Across generations

My brother sent a photo of Mom holding his newest grandchild. Yes, the same grandchild who has been featured before in this blog.

New life gives me hope. And there is something about Mom holding little Jenna that makes me think of history and time and family of course and also connection.

The photo speaks of one generation presenting the next with the wisdom and skills, training and knowledge they need to grow and prosper. Mentoring, parenting, mothering, fathering, nurturing -- all words alluding to our responsibility to raise up the next generation.

Have we been remiss at these duties? Just because a child comes with parents, doesn't mean we the extended family or the community at large have no responsibility, no calling, to help this child be all that he or she can believe.

Ahhhh the things my mother could teach Jenna. Pie baking? Quilting? Crocheting? How to hold your tongue, how to deal with difficult people, how to survive, and thrive, and find humor in even the most difficult of times? What it is like to ride in a horse and buggy? How to make maple syrup, tap the trees, boil the sap. How to be a neighbor. How to bloom where you're planted.

I so hope Jenna gets a chance to learn these things, if not from her Great-Grandma, perhaps from the rest of us who were taught by her.

What do you have to teach the next generation? Don't let it slip by. Dust it off and present the wisdom, knowledge, skills, insights, hard-won victories -- don't let them die with you or your generation.

Family Photos

Looking at the photo featured in the previous blog, the amount of possibility and potential pictured makes me pause. It is a before glimpse at a family and now, nearly 50 years later I see the after. Not all of those lives are finished, but the decisions or lack thereof, took each person in a direction that perhaps none of them foresaw.

Derrol's mother recently retired. Several of those children are now grandparents. I wonder if any of them saw their dreams fulfilled.

Recently my brother sent me a photo of the newest member of his family. His youngest son's newborn daughter -- Jenna Grace. Looking upon her face, seeing the serenity, the peace, the perfection -- I pray that the world will be kind to her and her brothers and sisters. And when we look back at a family photo fifty years from now, their faces will continue to shine with promise, and will reflect lives well lived.

Parenting -- when done right -- is a thing of beauty. Sadly most of us have regrets, things we would do differently. Perhaps that is the hidden joy of grandchildren -- they give us a 'do over' chance to get that parenting thing right.

Uncommon connections

For the past three days I've been surrounded by the most amazing scientists and researchers who are dedicated to finding a cure for a variety of motor neuron diseases. I've heard about gene mutations, stem cell research, genetic studies, repositories, registries, rat studies, worm studies, flies and pigs studies -- separate not together. And zebra fish -- an excellent form to study because you can see right through them -- you can see the mutations.

It was that same transparency that our kids liked when we had a couple aquariums of tropical fish. We could raise guppies by the hundreds, it seemed. Couldn't keep a black molly alive to save us. And zebra fish -- we discovered angel fish love to eat them. But for the brief time we could watch them, we stared in fascination at their see-through bodies behind the stripes.

My husband's younger brother was equally fascinated with tropical fish and that's where our interest began, with Tommy's collection of salt water and fresh water fish.

The irony hit me as I sat in the lecture hall and listened to a discussion of familial ALS study using this species of fish that Tommy had at one time raised. Because, you see, Tommy was the first in the family to succumb to that very disease Familial Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or the inherited form of Lou Gehrig's disease.

He enjoyed the fish and they may eventually provide a cure for the disease that took Tommy's life at age 18, just barely 18. It rather reinforces the patterns of our lives and how everything is connected. It also makes me wonder why we don't see those connections. Maybe we need to think with a different perspective. If Tommy could have just seen in 1970s that this fish might hold the secret to his cure -- we could have saved thirty years of deaths and dying, suffering and wasting that the disease brings.

If onlys don't get us very far and eat up hope along the way. So I stuff that back in the dark recesses of my brain and focus on the bright scientists who did see the value of these fish and I pray that they figure out the twisted origins of the dreaded disease before another family member dies.

The zebra fish, flies, pigs, even worm studies remind me that we don't know where in nature we might find the next cure. So maybe we should preserve the nature around us -- we never know when we'll need to unlock its secrets to save our lives.

Pets are family members, too

We are recovering from the holidays and basking in the fact that we actually got all of our packages sent in time for them to arrive before Christmas day. The UPS man is my new best friend!

From what we've heard so far, we chose the right sizes, the right colors, the right items this year.

We made one last minute purchase. We assumed that we'd give the cats their usual can of catfood wrapped in Christmas paper or a bag of treats. But the treats still sit in the pantry from last year. It seemed like the right time to upgrade their gifts to something they might enjoy every day.

With that in mind, we headed to the Pet Supermarket down the street and surprised the sleepy-eyed clerks by purchasing one of those thingamajigs that are about five foot tall, have sleeping alcoves and shelves for the cats, a scratching post, and all of it covered in carpet.

The clerks came to life, took our money, and crammed the monstrosity into our car. Once home we managed to get it in the house where the cats sniffed it and promptly walked away. After awhile they came back to investigate and I managed to snap a photo before they abandoned it for a nap on our bed. On the way to the bedroom, they all took a turn sharpening their claws on my favorite chair, evidently it is their favorite, too.

Cats! We may resort to reverse psychology and try to shoo them off of the new cat furniture -- if only they'd go near it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Chunky may be healthy

My family has known for generations that a little insulation against the cold and lean times is a good thing.

My 92 year old grandmother knew it, my 96 year old mother knew it and they didn't worry (much) about the extra pounds. They might have worried more about the extra inches or misplaced fat supplies that looked more like angel wings, thunder things, or padunkadunk butt. Don't you love that word? Padunkadunk?

The women in my family were expert pie bakers, fried and cooked with butter, lard, and bacon fat, and savored and enjoyed every bite of food. They equated love with food. They cooked for their families because they loved them. They spent extra hours in the kitchen because food was a gift of the heart.

Cooking was an art and they exchanged recipes and shared tips and then there were the few dishes they excelled in and neither shared tips nor recipes. But it was a friendly rivalry and usually after the cook passed away, an offspring would share the recipe, maybe.

For several years doctors have disagreed with Grandma. They said that food hurts the heart, or rather the extra pounds that come from Grandma's pound cake, pies and fritters cause diabetes, kidney disease, heart attacks and strokes....

Other diseases have been equated to obesity including Alzheimer's Disease, pancreatic and colon cancer and breast cancer.

But today I read that an extra 22 pounds can be healthy. Finally vindication for Grandma from the U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia.

"Researchers found Americans who are overweight are less likely to die of heart disease and cancers - including those commonly associated with excess weight, such as breast, kidney, pancreatic and colon cancer."

The timing of the release of this study is perfect. We can sit down at Thanksgiving dinner, eat a little more potatoes and gravy, an extra serving of cranberry salad, maybe even a thicker slice of pumpkin pie and know that we're making a healthy choice, although perhaps more fresh veggies, salad and green bean casserole might make us feel better at the end of the day.

Yet, the feeling of well being that comes from a full tummy and sharing a gift of food certainly gives us something to be thankful for.

Have you finalized your Thanksgiving plans? After this report's release, you may need to prepare a bit more food.

Grandma's Sewing Machine

Whether it was nesting instinct, restless boredom, or too much HGTV, I felt the need to rearrange furniture yesterday.

We 'downsized' with our last move, only the house turned out to be smaller and the items we could part with less than we'd hoped. So we have a small house with too much stuff. Periodically I throw something away and reshuffle what is left in hopes that it will fit better.

Yesterday was a reshuffling day.

I tried moving the little love seat in our bedroom closer to the desk. But I liked it centered on the window, so I moved it back. Then I moved the little table that held the computer tower (beside the desk) and returned it to its original intent as a side table by the couch.

Much better.

My husband could just bend down a bit to turn his computer off and on.

The round table that sat beside the bed just wasn't working. It was wobbly at best and the cover I had over it was actually a curtain. So out it went. But what to put in its place?

I almost bumped into my grandmother's old Singer sewing machine as I carried the table out to the dining room where everything I didn't know what to do with landed. My collection of books that had overflowed the five book shelves, the overstuffed chair that I thought I would recover -- and hadn't. And the sewing machine.

We'd adjusted to walking around it. But maybe it could work as a side table in the bedroom. So I wheeled it in and much to my surprise it makes the perfect dressing table. It was intended for someone to sit at it and all of those drawers on either side -- perfect for make up, etc.

I unwrapped a mirror that had remained swaddled in bubble wrap from our move, hidden behind the bedroom door. I propped it atop the sewing machine and it worked. Add my favorite vase of philodendron and Mom's hand mirror, a knit scarf, it looked good.

It didn't hurt that I cleaned up the clutter, dusted and vacuumed, and made the bed.

But I look at that sewing machine that probably hasn't sewn a stitch since Grandma died and wonder. What if I could get it working? What would it be like to sew an heirloom on it? That old treadle sewing machine stitching twenty-first century thread into antique cloth to make something that my Grandmother would have appreciated and that maybe a future generation might treasure.

I've seen a similar machine used. It was in the 1960s, the summer, 4-H sewing projects. My good friend, Regina, sewed her award winning clothes on an old treadle Singer machine. She and her sisters and her mother did all of their sewing on it. Did I mention that there were nine children in that family? I thought she was the luckiest girl in the world. All of those sisters and brothers.

And when she came to stay at my house, she thought I lived in heaven. How could I find anything wrong with being the only kid. Not sharing my room with four sisters and my bed with two of them. Meals were another issue for her. She learned to eat fast and had what Mom called a boarding house reach. At our table she couldn't believe that we actually had leftovers and Mom offered her seconds. No one said, "Don't hog it all."

Funny how looking at that sewing machine reminds me of Regina as much or more than it does my grandmother. I never saw Grandma use it, but I had seen Regina pump the treadle and thread the needle.

The thought won't go away.

So maybe if I make an especially good dinner tonight -- I'm thinking roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy and corn on the cob....maybe my husband will tinker a bit and see if it is possible to resurrect the old machine.

It's only been fifty years since it last took a stitch. It would be like living in two worlds, two eras, at the same time, to sit at that machine and sew. What spirits would surround me....

Take a break from summer, enjoy the snow

Last winter I received an email from my son that set my fingers tapping out a Snow Day essay. On this hot, hot, humid, did I mention HOT, August day in Florida, I'm taking a break from hot. I'm calling an official SNOW DAY!!!

Snow Day by Dawn Goldsmith

In my sunny Florida address I relax and forget about snow and cold, reminded only be my son’s emails. He lives in Illinois and sat right in the midst of a recent snow storm.

He normally sends me emails from his work space, but on this day it came from his home computer. He wrote: ““I didn't make it to work this morning. Officially you no longer are allowed to complain about any weather you have down there. We’re supposed to get about 12 inches of snow and high winds with high temperatures in the teens.”

With sunshine on my shoulder and temperatures in the 70s, I shivered and grinned before shouting to my computer screen, “Snow day!”

My son and his wife were safe inside their cozy little house, warm and protected and free from their normally scheduled activities.

The North was blessed with a glorious unexpected day off. A snow day, a reason to forget commitments, homework, jobs, responsibilities and turn to Plan B – hot chocolate and serious snowman construction. Many of my fondest memories swirl around snow days.

These days off should have come with an announcer: “We interrupt your regular programming for a special report.” Actually there was an announcer of sorts. I remember lying as still as could be in a warm, quilt-covered bed with ears strained to hear the weather forecast coming from Mom’s radio in the kitchen below. As soon as I heard my school’s name and the word “closed,” I jumped out of bed and streaked across the room, pulling on warm clothes, imbued with the energy unleashed by those words.

It was a get out of jail card. And best of all, my friends had received the same release.

We couldn’t make it to school for class, but somehow friends and classmates managed to get together. We made plans by phone then hitched rides with our parents and neighbors to congregate at each others houses. We dragged our sleds to Thayer Hill just west of town or took the snow shovels and ice skates to the creek north of town. We would never have willingly worked that hard to clean sidewalks or driveways, but we shoveled the snow off of the ice, dusted off the old tree trunk lying on the creek bank where we sat to pull skates on over two or three pairs of thick socks. We looked more like the Michelin Man in our layers of warm clothes instead of skating divas Dorothy Hamill or Peggy Fleming. Our skates lumbered rather than flew across the ice, but it wasn’t the skating that made us smile. It was the freedom, the spontaneity of the moment.

Excitement snapped in the brisk air on snow days. All of my senses were alive. The clean smell of new snow mingled with anticipation of the unexpected waiting for me. Even my blue collar parents who put work before everything else caught the spirit.

I remember making a snowman with Dad on one of those days when he couldn’t get to the steel mill and schools were closed because twenty foot snow drifts blocked the highways. Mom would tell how she remembered a winter when her father tunneled through the snow from the house to the barn. Then she’d pull out the ingredients for sugar or cowboy cookies and together we’d fill the kitchen with their lush fragrance. As quick as they came from the oven, my brother and I devoured cookies with a cup of hot chocolate or cold milk before heading outside for a snowball fight.

Upon return, Mom made us stand outside while she swept us with a broom from head to knees. We would leave mushy snow trails on the kitchen floor when we came in and took off our boots. We stacked our gloves on the heat register hoping they’d be somewhat dry by the time we warmed up enough to head back outside. Even digging out the sidewalk and driveway turned into fun with snowballs and friendly banter flying through the air.

My son’s email reminded me of the year of his birth. He was safe in my womb when my husband and I traveled to Ohio. Our trip coincided with one of the worst snowstorms of our lives. It was 1978. We were stranded at my parent’s home for a week. Mom welcomed in another young family. They had been snowed in at their mobile home without heat or food. She turned her couch into a bed and a drawer into a crib for their four-month old daughter. Then we all pitched in to fix comfort foods and cookies, taking turns holding the baby and shoveling sidewalks.

The rural mail carrier renewed his title of hero that year. He had served during World War II in the European theater, and during this blizzard he turned his daily route into one act of mercy after another. True to the postman’s motto nothing kept him from his duties. Even when the mail didn’t arrive for him to deliver, he drove those rural roads and checked on each family along his route, rescuing more than a few in his four-wheel drive vehicle.

Volunteer firemen and good Samaritans with snow mobiles visited every member of the township. They delivered food and medicine, fuel and firewood, and some they transported to warmer, safer locations. A few they hurried to the hospital. A neighbor heading to the grocery store would stop to see what we needed or we would do the same for someone else. Gangs of neighbors gathered to dig each others’ cars out and clear sidewalks and driveways. In the midst of fighting for survival, we found time for snowmen, snowballs and snow angels.

A few years later I was the Mom. Another generation of escapees enjoyed unexpected days off and instinctively knew just what to do. I bundled up my two sons for their own snow days and mixed up cookie batter. Their faces glowed with anticipation.

Their generation discovered a sledding location -- Peanut Butter Hill near the fire station. And kids living near the school dragged snow shovels to the playground where they cleared off a space big enough for basketball games. They built snowmen, snow forts, held snow wars with the neighbor kids, each building bigger and better forts and stockpiling snowball ammunition.

Another email arrived a few hours later.

“Maya [their dog] ran around like an idiot already this morning. She loves the snow…. Forecasters predict a really white winter….We had pancakes and Canadian bacon for breakfast, so we're ready to face the day. Once the snow stops, I think we're going to start digging out. We're going to get to work now. But that really only means watching the snow fall.”

Aging can be beautiful

I can't remember if I've introduced you to my mother. I know she slips into just about everything I write. She's the number one influence in my life -- even more than editors, teachers, and preachers. As my mother goes, so go I.

She taught me the important lessons from ironing hankies and pillow slips, to canning tomato juice. She also taught me the truly important lessons of courtesy, thoughtfulness, service, caring and love. She's much better at all of these than I am. Probably the biggest failure in my education (my fault, not hers) were pie baking and keeping my mouth shut.

I know it isn't courteous to tell a woman's age, but Mom won't mind. She turned 95 in March. Born a month before the Titanic sank, she's seen alot of history and survived it all. Now she lives not far from the community in which she spent the first 90 years of her life surrounded by people who are offsprings of her peers and neighbors.

I never thought I would say good things about nursing homes -- the last place any of us want to be confined. Yet, the love and care and effort made to keep Mom well and help her have a delightful day, each and every day, earns my respect and affection. Those of you at Richland Manor -- you are the greatest. Thanks Pam, Terry, Frances, Ericka, and all of the others who spend their working hours making Mom's life happy and comfortable. And my brother and his wife have dedicated themselves to overseeing Mom's care. They are awesome.

Don't get the wrong idea. Mom isn't ready to be propped up in the corner yet. She just went on a cruise last week and is busy contributing to the common good -- through word and deed, with a witty rapport and with her greatest gift, perhaps, her loving heart which is connected directly to her smile.

Although I live hundreds of miles away, Mom is by my side, even closer than that. I look at my hands and see hers. I'm even turning gray and getting wrinkles -- just like hers. If I have to age, I hope it is as gracefully and beautifully as Mom....

Beatles now selling diapers

One of the exciting, thrilling things about getting old is you've seen a lot of history. And being a student when Beatlemania first hit the world ranks right up there with Neil Armstrong's moon walk.

Today I get an email from my son saying, "News that might just ruin my day: The Beatles have sold licensing rights to use their song, All you Need is Love, to Luvs for a commercial. Doesn't that just make your day?"

Like his father, music is of prime importance to him. And also like his father, they are stalwart Beatles fans. Their tastes diverge from that point, but on that they agree. Beatles rock.

I remember the Beatles funky haircuts, their British appeal, their innocence and their smiles. I remember the Fab Four on the Ed Sullivan show -- I saw the show when it originally aired.

Lately I've been missing John and George and lamenting Paul's too public divorce while wondering what Ringo was up to. Almost like distant relatives, I think of them now and then. They played a major role in my formative years and changed the music landscape forever.

Now their music is used to pimp diapers. "All you need is Luvs...."

How the mighty have fallen!

My husband's response, "At least it isn't Michael Jackson who sold the song and will get the money."

One blogger commented that many of us thought the first Beatles song to be used to sell diapers would be When I'm 64 and the diapers would be Depends. Somehow I like the humor of that.

But "All you need is Luvs" just ruins, just overrides the thrill of a song that yes, I could actually remember the lyrics to, but more importantly it became a rallying cry for my generation who were sick of corporate greed, war, government, and wanted to get back to basics.

Now there will be a generation of kids who will associate that rallying cry to nappies, diapers, and baby poop.

Wikipedia describes the Beatles hit All You Need is Love this way:

"All You Need Is Love" is a song written by John Lennon with
contributions from Paul McCartney[1] and credited to Lennon/McCartney. It
was first performed by The Beatles on Our World, the first ever live global television link. Broadcast to 26 countries and watched by 350 million people, the programme was broadcast via satellite on June 25, 1967. The BBC had commissioned the Beatles to write a song for the UK's contribution and this was the result. It is among the most famous and significant songs performed by the group.

Now after the 60s has become a memory of druggies and flower children instead of a generation of activists, our music is reduced to sound tracks for commercials, who wins?

Corporate greed.

And that's the pits about getting old, you live long enough to see your life turned into a commercial.

Happy Birthday, Nick

My two sons were both born within a week of a holiday. Dave, my oldest, born just before Labor Day (seemed appropriate after 30 hours of labor) and Nick was born just two days shy of Independence Day.

We brought Nick home on July 4th to our apartment in Whitehouse, Ohio, entering town at the end of the annual holiday parade. We felt like celebrities as friends and neighbors and members of the church waved and cheered and wanted to see our new addition. Nick doesn't remember anything of his grand welcome. He doesn't remember the heat. He doesn't remember his first sunburn, and he doesn't remember the fireworks. But I will never forget.

I tell him the reason he has red hair is because he's really a firecracker. Corny even when he was young.

So, although we are separated this holiday by hundreds of miles, I will forever associate fireworks and freedom with my youngest son.

Happy Birthday Nick -- and Happy Independence Day.

A couple of years ago Nick brought us a lovely, special gift. It was near my birthday. He knew I had always wanted a daughter. I couldn't want for a better daughter-in-law than his wife: Casandra. She has brought us so much joy and just seeing the way she and Nick look at each other with love overflowing -- makes this mother's heart happy.

So wrapped up in this holiday is not only freedom, but new life, a loving son, and the joys he has given us for the past 29 years. Here's looking forward to the coming year and many, many more!

Knowing the family history is good for your health

Cousin MJ is the genealogist in the family. She maintains the family archives, photographs, family tree charts, and takes the time to track down birth, death and military records. Thanks to her I know that our grandfather, Christian, came from Germany by way of Canada and Fort Wayne, Indiana. She even dug up his father's and mother's names, which I can't recall at the moment. But if I sent a quick email to MJ, she could tell me. She keeps her records organized and can find just about any tidbit you'd want.

She inherited family recipes and put them together with the history of the cook into a book, or maybe it was a CD, as gifts for her three daughters. What a treasure!

Nothing makes MJ do a happy dance quite like finding another relative for the tree. Her idea of a fun time involves cemeteries or dusty library genealogy files. And, although that sounds like light entertainment, it is serious business, especially when it comes to family medical history.

What do we pass on to our kids? Freckles? Brown eyes? Curly hair? Dominant right-hand? Diabetes? ALS? Heart disease? Lazy eye? Arthritis? Glaucoma?

Doctors don't seem to want to know family history beyond the parents, more often than not they only ask about my own medical history. They don't care that my mother has turned into the bionic woman with just about every joint replaced.

But then of course, doctors rarely know a patient from birth to death -- unless the patient doesn't live very long. So it is up to us to know. We expect doctors to figure out what's wrong, but they barely know us, and haven't even figured out what's right, so it is up to us to keep our medical history and make it relevant to our own lives.

Maybe MJ could add another column to her records that list all of the ailments of past generations. Consumption? Old Man's Disease? They could be relevant to me, to my children, to my grandchildren.

But knowing MJ, I bet she already is way ahead of me. Did you know, Grandpa was blind? I bet MJ knows why.

Library's Summer Reading Program

Times have certainly changed.

Young and old have embraced blackberries, Ipods, cell phones that do everything including phone calls, and wireless hookups. I’m so techno-unsavvy that I’m sure this little list is out of date.

For someone like me who lost the technology battle in the era of Transformer toys, it is heartening to know that some things have not changed. One such tradition, the summer reading program, has begun in libraries across the United States.

Readers and wanna-be readers gathered around the table in the heart of our little Florida library to fill out the color coordinated forms. Then they searched the shelves for new reading adventures, and began fulfilling the requirements to read for twenty days and earn a free book.

If you see the ‘free books,’ you will realize these readers are motivated by more than the flimsy paperback books offered as rewards.

Reading is its own reward.

Holding a book in your hands, getting lost in the story, learning new facts that expand your world, meeting characters, visiting exotic landscapes – whether interior or exterior, will leave readers forever changed.

There’s nothing more exciting than introducing a child to books, or for that matter, introducing others to a favorite author.

Not long ago, while I shelved books as part of my library page job, I saw two women sitting together at a table. One was obviously teaching the other to read. They came to that same table every morning for several weeks and often as I worked, I could hear the one middle-aged woman sounding out words, fitting them together into sentences and stumbling over this new ‘technology.’ Her table mate nodded and murmured encouragement or offered assistance.

Figuring out this business of reading gave that woman such pleasure, more, I suspect, than deciphering the secrets of computer-generated technology. When the sounds and the rules began to fit together into recognizable words, her face would transform into a smile that lit the entire room. Her teacher’s face glowed even brighter.

Many mornings I worked, hidden by book shelves where I listened to her, hearing not just the words she sounded out. But also the growing joy in her voice as she mastered something her children had been doing since kindergarten. I could see her world growing with each session. Her steps lightened, her posture changed from victim to CEO of her world. Reading will do that for you.

For some reason the reading program is especially popular this year. The parking lot fills before the library doors open each morning. I step over little kids lying on the floor of the children’s section, their eyes never leaving the pages of the books in their hands. Parents and children hunt through the nonfiction section for books that will tell them interesting facts.

Several of our regular patrons bring in their fat record books that list every book they have read and another list for those they want to read. They meticulously search the collection, checking off books as they find them. Commuters hunt through our collection of audio books on cassettes and CDs, so they can enjoy books on their long drives. One admitted to driving several times around the block before turning into her driveway because, “I’d just gotten to a good part and had to find out what would happen!”

All walk out of the library filled with enthusiasm about the books clutched in their hands. Books they will step into, lose themselves in once they’re at home, or at the beach, or on vacation, or combating insomnia.

And all of those tiny little faces entranced by picture books as parents snuggle close and read to their sons and daughters. Is there any part of parenting better than that? I don’t think a cell phone, Ipod, or even blogging can compare to a good book, enjoyed alone or shared with someone you love.

And We Have Lift-Off

At 7:38 p.m. Derrol, my cousin MJ and her husband Dan stood in our back yard with me to watch history in the making. We live about 60 miles from Merritt Island, Florida, home of NASA and the Kennedy Space Center and the site of today's Shuttle Atlantis launch.

MJ and Dan have traveled the United States, ridden through mining tunnels in Arizona, walked the streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans, felt the power of the ocean at Big Sur, and soaked in the simplicity of the Amish lifestyle in Pennsylvania, Indiana and Ohio.... There isn't much that surprises them any more.

But the shuttle launch was a new high for them.

Knowing that the bright flash, streaking across the sky was a space craft filled with courageous Americans headed for the space lab and a piece of the universe we can only imagine about -- left us all a bit breathless.

You must realize that we are the children of parents who were born about the time that the Titanic was sinking. They traveled in horse-drawn wagons and carriages, drove Henry Ford's first automobiles when they were a new invention, and knew hunger and deprivation during the Great Depression.

We were born in the midst of the nuclear bomb scare, the Cold War, talks of end times, and the early years of television. Now we stand in our backyard and watch a streak that will transport us all into the future.

Pretty heady stuff for four people from West Central Ohio who were just getting together for a little pizza and conversation.

God speed to the astronauts. And God help us with the future....

For more of my writing about growing up in the space race. Please check out my essay

Star Gazing

by Dawn Goldsmith

Deadlines, errands, cleaning, cooking -- all vie for my attention along with the people I love, work, pray, live, and commute with. Determinedly, head down, I set my jaw and bull my way through each day, multi-tasking, hugging kids while pushing another load of laundry in the dryer. By evening, I'm ready to collapse in front of the television and zone out.

I recall a summer evening. It beckoned to me. This particular night followed a non-stop day of canning tomato juice, gardening, house cleaning and baking. My sink overflowed with dirty dishes, pots and pans, but I stepped outside. Just a few minutes of fresh air and then back to work, I thought.

A gentle breeze shooed away the bugs and cooled my face. I sighed deeply and stepped from the porch into the yard. My hand brushed against a scented geranium and I inhaled the herbal rose fragrance that sprang into the air. I raised my arms and stretched, eyes shut, head back. With one particularly rejuvenating back bend, I opened my eyes and gasped. The sky above my head glowed.

Stars dotted the dark sky, an endless expanse that diminished everything. Our isolated Midwestern home, set amidst dusty fields of corn and soybeans, retreated into shadows while invisible crickets and peepers communicated their familiar night sounds.

The stars, glowing and twinkling, beckoned me to name, identify and sort out the planets from the stars, the satellites from blinking airplanes.

Assured that I can always find the Big Dipper, I searched for the familiar connect-the- dots outline. The North Star, pointing the way for navigators, glowed brightly. Venus loomed on the horizon, Mars pulsed red. And that was the extent of my astronomy prowess.
I called to my husband who had completed an intro-to-astronomy class in college. "Where did you say the Five Sisters are?"

"What? Where are you?"

He followed my voice and soon stood beside me. I pointed up. "The Five Sisters. Didn't you say that was a constellation?"

"Yeah." And he looked up. The serene night hugged us. We fell silent as we gazed at the stellar display. "There. There it is, I think. And over there, that's Leo. And there's Orion."

"Where?"

He drew close behind me and pointed over my shoulder. I felt his warm breath on my hair, and for the first time that day I relaxed into his strength and the beauty around me.

"Hey Mom! You're missing your favorite show!" My son shouted. "Mom? Mom? Where are you?"

I heard the door bang. "Out front," I directed, shouting into the dark.

He soon stood beside me. My techno-wizard who usually stared at a television or video screen stared open-mouthed at the sky. "What's that, Dad?"

"Orion. You see it?"

"Yeah. We learned about that in school."

We stood together, heads up, arms resting on each other's shoulders. "Look, a falling star! Did you see that?"

We all laughed and oohed and ahhhed. "There's another."

"That's cool."

"Cool."

Our words stilled and we moved closer together, content just to gaze at the sky and let the night's calm wash over us. My arms rested on my son in front of me, and I leaned against my husband -- a family sandwich. Our eyes focused upward on those tiny shards of light that had traveled billions of miles through space to light this particular dark night.

"God's in His heavens," I quoted, awed and wondering if Robert Browning had looked at a magnificent sky like this when he wrote those words.

The breeze turned cool and with a shiver, we looked earthward, coming back from our trip to the stars, refreshed and reconnected and soothed.

"All's right in the world." my husband added.

And it was.

Angels All Around Us

By Dawn Goldsmith

I’m a firm believer that we share this earth with angels.

But those winged Biblical hosts were far from my thoughts as my two sons, husband and I drove home from a last minute shopping trip. Our minds were on the upcoming camping trip. The boys chatted in the back seat about the big fish they’d bring home. “But I’m not going to eat them. Noooo way,” Nick, our eight-year-old, red-haired picky eater declared.

“Me either,” his pre-teen brother said in one of those rare moments when they agreed on something.

Our car trunk overflowed with fishing gear, foods to cook over a campfire and various necessities from hot dog forks to mosquito repellent. Derrol drove the familiar street that led away from the shopping mall and toward the little farming community where we lived. I sat in the front passenger seat, Nick sat behind me twisting and manipulating his favorite transformer toy. His older brother, Dave sat behind his Dad.

Anticipation filled the car that sunny summer day.

We approached the intersection. I looked at the car and the woman driving it as she slowed for the stop sign at the cross street.

Sometimes I get premonitions. I felt her disconnection and knew she didn’t see us. I opened my mouth to suggest Derrol slow down, when the woman sped up, heading her car directly at us.

My husband hit the horn and the brakes at the same time. There was room for us to miss each other if the woman braked. Instead, she pressed harder on the gas and her car flew into the intersection. We learned later that in her panic, she hit the gas pedal thinking it was the brake.

As most will tell you, time during a crisis slows down and every detail crystallizes like facets of a prism. Our brakes locked and the nose of the car jerked down as the woman’s car slammed into us. Between the sudden stop and the impact, we were thrown around like rag dolls.

My husband gasped for breath and fought the car and the pain as his clavicle snapped. My head grazed the windshield before my seat belt tightened and threw me back in my seat. I felt Nick’s face hit the back of my seat and saw Dave fly forward into Derrol’s seat. Their cries frightened me more than the accident. I struggled to get out of my seat belt. I frantically beat on the door. One thought, one instinct led me, “I must get the boys out of the car.”

I couldn’t help my husband and I couldn’t get the door open. I couldn’t reach my children and we all needed to get out of the car in case it would catch fire or explode.

We were trapped.

Suddenly from out of nowhere a crowd of people surrounded the two cars.

A burly older man wrenched open my door while a man and woman ministered to my husband and helped him and our oldest son out of the car. I rushed to the back door. It stood open filled with a young man who was pulling off the most beautiful multi-colored sweater. He stuffed it under my son’s bloody nose and murmured encouragement.

“You’re OK. It’s just a nosebleed. You’ll be fine. Man, you’re one brave kid.”

Silly how concern over a spoiled garment would even cross my mind. But it did. I even reached to stop him from putting the lovely garment to my son’s face, and then felt ashamed that I would even consider the garment more than my son’s need.

Nick scrambled out of the car and into my arms and the young man with his sweater stepped away. I thought of the Bible story about Joseph and his coat of many colors and above my son’s head, I tearfully thanked him and asked his name.

If he told me, I don’t remember.

In the following minutes paramedics came to check our injuries and police asked questions for their reports. Thankfully no one suffered serious injuries. In the following days we could feel the bump where the two pieces of my husband’s clavicle rejoined and we laughed about our bruises and stiff muscles.

I never again saw the people who ministered to us. For almost three decades, I’ve thought often of the young man in his colorful sweater who selflessly ministered to a frightened child. He earned this mother’s prayers through the years and my heartfelt thanks.

My garden, my home

Photo by Dawn Goldsmith

We are trying to grow a family, maintain a family. But hundreds of miles separate my husband and I from our sons.

Missing my babies, my now grown sons, hits me suddenly and I look for something familiar. Something I can hold on to. Something that brings me close to them, reminds me of the places we called home when they were babies, and boys and still sticking their heads in the refrigerator looking for a snack, or dropping their wet towels on the bathroom floor or sitting at the kitchen table wanting to talk with their mom.

No, they did not spend time with me working in the garden. They avoided that as strenuously as they avoided eating many of the veggies we grew. But the garden itself is a familiar place.

The green onions in my Florida garden look like the ones we grew when we lived in Ohio or Illinois. The green peppers, tomatoes, green beans -- they stand in lovely rows as they did in each garden we planted through the years regardless of geography.

And looking at those plants, smelling their individual scents, touching their leaves and fruit -- I am transported to wherever my boys reside at whatever stage they were at. At whatever stage I am missing them the most at that particular moment.

I miss my babies. My men. My family. I need something that will give me hope that someday we can all be together, reconnected. Sharing memories and making some new ones.

The tomatoes are getting big. The beans are blooming. The cucumber plants have baby pickles. And all of this growth and change and ripening gives me hope. This moment shall pass and good things, good times, family times lie ahead, if I am just patient and continue to nurture what is growing right now.

I can't take my eyes off my garden, even when tears blur the image and my heart longs for my children. The tomatoes are getting big, the beans are blooming, baby pickles grow on the cucumber plants and someday soon my sons and I will hold each other close. Someday soon.

The tomatoes are growing big....

Candles and Prayers

Prayers by Candlelight


When my cousin went to the doctor for a ‘follow-up’ exam, I lit a candle.

Maybe I watched too many old movies where pious women wearing scarves knotted beneath their chins, knelt and crossed themselves. Then they lit candles and prayed while statues of saints watched from the walls.

The ‘follow-up’ was to a regular exam that had followed a not so regular surgery to remove an impressive (size-wise) tumor from my petite, thin-as-a-rail cousin.

She has grandbabies to hold and daughters who have turned into delightful companions. She has a husband who retired and wants to do fun things like travel and shop. She needs her health.

So I turn to an antique towel stand originally used by my mother and her parents. It had once held a stoneware pitcher and bowl. Cotton towels hung on a rack behind it. It seems appropriate that this former cleansing center now serves as an altar in my home. This day I lit a vanilla scented candle. A Mary candle in honor of my cousin. It reminds me all day to pray for her healing. Every time the flame flashed, I turned and said her name and asked God for healing.

I am not religious. But I believe in prayer and I believe in God.

I light candles.

Candles are holy. I see God more clearly in dawn’s light and candlelight. The beginning of each new day causes me to celebrate and say thank you. Candlelight brings me peace and one-ness with my maker.

Is Mary healed? We waited for the biopsy results.

Her daughter phoned. Tears flooded her voice. My faith shriveled into a tight ball in the pit of my stomach and my brain hammered, “No, no, no, no. NOOOOO.”

She choked out words around her tears, “It’s good news. Good news. There is no cancer. It’s gone.”

My prayers turned from please, to thank you. The only two phrases necessary when talking to God at times when the need seems bigger than words: please and thank you.

She received healing, whether through my prayers or her own or just from the generosity of a loving God or a fluke of nature or a medical misdiagnosis. I know that she has realigned her life’s priorities.

I set down the phone and turned once again to my alter. With a prayer I bent over the flame and snuffed it with my breath. The vanilla smoke wafted upwards. Along with the whispy trail, I sent a whispered, "Thank you."