When one door closes…

…another door opens.  We hear it all the time.  The event, circumstance, relationship, job, may not last a long time.  It may last but a few weeks, a few months~or it could last a lifetime. 

And I believe that no matter the time spent behind any door, we have learned a lesson, we may have gained knowledge, felt a moment of security, filled our bones full of independence.  We may have experienced a love like no other.  We may have been challenged beyond our beliefs but came out standing alone yet taller.  Our strength from that challenge may encourage another individual that they too can overcome.  We may teach behind one of those doors.  Our lives can fall apart.  They can be built even stronger.

Some believe.  Some do not.  Do you?  What’s your door opening story?

Thoughts of Dad on Father’s Day Weekend

It’s been a little over two years that my Dad has passed.  Father’s Day is just one of the days that is a little difficult for me.  My Mom passed away six months before he passed.  Losing both parents in a matter of months, both to a heart attack, and not getting to say goodbye was one of the hardest things to get through.  I still struggle with the loss and grief at times, but the old saying is true, it gets better with time.

Anyway, back to Dad.  After Mom passed I begged him tirelessly to paint the trim and doors in my condo that I was remodeling.  He was a professional painter by nature of a family full of men that painted, one of his many talents.  I played on that talent, explaining, okay maybe more like whining, that I could never paint the trim as neatly as he could and I just didn’t have the time.  And honestly, I was starting to get tired of doing all the remodeling myself.   I thought it would do him good to get out of the house, and I promised him a good dinner when I got home from work.

He passed away 4 days after my birthday in February 2008.  I haven’t had the guts to even attempt painting the trim.  It’s the last thing I have to do to finish my little condo.  I decided this year, for Father’s Day weekend, in honor of my Dad I would paint the trim that he didn’t want to do but gave in to doing just to shut me up. 

But there’s something else you should know about my Dad, he was also good at practical jokes.  Any sort of harassing he could get away with…or not get away with, he would do.   I know he will be looking down at me this weekend, maybe even by my side, snickering, whispering in my ear things like, “you got trim paint on the wall/floor”, “you’re not doing it right!!”,  “steady your hand you’re shaking”, or “told you I didn’t want to do your damn painting!”

So, to all of you that still have your Dad’s, give them a hug for me and love them like there is no tomorrow, it might not be.


Blogging, Blogged, Blogger (not to be confused with booger), Bloggest (?)

I’m not really new to blogging.  I blogged (I love that word) on Live Journal many moons ago with some aspiring writers.  And published authors.   I blogged 🙂 all the time on Myspace.  I wanted to get a blog page set up with the ability to use different pages to categorize my randomness, my pictures, my recipes, so a friend suggested Word Press, and here I am.  I wanted to promote my recipes for a very hopeful cookbook some day, I wanted to practice my writing for the picture books I want to write.  My friend says Word Press is popular and can help.

Now I’m wondering, what could I possibly blog about that would be of any interest to anyone??  My friends on Live Journal and Myspace were just that, my friends.  So they always commented.  I had followers.  Friend followers.  I read some other blogs and think that no one will be interested in what I have to say.  Or think.  Or cook.  Or write.  Or will you?  I’m thinkin maybe someone will read my babbling randomness (I love that word too). 

I’m off to make brownies.  not for me.  For someone else.  Not sure who yet.  I’m going to make oatmeal for me, my evening meal…yea oatmeal.  But I’ll let you in on a little teeny secret, I’m gonna lick the brownie spoon too!


Yummy Bruschetta for One

Make this delicious bruschetta for yourself after you get home from the gym, or work.  It’s goes wonderfully with a glass of wine!  Lucky for me, there’s a grocery store next to my gym, it only took a few minutes to run in and grab what I needed before heading home.

First thing you want to do is to chop up about one tablespoon of a shallot, 2 bay leaves (rolled and chopped), 4 cherry tomatoes chopped fairly fine, 2 strips of chopped bacon and enough mozzarella cheese to put you in heaven.

Then take 2 pieces of italian bread smothered in a garlic butter, place in a toaster oven or under your broiler.  Keep it in there  until it’s toasted to a light golden perfection.   While the bread is doing its toasty thing, take all the other ingredients except for the cheese and toss together in a bowl.

When the bread is almost done, remove it from the oven, cover it with all the deliciousness of the tomatoes, bacon, shallots and basil.  Then dot the mixture with the cheese.  Go heavy if you want, it’s all good!!!!  And who doesn’t like cheese?  Pop it back in the toaster oven until the cheese is melted.  Before diving into this scrumptiousness (this may not be a correct word but it works here), drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper to taste and enjoy!  Prop your feet up, and love life.


She Survives

She did it.  She barely escaped with her life.   He threatened to take that from her too.  That’s all she had left of herself.  Just her life.  Her breath.  Her heartbeat.  Her smile.  He didn’t want anyone else to share in those things.  If he couldn’t have her, no one would.  He almost took her life.  A guardian angel was with her that dreadful night.  She knew it.  She felt it.  She wasn’t alone.  Maybe the family member that was taken from her?  She had to have had help.  Someone was watching over her.  She wasn’t that strong.  He was crazed.  She was scared.  But she lived.  However you want to look at it, she survived.  She starts over.  She’s a survivor.   She begins another long journey.  A new journey.  A better journey.  On her own.  With her small kids.  She works.  She raises the kids.  She has a home.  She makes it a home.  She is finally happy.  She does not miss him.  She’s glad to be away from him.  It’s not always easy being on her own.  But she can.  And she does.  He still creates trouble.  He plays games.  But he can no longer play her.  She’s strong now.  She falls in love again.  She marries.  Many years pass.  People change.  Family grows.  New friends.  And the tragedy strikes again.  Another family member taken away.  She collapses to the floor in shock.  Her son consoles her.  Picks her up.  Holds her.   She cries.  She is thankful for her grown son.  He is strong.  He is good.  He provides comfort.  He continues to hold her.   He tells her it will be okay.  They gather again. They cry again.  Pray again.  Hug again.  And they bury again.  Another loved one gone tragically.   Suicide.   Another loved one gone to sucide.  All deaths are tragic.  All deaths contain pain.   She wants to know why this happened.  Why.  She wants to see where.   She wants to know how.   She doesn’t understand.  No one understands.   Horrific details of death choke her.  Chokes her family.   They can’t breathe.  They hurt.   Hate brews.  Sadness and grief shoot through them. They are empty.  Empty shells.  All of them.  Family and friends surround.  And love eventually takes control.  Love consumes.  They still hurt.  But they survive.  They have too.   She survives.  She is fragile but strong.  She survived before.  She will again.

A Story of a Girl

She wasn’t happy.  She wore the smile for her family, but inside the shell she was miserable.  She wanted out.  Out of the marriage, out of the hell and torment she lived.  Only her small children kept a twinkle of a fire burning within her.  Tragedy hit hard one day.  The night before that horrible day, they had a fight.  The worst fight ever.  She witnessed a very angry part of him that she feared tremendously.  In his fit of drunken anger he almost killed the dog, he kicked, he tossed, she yelled.  Much later she managed to curl up on her side of the bed, hoping he wouldn’t slither over in the middle of the night and take what wasn’t his, hoped he wouldn’t take what little hope she had left.  Eventually sleep consumed her and she rested.  She found the tiniest corner of peace in her world.  Morning came with a phone call that woke her.  The caller, whom she knew, asked to speak to him.  She couldn’t understand why because she didn’t like him either. She sensed trouble.  She knew no logical reason why this person would want to speak to him unless something terrible had happened.  He turned his back to her, mumbled a few inaudible words and hung up the phone.  He turned and faced her, she stared, he stared.  Then his mouth opened and the hurtful words spilled from him.  A family member was gone, dead.  Taken away forever.  She was silent.  She laughed.  Thinking the fight from the night before is continuing, his anger and spiteful words are leftover from the night before.   But he just stares at her.  Then the look in his eyes told her this one time maybe he spoke the truth.  She hit him. And she hit him again and again while falling to the floor.  But he held her.  Only to lower her to the floor.  He walked away.   She doesn’t remember very much after that.  Not until the rest of the family gathered.  They cried. They hugged.  More family gathered.  More friends surrounded.  They shivered, not from the cold of that winter day, but from the grief that gripped their hearts and lungs.  She helped pick out the clothes.  She picked through some personal things.  She cried.  She struggled.  Being in the house frightened her, she could barely walk, could barely breathe.  And then it snowed.  They prayed.  They cried.  They buried their loved one.  And it snowed again.  They tried to live, one hour at a time.  They tried.  She tried.  But she cried.  All the time.  In the middle of the night she sat in a quiet dark room, alone, away from him, buried her face and cried until she slept from exhaustion.  She felt like a hollow shell.  Nothing was left in her anymore.  But she had to live.  She had very small children that depended on her.  She discovered how short life can be.  It’s the only time she ever realized it.  She knows now.  And it changed her.  She still hurt.  She still cried.  And she was still very weak and fragile, but she changed.  She had to change.  Before he ripped it from her again.

Beautiful Sounds

crashing waves when nobody else is around, sea gulls, the babble of an infant, the chatter of my grandkids, a rumble of thunder, rain on the roof, the silence after a snowfall, the pop of a wine bottle being opened, a Christmas choir, gift wrap being ripped from the gift, Gibson purring, Jack sneaking a few nibbles of his dog food during the night, galloping horses, popcorn, the silence from a beautiful smile, the crack from a golf club meeting the golf ball, a crackling fire, and a whispered I love you,