He Calls Me Little Mouse

There is nearly always a story behind a nickname. There are several behind one of mine. Chuck calls me "Little Mouse," which will probably horrify my mother who detests most rodents, but particularly, the lowly house mouse.

My earliest memories of mice involve my mother standing on a chair, or leaping to the safety of the kitchen counter, with her mouth and eyes wide open in terror, screaming. When I was little, I had inherited her fear of mice, based on nothing more than an association of mice with my screaming mom. Over the years, I did my fair share of leaping out of harm's way and screaming, and eventually, I softened to a mild disgust at discovering a mouse's presence in my own home.

As Chuck and I were getting to know each other, I was delighted that he not only recognized my reference to Bridger's favorite book of The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear (Don and Audrey Wood), but he, too, had it memorized, almost in its entirety. I loved him even more knowing he read a story so often to his own little boys that he could retell it from memory, nearly two decades after he was no longer reading bedtime stories. 

"Hello, little mouse," the story begins. "What are you doing? Oh, I see. Are you going to pick that red, ripe strawberry? But little mouse, haven't you heard about the big, hungry bear? How that bear loves red, ripe strawberries."

My heart melted as I recalled my little boy Bridger, who had barely started talking, but who could remember the words of his favorite book. He would sit on my bed, turning the pages, and "read" the words on each page with emotion and inflection, imitating the way he had heard it read to him.

Chuck didn't hesitate when I asked him to read to my second graders at school. He is so comfortable with people of any age. It tickled me to watch him interact with my little students. 

Chuck had also read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," by Laura

Joffe Numeroff. I love that not only does he juggle several books at any given time, listening to a novel a week during his commute, and reading a couple of books at home (Civil War, music appreciation, and works of fiction), he has also read a wide variety of children's literature. This man was made for me, I tell you! 

In the mouse and cookie story, an easily distracted mouse goes from one activity to another all day long. I am that mouse. I live that mouse's life EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. My mind thinks this way. My day flows this way. (You can probably detect some of this distracted mouse syndrome in my writing.)

As night falls each evening, I am always surprised by what I was able to accomplish, and what I was not. My intentions are so good, but as a multi-tasker extraordinaire, I dabble at several tasks at once, and barely finish one or two. Every day I have a goal to write, to read, to rest; Chuck says they are the three Rs of retirement. I also have many mini-goals to make our house more homey, to keep in touch with our kids, to study, to do photography...well, you see, there's just so much to do. Focusing is such a challenge for me. 

We all know the story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse. Since moving from a rural Utah town with a population of less than 400 to a suburban city with a headcount of closer to 30,000, the name Country Mouse fits me to a tee. 

The other day, I told Chuck that I thought one day I might just become a city mouse. 

He just grinned, and said, "I doubt it." 

"Oh? You can take the mouse out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the mouse; is that it?" I suspected the reasoning behind his doubts.

"Exactly."

Throughout the day, I get texts while Chuck is at work, "What is my little mouse doing?" 

Or: "What has caught the eye of my little mouse today?"

My husband is getting used to my way of doing things. He just laughs when we enter a store, having just heard me say what we're shopping for, but then he gets pulled in a completely different direction when something else catches my eye. He, being an IT analyst by profession, and a male by birth, is quite focused on whatever the task is at hand, and sees it through to completion. I, on the other hand, have more than a touch of attention deficit-disorder, and I take a buckshot approach to my day, and let the chips fall where they may.

My vocabulary is expanding the more I am exposed to Chuck's way of speaking and writing, and the other day, I was once more forced to ask him to define his terms. "Non sequitur" is the label he slapped on one of my comments this weekend as we were talking at breakfast. 

APPARENTLY, one should find a natural segue into the next topic of conversation, rather than just jumping blindly into it, but in my mind, it made perfect sense to see the murky water in the vase of flowers on our kitchen table, and then think of the murky water of my old betta fish Elvis's fish bowl, and suggest we get a Vietnamese betta fish. Granted, we weren't talking about pets or fish, but my mind wanders around the visual stimuli in my environment. He should thank me. We rarely have a lull in our conversations. (Hmm...that's a good thing, right?)

So, Chuck calls me his little mouse, and his country mouse, and we call the way I do things "mousing." There's rarely a dull moment, even though sometimes I'm a little hard to follow. 

If this blog post seems a little more disjointed than usual, I'm blaming the muscle relaxers I've been taking to help me with an old injury that has resurfaced. Having just re-read this post myself, I think we can all safely assume that the disjointedness may just be my natural self coming through, a little more loudly and clearly than usual, as my filters are in a slightly weakened state today. 

This little country mouse has had quite a day, and is grateful to have finally gotten her writing done, with about ten minutes to spare, before her city mouse gets home from work. 

Country Mouse Moves to Chicagoland

As the flight attendants prepared for arrival at Chicago O'Hare, I yawned as I pushed up the shade covering my window. There were lights as far as I could see. It was right around midnight. My first Christmas Eve with my fiancé was just moments away. 

The three hour flight from Salt Lake City had been uneventful once we finally took to the air. Now here I was in Chicago, the proverbial country mouse, gathering my belongings, to start a new life in the big city.

The picture above, I posted to my Facebook timeline with these words: "City lights that stretch forever. The girl from Chicago is home."  
                                                                                               

Fish Lake, Utah, in the Fall 2014

                                                  
Who does this? I thought. Who flies away from family at Christmas? Who leaves the only life she's ever known to make a new one without having ever been to the new place? Who strikes up a conversation with a stranger that leads to serious plans for meeting across the country just days after introducing herself? Who, for that matter, agrees to marry that man after only being with him for less than a week?  
                                  

                                                                       
Um, that would be me. I'm the woman responsible for this seemingly wild, unpredictable behavior. I'm the one who is living in the moment, following her heart (and her brain and her spirit) to live a life of which she's only dreamed with the man who has captured her heart.

During an earlier conversation, this man we now know as Chuck, had mentioned he lived in a small town. It had already been established he lived near Chicago, so I asked him to "define small."

St. Charles, Illinois

"Oh, I don't know, the population of Saint Charles is right around 30,000," he guessed. He's pretty good with numbers. (33,264, according to the last census. ) "What about where you live? How many people live in Joseph, Utah?" he asked.

"You think you're from a SMALL town?" I laughed incredulously. "There are about 300 people here. JOSEPH is a small town." (A population of 346, if you count my son and me, who moved to town in 2014. And, according to my research, Joseph is 0% urban, 100% rural. That was not news to me.)

Joseph has a hay derrick, a dairy, a canal, and the most spectacular views.
Joseph does not have a library, school, post office, or church.

Joseph is so small, there isn't a church or school in town. We don't even have our own post office. We DO have the Flying U convenience market, which is great when a girl just has to have a Diet Dr. Pepper or a few pieces of penny candy. 


Let's be clear; Joseph is a small town. Saint Charles is a thriving metropolis.

From the first time I saw the glow of Chicago, I felt much like Dorothy must have felt when she landed in Oz. I have said to myself on more than one occasion, "Toto, we're not in Utah any more." It is so different here, which isn't a bad thing, in my book. I guess I was ready for different.

Yes, this country mouse was moving to the big city to begin a new life with her city mouse. I was trading the desert and mountains of rural Utah, for the  urban canyons of Chicago.

In rural Utah, every time we need to "go to town," it takes at least 15 minutes, not because of traffic, but because we live about 13 miles from the nearest town with a Walmart, Richfield. If I want a gourmet coffee or fast food, I go to Richfield. If I want to go shopping in the big city, it's a two hour drive to Provo and about three hours to Salt Lake City. The bookmobile brings books to our small town since we don't have a library.

Here in Saint Charles, anything I need is within 5-10 minutes of home, and I can even walk right into downtown, a mere eight blocks away, and go shopping at darling boutiques, grab a hot coffee, check out a book at the library, and walk around the city parks.

My favorite pastime in Joseph is walking the dirt lanes.

In Utah, neighbors are anyone scattered within a five mile vicinity. In Chicagoland, there are thousands of people in each square mile. There, my photography focused on canyons, wild animals, and farm implements. Here in Illinois, I can shoot urban landscapes, sculptures, and botanical gardens. We occasionally have wildlife in our backyard in Saint Charles: squirrels, raccoons, foxes, and cardinals.

Cardinals? Oh, my heck. (A colloquial saying from Utah only, apparently.) My heart strings are pulled at the sight of those regal red birds. They are the state bird of Illinois, my birthplace, and Virginia, where I grew up. My mom loves cardinals, and she passed that on to me. My first sighting of a cardinal was in the park behind our house. The first time I had my camera available when I saw them, I was able to capture two males having a standoff in our backyard.

Today, I'm meeting a fellow writing friend I met through our Facebook writing group. This will be our first face to face meeting, and I find that very exciting. We're going to Town House Books in Saint Charles. The internet has made this world a much smaller world, and I'm so grateful for these experiences that are mine.

Life here in the city is very exciting to this country mouse. Every day is an adventure, if I want it to be. This is my year of discovery, and I am discovering that I live in a very charming corner of the world. This country mouse may just become a city mouse yet!



P.S.
Today, January 15, 2017 is the second anniversary of meeting my "fellow writing friend," Susan Trestrail. We share a love of writing, photography, good coffee, and we both count our blessings in marrying wonderful men. 

Happy Friendiversary, Susan! I am so grateful for your friendship and encouragement. Sharing our Cameras and Coffee days is something I look forward to every week. Love you!

The Bachelor Takes a Wife

Home Sweet Home

When we became engaged, my fiançé opened his heart and home to me. I worry sometimes, now that we are married, that his head spins with the changes that are taking place, but mostly, he seems to take things in stride. 

Before we went to the grocery store for our first shopping trip together, I did an inventory of his kitchen. The cupboards weren't exactly BARE, like Mother Hubbard's, there just wasn't much in the way of FOOD in them. What kitchen would be complete without an electric wok, or TWO electric frying pans, or TWELVE coffee cups with saucers? The man doesn't even drink coffee. I stifled a chuckle as I filled box after box with the things we wouldn't be needing any time soon in the foreseeable future. Goodwill was going to be getting a very generous donation of kitchenwares from us!

There were plenty of containers for leftovers, but not tops for the bottoms. There were a couple of shelves for snacks; chips and one very stale package of Chips Ahoy cookies. The silverware drawer could have handled a crowd of fifty. Chuck lovingly divided his cutlery into "the matching set," which was kept in a drawer organizer, and the "Island of Misfit Silverware," which covered every square inch that the drawer organizer did not.

"WOW! Your stovetop is so CLEAN," I said.

He just laughed. "Well, it's never been used."

"The oven, too. I'm so impressed."

"We only use it to make pizza. It's pretty easy to keep clean."

There were two cabinets dedicated to housing candles. What a romantic. This may also explain why he is so fit and trim; he has more candles than treats. 

The fridge door was FILLED with Powerade Zero bottles. There wasn't much in the fridge;  a partially full gallon of milk, and opened packages of cheese and ham. That was about it. On top of the fridge, there were not less than five boxes of bran cereal. I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"You'd be surprised at how fast cereal disappears around here," he said somewhat sheepishly. 

The only other cabinet that housed food had a couple of cans of soup and some green beans. I asked if he had any flour. 

"You're kidding, right?"

"So, I assume that means you probably don't have baking soda..." His head began slowly shaking back and forth... "Baking powder?" He continued shaking his head, as a smile was spreading across his face, and he looked down at the floor. "Sugar?" Still with the shaking head. "Pam?" His eyes lit up.

"I have baking spray!" Eureka! There was something I actually needed in his kitchen! It was the first thing I asked for that DIDN'T go on our list.

So, we set off for the store with a rather lengthy grocery list. The next day was Christmas, and we were having two of his sons for dinner. 

We plowed through the crowds at Walmart on Christmas Eve (THERE'S a tradition I hope we won't keep), in hopes of making our cupboards less Mother Hubbard-like, and he smiled the whole time as I dropped items into the cart; flour, sugar, spices, turkey, potatoes, chicken broth...

"We're going to have real food in the house," Chuck grinned. 

One of Chuck's earlier holiday meals made almost
exclusively in the microwave.

Lucky for me, the bar was set pretty low. This year I was getting away with Stove Top Stuffing, a pre-cooked turkey breast, canned cranberry relish, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, frozen dinner rolls, and a simple icebox cake for dessert. For good measure, I'd be baking some homemade peanut butter cookies, too. I'd been there less than a day; his boys would understand. Chuck assured me anything would be better than his microwaved feasts of years gone by.

Chuck's iPhone pic of our fridge of real food.
Note that there are still plenty of Powerades!

Later on Christmas Eve afternoon, I busied myself with Chuck's favorite peanut butter cookie recipe. As I was mixing the dough with the vintage, avocado-green hand mixer, the handle snapped. Did I mention it was AVOCADO GREEN? Did I mention it was vintage?  I think that dates it back to the late seventies at the latest. It was an ANTIQUE. Perhaps I should have treated it with more care.  Of course, I am the THE BAKER WHO BURNED UP A KITCHENAID, so I shouldn't be so surprised. I added "hand mixer" to our ever-growing shopping list. 

After mixing the rest of the dough by hand,  I was ready to drop spoons of dough on the cookie sheets, and I searched the kitchen for the promised baking spray. I found it. The expiration date on the can was 2006. No problem. I'd seen some vegetable oil. 2009 on that one. Dang. Might as well check the olive oil while I was at it. 2010. So, I greased the sheets with butter, and called it good. Old school!

It seemed those first two weeks we were together, nearly every day we ventured out into the cold to go to Target or Walmart for ingredients or kitchen appliances. We are slowly turning the kitchen into a well-stocked one. Chuck loves that the fridge is full of real food, and the freezer is stocked with leftovers that he can take to work for lunch. 

My husband is a creature of habit, and has eaten the same meals and snacks for a very long time. It has been fun to introduce him to some of my favorite recipes. Christmas morning we got up very early, and Chuck was happy to help make the sausage gravy while I made biscuits. 

Every once in awhile, I do reality checks with my patient husband. "Are you doing okay?" He assures me he is. "Am I doing too much too soon?" No, he says he loves watching our house become a home. "You'd tell me if you didn't like something, right?" He promises he has liked every single thing I've cooked, so far. 

The honeymoon is not over. The toilet seats are still down. (A friend of mine proclaimed him a keeper when he mentioned that he made sure all of the toilet seats were down before I arrived from Salt Lake City.) This honeymoon is still going strong. We plan to ride this wave on out to the end. What a great ride it has been so far. 

A Day for Discovery (An Abecedarian Poem)

Encouraged by my friend Susan Trestrail's blog post about ABECEDARIAN poetry yesterday, I decided to give this form a try. In an abecedarian poem, one uses all of the letters of the alphabet to begin each line of the poem.

If you click on the link to Susan's blog, you will see several poems of some very gifted writers there. You might want to try this yourself. It has been a fun form to try.

DISCOVERY

Almost always

before the sun 

comes up, I have a sense of wonder, of

discovery,

eager to see what the 

future of this day holds for me. I

gently disturb the quiet of the

house with candlelight and music,

inviting

joy and contentment into my heart.

Keeping steady my promise of

living fully each moment, and giving gratitude for 

my gifts. I find myself

nestled in 

opulent

pleasures as I keep my

quiet traditions of whispered prayers and written words,

rituals of the morning that

set the 

tone for my day.

Unbelievable blessings encourage me to keep my 

vow of discovery, staying busy as I 

wait for

you, Sweet Man to return to me, as the sun sets on this glorious day.

"Well Done, You"

"Well done, you," came the text from my husband. No, I hadn't broken some  world record or anything. I'd simply found my way to downtown Saint Charles, Illinois from our house on my first solo walk this morning. I was pretty proud myself. My goal was to be able to find Town House Books because I'm meeting a local writing friend there Thursday, weather permitting, and I wanted to make sure I could get there.

I love the line: "ILLINOIS. MILE AFTER MAGNIFICENT MILE."

My eyes had all but glazed over every time Chuck explained the "lay of the land," as my dad would say, whenever we ventured out in our car. He had told me something about a route number such and such, and another numbered road, and he told me all of the roads on the east side of town are called roads and all of the ones on the west side are named avenues (or was it the other way around?). He even drew me a simplified map on a legal pad to show all of the main roads I would need to get around the area. My brain can only hold so much data, and until I absolutely needed to know these things, I planned to postpone trying to store any new info for as long as possible. 

I know he worried I would never find my way around if I didn't pay attention, but as long as I had him as a chauffeur, I knew I could just enjoy the ride, and blissfully tune out all of his chatter about directions. Whenever he started trying to orient me to where we were, I honestly felt like I was listening to Charlie Brown's teacher.

"Wa-wa-wa. Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa."

"Yes, ma'am?" I mean, SIR!

I was finally ready to venture out on my own today, without my constant companion, who is kind of busy earning a living.

My first two weeks here we were like Siamese twins, never doing anything without the other during the week of the wedding and the honeymoon. The sub-zero temperatures last week kept us walking at the mall when Chuck finally arrived home from work after his long commute, or we simply stayed indoors, avoiding the weather altogether, so I didn't have to worry about finding my way around anywhere but our house. I was doing well to remember that the glasses are in the cabinet to the LEFT of the sink, and the plates to the RIGHT, for now.

About an hour after Chuck left for work this morning, I began the process of bundling up in layers of clothing to brave the 16 degree day. I headed out the door, and across the rotary park, lumbering through the ankle-deep snow.

Overhead, Canadian geese were flying across the rotary park behind our home. There were cardinals flitting about in the thicket of bare limbs. I'm going to need a better camera than my cellphone to capture any good shots of them. They don't sit still long, and didn't appreciate my presence as I tried to get closer for a better picture. I love knowing they are so close to home, and will venture out later with my camera and a long lens.

Peering inside shop windows, and taking pictures along the way kept me entertained. After awhile, my nose began to run, and I wished I'd thought to bring Kleenex. And my lip balm. And easier gloves to take on and off. And thicker socks. And one more layer of clothing. I was making mental notes right and left, not sure I'd recall anything by the time I returned home.

As it turns out, I was glad Chuck had taken me on several walks, reviewing with me names of streets, and making me tell him which way we needed to go as we walked. It made it much easier today to find my way into town, and when I recognized the library, I was hopeful they would be open so I could run in to blow my nose. No such luck; when I walked up to the doors to read the hours of business right around 8 o'clock, I discovered they would be opening at 9. Sniffling along, I continued downtown.

When I found the book store, I let Chuck know by sending him a text. "Well done, you," was my reward. It made me smile. He is so glad I'm adventurous, and willing to get outside of my comfort zone.

I am adventurous. Three and a half months ago, I had never heard of Saint Charles or Chuck Bennorth. I was teaching second grade in rural Utah, entertaining thoughts of retiring in Saint GEORGE, Utah one day where it's sunny and warm nearly all of the time, not Saint CHARLES, Illinois, where it's humid and cold. Ah, but one thing we can count on is change. 

After exchanging a few comments with each other on Facebook, Chuck and I struck up an immediate friendship, and now here we are, married, and I'm the newest resident of Saint Charles, where I find myself retired, and adjusting to my new town. 

On my way back home, I exchanged greetings with the school crossing guard. She commented that I had gotten my morning walk in early. 

"I'm new here; I'm busy exploring the town," I told her. 

"Well, welcome. I hope you like it here."

I already do. 

I didn't set any records for time; I was gone a little more than an hour and walked less that two miles, but I learned that trudging through snow-covered parks, and over unshoveled sidewalks provides a good workout; it was like walking on a sandy beach. Well, except for the elements of cold and snow.

It was with a mini-sigh of relief that I saw the snow-covered sign to the rotary park that let me know I was almost home. I sent Chuck another pic to let him know I'd found my way back to our neighborhood. 

"Well done, you, again," was my reward. He's proud of his country mouse for adjusting to life with her city mouse. Yep, well done, me. I'm proud, too. And just really, really happy.

Nothing Like a Snow Day

It was another cold winter's day, but the snow that was swirling outside our bedroom window when we went to bed had stopped sometime in the night. The snowplow had already circled our cul de sac, and we began our morning routine, both of us downstairs by 5:15 so we could enjoy the peace and quiet together before my husband left for work at 5:55. After breakfast and some conversation on the couch, Chuck headed out into the bitter cold weather for another day at work.

While I was talking to my stepmom on the phone, call waiting alerted me that Chuck was on the other line. I switched over to him, explaining quickly I was talking to Jackie, and that I would call him right back. I could hear the smile in his voice as he said okay, and I went back to chatting happily on the phone. As soon as we hung up, I tried calling my husband. 

"Hel-lo," I heard his cheery voice, but it didn't sound right. His voice wasn't on my phone, it was right there in the house! His phone recorded my squeals of delight on his voice mail as I welcomed him home with hugs and kisses. FINALLY. I was going to get to have a snow day with Chuck! I'd only been wishing for this day ever since he went back to work after the holidays every day this week. 

People have thought me foolish for wishing for winter weather in Illinois, but I have been hoping for a snow day ever since I found out that Chuck can work from home when "the weather outside is frightful." Chicagoland can get some serious winter weather conditions. This week windchill has seen to it that the temps are less than twenty below zero (Fahrenheit).  But if you were a newlywed with a super terrific husband who can work at home when the conditions are right, wouldn't you wish for snow days, too?

My SPECIFIC wish was for Chuck to be able to work from home on a snow day. I hadn't counted on his having to drive through the ice and slush each day anyway, sometimes spending two and a half hours in the car during his commute home because of the road conditions. 

This morning he turned around, and came back home when it looked like another dreadful ride to work on icy roads. I am one ecstatic wife! YAY! He's home! He's home! My wish came true.

Some of my favorite childhood memories started on days the eight of us kids gathered around the breakfast bar, listening to the radio for the much-awaited announcement of school closings whenever it snowed. In Virginia, the slightest skiff in the valleys can mean a heavy snowfall in the mountains. 

Later when I had moved to Utah, Daddy loved telling me stories about my little sister who is a kindergarten teacher back home, and who loves school days even more now that she is a teacher. "God bless the mountain children," Daddy would always say. It makes me smile to recall hearing his voice say that with so much reverence, and a twinkle in his eye. 

In all of my 30 1/2 years as a school teacher in the state of Utah, I only had ONE LOUSY SNOW DAY. School was always in session, whether there were three inches or twelve inches of the white stuff on the ground, except for one day. 

That was the day that the snow was coming down dangerously fast, and our superintendent called for a snow day, that afternoon, for the next day. We drove home that afternoon in white-out conditions, but as I recall, the snow stopped that night.

The next morning, rain began to fall that melted the snow, and by the time anyone could have gotten out to make a snowman or go sledding, the snow was all but gone. It was the most disappointing snow day of my entire life.

So now, once again, I find myself hoping against hope for snow days in Illinois. I watch the winter sky, eagerly hoping for flakes that will turn into a snowfall that will keep my husband home from work. I need to be careful what I wish for though because I don't want him to have to drive in it, I just want him to be able to work from home.

Be careful what you wish for, indeed, but sometimes, like today, wishes come true, and I couldn't be happier. There's just nothing like a snow day.

"Good Morning, Beautiful"

"Good morning, Beautiful."

What? Who, me? I lift my head off my pillow, and look around the room. There's no one else here; just my husband, and me, wearing an over-sized, rumpled men's white dress shirt, his, with my hair all over my head after a good night's rest. I am not wearing makeup, and without makeup, my eyes seem to disappear into the age spots that speckle the pale landscape of my face. My hands are rough from exposing them to harsh chemicals and cleansers. My belly is soft, and my thighs have never had the coveted gap. As I cross my ankles under the blankets, I realize it's been awhile since I shaved. Ew. 

Surely he must be mistaken, but there is no getting around it. This man thinks I'm beautiful.

Now, I wouldn't say I'm ugly, but one of the last adjectives I would use to describe myself upon awakening is beautiful. Drowsy, perhaps, and a little later, perky, but beautiful? Hardly.

There's no denying he loves me, just as I am, with or without makeup. Dressed up, dressed down, or dressed not at all. He loves my curves, my hair, my legs and hips (seriously?). He even takes close-ups of my eyes, and remarks how beautiful my eyes are. When I point out my laugh lines, he tells me they are adorable. 

I see age spots and wrinkles; he sees the way the light comes through my eyes, declaring them perfect.

I've always hated my profile, feeling that it accentuates how long my nose is, and how pointy my chin is. Guess who loves my profile? Guess who has convinced me that everything about me is just the way it should be, because to him, I'm perfect.

This is one of his favorite pictures he took of me in front of the Smoky Mountains.

Every morning, when our alarm goes off at 4:30, I know the first words out of his mouth will be "Good morning, Beautiful." He says that just like it is my name, and to him, it is. He tells me that I am beautiful, inside and out. He loves my smile, my heart, my mind, my body, and my spirit. When he puts it that way, I begin to soften, and begin to see what he sees.

I reply with "Hello, Handsome." He will always be my Handsome, and because of that, I can better understand the way he sees me. I love him with a clean-shaven face, or a scratchy one. I love him with morning breath, or when his mouth is minty fresh from toothpaste. I love him whether his hair is neatly combed, or pillow- tousled. I love him just as much in his pajama pants as I do in his dress slacks. I love him as he loves me. He is perfect for me.

Finally, I can see beyond my pointy chin and kind of big nose that were genetic gifts from the two people who loved me first, and I see the way I look at this man, and I know that is how he looks at me. And for us, we honestly see each other as beautiful and handsome.

So, I am learning to love how much he loves me. I no longer take issue with each and every point with him. I am also learning that it is a very liberating thing to be loved this way. 

It took me long enough, but finally, after 53 years on this earth, I found a partner who loves everything about me. In your lifetime, I hope you have known, or will know, what an unconditional love like this is like. It is the most amazing gift we can give to, or receive from another person; to love and be loved, no matter what; no strings attached. 

My Word for the Year

DISCOVERY

Life is good, my friends; life is good. A year ago, I found myself in a dark place, taking DEEP BREATHS to stave off the loneliness and the sadness that all but engulfed me. My father had passed away just before Christmas, and my marriage was ending. My days were spent hiking long and hard into the canyon above the house, trying to escape the desperate feelings that seemed to be settling over me whenever I was still enough to allow my brain to think and my heart to feel.

Last year, as I contemplated my choices for a word of the year, it was easy for me to choose BRAVE since it was the one thing I wished I were, and the one thing that I definitely was not. I had to face my biggest fear, that of being alone, and I was so scared. I clung to the days that my youngest child was with me, and was overjoyed at the end of each school day when he would come home to me. But during the weeks when I was alone, doubt would creep in, and I cowered in the solitude that reverberated throughout the house. 

Over the course of the months following January, I began to come to terms with the death of my father, and began to discover the mixed blessings that came with my newfound "freedom." 

Some days, I simply focused on breathing, and knew that as long as I kept exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide, I was doing okay. I had to be brave, time and time again, as I pared down my belongings, made arrangements to have my little rental renovated, moved from two spacious homes into a 900 square foot cottage, started dating again, interviewed for a teaching job after less than a year of retirement, and began teaching second grade after retiring the previous year from a 30 year career. The more chances I took, the braver I felt. Last year was a year of phenomenal growth for me. I would hate to endure it again, but I have to admit the blessings of confidence and self-awareness were worth the trials.

Saint Charles, my new hometown

I love words; focusing on just ONE is a challenge, but one I enjoy. There are so many words I could choose, it is almost intoxicating.

Today I find myself in a place of comfort and joy in my life. I am married to the kindest, most loving man I've ever known, in Illinois, 1400 miles from the state of Utah I have called home since 1979. I am retired again, and have time to read and write once more. I've proven I can do brave. I am in need of a new word for 2015.

Trading my slot canyons in Utah for the "urban canyons" of downtown Chicago

Chuck and I were discussing possibilities last week, and I was torn between GRATITUDE and DISCOVERY. I am so grateful for so many gifts, so many friends, so many family members, and I do not think it will be a challenge for me to express thanks for all I've received. I want my word to make me stretch, and remind me to keep growing. DISCOVERY will do just that.

Chuck has said time and time again that he can't wait to watch me soar in my retirement, with my writing and photography. He realizes I will be cultivating new friendships, discovering new talents, and practicing my old ones. He is hoping I will take advantage of our suburban lifestyle and take classes, and explore the many opportunities that are here for me.

I have a new hometown to discover. A new marriage. A precious husband. I have new stepsons to get to know. A new mother- and father-in-law. Technological programs that will help me maintain relationships with my faraway family and friends. My husband's photography equipment is waiting for me to discover more possibilities than I dared to wish for. Urban landscapes and rolling hills beyond the flat plains. There are new trails, new paths, new streets. A new friend nearby who has offered to have a meet-up at the local bookstore.

Yes, by being brave in 2014, and being open to a long-distance relationship that led to marriage and moving, I now have a new life waiting to be discovered. 2015 is full of hope and promise, and I am thrilled by the opportunities that are mine to discover and explore this year.

In psyching myself up for my new word, I did a little internet search on Google, and found these gems to stoke my motivational fire. (BRAINY QUOTE) I hope you will find something here that inspires you, too.

DISCOVERY

"Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen, and thinking what nobody has thought."
Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

"You will enrich your life immeasurably if you approach it with a sense of wonder and discovery, and always challenge yourself to try new things."
Nate Berkus

"There'll always be serendipity involved in discovery."
Jeff Bezos

Here's to a year full of wonder and discovery.

Happy New Year, friends!

Wishing for Winter Weather in Chicagoland

"Where is winter? It is December 24;  I thought Illinois would be in the thick of winter by now," I said with, I hate to admit, a bit of a whiny edge to my voice. My fiançé and I were walking from the parking lot into the fray of frantic Christmas Eve shoppers at Walmart. I realize attempting any shopping on that particular day seems like a ridiculous thing to do, but I had flown into Chicago late the night before, and there were ingredients we needed to prepare a holiday meal the next day for Chuck's two Illinois boys and their girlfriends. Rest assured that shopping at Walmart the day before Christmas is not a tradition we will be wanting to keep in the future.

"Winter is coming; I promise you," Chuck said with a twinkle in his eye.

One thing I should probably mention is that Chuck is in the IT department (information technology, Mom) for an insurance company near Deerfield, Illinois, about an hour's commute from home. On snow days, members of his department are allowed to work from home. Winter weather is not so silly a thing for which a new bride to wish, is it?

Christmas Day came and went, as did the 26th and then our wedding day, the 27th of December. No frigid temperatures. Certainly, no snow. As we drove off for our honeymoon in Chuck's Toyota Camry to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, the skies were overcast, but it wasn't all that cold. So, this is winter in the Great Lakes states, I thought to myself, somewhat disappointed, only in the weather, though. There were so many wonderful things taking place day by day, that I didn't have too much time to dwell on the lack of winter weather.

Sunday morning when we woke up early (yes, four in the morning is an acceptable time of day to arise for someone other than myself), Chuck asked if I'd like to see Lake Geneva before the town began to stir. I eagerly agreed, and we pulled on our winter wear, knowing this would be the coldest part of the day. Warm layers below outer layers would keep our feet and legs warm. We donned hats, scarves, and gloves. I was not disappointed; the air was cold finally.

Our breath puffed out in steamy clouds as we talked and walked along the dark streets which were lit up by the street lights, as well as the Christmas lights from shop windows. "I can see my breath!" I cheerfully noted. Maybe winter was arriving, after all.

Chuck pointed out his favorite shops and restaurants. We strolled toward the lake, passing by the Riviera waterfront, and along the path toward the more modest mansions that face the lake. It was quite dark, and we didn't go far. My back wasn't very cooperative after hauling around my heavy backpack through the airports the day before, so we decided to head back to the Mill Creek Inn, and wait until the inn's complimentary breakfast was served.

We spent two nights and two days at Lake Geneva, enjoying this time to ourselves in between Christmas and New Year's Eve. Some of our honeymoon highlights (okay, besides THAT) were fine Italian dining at Cafe Calamari, a great dinner at Popeye's (NOT the chain, but an award-winning casual dining restaurant with fabulous views of the lake) and yummy breakfasts at Egg Harbor. We shopped for the perfect Christmas ornament, a pair of cardinals, found by Chuck. The regal red bird is the state bird of Virginia AND Illinois, so it has some significance to us both.

One of the things that brought Chuck and me together is our love of photography. We took our cameras out Monday morning for a photo safari,  walking along the side of the lake with the fabulous mansions. I especially enjoyed the Expect a Miracle mansion. 

On either side of the landowners' maintained trail for the public, the Expect a Miracle path features positive affirmations, hand-painted on the white fence, adorned with flowers and quotes. I rang the miracle bell, wondering if it would take a miracle to have snow any time soon.  The clanging of the bell resonated loudly across the lake, causing Chuck to cover his ears. I smiled as the echoes began to fade. I mostly just felt gratitude for all of the miracles that had already taken place that had gotten me to this point in my life.

When we returned to Saint Charles, we stopped in Wheaton to meet Chuck's parents, Dick and Jane. You can imagine this retired school teacher's delight at having in-law's named Dick and Jane. I still grin every time I say their names together. (I know it ages me to admit that I learned to read with the Dick and Jane readers, but I have such fond memories of those books.) We had a quick visit at their house, and then headed home. My seventeen-year-old Bridger would be joining us the next day for the remainder of his school holiday, and we would be busy showing him around Chicago a couple of days, and introducing him to Saint Charles, too. 

Bridge added a hat to his winter
ensemble shortly after this picture
was taken. 

The winter weather continued to "improve," depending on your point of view, and it was downright cold Tuesday night when Chuck and I took Bridger into downtown Chicago for some much-anticipated Giordano's deep dish pizza. Nine degrees forced us into hats pulled down tight and scarves wound 'round our necks. To say we were let down by the news of a 45 minute wait to even ORDER our pizza would be an understatement, and when we heard it would be another half hour or so before we would be seated, we made a change in plans. So we shuffled down the street in search of dinner, and ended up at Burrito Beach. I will not waste your time with our disappointing review of THAT experience. Suffice it to say, Burrito Beach will be forever struck from any future bucket lists!

Friday, New Year's Day at Millennium Park at the Bean with Bridger

Finally, Saturday, as we were waiting for family members to arrive for supper, a soft snow began to fall. It was picturesque, and I was delighted to see that we were finally getting some real winter weather. The next day as we drove through the sloppy slush, Chuck asked if I were happy. "Is this what you were hoping for? This wet mess of melting snow?"

Well, yes. I love winter. But secretly, I'd been hoping to be snowed in with my sweet husband when he had to return to work today, but alas, the streets are clear, and unfortunately, minus two degrees Fahrenheit is no reason to miss work, unless you're an overly optimistic wife. Winter has come to Chicagoland, and I could not be happier.

Or maybe I can! Guess what tonight's weather forecast has in store for us? 3-6 inches of the white stuff. I just texted Chuck the great news. 

"You're one powerful wisher," he responded.

"Why, thank you. I try."