HAPPY PIC

March 9, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Winter beach.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan MARCH 9, 2014 - MARCH 21, 2014

March 8, 2018 Dede Ranahan

A Birthday Invitation * A New Dilemma * Perspective * Empty Bowls * A Real Life Mystery * Of Ants and Me * No Invaders, No Dragons, No Trolls * Spring 2014 * Internal Drum by Patrick Ranahan * A Bout of Self-Doubt * A Paradox * What to Keep and What to Discard

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

MARCH 9, 2014: A BIRTHDAY INVITATION

Hi Everyone!

You're receiving this email because Evelyn Moon, better known as Mom and GG Moon, is celebrating her 96th birthday on April 8. As the calendar falls, we're hosting her "official" birthday dinner on Saturday, April 5th. You're all invited and, if you're too far away and can't attend, you're welcome to call and wish the lady of the day, Happy Birthday!

Michael's preparing an arugula salad and a Cassoulet D'Artagnan. I didn't know what this fancy-sounding concoction was either. It's a hearty dish of duck sausage, and beans. Very French! I'm offering sardines, with sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, onions, and capers as an appetizer and a lemon-rosemary layer cake for dessert.

The above mentioned dinner will be at my home around 6 o'clock. Please RSVP. Hope to hear from you, one way or the other.

Love, Dede

MARCH 10, 2014: A NEW DILEMMA

Pat calls. He's still delivering auto parts. The church gave him a going-away party. He quit his Sunday job there.

"How's Lexi?"

"She's being a bit of a problem at the moment."

"How?"

"Well, she pretty much chewed up the shutters on an upstairs window. And she's peed a few times in the upstairs loft."

This is not good. Poop would be gross but dog pee? It sinks into the carpet padding and you can't get rid of the odor. We consider a few solutions. Pat's thinking of shutting Lexi in the downstairs closet when he's gone. I don't like this idea. The closet's bigger than her crate, but still.

"You can't leave her in the backyard?"

"No. She howls and digs out under the fence."

"What about the upstairs bathroom? It's bigger than the closet and has a window to let light in."

Pat doesn't like this idea.

"I know you love Lexi but is this a fair arrangement for her? Do you think you should give her back to the dog rescue?"

"Give her back? No, I'm not giving her back."

"Well, something has to be done."

"I know."

Silence on the other end of the phone.

"Could she ride along with you in your car when you're making deliveries?"

"No, Mom. She can't ride along with me."

Silence on my end of the phone.

I'm concerned. I won't worry Mom with what's happening in her rental house. A "real" landlord wouldn't allow the dog to stay. I remind myself I can't fix everything.

"Well, let me know what solution you come up with."

"I will."

"You saw the email about GG's birthday dinner?"

"Yes, I'll be there. Talk to you later."

"Bye, Pat."

This situation needs a remedy. It can't continue as is. I'll let it churn a bit. I hope Pat will think of something he can live with — an accommodation that's good for Lexi and good for the house. I hate that getting a job means he may have to give up the dog he loves.

A chat with Pat. A new dilemma.

MARCH 11, 2014: PERSPECTIVE

Cosmos, a new television series, is premiering. The reviews compare it to an updated Carl Sagan program. I'm watching the first episode. It includes computerized graphics and animated storytelling. The narrator talks about space and time in terms of trillions and billions of galaxies and light years. He says, "According to a cosmic calendar, human beings didn't appear until 11:59p.m. on December 31." He mentions a space probe we've sent that broadcasts a message in different languages. "Hello, we're from earth. Is anybody out there?"

The message includes quadrants and specific directions to our address in the solar system. Stephen Hawking, the scientist, doesn't think this probe is a good idea. He says, "The universe is big and weird. Would you call out in the jungle to let others know of your whereabouts?"

The TV story takes us out to the edge, to the moment before the Big Bang -- a time before time, when nothing existed. And then, from one explosion, came worlds upon worlds upon worlds. It's hard to get your head around. Our home, our earth, isn't even a speck. It's a speck on a speck. We're specks on a speck on a speck.

Have to keep this in mind as I worry about dog pee.

MARCH 12, 2014: EMPTY BOWLS

My friend, Grace, and I are at the Sacramento Convention Center. The River City Food Bank is holding its annual fundraising luncheon, Empty Bowls. Local artists and art students donate their pottery. A lunch ticket costs $40. It includes soups prepared and donated by local restaurants, and the choice of an empty art bowl to take home.

We worked at last year's event which raised $100,000. This year's goal is $125,000. One-third of the meals, provided by the food bank, goes to children. One of four children in the Sacramento area lives in poverty. The food bank also serves seniors and families.

Grace and I are dressed in black pants, white tops and black aprons imprinted with the words, "Empty Bowls." We're serving soups — chicken and artichoke, pozole rojo, and lentil. The soups rotate a pot at a time until the pot is empty. The favorite, year after year, is a crab bisque.

Empty Bowls is simple, elegant fundraising. Everything's donated. Volunteers man all the stations — check in, pottery tables, information tables, and soup lines. High school students clear tables and replenish table settings. When the event ends at 1:30p.m., volunteers get to select a bowl from the ones remaining.

I choose a small, light-green bowl that I'm putting on the dresser in my guest room. It's a perfect receptacle for car keys, earrings, or spare change. My multi-colored bowl from last year decorates the table in my entryway. It's filled with jelly beans for Easter. Sometimes it holds candy hearts or candy corn or red and green wrapped chocolate kisses.

My event souvenirs are year-round reminders to give thanks for my full pantry, and to remember that there are hungry folks out there — many in my own neck of the woods.

MH370 Memorial Kuala Lumpur International AirportPhoto credit: sinh nguyen hoc/flickr — MH370 Memorial Kuala Lumpur International Airport
Photo credit: sinh nguyen hoc/flickr

MARCH 13, 2014: A REAL LIFE MYSTERY

Where did Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 go?

The plane disappeared six days ago on a routine flight from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to Beijing, China. The Boeing 777 aircraft is one of the largest and safest in the world. The plane reached its maximum known altitude, 35,000 feet, and speed, 539 mph, twenty minutes after taking off. It disappeared, without a warning or a distress message, twenty-two minutes later. Forty-two ships and thirty-nine aircraft from 12 countries, including the US, are searching the Gulf of Thailand and the South China Sea.

Everywhere I go — in line at the bank, in the check-out line at the grocery store, in the bridge room — people are speculating about this missing plane. Theories abound. Mass electrical failure, sudden decompression, pilot suicide, terrorism. One man predicts that the plane will be found empty. "The passengers and crew have been kidnapped by aliens."

Everyone's pointing fingers. China's criticizing Malaysia's handling of the situation. Bloggers suggest the Malaysian military shot the plane down and then covered up their mistake. Chinese citizens complain their government isn't doing enough to help find the aircraft. In Iran, because two Iranian passengers with false passports were on board, one lawmaker calls the entire episode a form of psychological warfare by the US to sabotage relationships between Iran, China, and Southeast Asia.

Meanwhile, families and friends of the 239 people on board wait, in limbo, to learn the fate of their loved ones. Just when I've been pondering the relative, minuscule size of our earth in the universe, our world seems very large again. Where is this airplane?

MARCH 16, 2014: OF ANTS AND ME

I've been battling ants around the kitchen sink for two days. The pest control person comes. He traces the ant pathway from inside my dishwasher, across the entryway, down the hall, through the laundry room, and out the door to the garage. He spies a hole in the door frame, at the garage floor level, where the ants are trailing in and out.

I like ants. Maybe "like" isn't the correct word. I respect ants. They're industrious and social. They eat insects and do other good works. I search the web for ant info.

Ants can lift 20 times their body weight. In other words, if a first grader were as strong as an ant, she could pick up a car.
There are various jobs in an ant colony — taking care of eggs and babies, gathering food, and building mounds.
At night, caregiver ants move eggs deep into the nest to protect them from the cold. During the day, they move the eggs to the top of the nest for warmth.
Some birds put ants in their feathers to eat parasites.
Ants are clean. Worker ants take rubbish from the nest and put it outside in "rubbish bins."

When I was little, I'd pick up ants crawling around the bathtub and take them outside. They're living things, I thought. I hated to kill living things, except maybe aphids on rose bushes. Mom says, "I never had to hire a pest exterminator because I had you."

So, here I am, hating to kill ants. I know I can't share my house with them. They'd be pushy, overbearing roommates. I let the pest control guy spray. He says, "You'll see strays for a couple of days."

I squirt the stray ants around the sink with window cleaner. They don't make this easy. I'm watching one ant, pacing back and forth, trying to comprehend the dead bodies all around him. Oh, shit. He's carrying a sick comrade on his back. This is too much. I can't kill this hero ant. He gets a reprieve. I coax him, still carrying his buddy, onto a napkin and carry them outside.

For the rest, I hope this window cleaner kills you right away. I hope you're all, mature, two-year-old ants who've enjoyed good ant lives, with weekends off and comprehensive medical coverage. I hope your colony gets the message to stay out of this house so we can live in peaceful co-existence.

I must share all this ant stuff with Ayla, the little girl who loves bugs. I'll tell her the story of ants and me.

MARCH 17, 2014: NO INVADERS, NO DRAGONS, NO TROLLS

I'm with Regan and Ayla at their house. Kerry and David are down the street at a neighborhood get-together. Regan's playing "Home on the Range" on the piano. She's concentrating on the notes on the sheet music. She's learning.

"Do you like playing the piano?"

"Yes, I also like having different members of my family babysit us. It's good to get to know other family members besides Mommy and Daddy. You, and my other grandma, Michele."

Ayla adds, "And Papa."

Regan says, "Yes, Ralph. Ralph and Michele."

We shift gears. Regan pulls a game out of the closet. The three of us sit at the dining room table playing Operation. As usual, I'm losing. Ayla makes a statement I've heard before. "Let's play a game that's easy for Mim."

Regan and Ayla begin assembling plastic tunnels and runways for marble races on the entryway tile. I'm still trying to get down on the floor. I do what I'm told. "Hold this piece." "Remove that section." Regan reminds us, "We need to work together as a team. Mim, as a team member, would you like a Girl Scout lemon wafer?"

Sounds good to me. Regan and Ayla want lemon wafters, too, but there's a hitch. Regan asks, "What if Mommy and Daddy notice that three lemon wafers are missing?"

Not to worry. I say, "If they notice, I'll explain that I ate all three lemon wafers myself." Problem solved.

We head upstairs to the playroom. It's a disaster. It looks like, well, a well-played-in playroom. Toys and princess dresses cover the floor. I offer to hang up the dresses in their special princess wardrobe. One by one, all the dresses are off the floor.

Hmm? Regan's formulating a plan. "Let's clean up the playroom and surprise Mommy and Daddy." In short order, everything's being restored to its proper place. If I don't know where something goes, Ayla tells me where to put it. Regan says, "This is exciting. Mommy and Daddy are going to be so happy."

We dump a jar full of beads onto the pristine, cleaned up floor. For twenty minutes, our team pops beads together in a long string. We're building a giant worm. The worm's finished. We're looking for a measuring tape to measure how long it is, but we can't find one.

We put on pajamas and brush teeth. We watch a video about Wally the Troll, his pet dragon, and Bad Gremlin Bob. Bad Gremlin Bob has captured the castle. He's nailing signs across all the castle windows and doors - NO INVADERS, NO DRAGONS, NO TROLLS. This becomes our mantra. We march around the family room chanting.

"No invaders. No dragons. No trolls."
"No invaders. No dragons. No trolls."

David checks in. It's 9:30p.m. and Regan has an early morning to get to a ski lesson. Regan climbs into her bed. I climb into bed with Ayla to read three books The last book, about a caterpillar, is her favorite. I ask Ayla if she's sleepy. She is. "When Mommy and Daddy come home, I'll ask them to cuddle me. When they're not here, I like to fall asleep by myself."

Got it, Ayla. I turn off the light in Ayla's lavender room. "Good night, Ayla. I love you."

I check in Regan's pink room. She's sound asleep. "Good night, Regan. I love you."

How do you freeze time?

SPRING 2014

Spring has returned.
The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

INTERNAL DRUM

Those footsteps beneath my window
came and went so fast. The ground,
still frozen in spots, begins
its long thaw. The boy passed by
without incident, just the sounds
of his feet, a mud-sucked heartbeat.

When I think about my heartbeat,
its patterns and palpitations, windows
and valves busy with blood, the sounds
of circulation and murmur, the ground
pulses right along with me. It works
by pure magic, this internal drum,

begins anew every moment, always beginning
another push, another pump. Heartbeats
seem to be generated by superhuman force.
I asked the window what it thought.
It said, "there's the ground, trees point to the sky,
I hear no sounds.

But if you can hear the gift of sounds,
place them on the page as evidence of what began
and ended in an instant." A survey of the ground
complete, a military jet maneuvers, its heartbeat
hushed, into its inland cavern, its window-
less womb, where tools clang when dropped by
the uniformed hand. States away, traffic rushes by
the dancing cop, his frantic hands, the short sounds
of whistle and clap. A broker puts his nose to the window
on the thirtieth floor, mutters, "I must begin
my day," clutches his chest and drops, his heartbeat,
tired of his refrain, shows him the ground.

Out in a suburban field, a child squats upon the ground,
runs his fingers through the mud, listens as cars race by.
Today in school he learned the subject heartbeat,
he held his wrist and counted as the sounds
came through his ears by stethoscope. "Begin,"
the teacher said, the children obeyed. The window

took on the fog of nervous youth, and the ground began
its long stretch from the window to the sounds
of the eastern sea, all of this by way of heartbeats.

Patrick Ranahan
Published in
Latitude on 2nd
Cool Waters Media, Inc
2012

MARCH 19, 2014: A BOUT OF SELF-DOUBT

Here I sit at the computer, staring at the screen. The monthly cleaning crew is dusting and vacuuming and I'm trying to stay out of their way. I'm trying to stay out of my own way. Pesky thoughts flit across my mind. Why am I writing? Do I really think my life could be of interest to someone, sometime, somewhere? Some days I think I'm leaving a "gift" for my descendants. I'd love to find letters my great-grandmother wrote 100 years ago. Other days, I fear I'm becoming a self-absorbed old woman.

A writing teacher once told me to write what I want to read. I've always preferred nonfiction over fiction. I've always favored history and peeks into days gone by. In that sense, I'm writing what I want to read. I can't be the only who'd love to read a grandmother's diary.

Or am I?

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Monsanto is not banned in America because in America if you make something that is bad for you but tastes fucking great and makes you feel good, you are going to make a fortune.

MARCH 20, 2014: A PARADOX

I write I'm not writing anything today.

MARCH 21, 2014: WHAT TO KEEP AND WHAT TO DISCARD

When I think about the past, I remember specifics — images, sounds, scents. I see dimples in a smile, drops of water, my Rottweiler's big brown eyes. I hear train whistles, lawn mowers humming, and the white noise of clothes dryers spinning clothes. I smell pink bubble gum, apple cider vinegar, and pine Christmas trees.

I think about the life that's been unique to me. I remember the ordinary. I reflect on the struggle that life can be, even when it's good. I bow to the everyday challenges of climbing up, sliding down, and climbing up again. I admit to the ways things came out differently, many times, than I'd imagined — or hoped. I deliberate about the friend who wasn't a friend, and the person I ignored who was. I acknowledge decisions that turned out wrong and guesses that turned out lucky.

When I look back, I simultaneously see the world as I saw it as a child and as I see it as an adult. From this observation deck, I can choose, with more discernment, what to keep and what to discard. Maybe writing down my daily thoughts, in hindsight, will be an effort that turned out to be a good thing.

I guess time will tell.

COMING UP THURSDAY, MARCH 22, 2018
March 24, 2014 - April 4, 2014: Thank You * Anytown, USA * Grandparent's Day * Love is Alive * Pacing Myself * Getting Ready * Life Goes On

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

March 2, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Holding wings.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

March 1, 2018 Dede Ranahan

There was so much I liked about your post today – I had to transcribe my comments to a word document so I could get it all down:

1. The reminder that there was drought all the way back to 2014 – and looks like we’re in for it this year.

2. Your encounter in the vet office – yes, I so agree with you “starting a conversation with someone, anyone, and you’re apt to hear an amazing story.“ I’ve had the experience many times.

3. Your Dr. Seuss quotes are, of course, delightful.

4. Your short dissertation on death – “a window of time” – something I think about being the same age is you. Don’t like to be morbid – but we are all mortal beings.

5. And, finally, I was not aware you wrote a book in 1981 – and I love the picture.

Kudos to you Dede – once again. Chris Biswell

If you're reading and liking "A Mother's Diary," please let me know. I'm building a case for getting it published - one way or the other. Thanks. dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, MARCH 8, 2018
March 9, 2014 - March 21, 2014: A Birthday Invitation * A New Dilemma * Perspective * Empty Bowls * A Real Life Mystery * Of Ants and Me * No Invaders, No Dragons, No Trolls * Spring 2014 * Internal Drum by Patrick Ranahan * A Bout of Self-Doubt * A Paradox * What to Keep and What to Discard

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

February 23, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Evening colors.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan: FEBRUARY 22, 2014 - MARCH 8, 2014

February 22, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Congratulations, Aidan * Water * News * Over Doing It * Home * Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss * Air Raids * Mom's To-Do List * Windows * My Book

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

FEBRUARY 22, 2014: CONGRATULATIONS, AIDAN

Aidan's done it again. His latest poem's placed in the student Chaparral Poetry Contest. An award ceremony will be held March 20 in the opera house in St. George, Utah. The top six winners, in each category, will read their poems.

Distant Future
by Aidan Mace

As we approach our landing,
I move toward the window to get a good look.
I see the beautiful landscape approaching,
This landscape is red and filled with little clusters of buildings.
Soon our ship captain calls for everyone to get off.
As I exit the ship I begin to float in the low gravity environment.
I look around.
What I see is amazing.
I see a civilization beginning.
I can feel the red dust blow past my cheek,
and envelop my pores,
Then I feel a strong breeze.
It seems to blow some sense back into me,
and I realize,
I have just set foot on an astounding place,
MARS.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Got a late Christmas present from my Dad. An all expense paid trip to Nashville to buy a guitar.

FEBRUARY 23, 2014: WATER

On this day in 1948, Mom gave birth to a little girl, Loretta Marie. She lived for four hours. I hope my little sister knows I'm thinking of her.

I'm on my walk. It's 71 degrees and not a cloud in the sky. To me, it feels like spring. My nose thinks so, too. It's itching and twitching.

Me and my nose aren't the only ones who're confused. Roses are leafing out. Yellow daffodils, blue periwinkle, purple pansies, crimson fringe flowers, and pink-blossomed flowering plum trees are bursting forth. Birds twitter and flit from tree branch to tree branch.

The National Weather Service reports there is a 1 in 1,000 chance that this season will conclude with average rainfall. Cuts in water allocations will affect rice, tomato, and corn production. Reduced rice planting also means less habitat for migratory waterfowl and other wildlife. One climatologist observes that this winter represents a different world compared to anything since 1895.

In my own backyard, I've got some serious plant damage. I'm waiting to see if bottlebrush, podocarpus, citrus trees, and an African sumac tree are able to rally. They look pretty distressed from the dry, cold winter. All my potted plants have croaked.

Outside, my sprinkler system is turned off. Inside, I'm careful not to let the faucet run when I'm brushing my teeth. I run the dishwasher and washing machine with full loads. A couple of droopy houseplants won't be replaced. I'm taking short showers and using a shower bucket to catch water as it falls. Small measures. Hope they add up.

FEBRUARY 24, 2014: NEWS

Pat calls. I ask, "How's the job?"

"It's going well."

"Thanks for the check, Pat." Pat mailed me reimbursement for the $40 I loaned him for gas.

"Did you cash the check yet, Mom?"

"No, why?"

"Can you wait until Friday? I need the money for gas."

Pat laughs at himself.

"Okay, but I'm cashing the check Friday afternoon."

I laugh at myself.

"I talked to Dad. He says he's been thinking about a Christmas present he hasn't given me, yet. He's getting me an electric guitar."

"Really?"

"He says we should fly to Nashville and buy the guitar there."

"Really? When are you going?"

"I don't know. I have to get a few days off work. Meanwhile, some Tibetan monks are coming to the church. I'm going to ask them to call on GG for her 96th birthday."

"Really? Will you tell her in advance?"

"I'm thinking of surprising her."

"What will they do when they see her?"

"I don't know. Pray, I guess."

I hope the father-son trip to Nashville comes to pass. I hope the Tibetan monks are well-received. I hope, when they're praying, they say a prayer for Pat. And for me. I never know what the next news will be.

FEBRUARY 25, 2014: OVER DOING IT

While Deanne is on vacation, I decided to use my three-pound weights here at home and practice some of the exercises she's shown me. Yesterday, I worked out for half an hour.

Today, I can hardly move. The muscle in my lower back is unhappy and it's letting me know. It hurts to lie down. It hurts to sit. It hurts if I have to cough or sneeze.

Maybe I was too cocky thinking I'm getting myself in shape. This twinge in my back is a good reminder to go slow with my workout routine. I'll tell Deanne about this when she returns.

I hope, in a week, my back muscle will have relaxed. My body will say, "Okay, let's try this again. No bad feelings."

Literally.

FEBRUARY 27, 2014: HOME

I'm at the vet's office with The Jazz. We're here for her annual rabies shot and general check-up. A woman pushing a stroller, with a blond, blue-eyed little girl in it, comes through the door. She's followed by a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy. And, of course, by an animal on a leash — a tiny, wiry-haired, white terrier. We start up a conversation .

"The puppy's about 13 weeks old from a rescue center. My eldest daughter is 20 and she's from China. When she was small, she had a little white dog. Then an earthquake wiped out her home and her village. Someone ate her dog."

My reporter self kicks in. "How did you get connected with your daughter?"

"Through our church. We're in the process of adopting her even though she's legally an adult. She's in touch with her family in China, but it's a complicated relationship and it probably won't get better. My daughter's been through so much and she has major trust issues. She wants us to adopt her. She needs that kind of commitment."

The little boy gives a green squeeze toy to the little girl in the stroller. His mother continues.

"I surprised my daughter the day we went to see the puppy. She was nervous about the house where it was being fostered along with her doggy mother and four puppy siblings. She thought we were shopping for a dresser for her bedroom. She said, 'This doesn't look like a store. I don't want to go in.' I told her she'd have to trust me — that it was okay to go into the house. The foster mom handed the puppy to my daughter and said, 'This puppy needs a mother.'"

I'm never disappointed. Start a conversation with someone, anyone, and you're apt to hear an amazing story.

"My daughter began sobbing. She couldn't stop crying. She wanted the puppy and yet it brought back many sad memories for her. It was one of the most emotional days of my life."

The woman and her little group leave. A man and woman come in together with another wiry, little dog. A brown one. I smile and say, "Good morning."

The man says, "No, but I'm working on it."

As they disappear into an exam room, the receptionist explains, "They've been up all night. They came from an emergency animal clinic."

I wonder what their story is. It's our turn with the vet. The Jazz is good for her exam and her shot and getting her nails clipped. Afterward, she scrambles, fast as she can, into the blue cat carrier I had to force her into earlier. Like the girl from China and her little dog, The Jazz is adopted and wants to go home.

MARCH 2, 2014: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DR. SEUSS

Theodor Geisel was born on March 2, 1904. In recognition of his mark on kid's literature, the National Education Association has declared this day to be National Read Across America Day. In 2114, I predict Dr. Seuss will be as popular as he is today. His words and rhythms make you happy — even when you're out of sorts. Here are some of my favorite Dr. Seuss quotes:

"Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting so get on your way."

"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose."

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not."

And my very favorite: "Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you."

I rest my case. Even Dr. Seuss believes each of us is pretty darn great.

MARCH 4, 2014: AIR RAIDS

In grammar school, I remember air raid drills. Without warning, a siren would begin blasting. We'd dive under our desks, curl into balls, and cover our heads with our arms. As if this would protect us from bombs falling from the sky and exploding all around.

Whenever I heard an airplane overhead, I feared that the Russians were coming to kill us with their communist weapons of mass destruction. We didn't call them WMDs, then, but I knew that there was this very bad country, Russia, that wanted to hurts us. They would even hurt us little kids.

In high school, a friend's family dug a bomb shelter into the earth in their front yard. They kept it stocked with food, water, radios, flashlights, tools, books, and other things they'd need in the event of a Russian air attack.

Over time, other countries occupied US attention more than Russia. Today, Russia and the US are again butting heads. Obama has suspended military ties, port visits, planning meetings, and trade talks. If Russia continues to deploy its troops into the Crimean region of Ukraine, other sanctions may follow.

A fragile, new pro-Western government in the Ukraine is struggling to get a foothold. Russia wants Ukraine in its sphere. The US has economic and strategic reasons for supporting the growth of democracy in the area. Both countries believe they have a mandate to protect their own interests. Both countries distrust each other. The situation will undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

I hope my grandchildren don't have air raid drills at school. I hope they're not afraid when they hear airplanes flying overhead. I hope the adults in the room have learned lessons from the past and find a way to get along.

When Pat was in sixth grade, I met with his teacher for a parent-teacher conference. The teacher said, "We had an air raid drill last week. All the kids hid under their desks. As I walked by Pat's desk he said to the boy in front of him, 'If this air raid's for real, you can kiss your ass goodby.'"

MARCH 6, 2014: MOM'S TO-DO LIST

I'm at Mom's with a tax accountant. Mom's ready. She has her income records rubber-banded together in one file. She has her expense records in another. She has explicit instructions for the tax lady.

"Be sure to deduct my expenses for the purchase of my hearing aids and the thirty-six dollars I spent on hearing aid batteries. Also, remember my sixty dollar renter's credit from the state of California."

With information supplied and collected, we're trying to find a return date for the accountant to come back with the completed tax forms. It can't be too soon.

"I want my money. I want a refund."

The accountant says she never promises anyone a refund. She has to cross all the t's and dot all the i's first. We settle on March 18. The tax accountant leaves. I stay behind to fill out some papers for a money market account we've opened. I give Mom the new attachments she wants for her electric toothbrush.

"How much do I owe you for these?"

"Thirty-two dollars."

"Thirty-two dollars? For toothbrushes?"

"Yep, thirty-two dollars for toothbrushes."

"Well, they each last six months. I guess that's not too bad. There are four in the packet, right?"

"No, there are three in the packet."

"Gads. Only three?"

"Only three. Anything else?"

"No, thanks for your help with the taxes and the shopping. After I get my tax refund, I need to get new eye-glasses."

Okay, Mom. I'll take you to the optometrist to get new eye-glasses. Maybe that's the secret to your long life. You always have a next project on your to-do list.

MARCH 7, 2014: WINDOWS

A little girl asked her mother about death. "What will it be like?"

Her mother thought and said, "Do you remember what it was like before you were born?"

The little girl said, "No."

The mother said, "That's what it will be like when you die."

But really, none of us knows what death will be like. A window of time. That's what each of us has — a window of time. My window is from May 22, 1944 to ????

In some ways, we have more than one window. My immediate window is my front kitchen window. I have a bigger "window" by telephone, email, and local activities to observe what's happening in my neighborhood. Through television, the internet, newspapers, and other media, I have windows to the bigger world. Through recorded history and family stories handed down, I have windows into the past. I have no window, except through speculation, into the future.

No one else, ever, will see, hear, and experience exactly what I do. That's a critical reason why I'm writing — to try to realize the life that is unique to me. I could be breathing but unconscious. My life is my one chance to be fully awake. Then, when I die, I can more peacefully sleep.

I mean this to be comforting. It is, to me, at least.

MARCH 8, 2014: MY BOOK

What a nice surprise. I check Instagram this morning for new posts. I see two posts from Marisa - a photo of my book, Contributions of Women: Medicine, is in one post. A photo of me, on the back page of the book, is in a second post. Marisa writes:

"When I was eight years old, my mom's book was published as a part of series on contributions of women. What a wonderful role model I have. Happy International Women's Day!" To the photo, in the second post, she adds, "My Mom."

As a parent, you never know what makes a lasting impression — good or bad. I know I made lots of parenting mistakes. I cringe thinking of some of them. But you have to hope that, on balance, your parenting turns out okay.

Writing that book was a life-saver. A life-saver because, as a young mother of four children, I needed something adult to wrap my mind around. Kerry was two. She'd sit in my lap at the typewriter. I'd punch a key. She'd punch a key. I'd punch a key. She'd punch a key. White-out everywhere. What a friggin' mess. It took me three years to write a one-hundred-seventeen page book. One-hundred-seventeen pages with big print.

I remember the day my copies of the book were delivered by UPS. I opened one of the books and studied its Table of Contents. I ran my fingers across the cover. And, yes. I checked my photo in the back.

I was in awe of myself. I'd actually written a book. I'd visualized the book in my mind and, now, I held a hard bound copy in my hands. I'd achieved a goal. I didn't know, yet, that my book would win their 1982 first prize for non-fiction books from The National League of American Pen Women, Inc.

Thanks, Marisa, for taking me back to that moment. I hope you read my book. I hope you liked it.

Table of Contents: Contributions of Women: Medicine

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

February 16, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Focus.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

February 15, 2018 Dede Ranahan

I have always respected your writing talent and now coupled with such an important cause. The way you have turned your own personal tragedy into helping others is remarkable. Pam R.

"Imposter umbrella?" Love this. What umbrella do you have now? Oh, love your writing. Heidi F.
Heidi, I have another perky black polka dot umbrella :-) Dede

I love your blog! Bev C.

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2018
February 22, 2014 - March 7, 2014: Congratulations, Aidan * Water * News * Over Doing It * Home * Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss * Air Raids * Mom's To-Do List * Windows

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

February 9, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Winter beach.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan FEBRUARY 8, 2014 - FEBRUARY 21, 2014

February 8, 2018 Dede Ranahan

Life and Umbrellas * Stalling * Love This Place * A Very Good Day * Happy Valentine's Day * Getting Organized * Stuff * Conflict * Interview * Missing

To read A Mother's Diary from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."

FEBRUARY 8, 2014: LIFE AND UMBRELLAS

I'm headed to Nevada City to attend David's grandmother's funeral. I didn't know Grandma Joyce, but I want to be present at her service for my son-in-law and for his mother, Michele, who is Joyce's daughter.

It's raining cats and dogs — the heaviest rain we've had in a year. I throw on my raincoat and grab my perky black umbrella. It's perky because it has little red, yellow, green, and blue polka dots on it. It looks cheery. And it's easy to spot in a stand full of black umbrellas.

I risk life and limb driving Highway 93 to get to the funeral home. I hang up my raincoat and drop my umbrella onto a pile of black umbrellas. I sign the guest book and give Michele and David a hug.

A family friend conducts the memorial service. He tells the story of a little girl, young woman, mother, and grandmother unfamiliar to me. Kerry presents a video of family photographs displayed in a sequence timed to music. Joyce loved Frank Sinatra. The music swells to Frank's "My Way." I was fine until now. Other people were fine until now. Everyone is pulling out tissues and wiping their eyes.

We have to walk from the funeral chapel to another building behind it for the reception. I slip on my raincoat and pick up my umbrella. That's strange. The button on the handle that opens and closes it is missing. It's difficult to open my umbrella with its button missing. I have to push from the bottom and pull from the top. I don't remember my umbrella being this small in circumference.

I walk to the reception area and try to set my dripping umbrella on the floor. It's a fight to get it to close. The room's packed and warm. Kerry and I wait for the food line to thin. I'm standing with my back to the dessert table. Kerry waves at me from across the room.

"Look behind you," she mouths.

I look. There's a tall man. What's Kerry telling me? Am I blocking someone? She keeps pointing. I turn around, again, in time to see a sweet-looking old lady leaving the reception. She's tucking a black umbrella to her side. Her umbrella has polka dots on it. Her umbrella has an open/close button on its handle. My umbrella. The sweet-looking old lady has my umbrella.

Too late. She's gone. I can't get to her without stomping across a table covered with cookies and cupcakes. Kerry's laughing. I'm laughing. Seems like the thing to do. After pasta salad and sliced ham, I hug David and Michele goodbye. I don't want to be on the road in the dark and with glare on the pavement from the rain. For crying out loud. I have to wrestle this impostor umbrella into my car because it's impossible to close. If someone's watching, they'll call 911. They'll think I'm struggling with an attacker in my front seat.

I'll get a new umbrella. I'll donate this annoying one to the thrift shop. On second thought, it's not good enough for the thrift shop. When I get home, I'll stash the darn thing in the garbage can. A fitting end. In my opinion.

Kerry sends me a text. David's father's umbrella is missing. He's not laughing. Whoever took his umbrella didn't leave a replacement like the sweet-looking old lady who took mine. I hope she enjoys her new, bigger, automatic open and close, perky polka dot umbrella. I hope it helped David and Michele a little that I attended Joyce's service. Life is too short.

FEBRUARY 10, 2014: STALLING

I'm taking The Jazz for a walk in the cat stroller. It's a warm 62 degrees. No rain. Of course, I run into my next door neighbor as soon as I push the stroller out the side gate. I was hoping I wouldn't see anyone or they see me.

"I'm taking my cat for a walk."

"That's okay," he says.

"Doesn't it seem a bit eccentric?"

"Look, living here, anything can seem eccentric."

"So you won't say anything?"

He laughs.

I can't tell if The Jazz likes the ride. She's not meowing. She's looking out the back, front and sides. I unzip the stroller's mesh cover on our return. She doesn't leap out right away. May mean she likes this contraption?

I'm in the den organizing the paperwork for Mom's rental house. She's got all her tax stuff together. She's raring to go. She wants me to set up an appointment with the tax preparer. Now. Walking the cat will not get me off the hook.

FEBRUARY 11, 2014: LOVE THIS PLACE

Here I am again — at Snap it Up. I love this place. People are grateful and unpretentious. They like to talk.

"I used to have a lot of money. I don't anymore and I'm managing fine."
"I bought a Ralph Lauren blouse here last week for one dollar."
"I make little cat beds. Would you be able to use them if I bring them in?"
"That cat in the adoption room is sweet. I hope someone adopts her soon."
"Do you have yarn? I want to get some for my friend who knits sweaters for the homeless."
"How much is this belt? If it's a dollar, I'll take it."
"I'm going to Weight Watchers. This is the perfect place to buy clothes as I'm changing sizes."
"Keep the change. FieldHaven does good work."
"I love that chicken but it's fifteen dollars. Guess I better wait."
"I found this poster of San Francisco. It's perfect for my mobile home."
"I better stop shopping. My husband's waiting in the car. I'll take these tops because they're a dollar."

I find three tops myself — one from Coldwater Creek, one from J. Jill, and one from Talbots. All are like new. All are one dollar. Like I said, I love this place.

FEBRUARY 13, 2014: A VERY GOOD DAY

The heating and air conditioning man arrives for the annual heater check-up. Everything looks good, but... Here comes the but: "The capacitor that helps the fan is testing below the recommended range of 7.1 to 7.5. It's testing 6.6. As part of our recommended preventative maintenance, you probably should replace it before it dies and causes damage."

"How much?"

"It's one hundred thirty-one dollars, I think. We had a price change yesterday. Also, your drip pan doesn't have a switch to turn the unit off if it's collecting too much water."

"How much?"

"One hundred thirty-eight dollars. It's not code or anything, but when our company installs a new unit, we make sure the pan is equipped with a switch."

Hmm. Everything's been working fine. "You know, I don't go up in the attic. I have to take your word for it."

"You trust me don't you? I can bring the capacitor down and show you."

"Okay."

The technician, a very personable, pleasant young man, attaches his gismo to the capacitor. It reads 7.0. It reads 7.0 three times. Hmm again. "Thanks, but I think I'll wait on this and see how it is in a couple of months when you come back to service the air conditioning unit."

I may have to rethink this bi-annual heating and air check. I'll clean the filter myself. Thank you very much. If it's not broke, don't fix it.

Pat arrives to do his laundry. Lexi bounds in. She still doesn't know how to walk. I give her a dog biscuit and she runs around the coffee table 15 times. Pat fills out an insurance form to give me power of attorney on his car insurance account. I pay this bill monthly and it's always getting mucked up because he hasn't completed the power of attorney form. Pat folds his last load of laundry.

"C'mon, Lexi." Lexi accepts the leash and pulls Pat out the door. She's happy to come. She's happy to go.

I'm at Mom's delivering her very specific staple requests. I give her a new bottle of homemade Irish cream like the one I gave her at Christmas. As I suspected, she has the empty bottle, from Christmas, ready to return to me.

"Have you made an appointment with a tax person, yet?"

"Well, no."

"I really want to get my taxes done and get my money back."

"Okay. I'm on it."

I stop at Kerry's to drop off Ayla's belated birthday gifts — a book about bugs and a birdhouse you attach to a window so you can watch the birds nesting inside. We skim through the bug book. A picture of an ugly scorpion reminds Ayla of something.

" I ate one of these."

"You ate a scorpion?"

"Yes, and it licked me on my cheek."

"Did you swallow the scorpion?"

"No, because it was licking me on my cheek."

Kerry joins us. "Did you know Ayla ate a scorpion?"

"No."

"I didn't eat it, Mim. I was tricking you."

Ayla's a storyteller. "I want to be a bug catcher when I grow up."

"What will you do with the bugs?"

"I'll give them to the birds."

Home again. The heater's humming softly. This morning I saved myself $269 that I didn't spend on my AC unit. This afternoon I caught up with my son, mother, daughter, and granddaughter. All in all, it's been a very good day.

FEBRUARY 14, 2014: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

In the gym with Deanne, she's setting me up in a seated leg curl machine. She's adjusting the weights and the position of the leg rest. The bar that holds my upper legs in place isn't very tight. Should it be?

"It's fine. It's not tight because you have thin thighs."

I catch my breath. Oh my! Stop the presses. Deanne says I have thin thighs. No one's told me I have thin thighs in 40 years. I ask Deanne to say it again.

"You have thin thighs. You're thin."

I knew I loved this woman. She may be my new best friend.

At the Family Mental Illness Support Group meeting, we have a new person in attendance. Each month we have at least one new person. I let the group know that I've been asked to meet with Lincoln Hills Foundation grants committee. "Do you have suggestions for what I should present to the committee?"

The group suggests mentioning in-kind donations such as my time and the use of Raley's conference room. We agree that we don't want to spend money simply to be spending money. We want whatever money we receive to be put to work.

There are eight people at the meeting today, each of us making a difference for each other. A small group impacting a small group. What's that Margaret Mead saying? "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."

Happy Valentine's Day.

PATRICKS FACEBOOK POST: Happy S.A.D. (Singles Awareness Day). I celebrated by taking myself out to lunch and enjoyed a mushroom burger among all the paired up sweethearts.

FEBRUARY 15, 2014: GETTING ORGANIZED

The Jazz is ensconced in a basket on top of a trunk in my closet. Her from paws stick out over the basket's edge. She raises her head so she can see over the side. Nothing moves but her eyes. I'm being watched.

I'm sorting through my clothes and have filled up three large bags with pants and tops that no longer fit. There are a half dozen mistakes in the give-away stuff — what-was-I thinking garments that I've never worn. This sorting process will help me be more focused when I'm clothes shopping. As I decide what to keep and what to get rid of, I remember five getting-dressed rules I picked up from Andy Paige in her book, Style on a Shoestring:

1. Use lipstick.

2. Wear outfits that give me shape — clothes that define a middle in my torso.

3. Carry a statement-making handbag. I'm weak here. I generally use one handbag at a time — an all purpose bag so I don't have to switch contents.

4. Select fun shoes and funky socks. I try but I no longer wear heels because my ankle has a steel plate and six screws in it. My favorite shoes are my sea-blue tennis shoes with white polka dots on them. (What's with me and polka dots?) And I practice sock awareness. I try to match socks to my outfit with color, design, and wit. I like to wear witty socks.

5. Add something unexpected. This is my favorite rule. This can be a pin, a scarf, a pair of earrings. Something that says, "This lady was thinking when she put herself together."

My closet's shaping up. There's still one thing I haven't attended to. Maybe that's why The Jazz is staring at me. "While you're in this mode, ahem, there's a litter box in the laundry room that needs your attention."

Getting organized can be fun. Mostly.

FEBRUARY 16, 2014: STUFF

Continuing my spring organizing, I'm at Target picking up a few things — hangers, storage containers, makeup, hand towels, pillows for the guest room, and a wallet. Somehow this adds up to $121.82. How do a few minor items cost this much?

Mom calls. "Have you set me up with tax person yet?"

"No, I didn't call anyone today because it's Sunday."

"What about the bank? Did you look into CD rates?"

"No, not yet."

Mom's getting antsy. "What if the tax person has steps into her office? I won't be able to go up the steps. What if she charges too much to come to my place? Or to your place?"

I better get on this.

Well, the good new is the wallet doesn't work. Once you put coins, cash, and credit cards in it, it won't close. I'll take it back and knock $14 off the $121.82 bill. My old wallet is good enough. I'll go back to getting rid of things instead of acquiring things.

Who needs all this stuff anyway?

FEBRUARY 18, 2014: CONFLICT

I'm at the movies to see The Monuments Men. It's the story of US and British soldiers charged with retrieving European art stolen by the Nazis during World War II. Critics aren't giving this movie top reviews. The theater, however, is packed.

When the credits roll at the end, the audience has reflected on artwork and culture as evidence of humanity's collective soul, and a time when humanity seemed hell-bent on self-destruction.

World War II combat in Europe ended in May 1945. Since then, the US has engaged in wars in Korea, Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Iran, and Afghanistan. Today, as we withdraw from Afghanistan, we're witnessing uprisings around the globe — in Egypt, Syria, Ukraine, Thailand, Venezuela, Libya, Sudan, Somalia, and Congo.

Conflict is the ongoing human drama. Each of us has our own hot buttons. Familial dysfunction is the stuff of storytelling. Countries are macrocosms of individuals and families. Why does equilibrium — personal, tribal, global — forever elude us?

FEBRUARY 20, 2014: INTERVIEW

The Lincoln Hills Foundation grants committee is asking about my application for $1,000 for the Family Mental Illness Support Group. They're exercising due diligence.

"What's your background and professional experience?"

"I'm a family member and retired policy director for NAMI California."

"What is the groups' geographical outreach?"

"Lincoln Hills."

"What are the groups expenses?"

"We have none. We'd like to buy some books for the group and pay for a few speakers."

"What is your main purpose?"

"To provide support for family members who have someone coping with serious mental illness."

I have a few questions also. "People from outside Lincoln Hills have asked if they can join the group. Do you have any objection?"

"No."

"What kind of expense reporting do you need?"

These retired volunteers explain their process and give me an hour of their time. They're trying to make a difference in our community. Whether or not they decide to give us a grant, I respect the work they're doing and the responsible way they're making funding decisions.

FEBRUARY 21, 2014: MISSING

A photo's missing. I found it a few weeks ago as I was rifling through some files. It's a candid snapshot of me when I was about 36. I don't know who took the photo. I think I was at a writer's conference. I'm wearing a name tag, a dark silk blouse, and a white blazer.

I like the way I look, at this moment in time, captured on black and white film. The skin on my face appears soft and moist. My features aren't as angular as they are now. My lips are full. My eyes have an intelligent, I'm-listening-to-you gaze. They're big and brown. I have thick, dark-brown hair in a stylish short cut. I look like someone I'd like to know.

I'd planned to make copies of this two-by-three inch photo and give one to each of my children. They have no pictures of me as a young woman. I tucked the photo into the corner of a framed photo on my bookshelf. Now, it's not there.

This is troubling me more than I want to admit. An irreplaceable little keepsake of what I looked like once has vanished. I think I'm mourning my own disappearance. A time when not only my photo but I will be missing.

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com