourth rule is a day in my childhood that still stands out for me. Now as a parent myself, I can put myself somewhat in his shoes. I’ve had to set a side some of my own fears to let my children have certain freedoms. What parent doesn’t feel joy at the sight of their child’s joy? Who would want to take that joy away?<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Daddy’s fourth rule had never served the purpose of teaching character as the other three rules. Rule four had served my daddy’s fears. But in a moment of time, and in a moment of childhood bliss for me, he put a side his fears and allowed me to experience one of the simple joys of <span style="color: black;">childhood –</span> riding a bicycle.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em>B</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<span style="color: red;"></span>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-48138112643859548422010-02-01T20:52:00.019-06:002011-06-12T16:20:42.659-05:00grandpa's chair<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Before he left for heaven, Grandpa wanted </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;">all his monthly bills paid and his yard mowed</span>.</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbposSsgn5C84bReCD4uelnlpBIvmpqiRVvL3Rn7G7WiyynC1StmadDjLTLq6vwL5rxBWQFCmQLPVvm4jIJhOedbg0q3eeAWF1LXnVtCRDq7tUh_Ri1idghJU-CeH-KctR8wjwSK_Mgkx/s1600-h/g+chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbposSsgn5C84bReCD4uelnlpBIvmpqiRVvL3Rn7G7WiyynC1StmadDjLTLq6vwL5rxBWQFCmQLPVvm4jIJhOedbg0q3eeAWF1LXnVtCRDq7tUh_Ri1idghJU-CeH-KctR8wjwSK_Mgkx/s320/g+chair.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I watched my husband and son carry a large recliner chair into the family room and place it in the middle of the floor, my first thought was, “Well, it certainly blends in with our dark brown leather couch and the over-sized brown chair and matching ottoman.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While father and son waited a moment to catch their breath, my husband observed, “I don’t think this chair will fit in her bedroom,” nodding toward our teenaged daughter’s room.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During the 20 years I had known my father-in-law, he had owned several recliners, and when our 15-year-old daughter had urged her father to bring home “Grandpa’s chair” after his passing, I couldn’t quite picture his current chair. During the last year or so, Grandpa had also used an electronic chair that made getting up and down easier. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I looked over the chair with its handsome brown leather, I told my husband, “We can make room for the chair in here. Let’s keep it in here.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few moments later our daughter entered the room and gave her approval to leave the chair in the family room. But before the chair could be moved to a designated place, she sat down and leaned back in the chair, and ran her hands lovingly across the smooth leather. Smiling with satisfaction and leaning back once more, she announced, “This chair even smells like Grandpa’s house.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I stood there watching my daughter basking in the comfort of her grandfather’s chair, and then, reluctantly, let her brother have a turn sitting in it, I was suddenly struck by the qualities the chair shared with its former occupant.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Crafted to be a strong, durable piece of furniture, the chair was covered with a high grade leather, finished with a smooth sheen and comfortable surface. Free of all pretense, and with a deep and abiding love for God and his family, Grandpa was just as genuine as that leather-- a man who could be trusted and whose honesty could be avowed by his family and community. A hard worker all his life, he was still putting his handyman skills to use at the age of 90. With a voice that was naturally a little gruff, surprisingly the same voice took on a pleasant and cheerful tone when he made phone calls to our home. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both history buffs, our children were intrigued with their grandfather's birth year, 1917, and enjoyed quizzing him about some of the historical events of that time period. In some ways, he was like grandfather and great-grandfather to his two youngest grandchildren.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Married to one woman for 67 years, Grandpa and Grandma had renewed their wedding vows in honor of their 65th anniversary, and two years later, Grandma passed on. For the last three years of his life, Grandpa had lived alone. Our daughter talked frequently about her concern for him and worried that he was missing Grandma. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few months before his 92nd birthday, an unrelenting bout of pneumonia drained physical strength from Grandpa’s body. Weeks turned into months as Grandpa fought to regain his strength. My husband and daughter frequently made overnight visits to Grandpa’s, and it was during these visits that the bond between Grandpa and his youngest granddaughter forged even stronger. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And although work and school kept our teenaged son from visiting as often, we found out after the fact that our son, who had just turned 18, made the out-of-state trip alone to visit Grandpa in the hospital. Upon his arrival at the hospital, Grandpa dismissed his physical therapist and daily treatment, telling the therapist that he had to visit with his grandson. Grandpa kept his grandson’s secret for a few days until we were told about the visit. Neither his dad nor I had a word of reprimand for him. Our son had caught the undercurrent of concern when we gave him progress reports on Grandpa and just needed to see him. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As his body grew weaker, the strength of Grandpa’s character remained as strong as ever. Upon reaching his 92nd birthday, Grandpa announced he was ready to move on to heaven. But before he left, he wanted all his monthly bills paid and his yard mowed. And that’s the way he left this earth, with all his affairs in order.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few weeks later, when the family was to gather at Grandpa’s house to divide up his furniture, our daughter begged her dad to ask for Grandpa’s chair. And now that chair has a special place of honor in our home. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We don’t use Grandpa’s chair as a lounging chair but rather a chair to sit in occasionally, or just in passing it, remember a man who lived through the uncertain times of two World Wars and the Great Depression, holding to the faith and values he learned from his own parents and leaving a hertitage of faith and the same values to his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="color: #660000;">B</span></em></span></div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-27941746950246424472010-01-09T17:25:00.001-06:002010-01-09T17:26:54.012-06:00Remembering ElvisJust as I can’t imagine Elvis as a 75-year-old man, neither can I imagine selecting one of his songs as a favorite. Just when I think of one as a possible contender for the top spot, another one comes to mind and nudges it down. <br />
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<br />
An Elvis fan since the age of 13, all of his music pleases my ears, and I think his covers of other songs are even better than the originals. Now when I hear his version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” or “Sweet Caroline,” I’m reminded of the American Idol judges who always challenge the contestants “to make a song their own.” Well, Elvis knew how to make every song he sang his own.<br />
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<br />
Choosing a favorite Elvis movie is easy. “Girls, Girls, Girls” was the first movie I saw starring Elvis and has remained my favorite, as well as my favorite movie soundtrack, which includes the top ten hit, “Return To Sender.“ After losing two albums of this soundtrack, I tried to replace it with a CD. For several years, I could only find it available on Amazon Auctions, with a beginning bid of $49 for a used CD. In recent years, the soundtrack was re-released with the addition of the tracks from “Kid Galahad,” which I now enjoy listening to on my iPod.<br />
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For all that’s been written about his movies--and with the exception of loyal fans, most of the reviews are critical of his movie career--I must say that I still enjoy watching his movies for the very reasons critics pan them. Yes, they all follow a pattern: cute kids, a love interest, a fight scene and about a dozen sanguine songs. And I can also count on his movies to not assault my senses with violence and vulgarity. <br />
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For entertainment value, Elvis’ charisma could transcend the recycled plots and simplistic music offered in the soundtracks of these movies. And just as the reruns on TV Land bring a certain comfort to viewers of a simpler and more wholesome time, so do the movies of Elvis for both his loyal and casual fans.<br />
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For these memories, thank you very much, Elvis.Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1644546077962368363.post-27934530367237701682010-01-05T00:50:00.022-06:002010-01-05T02:04:09.687-06:00Another Christmas packed away in the memory book<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wEV_Owte3fon7JBlykxxX0xho3vtk__j15buHBGFkpKNjm6Iye7QBZiRNpB0WYcQXAivVaZQZEe-3p7V0aQ6FDoFRAP7WBY4WcC1zKMPmy7L6jLMcDjOt0pe9gxvZ1OqrwPQcqhI4y9A/s1600-h/flowers.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 168px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423151365976738210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wEV_Owte3fon7JBlykxxX0xho3vtk__j15buHBGFkpKNjm6Iye7QBZiRNpB0WYcQXAivVaZQZEe-3p7V0aQ6FDoFRAP7WBY4WcC1zKMPmy7L6jLMcDjOt0pe9gxvZ1OqrwPQcqhI4y9A/s200/flowers.JPG" /></a> As the Christmas trees come down and decorations are put away, so are all the festivities of another holiday season packed away in our memory books. Some are captured in photos and videos and will be revisited from time to time.<br /><br /><br /><div>For some the end of the holiday season brings relief from all the extra work of shopping, cooking, entertaining and just trying to keep up with the expectations and obligations that are supposed to make for a memorable Christmas. For others, the end of the season is an end of forced cheerfulness or just trying to avoid the season all together.<br /></div><br /><div> </div><div>What makes some Christmases special and others just a trial to get through? Of course, the first Christmas newlyweds spend together is special. And who <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t treasure watching a new baby experience their first Christmas. Getting engaged at Christmas or meeting someone new at Christmas also adds a sparkle to the holiday.<br /></div><br /><div>But a season that comes loaded with so much expectation takes on “special” when the unexpected is experienced. Most of the Christmases that stand out for me were not those where I plowed through a pile of gifts but those with a pleasant surprise-- an unexpected visit or call from a long distance relative or friend, an unexpected gift that met a need or a thoughtful homemade gift from someone. It’s that element of surprise that adds the specialness.<br /></div><br /><div>During December, in several cities around the country, some restaurant patrons decided to “pay it forward” and picked the tabs for strangers around them. It’s one thing for someone to pay your bill, but the surprise element of learning it was a stranger somehow doubles the blessing.<br /></div><br /><div>And this Christmas, I encountered the surprise element several times. About a week before Christmas, one evening FedEx knocked on our door and left a package from a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">catalog</span> business I've ordered from many times over the years. Knowing I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">hadn</span>’t ordered anything recently, I was baffled at what could be in the box. When I opened the box, I found a beautifully decorated live Christmas wreath inside. The accompanying invoice did not have any pricing info, so I went online to check my account and nothing had been charged to me. I had always wanted one of these live wreaths, but my practical side always insisted on buying one that could be used again. Thrilled, I hung the wreath and am still enjoying it.<br /></div><br /><div>A few days later, my husband came home with enough poinsettias to bank around our fireplace, which were given to him at a local nursery, along with a beautiful potted red plant that I used for a centerpiece on the dining table.<br />Then on Christmas Eve morning, we had an unexpected water overflow in the laundry room that necessitated taking up the flooring. Not knowing if anyone would even come to the house on Christmas Eve, I nevertheless made a call to a local restoration business. </div><br /><br /><div>Not only did the business owner say he would come to the house that morning, he said he was already on his way to another house in our neighborhood to assess some smoke damage. Within 30 minutes, he was at our house, surveyed the situation and took up the flooring before it was damaged. After assuring us that the room only needed a couple of days air drying with the help of a fan before putting the flooring back, he proceeded to tell us that he was not going to charge us for the service call. That would have been a nice gesture at any time. But on Christmas Eve? </div><br /><br /><div>I would say this was a special Christmas this year!</div>Bobbiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694816454604612821noreply@blogger.com0