*Frosty Sparklies (Photos of Frost)

Very early yesterday morning, before the sun had crept up over the mountain, I heard my owl. Whenever that happens, I try to be very still, and strain to hear his voice. He is like a touchstone in my life, reminding me that all is well. He is helping me learn what it is like to be fully present in a moment, noticing only what is important, and allowing the insignificant details to fade from my thoughts. 

My owl moments are a complete immersion in the now, a spontaneous meditation with nature. Whenever it is my good fortune to hear his soft coo, I feel I have received the sweetest gift.

After writing, I decided to bake some gingerbread cookies for our holiday celebration this coming weekend.  

"Christmas cookies and holiday hearts; that's the way the holiday starts." Whenever I bake cookies for Christmas that little song pops into my head.  I taught first grade for seven years. (You can take the teacher out of first grade, but you can't take first grade out of the teacher.)  

I rolled the gingerbread dough into balls and dipped them into raw sugar crystals. There's nothing like the smell of gingerbread to bring the fragrance of the holidays into the house.  

The Keurig had just made me a steaming cup of Vanilla Chai Latté, and I had taken a bite out of one of the cookies, when something caught my eye outside the kitchen window. Was it snowing? I looked again.  Small flakes of crystal were sparkling in the sunlight as they twirled softly down to the ground.  It wasn't snowing, but the thick fog and soft breeze were making beautiful ice crystals spin through the air. My hot tea and half-eaten gingerbread cookie could wait. I grabbed my coat and camera, and headed out the door.

The flakes on the porch posts are what caught my eye first.

The deck railing had grown crystals overnight.

I cannot explain my attraction to barbed wire. I love it rusted...and dusted with sparkly frozen crystals.

Even weeds are beautiful in the winter.

Our Honda riding mower provided a lovely backdrop for this shot.

My beloved barbs in snow.

*What Can One Person Do?

Each morning around four A.M.,  my rituals involve revving the Keurig, grabbing an icepack, and settling into my recliner with Marley, my MacBook, and a blanket.  Every day I check in on my friends on Facebook and Happier, looking to see if anyone has a birthday, or seems in need of some positive feedback. I look for my close friends and family members' posts, trying to keep in touch with my loved ones up north, and back east.  Then I scan Pinterest for inspiration, read over my emails, and set about the task of writing for a couple of hours.  

During my usual Facebook routine, one comment jumped out at me on December 9.

Could use a miracle right now.... — feeling stressed.

After doing a little investigation, I discovered that my Facebook friend, also one of my former students I had taught in first and fifth grade, was struggling to make ends meet for her young family of six. I worried and fretted about it.  I'd never taken on something like this; always using the excuse of being too busy.  Donating money was more my style when I was working full-time. Someone else was always doing the front-man work. I had been glad to contribute behind the scenes.  

While perusing Pinterest, I had noticed a touching tribute to Nelson Mandela on the day of his death, December 5, 2013. What an extraordinary example he has been to the world of giving his life to the betterment of us all.  I think I felt a little overwhelmed when I read the words, "What can one person do?" 

When setting daily intentions of compassion or service, I would wonder what good I could do.  Could I make a difference?  My resources were limited, or so I thought. "What can one person do?" became a mantra to me, so when I noticed my friend's Facebook post, I was inspired to dig a little deeper, and figure out some way to make a difference.

No longer having the excuse of not having time, I knew this opportunity was mine because I had asked for it.  I tossed and turned that night, knowing that I did not have enough money to make much difference.  After a fitful night's sleep, I woke up knowing just what to do.  

Taking a deep breath, I sent the little mom a message.  

"Your post on Facebook recently has me thinking that maybe you need a little help this year.  You were hoping for a miracle, and I wish I knew how to make those happen, but if enough people try to make a difference, no matter how small, maybe it will feel like a miracle... I can't do everything, but I can do something.  If you'd rather not tell me specifically what's going on, I can respect your privacy.  Would you at least send me your address?  Thanks, Sweetie.  I hope you will feel calmer just knowing people care.  I love you."

Next, I sent a message to my friends at the elementary school and the middle school, enlisting their help. I submitted my student's family's name to Andy's Market for their Christmas Dinner Giveaway. When I told one of my friends in Marysvale about the situation, she fondly recalled teaching my friend and her husband when they were in high school.  Before I left her house, I had two gifts for the children, and my first donation.  I called my ex-husband, who is a butcher. Yes, he would gladly donate some meat. A friend at school had an extra Christmas tree. Several friends offered gently used clothing for the children. Others offered to help support our project financially. After assessing the family's needs, and finding out the children's desires for Christmas, I submitted the list in a message on Facebook, and my friends jumped at the opportunity to be of service.

Money wasn't my long suit here.  My friends and our community were my greatest resource.  I suppose I was limiting myself to think of MY money as the necessary resource. Other human beings, my friends, will always be the greatest resource. The owner of the little market called me back. He wanted to help. Santa will be delivering a Christmas dinner to a very grateful family next weekend. Every day I have been so touched by others who also have the intention of living their lives with compassion. They may not verbalize their goals as an intention, but that is exactly what they are doing, living their lives in the service of others.

What can one person do? When that person plants a seed of compassion, and it is watered by the love and generosity of a community, one person can do much more than ever imagined. Never underestimate your potential for making a difference.  One individual may simply have an idea, but when good people come together to implement a plan, great things can happen.  

*Because I Have Been Given Much

Holiday headquarters

Setting an intention for my day is a fairly new thing for me.  If that terminology sounds unfamiliar to you, think of it as setting a goal for your attitude.  Desiring to experience happiness and joy throughout my day, I find I'm more successful when I set an intention for myself.  

Some of my most favorite intentions are compassion, love, and service. Other common intentions are gratitude, peace, and joy.  Living with intention gives my life purpose and meaning.  My days seem fuller, and more rich, as I have strived to live my life with intention; much more so than on the days that I tuck and roll, and hit the floor running, without a thought about my attitude, or my spiritual development.

My focus these last few weeks has been service.  When Bridger and I bless our breakfast during the morning, I usually ask that we'll be aware of the needs of those around us. That prayer is answered nearly daily, and I try to respond to the promptings I feel.  Lately, I have been touched by the spirit, moved to tears even, as I come into contact with these people I have invited into my life through my intention.

No Mother Teresa, I have not dedicated my life to living among the untouchables, giving my life to those in need. I tend to be a fairly selfish person, and I have to push myself out of my comfort zone to respond to another's situation. The more I do this, though, the easier it is becoming.  

I started out with simple things, like sending a Facebook message to someone having a bad day, mailing a card to a faraway friend battling cancer, or sending a small gift to someone mourning the loss of a loved one. Each time I have followed through on the glimmer of inspiration to offer my hand in fellowship, I find I am the one receiving the blessings of peace, satisfaction, and a heart swelling with love.

As had become my habit, before Bridger left for school, I prayed that we would find ways to be of service to those in need. I hadn't slept well, excited by the opportunity to help someone during the holiday with my friends at school.  I finally fell asleep as the clock approached midnight, and I was wide awake by four. 

That afternoon, I was relaxing in my recliner, wishing I could just catch a little cat nap. When it was evident that wasn't going to happen, I decided to head to town early, and... do what?  I wasn't sure.  I could always go to the grocery store while I was there.  

It was well below freezing, but the car warmed up quickly, having spent the night in the garage. As I drove toward the church to make the turn down Bullion Canyon Road, I saw her, a woman bent from age on the side of the road. She was struggling to make her way through the snow, lifting her fur-lined boots high enough to place them carefully in the drifts. I could tell by her posture and frail frame that she was my elderly neighbor I had only seen from a distance.  

She's very independent, tending to the weeds that love to grow along the road in front of her house, and living alone in her tidy little home.  She was bundled up in a long coat, and had a hat pulled tightly over her ears, her arm clutching her purse tightly against her side. Carefully avoiding the ice on the street, she was slowly walking through the crunchy snow along the road's edge.  

"Hello!" I yelled to her, as the window rolled down.  "Can I take you somewhere?"  She stopped, and her eyes looked up from her woolen cap. Her wrinkled face broke into a smile.

"Why, yes. That would be nice."  It took her a few moments to make it across the ice to my car, and she plopped down in the seat. She had already walked close to a half a mile in the frigid weather. My car said it was 25 degrees (Fahrenheit).  As we drove down the steep hill, I introduced myself, and she told me her name.  Her old two-wheel drive truck wasn't much good in the snow, and the last time she drove it, she had gotten stuck, and a man from town saw she needed help. He got her car out of its predicament, and then drove her home in it.

That's the great thing about Marysvale. Anyone who sees someone in need of a ride will offer to help, but because we're a small town (population, 392, according to the last census), the chances of running into another person out on a freezing cold winter day aren't very good.  I whispered a silent "thank you" that I had left early enough that I could be at her disposal.

She told me I could just drop her off at the post office.  (And have her walk the mile back home up that steep hill in this weather, her arms full of mail and groceries?) No. I knew why I'd left early now. I just relaxed, and asked her what she needed to do today. We drove to the post office to collect several days' worth of mail, and then we drove to Tugs, our local market, to get her cat some food, and a few necessities. Her bright eyes were full of gratitude. "You're such an angel," she kept saying. I'm not angelic, as my friends can tell you, but if angels are God's hands, I suppose in that sense, I was her angel that day.

By the time we returned to our house, she had told me a little about herself.  Her eyes sparkled as she let me know she could take care of herself, but that she appreciated the ride more than I could know. I offered to pick her up for the community Christmas dinner held at one of the local churches that night. She said she used to go to those, but at 88, two things she just doesn't do much any more is drive in the snow, or go out at night. I could see there was no arguing there. I gave her a hug, and helped her get out of the car. She stood on her porch as I drove out of her driveway.  

The hymn "Because I Have Been Given Much" came to my mind as I drove to town that afternoon.  I am not a big fan of hymns; I will be honest, but the ones that touch me focus on gratitude, like "Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow" and service.  My distaste for church music goes back to my childhood, when I was in fifth and sixth grade.  As a matter of fact, when my piano teacher informed me that although I wasn't doing that well in my lessons, and I would probably never understand the concept of rhythm, the next step in learning piano would be learning to play hymns.  I couldn't imagine anything worse. So I quit. I suppose you could say I lacked a certain passion for piano. Finding creative ways to get out of practicing my songs was more my passion when I was about 12.

Over the years, I have discovered inspiration in beautiful music, and yes, some of the songs I have grown to love are actually hymns.  I found one of my favorite songs on YouTube, "Because I Have Been Given Much" sung by the Reprise Quartet. In case you are unfamiliar with the song, or perhaps you just love music, I am including it here.  This just touches my heart.

Here is my favorite verse:  

Because I have been given much, I too must give.

Because of thy great bounty, Lord each day I live.

I shall divide my gifts from thee with every brother that I see,

who has the need of help from me.

Because I have been sheltered, fed by thy good care…

I cannot see another’s lack and I not share-

my glowing fire, my loaf of bread-my roof’s safe shelter over head,

that he too may be comforted.

So today, as I sit in my comfortable recliner, listening to the carols of Christmas in front of our glowing Christmas tree, I will set my intention.  Today I will focus my mind on gratitude.  For those of you who stop in to read my blog from time to time, I know it may seem that I complain too much, or act plain silly, or worry about inconsequential things, but I really do have a grateful heart.  I may grumble about tending our WOOD STOVE, but I am so grateful for a warm, cozy house.  I may worry about my WARDROBE, but I know what a blessing it is to have clothing that fits, and protects me from the elements.  I may have BAD DAYS of my own, but I know they are only temporary.  

My greatest blessing in my life is the connection I feel with my family and friends. My temporal blessings are many; my basic needs of food, shelter, and clothing are met well beyond the minimums required for comfort, and my own needs few.  BECAUSE I have been given so much, I am grateful, and will look for new opportunities during the coming new year to be of service to those around me.  Really, how can I "see another's lack, and I not share?" You may want to find an intention of your own, and see the difference in makes in your life, and the lives of those around you. I hope that you will have the joy of Christmas this holiday season, and find ways to make a difference, no matter how small.

*Put Another Log on the Fire

"Put another log on the fire!

Cook me up some bacon and some beans,

And go out to the car, and change the tire.

Wash my socks, and sew my old blue jeans."

Those are some great lyrics right there. A Waylon Jennings classic. If you like classic country. And Waylon. Which I don't, particularly.

I am having a love-hate relationship with my wood stove. I know; it saves money. I know; it is a bone-permeating heat. I know; the fire puts out a lovely glow. Yada yada yada.

My house swings from one temperature extreme to the other. Each morning,  I wake around four, aware that the furnace is working overtime, trying to warm the house up after cooling drastically once the embers begin to fade. I drag myself out of bed, grateful if there is a stick of wood left to add to the coals.

Oh, but first I have to use the special shovel to remove the mountains of ash left by the burned-up logs. That shovel was built for a much larger opening than the one on our small wood stove. Invariably, while it is heaped with ashes, I bump it against the side door, and soot goes everywhere. I'm pretty sure I better find a fire-retardant protective rug to put over our wood floor. The occasional red-hot coal could leave a nasty mark, or worse, start a fire where we don't want one. 

We have a lovely old, rusty Texaco bucket for the task of ash removal.  I am so grateful for its decorative presence in our living room. NOT. I know; I know. I should take it to the basement during the day to hide it. Yes, please, there's not enough walking up and down those steps in a day. Let me add four more trips for when I decide I need the bucket, and when I have had enough of it. 

The earliest part of the morning is actually my favorite part of day. I should just be grateful I'm getting more of it than usual lately.

When I complained about my current battle to regulate the heat in our home, a girlfriend from high school reminded me that when we use a wood fire for our heat source, we warm ourselves several ways:  when we gather the wood supply, when we make the fire, and of course, when we finally have the fire going. Yeah, well, I'm really only interested in that last step, so if anyone else wants to take over the other tasks, that'd be great.

The woodpile is outside, under the deck, and is accessed by going down a long flight of stairs outside. That is all fine and good; the arthritis progressing in my knees isn't painful yet, and honestly, I can use the exercise. 

It's the ice outside that makes me nervous. My shoulder is still recuperating from a bad fall down the steps from several years ago. Once I'm finally down there, I get to load up my arms as much as I can, which isn't much because of childhood back injuries.

(Excuse me; it's getting cold in here. I need to put another log on the fire.)

I'm back. That wasn't so bad, really. It's just so messy. I'm not a great housekeeper. When you make multiple trips outside and in, drop an occasional piece of wood, sprinkle ashes on your floor, and allow the dust to settle on every horizontal surface, the house suffers. Seriously suffers. I hate walking on a dirty floor, especially in bare feet, but I refuse to clean it every day, so I walk on a dirty floor most of the time.

You'd be proud of me. Yesterday I decided to take matters into my own hands, and tidy up the area around the stove. It did not go as planned.

Guess what a Swiffer sweeper does when it sweeps up ashes? Go ahead; guess. You could try it,  but only on a day you have time to dust the whole house, and mop the floors. Yesterday was not a good day.

No one loves the wood stove like Marley. He thinks we started using it this year for his personal pleasure. He takes advantage of the rug under the dining room table, and sets himself up to get warm. And it does get warm.

The house fluctuates between arctic cold when the fire dies down to equatorial hot when the fire is blazing. I am a fair weather soul when I'm inside, and I find either extreme quite unpleasant.  


Last night, Bridger and his friend closed all of the doors to the office to play a video game. I peeked in on them, letting them know they could open the doors if it got too cold in there.  

"It is so friggin' hot in the house!" Bridger complained.  Oh, really? I hadn't noticed.

That's how it is, though, every single time. I'm like the frog in the pot of water heating on the stove. I don't realize the subtle changes in temperature until just before I'm nearly cooked to death. Then I'm sweating profusely, fearing heatstroke.

Several friends suggested opening doors and windows to regulate the heat. Seriously? It's been like 10 degrees outside until noon. When I do that, again, the temperature changes inside are not obvious, until they are, and then I'm back to freezing, and stoking up the fire, and the cycle repeats. Viciously. All day long, into the night.

Pam lives up the canyon from me. She has all sorts of advice about regulating the temperature. When she told me she turns on the central air to circulate the heat throughout the house, I was incredulous.  

"Let me get this straight. You turn on the air conditioning to make it warmer?" She clarified that she doesn't have it set to COOL, she just uses the FAN to move the air around. Hm. Hadn't thought of that.

I'd rather just use the HEAT function of our central air, if it's all the same to everyone else. But here I am, battling the elements, stoking the fire, fetching the wood, and griping about it all. Complaining is just so fun, once I get on a roll; I don't want to stop.

I would've been the most despised pioneer woman on the frontier. The other pioneers would've shunned me, and sent me out into the wilderness to fend for myself after they'd had enough of my whining. 

I hate to be too hot or  too cold. My shoes must fit "just right" or I am miserable. I don't want to feel hunger, ever, and I hate having a bad hair day. I imagine the shoes back then had horrible insulating qualities, and lacked proper arch support. And can you imagine the endless string of bad hair days the women back then had to suffer through? I just am not made of pioneer stock.  I don't look it, but I'm really quite a delicate flower.

On the bright side, I'm saving money on the electric bill. I'm getting exercise, which really is a good thing. Once I figure out how to regulate our stove better, I'm sure the house will remain a more pleasant temperature. It is warm, when it's working well, and adds to the ambience of home. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to put another log on the fire.

P.S.  Ha ha ha...

After this post went up, I received a note from one of my friends that contained the last verse of "Put Another Log on the Fire." 

Come on, baby, you can fill my pipe,

And then go fetch my slippers.

And boil me up another pot of tea.

Then put another log on the fire, babe,

And come and tell me why you're leaving me.

P.P.S. As the winter of 2016 approaches, I am most grateful for our furnace, immediate heat, and relatively clean floors. Life without a wood stove is just easier.

*Holiday Pretzel Rods

RED VELVET PRETZEL RODS

Left all alone for an afternoon and evening, I decided to restore a little order to the living room, get laundry done, and see what kind of trouble I could get into in the kitchen.

My mom had given me two delicious flavors of candy melts to try during the holidays:  Pumpkin Spice and Red Velvet.  I had the presence of mind during our shopping excursion into town yesterday to have my son select a bag of pretzel rods that seemed to be intact.  He found a perfect bag; all of the rods were whole.

The only ingredients needed were things I had in my kitchen:

candy melts or chocolate, in your favorite flavor

pretzel rods

sugar sparkles for sprinkling.

This time, instead of melting my candy in a bowl or something with a deep contour that would make it difficult to maximize pretzel coverage, I decided today to try using our butter dish for melting. And it worked pretty well!

In preparation, the only thing I needed to do was cover a cookie sheet with parchment paper so I would have a place to let the rods harden, and a surface that would catch the excess sprinkles.

First, I melted the Red Velvet Candy Melts in the microwave on high for about one minute.  Most of the discs were fully melted, and it only took a few stirs to blend the candy into a smooth mixture.

Next, I dipped the rod in the melted candy, rolling it and smoothing the candy on the top 3/4 of the pretzel rods.

Then, I sprinkled the sugar over the rods to make them a little fancier.  You could use any color you wanted; I just happened to have white sprinkles on hand, and I like the way they turned out.

Colored sprinkles would be fun, too!

Place the dipped rods on parchment paper to harden.

Our local Walmart carries a variety of flavored candy wafers for candy-making.

I took advantage of the cold weather we've been having, and set the pan outside for ten minutes to let the candy harden.

These will make beautiful treats to take to our book club meeting tonight.  I'm excited to share them!

PUMPKIN SPICE PRETZEL RODS

Obviously, follow the same directions as above.  I can't choose a favorite between these two flavors; they are both that good!  The next time we're in town, I'm going to check out the other varieties.  I'm thinking I'll try Red Velvet Truffles and perhaps coat some Gingerbread Truffles with the Pumpkin Spice coating.  There are so many possibilities!

They are so festive, some clear cellophane and pretty ribbon is all that's
needed for a special holiday package.

*Focus on the Feel, Not the Look

My fashion sense has never been that great, as is evidenced in the above photo, but the older I get, the less my clothes have to do with fashion, and the more they have to do with comfort.  Obviously. No self-respecting slave to fashion would be caught dead in this get-up. I must say, I was comfortable on that blistering hot day in Utah's Dixie. Between the cooling neckerchief and evaporative cooling cloth draped around my neck and shoulders, and the hat to shade my eyes, and the lightweight clothing, I may not have looked that great, but I felt refreshed, despite the broiling sun.

Being a slave to fashion has never driven me, but I have fallen prey to some of the trendy fashions of days gone by...bell-bottomed, hip-hugger jeans, chambray denim, crinkle skirts, Gunne Sax dresses, tunic tops with leggings, business suits, cowl neck sweaters, jelly shoes...I have dabbled here and there, trying to find my own personal style.  Be assured that it takes me years to join any fashion craze, so that by the time I'm wearing it, everyone else has moved on to the next new thing.  I've always been slightly out of step with the masses when it comes to clothing.

My friend Jennifer says that if something doesn't feel as comfy as pajamas, she doesn't wear it. Hmmm...I guess that guideline would rule out ever making the mistake of wearing SPANX, A SIZE TOO SMALL.  Or nylons that creep down my legs so that my knees are bound together, causing me to walk like a kimonoed-Geisha.  

My friend Lesia says that she gave up nylons years ago. I took her advice to heart the day my pantyhose refused to stay up. About the fourth time that I slipped into the restroom at school to remedy the problem, I simply removed them, tossed them in the trash, and went commando the rest of the day. 

Slowly, I am learning.  I am one of those wretched souls who has not a monkey on her back, but a blasted teenager who always hisses the most dreadful things when trying on clothes in dressing rooms.

I've had this critical teenager with me almost all of my life.  When I pick up a particularly colorful blouse, I hear her..."Oh, you're wanting to look like your mom, huh?"  I put it back.  

When I try on shoes that pinch just a bit, she makes fun of me, "You only have to wear them for a little while.  You'll look more professional in a pair of heels.  Don't buy another pair of  boring ballet flats!"  

"You're not going to buy a size TWELVE are you?  Buy the ten; you'll be able to wear it ONE of these days." 

"This skirt will work if you wear a long enough jacket over it.  It only pinches your waist a little. The next size up is so LARGE." For years, I've bought shoes that pinched my toes, pants that were unflatteringly tight, blouses that gapped slightly, and "goal jeans." Hardly anything fit well. Consequently, whenever I went to the closet, there was literally nothing that fit me well enough to make me feel good about wearing it.

Now, here I am at 53, and I've learned to ignore what the tag says. I ask myself, does this FIT, or do I need something looser?  I don't focus on the numbers, I focus on the feel.

My other weakness was finding something on sale.  I would buy several of the same boring thing if it were a good deal, not even caring that perhaps the item weren't the best style for my body type.

That annoying teenager's voice can only hang with us for so long. Eventually, I believe, that critical voice leaves us when we own who we are and know what we truly want.  I am a "mature" woman (ha ha ha ha ha...that term still gets me. Maybe I'm not as mature as I'd like to think). What I want, more than anything, is to be comfortable.  I want to be comfortable in my own skin, with my own thoughts, and in my own clothes that I selected by myself.  

Now there is only one rule that guides my purchases.  The clothes in my closet have nothing to do with trends.  I own no chevron-patterned maxi skirts. You will find no patterned leggings.  There is not one designer item hanging there, unless it were seriously reduced in an off-price discount store, and it fit me perfectly.  The only rule I have now is COMFORT, ABOVE ALL ELSE.

I am so thankful for the wise women who guided me to this place in my life.  My closet now invites me to snuggle into the softest hoodies that soothe my skin, denim jeans that have a touch of Lycra, yoga pants that are long and soft, and shirts that feel like my favorite old t-shirts.  

There is one pair of heels that survived the purging.  They are new. They are Cole Haan.  They were 20% of (not 20% OFF, one/fifth of) the original price of the Cole Haan Nike fit dress shoes I longed for several years ago when Oprah touted them on one of her shows. I will wear them with the comfy long skirts when I am forced to dress up again, whenever that occasion shall arise.  

All of my life, I have admired women who wear hats because although I inherited my Grammy's love of hats, I did not inherit her self-confidence. I'm catching up, slowly but surely.  I now own SEVERAL hats.  I have my friend Margaret to thank for that.  

When we decided to turn our high school girlfriend's reunion into a Red Hat Society gala affair (okay, that may be stretching the descriptors a bit), Margaret made each of us a wonderful hat, customizing the hats to match the individual. I wore mine all day long.  I wore it when we flew back home.  It is proudly displayed on my nightstand, reminding me of who I am becoming.

Maintaining an active lifestyle has desensitized me to feeling self-conscious about headwear.  Between bicycle, skiing, and motorcycle helmets, doorags, and ball caps, I no longer worry what people think of the top of my head.  Now that I wear hats more often, I have a great excuse to not even bother doing my hair.  How cool is THAT?

Today, I am the antithesis of fashion, as I lounge about the house in my old yoga pants and this

ratty old t-shirt from Jamaica. As you can tell from the softly gathered folds of fabric, it is extremely ill-fitting and very voluminous.  What the picture cannot tell you is that it was selected by feel only; I ran my hand over the shirts hanging in the closet, and chose the one that spoke to my skin. This lovely ensemble is the result of my number one fashion rule: COMFORT, ABOVE ALL ELSE.  When you focus on the feel, comfort will follow.

Get it. Got it? Good. It is so liberating; I hope you will arrive at this stage of enlightenment soon, but take your time. I sure did.  Enjoy the journey as you develop your own style, and find what is most comfortable for you.

*"It's the Thought that Counts," Right?

I try; I really do.  Nothing makes me happier than selecting the perfect gift for a loved one.  I enjoy shopping, and then wrapping the presents.  My mom is the same way.  You know what they say about the best laid plans, though.  Mom and I try, but sometimes Mom and I totally miss the mark. Mom has more excuses than I do; she has many, many children and grandchildren for whom to buy gifts.  I have only a few.  So what's my excuse?

Um, I tend to rush.  My speed-reading gets the best of me.  I THINK I know what I'm ordering, but I have been proven wrong more than once. Sometimes there is simply a miscommunication; sometimes we simply don't understand a request.

Remember when there was a major shift in videos, changing from cassettes to DVDs?  My brother Eric was making the switch, and had requested some DVDs to replace his favorite shows on cassettes. Mom had offered to take care of that, and like a good shopper, went on eBay, and found a good deal on one of the movies Eric wanted.

Thanksmas afternoon, during our annual gift exchange after our turkey dinner, we were opening presents.  Eric was given a very large, flat gift.  When he removed the item from the wrappings, he asked aloud what it was.  Mom asked, "Isn't that the movie you wanted?"

"Well, yeah, it's the title, but what IS this thing?  It's so...BIG." he said, holding up what looked like a 33 record album.

"It's that disc thing you asked for." Aah...there it was.  Video disc/laser disc.  All the same in mom's head.  "We only have cassettes, so I thought this must be the latest thing."  We chuckled, and chalked it up to another near-hit in the gift exchange.

A couple of years ago, my book-loving son had requested several titles.  The teacher in me loves supplying my kids with books, and I happily went on Amazon, ordering every book he desired.  And some he didn't want, apparently.  He had thoughtfully included title and author names, and had said that used books were fine.  Into the Wild was an easy title to find, but unfortunately, it is a title used by more than one author.

What he wanted was THIS:  Into the Wild, written by Jon Krakauer, a story of action, adventure, a story of man vs. nature, if ever there was one.  The perfect book for my outdoorsman son.

What he received was THIS: a lovely children's book written by Sarah Beth Durst, a story of fantasy and adventure, sure to please any little girl during the holidays.

Close, but no cigar.

This year, in my online ordering frenzy, I was trying to find ammo for my brother-in-law.  Now I'm no hunter, no gun aficionado, but I don't live under a rock.  I was very aware that ammunition is very hard to come by right now.  The gun enthusiasts, preppers, and hunters have been stockpiling their bullets and shells for months.  Stores sell their supplies as soon as they stock their shelves. So it was with enthusiastic delight I discovered .22 ammo on Amazon.  The price was reasonable, and I quickly clicked "buy it now," and checked Rick off my list.  When the large box arrived with all of the gifts I'd ordered, the last little package I removed from it was the ammo.  It was so LIGHT.  These were not bullets; they were pellets.  There's such a thing as .22 PELLETS ?  Who knew?  Dang.  Another miss.

There was the year my dad received multiple copies of the Pink Panther DVD.  What can I say? Great minds think alike.  The siblings were on the same wavelength that year.

Here's to the holiday mishaps, and the smiles they bring in their retellings later in life.  Thank heavens, it's never really about the gifts.   When they say, "It's the thought that counts," I hope discombobulated thoughts count, too.  I seem to be having more of those with each passing year.