Change of Venue

I haven't posted here from the Garret for a while. Surgery and other family matters have kept me occupied as well as uninspired.
 I apologize.


However, I have decided to start over. I am now blogging over at WordPress.com. My blog is called Ancient and Honorable Trees. Please join me there. I have appreciated your following my humble attempts to find a way through the miasma known as life.

Please take care, Life is short.
Peace, Blessings, Namaste.  Janet

Listen to the Mockingbird

I love waking up to the sound of mockingbirds exuberantly greeting the morning as though it was theirs was the First Song of Creation. They are birds of the air, and just like the lilies of the field they are here today and gone tomorrow. Humans are the only species that assign permanence to this place and are arrogant enough to believe they will be here today, or even this afternoon.

One morning I forced myself to sit on the deck and read. However, I was distracted by a mockingbird in a willow tree. The previous owner planted a stretch of willows two-tenths of a mile long in hopes of drying up a low-lying field. This tree has endured while several of its sister trees have gone the way of the chainsaw. Willow is a soft wood and after a few years of neglect this tree has gangly, with an out-of-control appearance. This is a wild tree; its upper branches scarred with the pock-marks of woodpeckers in search of insects. The branches jut up and over the rest of the tree like a skeletal limb: denuded of flesh, sinew, and leaves. To some, the tree is a nuisance. I saw a survivor, proudly flaunting its unattractive appendages; like Ahab's leg.

On top of the dead trunk sat a mockingbird, trilling its way through the morning rejoicing in its moment of life. It flew from tree to tree, yet always returned triumphantly to the willow. It always lighted on the uppermost point of the tree. He chose the ugly tree for his pulpit and shared his sermon of song.


There were lessons to be learned by listening to the mockingbird. Rejoice in this exact moment of your existence. Find joy in the small things. Don't despise or avoid the ugly places in life, for that is where you find the greatest fulfillment and purpose. Do not be afraid to stand on the pinnacle, no matter how treacherous and unpredictable it might appear. Sing your song with love and courage; sending it out into the world and up to its Creator.

On the Event of Rebecca's Birthday

Today is Rebecca's birthday. Although it has been almost three years since her death, I still feel her presence. I have "What Would Becky Do?" moments when pondering decisions. Sometimes, she gives a nudge, other times; I feel a smile that says, "You're on your own, kid." While she always commiserated with my problems, she always forced me to consider a positive, assertive solution rather than a complacent one.

She was never one to dress up, yet she was extremely feminine. During the time I knew her, I only saw her don make-up twice. Once, for my graduation from York College and the second; our friend Terry's wedding. That day Becky not only wore make-up, but a dress, stockings, and pearls. I still believe her appearance was cause for more conversation Monday morning around the park coffee pot than any other aspect of the event.

Yet, on a personal note, what did Becky bequeath to me? She taught me that while I should be a better historian than any man around, I also needed to have fun. I suppose that is why on our last trip to Disney World I wore my Minnie Mouse hat (the red one with the droopy daisy), on the plane, the shuttle bus at Dulles, and all the way home.

She taught me to modulate my voice during a presentation and to keep my hands at my sides when I wanted to make a point to my audience. She also showed me how to be merciful to thousands of tired, brain-dead, August visitors to Gettysburg. I learned to control my emotions and my tongue while maintaining a professional aura; something that carried over into my later jobs and my life. My offspring still remind me not to use my "ranger voice" with them.

She re-kindled my love of classic literature; especially Louisa May Alcott and Jane Austen. I still have moments when I cry while watching "Little Women." I cry not in sorrow but in victory, knowing how Becky and Bernadette fought to show the movie in the Visitors' Center. Their argument: women lived and struggled during the Civil War, let's remind people of that fact. Let's give young and not-so-young women a chance to learn the other side of History: HerStory.

I also learned life is what you make it. There comes a time when you must take control of your situation and either make changes, or stop whining.


Most importantly, I learned to always keep a red, foam clown nose in my desk drawer for those moments when I or those around me am taking life too seriously. Then you need to laugh.

Thanks, sweetie.

The Hope Within Us

O Death thou hast
Conquered me.

I lay beneath thy dart.

But Jesus Christ shall
Conquer thee-

And I shall rise
again.

I found this epitaph on an ancient headstone while walking around Copp's Hill Burying Ground, Boston, in 1976. Boston was a fleeting stop on a family vacation to coastal Maine. My dad parked our orange Ford pick-up near the U.S.S. Constitution, and we walked the Freedom Trail across the Charles River to Old North Church. A long line of visitors snaked around the church and my parents, not terribly interesting in waiting in line or American history, decided to walk around the cemetery. I was immediately drawn to the archaic names and epitaph inscribed on the weathered, leaning headstones.

This particular epitaph obviously sparked something in me. Let's examine it for a moment. It speaks of the inevitability of death, for no one really gets out alive (unless you are the prophet Elijah, in which case I doubt you are troubling yourself with this blog). Yet, even in death there is a spark of eternal optimism as well as revenge. Yes, the resident admits he or she has been stung by the sharp arrow death and is now in residence beneath our feet. However, there is a Warning as well as a Hope. The Warning is that what goes around comes around. Death thinks to have won this round, but not so fast. There is a spoiler in our midst. Jesus Christ has conquered the final foe; an act which gives hope of a life far from the confines of a grave in disease-ridden 18th-century Boston.

Where am I going with this? It is very possible for Hope to spark something in the souls of 21st-century Boston or Baltimore as well. Life can get us down, sometimes for an extended count. Yet, there should always be a Hope within us. Hope for something, or someplace that helps us through the dark days.

Let's be brave. While we always need Peace, perhaps we really need to give Hope a chance.

Listening

I have been blessed with a wide assortment of wonderful friends. One of them is Annabelle, a seminarian at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. When I first heard she had chosen to enter the ministry, I was slightly surprised. Annabelle is a tall, fun-loving, full-bodied cup of Teutonic intellect with a side order of absolute hilarity and juvenile behavior that pales my puerile antics. However, I have discovered that under the veneer of show-tune-karaoke and just plain silliness, Annabelle has been blessed with an old soul and a kind, seeking heart.

Annabelle has a blog (http://annabellepeake.wordpress.com), where she ponders a plethora of topics. Today's post is titled "Listening to Each Other," in which we find Annabelle wondering why we don't listen to each other, our bodies, and God. If I may quote:

"Life is so short and time so precious, why do we let ourselves be distracted from that which is so important?...Furthermore, do we take quality quiet time to sit and listen for God in our lives? I know that it's very easy for me to make excuses for not paying attention to those around me...and for not carving out time for listening for God."

I understand perfectly. It is not supposed to be about the goal, but the journey. A dearly-departed friend always reminded me that life is not a competition. It's a journey. The most important part of the journey are the experiences and the people you encounter along the way. The memories are in the minutiae of life.

I spend a lot of my time in the garret; some of it being productive while a lot of the time is spent hiding from the life below. However, that life always has a way of finding me. I'm working away and I hear footsteps ascending one flight of stairs, then another. A knock on the door and someone is there to chat or looking for a shoulder.

I stop and listen to my adult offspring. After all, it is my fault they are standing there looking for a word of hope. I taught them to come to me when they fell down and skinned their knees, or when their hearts were broken. Why should they stop just because they are wearing the earth suits of adults?


However, while they are pouring out their hearts to me I am often typing, surfing the Net, or playing spider solitaire. After all, I am a mom and programmed to multi-task. Their concerns are genuine and important to them. They deserve my full attention. God gives us His attention; I think we should honor the spirit in ourselves and each other by following the warnings posted at railroad crossings. Stop, Look, Listen.

When we are fully engaged in the lives of those around us wounds are healed, spirits lifted, and sometimes a life is pulled back from the edge of despair.

Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. Hebrews 13:2 The Journey.

What do you think? I'm listening.

The Fundamental Things Apply

While in high school, I fell in love with a boy. I can honestly say it was my first love. He was tall, dark, and handsome (at least to me). He was a musician and lived a physically rich but socially meager life under the control of his mother. I adored him.

I wrote a poem for him. I'm not sure if I ever gave it to him. However, I stuck it in a notebook of poems that found its way, years later, to my attic. I recently found the box and was relieved to discover my musings had survived several attic purges.

As a aspiring writer, I thought I might rework it. You know, take the eighteen-year-old out of it and insert some experience. Somewhere in my editing, I realized that I cannot change the poem. I tried to polish the grammar and punctuation. Then I bowed to the Muse and allowed my voice to remain that of an eighteen-year-old.

Finding this poem and its emotions I realized that in spite of the time that goes by, the fundamental things still apply.

I wondered if there was some way of reaching you.
Yours was not one of the classic cases that
appear in huge, dusty volumes.
Full of symptoms and cures for the affliction.

You have the same feelings, hopes and fears I do,
only slightly variegated so they might mold themselves
to fit and become the individual you are.

There were times when I gave up.
The times I saw no bright,
shining hope ahead.
Only darkness.

Then I would; and still do remember
a smile you once threw casually in
my direction.
Or just a few meaningless words that refuse to leave me.

Then my faith is again renewed in the
human race,
Of which you are the predominant member.

Lighthouses

Lighthouses are depicted as tall, majestic sentinels placed along the coast, often on a rocky outcropping overlooking a particularly dangerous stretch of open water. Sometimes it is a lake, bay, or the ocean. While some are short and squat, others are tall and regal. They shine their lights out over the water as a warning or guidance to watercraft sailing by. They are there to remind ships and boats of the danger-whether it is rocks or shallow water.

However, to me, lighthouses have a different significance. They are a metaphor for those too frightened to take the first step. They are the kids sitting on the benches at recess too afraid to get on the swings, let alone jump off the swings in mid-arc. They don't climb the ladder on the sliding board. They are afraid of losing control, therefore, they deny themselves the thrill of the moment of abandon; that moment at the top of the slide when gravity takes over and you slip down the shiny surface to land safely on your feet.

Lighthouse people find a safe rock to sit on and they stay there. Eventually, their bodies and spirits harden while their feet grow down deep into the rocks; immovable. They see the small boats out on the waves, and never think of the freedom of sailing (I once owned a sailboat, but that is another post). Seeing the waves, they are unable to cry out "Danger." A light is their warning, but sometimes the boats ignore the light, or they are tossed onto the rocks by the waves. Some are steered by knowledgeable watermen and women, able to avoid the danger, though they sail close by.

The lighthouse does not think of the watercraft that navigate the vast waters of the earth successfully. They only see the danger before them. They never notice the beauty of the sunrise or sunset, the majesty and power of the seas, the gulls flying low, or the dolphins jumping for the joy of their existence. They only see the dangers. They are afraid.

I would rather be the small sailboat, aware of the dangers but following the wind, current, and my heart. I choice faith in the unknown and hope that I will survive the storms that await me.

Tell me what you think.

A Crayola Forest

I promised my I would write about trees today. The beautiful, soft greens of spring, as well as the riot of reds and oranges in the fall. God has an amazing box of Crayolas at His disposal. I actually bought a box of 64 crayons last week just to try ant imitate what I see outside the window of the Garret everyday.

In a way, trees are like crayons, all standing upright in their little spaces. However, unlike Crayolas they all have brown wrappers instead of color-coded wrappings, unless you don't count the birches and sycamores with their white-splotched bark-wrappings.

One fall, as I was beginning yet another semester of graduate school, a good friend gave me a box of 48 crayons. "After all, school is starting, and who cares what 'grade' you're in, or your age-you need a new box of crayons." She was right. A new box of crayons is like January 1, Opening Day of baseball season, or your birthday. It is a new beginning when anything could happen, and you need to be prepared. With crayons.

I discovered Crayola has new colors: Macaroni & Cheese, Timberwolf (don't tell Stephanie Meyer), and Purple Mountain's Majesty, which made me feel very patriotic. Cornflower has always been a favorite, the same with Burnt Sienna and its counterpart, Raw Sienna.

I took my box of 48 crayons and did a little swatch test to see how they looked, and to find some new favorites. Wisteria is nice, as is Melon, Mauvelous, and Goldenrod. Now on to the box of 64. I need another sheet of paper...

There is a method to using crayons. First, you dump them all out of the box. No discipline or order here-this is play. Then you randomly pick one that strikes your fancy, scribble a swatch and saying the color name. Express your feelings about that color. "Ooohhh, Granny Smith Apple, niccceee." Sometimes you pronounce the color name in another language- "Spring Green...Vert Primtemps." Crayons are for fun, and self-expression. Whether it is just scribbling, or coloring a sky Sky Blue that, by the way, actually looks like the sky.

Crayola has a new catagory of colors: Kid's Choice. Famous is a beautiful, pure pink-but it is not carnation pink. I loved Bear Hug, a gray/silver mix. Super Happy is opaque yellow, and Happy Ever After is blue-green but not as dark as Blue Green (am I making sense?). Courage is a bright red-orange. I see the reasoning. Courage is a bright flame that inspires and encourages you even in the dark, mean times.

I think we all need a little box of crayons to carry around with us. We need Super Happy for the sun in our Sky Blue sky. Spring Green for the life around us, Bear Hug for caring and loving, and Courage. Maybe everyone's box could have two Courage Crayons. Because now we need an extra dose of something to give us strength, hope, and bravery. Perhaps, most importantly, we need Silver for the cloud lining in our Happy Ever After.

The Ladies are Back in Town

Saturday found beehusband and me standing behind a metal building in New Columbia, Pennsylvania. It was cold and windy. I was wearing sandals. Of course, I saw one other woman wearing flip-flops, so I didn't feel too weird. Most people were dressed appropriately for the weather; hiking boots, insulated vests. Layers-you get the picture.

What could entice us to drive over two hours and stand out in the cold? Bees. Along with forty other people, we gathered behind the Brushy Mountain Bee Farm storefront to watch someone "shake" bees into a hive without creating either physical harm to oneself and ending up on YouTube, or watching your queen bee fly away, never to be seen again. The queen part is a bad thing. YouTube is just a catastrophe of epic proportions.

The bee wrangler seemed very comfortable with the box of bees (similar to the box of bees sitting in the back of my Volvo wagon), and with great calmness, clarity, and a certain degree of humor, talked us through the process. He finished the demo; the bees shaken, not stirred, and all was well.

After lunch at Applebee's, we drove home and following the addition of several layers of clothing (and shoes for me), we bravely walked back to our hive and proceeded to shake some bees. We put the queen cage on one frame, per the demo, and did the deed. I added a feeder of sugar syrup, put on the top, and beehusband and I shared a cup of celebratory coffee.

Sunday, beehusband voiced concern over the number of bees left in the box sitting outside the hive. You must understand, sometimes the bees decide to take their time entering the hive, and would rather walk in than settle for the unceremonious shaking. However, the night was chilly, and we thought the bees had froze. I brought the box indoors, only to discover the little cadavers began walking around. So they returned outside.

Four days later, I checked on the little ladies. Everyone seems very energetic and are entering the hive laden with pollen and other bee-type goodness.

It is good to see to ladies flying about. I missed the activity in the yard. Winter took its toll, and now spring has given us another chance to be spectators and caretakers of the hive.

Saint Patrick in My Kitchen

Saint Patrick's Day, that day when everyone is Irish, the Chicago River runs green, and amateur drinkers imbibe to excess. I spent the day in the kitchen, exploring the uncharted waters of Irish and Irish-inspired cuisine. I gathered an interesting array of recipes, put on my green apron, and began.

I decided to play it safe and prepare dessert first. I started early in the morning, making Black & Tan Brownies. A layer of tan brownies baked for fifteen minutes, and then I spread the gooey, thick layer of Guinness-laced chocolate batter on top, and completed the baking time. When they emerged from the oven, I was a little surprised. While we are accustomed to gooey brownies, these were rather cake-like in texture. The recipe called for unsweetened chocolate, and even with the addition of sugar, were not hurt-your-teeth-sweet. The taste grew on us both figuratively and literally.

My next exploit was the main course, Chicken and Dumpling Stew. I really didn't want to travel the corned beef and cabbage route this year, and I have it on good authority that chickens do live in Ireland. Chopped carrots, potatoes, peas and chicken simmered in a cream-based broth for several hours. Yum. The smell alone was wonderful. I used whole wheat flour for the dumplings, so they were not as light and fluffy as my mom's. Yet, in keeping with the theme of good, home-cooked, comfort food, the stew was delicious. I confess; I made yummy noises.

My final stop on the day's food travel was the making of the bread. Not just any bread, but Irish Soda Bread. I Googled "Irish Soda Bread," and found the web site of the Society for the Preservation of Irish Soda Bread. I knew I had struck the Mother Lode. The site is loaded with information, recipes, and the true definition of ISB: flour, salt, baking soda, and buttermilk. I made a wonderful, crusty, round loaf with the traditional cross cut into the top. One bite and I knew someone's Irish Granny was smiling down on me.

It was a great day for my kitchen and Saint Patrick. Easter is on the way. I must begin searching for recipes-maybe some Hot Cross Buns? I'll let you know.

Requiem for the Hive

I have an update on my bee situation. I mentioned in an earlier post that the top cover of our hive blew off during a fierce wind storm in January. I tried communicating with the ladies, but to no avail. Communication involves knocking on the hive and listening for a response (BUZZZ). Yesterday, the president of the Beekeepers Association stopped by and suggested an impromptu visit to the hive. We sloughed through the snow and Jeremy knocked, but no one answered.

Our particular colony was the product of a hive swarm. The colony becomes too large, or the queen begins to age. In an attempt to survive, she sends out a pheromone signaling a portion of the colony to fill their bellies with honey to sustain them until they begin gathering nectar again. Then the queen leaves, taking almost half the colony with her. Think self-preservation, for if the colony believes she is tired, old, or not laying a sufficient number of eggs, the colony kills and replaces her. Therefore, we had no idea as to the strength and age of our queen.

After removing the top cover, Jeremy peered down through the frames searching for signs of bee-life. Alas, the hive was silent. We began systematically removing frames and examining the evidence. It appears the ladies starved for lack of adequate honey reserves. The comb was empty of honey. Many of the bees were head-first in the comb, as though they were eating. A typical hive requires approximately sixty pounds of honey to survive the winter. While we fed them sugar syrup and fondant, it was not enough. Jeremy mentioned that when a colony begins to die, everyone dies within a few minutes. They live, work and die together. As we knocked the bees out of the frames, their carcasses blew across the snow, like scattered ashes.

While upset, I was expecting that verdict. I had a gut feeling the hive had perished. As I mentioned earlier, "keeper of bees" is an extremely inaccurate term. Bees keep themselves, we merely try to provide optimum opportunities for them to flourish and pollinate. All we ask for in return is the chance to steal a little honey now and then.

Our new colony arrives in April. We learned a great deal about bees this year. We will continue in our attempt to decipher the mysteries of the hive.

Becky Tales

I am a firm believer in celebrations. Birthday, anniversaries, graduations, all deserve to be honored. I do not believe in celebrating death, although I am a fan of graveyard art. I don't wax sad and lonely on the anniversary of my grandmother's death. I believe in the remembrance of a well-lived life. Therefore, even though today is the anniversary of a passage-I choose to revel in the well-lived life of Rebecca Ann Lyons. There is insufficient space to relate all of my experiences with Becky. I hope others take time to share their Becky Tales with me.

I met Becky Lyons in 1998. I was a shiny, newly minted and uniformed seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park. My supervisor, Pam Neil, shared an office with Becky. Honestly, the first time I met Becky I was a tad intimidated. She sat behind a huge desk loaded with books and official-looking papers. Although her eyes seemed friendly, I knew my metal was being measured and at the appointed hour would be tested. I hoped I would not be found wanting. (She later told me people always saw her as tough, but she was really a big marshmallow on the inside.) On Pam's days off, I had permission to use her desk to study and work on my programs. During those days, Becky and I talked about life, the afterlife, and history. Or should I say HISTORY. She had an extensive and expansive background that included medieval history, a field I was at that time considering for my graduate program.

That summer I decided to develop a living history program. I realized many stories were told of the valiant men who fought and died at Gettysburg, but very few stories told of the brave women who shared that history. My program, based on the life of a Daughter of Charity, became the first program at the park to highlight the work of the religious order. Becky was versed in living history, so Pam decided I should work with Becky on my research. Pam found a position at another NPS site, so Becky officially became my supervisor. She tutored me in all things related to developing a solid, believable program. Her standard comment was always: "Word choice is everything. Think before you open your mouth." Becky and I had the opportunity to present our respective programs at Ford's Theatre, in Washington, D.C. What a tremendous honor to tell our stories on that stage. Those presentations led to the organization of the First Women's History Symposium at the park.

Soon, our relationship became a friendship. Becky and I spent time walking the battlefield, eating lunch, and talking. She liked my husband and my children-a great achievement for an unmarried woman who was an only child. We exchanged presents at Christmas and birthdays. She was my friend, mentor, and sister in so many ways. I am a better person, and a much better historian for having known Becky. When I wrote the acknowledgements for my first book, I wrote "Last but not least, I am indebted to Rebecca A. Lyons, my friend and supervisor from Gettysburg National Military Park, who passed before this project was completed. Her guidance, wisdom, and humorous insight regarding the human predicament touched many lives. She will remain a constant reminder that our words and actions matter now, and in the future."

Epiphany and Life in Three Boxes

I have never counted the epiphanies in my life. I wonder if I should be recording them; keep a record of the times grace has silently slipped into the room occupied by my mind and shone a light. After all, isn't that the description of an epiphany? The appearance of a divine entity; usually accompanied by a bright light. Your own personal deer in the headlights moment. Only you are not afraid of a semi-truck pointed in your direction. It's really much worse than that. For those less inclined to believe in a deity suddenly appearing in the middle of their daily commute, it could be an intuitive moment when a solution presents itself. A leap. Epiphanies have regularly scheduled themselves on my calendar. Evidently, I am in great need of intuitive leaps.

Today I had the leap. Three years ago, I lost a dear friend to self-neglect, fear of the unknown, and such a strong sense of self-reliance she could not call out for help. Many of us knew she was in trouble. However, we believed she would consider an intervention an invasion of her privacy, and she would retaliate by excising us from her life. So rather than anger her and risk losing her friendship, we lost her.

One brave soul took up the mantle of estate executor. We discovered the departed had hoarded so many memories within the walls of her home. Those memories included tangible items (perhaps against their will), as well as a vast number of books. It was a frightening revelation of her needs. She considered books her only friends. Friends who could never disappoint, betray, or abandon her. The executor told me she filled a large industrial dumpster almost a dozen times before the house was empty enough to clean.

My friend infected me with the book-hoarding virus. I was attending graduate school and commuted several hundred miles a week. Research on campus required a great deal of forethought and scheduling. It was easier to search for and purchase books online. My friend encouraged me in that activity, and I believed I would need those books forever. Every research topic, every graduate course required more and more books. My office became a book depository with just a narrow walkway through the boxes.

My epiphany was realizing I didn't need a thousand or more books forever. So, I finally began disposing of the majority of my book collection. I discovered a wonderful used bookstore whose owner gladly bought my books. I have sold over three hundred books in the past year. It has been torturous at times. How do you decide which child to leave on the steps of the orphanage, and which child to keep?

I love the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun." The heroine finds she must decide what personal possessions to take from her home. Finally, she points to three boxes. "Those are all I want." She is a writer, so the boxes are full of books.

Faced with the luxury of three boxes, what would my boxes contain? They would hold pictures of my children and husband. Maybe a crocheted or knitted afghan and a pair of embroidered pillowcases, an apron, and a cookbook. My book selection would include The Bible, Shakespeare's Sonnets, Thoreau, James Michener, and the Chicago Manual of Style. Perhaps a few DVDs as well for entertainment. It is a brave thing to reduce life to a small circle of light. To realize what is really necessary for your mental and emotional happiness and fulfillment. It is energizing.

If you only had three boxes in which to pack your life, what would be in them? Think about it. Let me know what you decide.

The Chronicle of the Bees

I have a confession. When I was small, I caught honey bees in a jar and watched them fly about trying to escape. I have since come to my senses, repented of my sins against bees, and become a beekeeper. It is an interesting term: beekeeper. It is not the same as owning a dog or cat. Believe me, no one really "keeps" bees. In most instances, you stand by and watch the bees do their thing. You try to provide a proper place for them to colonize, build honeycomb, raise new bees, and store honey; like a beehive. At certain times of the year, depending on the weather, you provide additional nutrition, or bales of straw to protect the hive from the ravages of winter winds, which can freeze a colony in not time flat. Otherwise, they usually ignore you. I think that is a good thing, for I believe it reminds us of our place in the universe.

As a researcher, I did the usual thing and researched bees, their plight, and the joys of beekeeping before I took the plunge. I was afraid of the responsibility of "keeping" a hive of 30,000-60,000 little souls (as I thought of them). We obtained a swarm in the middle of June, which put the ladies at a disadvantage, or so we thought. However, before I continue, let me explain a few terms. Bees are female, unless they are drones. Drones impregnate the Queen, then hang around and eat until the real workers expel them from the hive in the fall. The drones have nowhere to go, and die. In beekeeping circles it is called The Massacre of the Drones. Women, even bees, are ruthless. Therefore, we refer to the colony of workers as "the ladies." Bees are dependent on pollen and nectar flows at particular times of the year. We were concerned they would not have the opportunity to build up their numbers before fall. The president of the Beekeepers Association visited our hive and pronounced everyone right on track.

I monitored their progress through weekly hive inspections and supplemental feedings. The bees were always pleasant and non-aggressive. (Wasps will sting you for no reason whatsoever; bees only sting protecting the hive.) I loved to wander out and watch them fly in and out of the hive entrance on their various errands. They ignored me, or occasionally one buzzed me to check me out. Once, while inspecting the hive a bee landed on my protective gloves and began buzzing. A very interesting, strange, and funny sensation.

They seemed to be doing well until about three weeks ago. We had a period of very low temperatures and wind. Even though I placed straw bales behind the hive in the direction of prevailing winds, the wind changed and attacked the hive from the front. To add insult to injury, the high winds blew off the top cover of the hive. During cold weather bees cluster around the Queen and maintain a temperature of around 94 degrees. Extremely cold temperatures and my inexperience may have seriously damaged the colony.

I am now waiting to see if the little ladies survived. There is nothing I can do. If they did survive, they will emerge one warm spring day. If not, I will clean out the hive and start over. It is Nature. I will be sad, but I know others have lost hives as well. I will continue to update their status as time goes on.

I have become more fully aware of the importance of the honey bee. At least one of every three bites of food we consume is the result of pollination by honey bees, or other varieties of pollinators. I will leave my editorial on the loss of the honey bee and its consequences for another day. However, I encourage you to plant a few bee-friendly flowers this spring. There are numerous Internet sites listing plantings for bee and butterfly gardens. Catch the buzz. Respect the Queen. Keep the little ladies flying.

Karma Pictures Continued

While blogging about my own karma pic I mentioned my sister. She is an interesting study. Seven years separate us with me in the lead. Like all younger siblings, she complains that there are more pictures of me than her. That is logical, as I have been camera fodder longer than she has.

As a child she did not care for sand, wind, and sun. She insisted on wearing sunglasses to ward off the evil sun and a hat to keep her hair neat. Sand was her worst enemy. My dad enjoyed camping vacations near water. Usually if there is water there is sand, especially along the Atlantic Coast.

Dad snapped the picture of SisterBee and MotherBee on Daytona Beach, Florida. Our dad believed it would be great to go to Florida during Easter vacation. Fortunately, my vacation schedule did not coincide with Spring Break or we would have been miserable.

That winter reminds me of our current weather situation. It is cold everywhere, even in Florida. A strong onshore breeze made the beach untenable, so Dad built a beachhead of sand to deflect the wind and give Mom an opportunity to sunbathe. I wore a sweatshirt over my swimsuit. Being young and determined, I stayed on the beach playing and even running out into the cold ocean.

However, SisterBee clung tenaciously to her beliefs. The picture says it all.

Post Script. When I returned to school following vacation no one believed I had been in Florida. They held their own beliefs, which even a suntan could not sway.

The Karma Picture

I love history. I don't believe in karma. However, I have what I consider to be my "karma picture." You know, that picture taken of you zillions of years ago showing you doing something, holding a toy, or a pet. You might be posed in front of a building, object, or monument that at the time seemed somewhat incidental and insignificant. Perhaps it's the Halloween picture of you in a fireman's costume. Today you find yourself somehow engaged in a career relative to that picture. Not making any sense? Listen up, and I'll explain.

My parents took us on a lot of vacations. My sister and I were never consulted as to destination. We just got in the backseat of the Grand Prix (1966), and looked out the windows, awaiting our fate/destination. Sometimes we counted cars or cows, along with the Burma Shave signs. We found ourselves in Florida (before Disney), Michigan, South Carolina, Maine, and Virginia. The trips were chronicled for posterity by our dad and his Kodak.

My sister hated sand in her shoes and between her toes but she especially hated the sun in her eyes. So there are many shots of her standing on various East Coast beaches dressed in her bathing suit, her feet in snow boots, wearing sunglasses. They could be considered her karma pictures as she now lives in the mountains of North Carolina, far from the seashore.

The trips were rarely history-related. Once my dad told me he had no interest whatsoever in history. So I suppose the trips to the Smithsonian were tortuous affairs for him. I, on the other hand, became a history nerd at a very early age. I watched The Liberty Tree on The Wonderful World of Disney, read Laura Ingalls Wilder, and every historical novel I could find in my local library. I grew up in the Golden Age of Television that included Bonanza, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, and every other costume drama around.

My picture was taken a little closer to home. Family members were visiting and my parents decided to take them to Gettysburg. I don't know how much of the battlefield we visited or how many times we actually got out of the car and walked around. I know for certain we exited the car on Oak Ridge; site of the opening salvos of the battle. How do I know? A picture was taken of me standing in front of the Eternal Light Peace Memorial. Technically, it is the side of the monument, not the front. Regardless, it is my karma pic.

I denied the calling of History. I entered Towson State as a Music major and left four years later a Geography and Environmental Planning major. Finally, years later I gave into Cleo, the Siren/Muse of History, and earned a degree in History; followed by a M.A. in American Studies.

About ten years ago my mother sent me the picture. As I had forgotten the visit to the Park, the picture astonished me. I showed it to a friend of mine who just smiled at me. "See, you are right where you're supposed to be." That particular day I was wearing my green and gray National Park Service-sanctioned uniform. I had been working as a seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park for two years. I served at Gettysburg for four more years before leaving to work for The National Museum of Civil War Medicine in Frederick, Maryland.

Everyone has a karma picture hidden away somewhere. Maybe you haven't recognized it just yet, but it is there. Perhaps you should sift through those boxes and albums. You just might find yourself.

"Here, these are yours."

Several years ago, my mother gave me three boxes from her basement. "Here, these are yours," was the verbal decree. I took them home and put them in the attic. I was really not interested in their contents. Two weeks ago, I was in my perpetual attic-cleaning mode when I found them. I untied the discolored cord and opened the first carton. Inside were several hard-backed composition books, the kind I still look for every fall when school begins.

I opened the first book to discover it contained mimeographed pictures I had colored...in the first grade. Now you must understand I had unwittingly stumbled upon an ancient repository. You also need to put this in context. I was born mid-twentieth century, and have quite a few years behind me. Therefore, much like the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, this was old stuff. Trust me. I stared at the pages; every single page had a neatly pasted drawing of a cabbage, rabbit, dog, or flower. I must admit it appeared I did not subscribe to the notion of coloring within the lines. Well, I was only six.

The remaining composition books were dedicated to first grade math and some semblance of language arts. I also found a fourth-grade geography notebook containing maps of Europe and South America, all with carefully identified countries, lakes, and rivers. I remember geography class, I loved it. I had to memorize the continents, draw and label the countries. I loved drawing South America, penciling in the Amazon River and its tributaries. However, I am digressing.

The weight of my mother's commitment and actions overwhelmed me. Here was a woman who had carefully collected every math workbook, Junior Scholastic issue, and report card I ever earned, read, or ciphered. She neatly packed them away, tied the box with a cord, and wrote my name on it. We moved from the house of my elementary years to another house, where she placed the boxes on shelves in the basement. Then, bequeathed to me they were moved to my house in central PA where I put them in the attic. What a journey those little cardboard boxes have had! Think of the resources, space,energy, and fuel needed to move them sixty miles from their place of origin. I had a mental picture of the closing scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," as the Ark of the Covenant was stored in an immense warehouse. Well, not quite that large, or that important.

I looked through the boxes, saving a few pictures and an issue of Junior Scholastic highlighting the National Park Service. The rest I threw away. It is too late for me to follow my mother's example. I have already thrown away too many pictures, report cards, and Mother's Day cards made by my children. I have saved things that matter to me; little notes my daughter wrote me to encourage me during tough times, silly photos of my son. I have my memories. I do not need to collect and save the minutiae of my life or of my children. I especially do not need to burden them thirty years from now when I say, "Here, these are yours."

The least of these

Sometimes we forget those who are hurting. We brusquely go through our day as though our actions are the most important. We complain about traffic and why don't people get out of our way? Why are others so unaware of our needs? We forget that even if they knew we were running late for an appointment most would tell us we should have started five minutes earlier. Logic is often the orphan of arrogance.

Today I stopped at one of my least-favorite mega-stores to purchase pet food and pain-relievers. (My Uncle Arthritis is visiting my right hand at the moment.) I waited somewhat patiently for my turn with the cashier. She yawned and seemed tired although it was only 9:30 a.m. I asked if she was tired at that early hour. Instead of mentioning a late night she told me she was tired because she had been crying. She continued that her father called this morning to tell her it was finally time to put her grandfather into hospice care. My heart skipped a beat as I listened to her story. "In my thirty-three years I have only heard my dad cry once, and that was when his mom died." So now he was beginning the journey of saying good-bye to his father.

I understand a part of that mystery. My own parents are getting closer and closer to the end of their own struggles. My dad suffered a stroke over a year ago. At that time my sister and I were told he had Alzheimer's Disease as well. We have watched his small triumphs as well as his major personal defeats. He doesn't understand why he can't keep his balance when he tries to stand. He is frustrated that he can't walk around the house unassisted. Stairs are now in his past. The cognitive decline is oftentimes comical (in a loving way), but mostly it is frustrating for us as well. They still look like our parents, but they have been invaded by the body and mind snatchers. It is painful. My sister and I now mourn the loss of our parents even though life is still in their bodies.

We forget our own mortality. We forget that we too shall decrease so that others may increase.

I told the cashier I would remember her today. I lied. I shall remember her every day.

Plato said it best:
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.

Slow down, you're moving too fast. Got to make the morning last. Just kicking down the cobblestones. Looking for fun and feeling groovy.

Feel groovy, and take your time. Today is the best day of your life.

Jane

Today Truly is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Yes, it it true. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. It is the first day of my first blog. Why? I need to feel connected. Connected to what? Unfortunately, in the information age there seems to be only one method of connection. Blogs, e-mails, social networks, etc. So I have taken the plunge.

I have a home office in my attic. In my strangest daydreams I have seen myself as Louisa May Alcott or Jane Austen writing away in a garret room surrounded by the past and hoping for a future. Hence the garret reference. Trust me, I am surrounded by the past.

I live in a house built in 1864 so that alone give me license. However, it is also my attic. Here bits and pieces of my life have found repose. Some have taken root (in the worst way). In February I began the arduous task of cleaning out the attic. It was an adventure. It was a huge undertaking. It was frightening. I discovered I had been using my attic to store stuff that I believed I could never part with. I also believed the space was just a large storage bin; an in-house U-Store-It. You know what I mean, boxes of old clothes you don't want to throw away or wear again. I was surprised to find my elementary school report cards that my mother had carefully saved and packed in a box. Wow. That is a post all unto itself. "Stuff My Mom Saved For Me." Much to my chagrin I also came across a box of old underwear. It was gross. However, I digress.

It is here in my garret that I am alone. If someone wants to visit they must muster the fortitude to climb at least two flights of stairs. It is a way to remove myself from the madness of family life, regain my personal civility and connect.