Author Archives: Debbie

“Commencement” really is a Beginning

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Playing right now: “Pomp and Circumstance” by Sir Edward Elgar

When I was in high school, our band played “Pomp and Circumstance” while the seniors were marching into and out of the gym for graduation.

It was a tradition, one we eagerly embraced. As we embraced our new (higher!) chair positions without our “leaders.”

A week was set aside to practice. The seniors would walk in as we played; they’d listen as their names were read aloud, then they’d walk back out as we played again.

Over and over until it was right.

So by graduation evening, it was old hat. It never crossed my mind to cry.

Nor did I cry when I was the graduating senior (eager, I recall, to get out of Dodge!)

By the time my son (AKA My Favorite Domer) graduated from high school — Class of 2009 — they’d chosen a prerecorded version of “Pomp and Circumstance” to accompany the seniors’ processional.

Call me old-fashioned, but I liked it better when the band played. Squeaks and wrong notes and all.

So I didn’t cry at Domer’s high school graduation.

But now, he’s completed his final, final exam, marking the end of his four-year stint at Notre Dame, and Commencement is right around the corner.

And I feel weepy.

I’m going to miss ND more than Domer will because, after all, it’s “home” to him. He’ll be back for football games, reunions, and such.

I, on the other hand, won’t have a reason to go back without him there.

The other day I was in the car when “Pomp and Circumstance” — the long version — played on Sirius radio, and I couldn’t help myself.

The tears just started flowing.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be emotional when Domer walks across that stage to accept his diploma. So I’ve decided to desensitize by listening to “Pomp” every chance I get.

And it’s helping.

When I left for college, my late dad termed it a “four-year paid vacation.”

Not so. I worked too hard.

Stayed up late too often studying. Involved myself in a gazillion activities. Reported for the campus newspaper. Had a scholarship to the Band.

Yes, I had fun. But not “vacation” fun.

Domer wouldn’t call his four years a “vacation,” either.

For the first time in his life, he’s been surrounded with young people just like him.

Bright. Talented. Big-hearted. Idealistic.

Kids who are athletic. Musical. Scholars. Volunteers.

Kids who recognize that they’ve been given many advantages and “To whom much is given, much is expected in return.” (Luke 12:48)

I predict good things for the Class of 2013.

Now, if I can just get past the Alma Mater. . . .!

My Camera Loves Spring

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“The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring.”
― Bern Williams

Is anybody tired of Spring photos? Can we ever get enough of the beauty of this season, with its new beginnings, its promises, color and warmth?

Today is gray and gloomy. Rain showers and possible thunderstorms are rolling around, and I for one need a reminder of prettier days past. Join me, won’t you?

Looks like some sort of crocus

Looks like some sort of crocus

Solitary pink tulip

Solitary pink tulip

White dogwood against a blue sky

White dogwood against a blue sky

Fence row of colorful tulips

Fence row of colorful tulips

Pink flowering tree

Pink flowering tree

Purple and yellow tulips tower over white flox

Purple and yellow tulips tower over white flox

Pink dogwood

Pink dogwood

Azalea in bloom

Azalea in bloom

There, now, don’t you feel better? I know I do!

Spring means time for Prom

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Recently, I sat behind a group of six young people (four guys, two girls) in Church.

They obviously were heading to Prom after Mass, and they looked superb.

The girls’ complexions were clear, their makeup and manicures were flawless. Their thin young bodies had been spray-tanned, their hair was swept up with dangling ringlets.

Their earrings sparkled. Their floor-length gowns were stunning, and they were modest enough to cover up their bare shoulders with light jackets.

The young men wore tuxes and boutonnieres, fancy shoes and ties. Their hair was combed, their faces freshly shaven.

They whispered quietly to one another and nodded at their friends seated in other pews.

The nervous anticipation practically crackled from them.

Prom is an exciting rite of passage for a young person.

And I never went.

Back in the day, if you didn’t have a date, you didn’t go to Prom.

Period.

That meant lots of us stayed home when we should have been with our classmates. Dancing. Snacking. Having fun.

How refreshing it is today that young people ALL go to Prom.

Date or no date.

Some pair off with a special someone; others go in groups.

No one has to feel left out, unless they choose not to be there.

And it’s wonderful to see so many of the teens from our Church making time to attend Mass before the festivities.

Our priest never fails to acknowledge their presence, either.

He always tells them how splendid they look, cautions them to be watchful and prudent while having fun, and reminds them that their parents — and the entire community — love them.

A few of the kids snicker. They’ve heard this message before.

The older adults nod their heads and smile. They have, too.

But it’s a message that never grows old, no matter how often it’s spoken.

These kids are our future.

Let’s Go Lego-ing

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When My Favorite Domer was little, he spent an inordinate amount of time playing with Legos.

In his little hands, these hard plastic colored bricks became spaceships. Or villages. Or monsters. Or whatever.

A $5 box of Legos was the perfect reward for a boy eager to do his best, to help out around the house, to bring home A’s.

Bribe, you say? Hey, whatever works — as long as he picked them up, and I didn’t have to step on them with bare feet!

On summer days, or weekends during the school year, his friends would come over to design and fabricate entire Lego worlds, complete with people. And vehicles to move them from place to place.

I lost track of how many pictures I took of him with his finished creations to submit to the Lego magazine.

“What do you get for winning?” I’d ask.

And he’d show me some expensive, one-of-a-kind set that he had to have.

Sadly, he never won.

But that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Or stop him from dreaming and creating.

Four years ago when Domer headed off to Notre Dame, he packed up his precious creations and stored them in boxes.

It’s the end of an era, I thought, figuring maybe his kids would get some enjoyment out of them one day.

Because plastic bricks don’t go bad, do they?

I was wrong. Not about the bricks, but about the end of an era.

Because boys really never outgrow their toys, you know.

Over Christmas break, Domer got a notion to break out his Legos. To look, once again, at his creations.

To see whether they were as “cool” as they once were.

They didn’t disappoint. You think I’m kidding, right? Well, you’d be wrong. See for yourself:

Trip down Lego Memory Lane

Trip down Lego Memory Lane

Nearly Wordless Wednesday

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For those unlucky enough to experience the beauty of April’s final full moon, I present the following:

Full moon shortly after it climbed high enough to view.

Full moon shortly after it climbed high enough to view.

I’m pretty sure there’s a trick to capturing shots like this, so if anyone wants to let me in on it, I’d be grateful!

What’s your definition of “old”?

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Last week, Mom’s cleaning lady told us about a 90-year-old woman whose daughter’s house she also cleans.

This spunky senior, despite not being able to scrub her back in the tub, manages quite well on her own.

She even puts on her lipstick every day.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “You mean we still have to wear makeup at 90?”

That got me to thinking.

What’s wrong with getting gussied-up as we age? What’s wrong with wanting to present our best self to the world?

It seems to me that designers and manufacturers should capitalize on an aging population, rather than ignore them and hope they’ll go quietly away.

Take clothing, for example.

My mom is tiny. Under five feet tall.

But even “Petite” sizes engulf her. The arms are too long; so are the pant legs.

“Junior” sizes might fit, but she’s NOT a junior and doesn’t want to show as much skin as young girls do.

She refuses to wear “old lady” clothes — you know, knit pants with elastic waistbands and sweatshirts emblazoned with “Grandma” on the chest.

Sewing gives her a headache.

She’s gotten smaller, and she’s not alone. People typically lose 0.4 inches every 10 years after age 40; shrinkage is faster (1 to 3 inches) after age 70.

What are their options for looking fashionable without looking silly?

Another area of concern is graying hair.

I’ve read that going gray depends on your genetic makeup. Fully half of us are 50% gray by age 50!

Some women prefer going gray naturally. Others, like Mom and her sisters, refuse.

No silver. No white.

No “blue” or “pink,” either.

Mom used to buy the home hair color systems at Wal-Mart or the drugstore. She’d mix them up, apply, wait, then shampoo and rinse. And she’d be good to go for the next six weeks.

But she’s been having shoulder issues lately, so she’s taken her hair to the salon professionals.

Who should know what they’re doing.

Yet they can’t get the color right. Really dark hair looks freakish on an older person; likewise, reddish highlights don’t flatter Mom’s Italian skin tones.

I’ve heard it said that aging isn’t for the faint of heart. But couldn’t we do more to make it easier?

After all, we’ll all be “old” one day, if we’re lucky.

As for that spunky 90-year-old woman, my hat’s off to her.

I don’t call it vanity for her to put on lipstick every day.

Perhaps she simply wants to look and feel her best.

Or maybe it’s just a habit.

I hope that when I reach 90, if my lips don’t prune up and I can see my mouth, I’ll still want to put on lipstick!

Help Me Choose, Please

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I’ve got a bit of a dilemma, so I’m turning to my online friends for help.

Most of you are aware that next month I’m going to my son’s university commencement.

You’re also aware that for months now, I’ve been trying to determine agonizing over just what I’m going to wear for this momentous occasion.

(Not that anybody will be looking at me. Or rather, they shouldn’t!)

Anyway, now that I’ve selected a few outfits — mostly in the black-and-white color scheme — I’m debating over accessories.

We had a LOT of thunderstorms recently, giving me many opportunities for my favorite pastime, beading jewelry.

I made the following two pairs of earrings, with an eye toward wearing them for Commencement.

The question is, Which do you like better?

And remember, I don’t want to embarrass my kid. Or stick out. But frankly, it isn’t me to wear a subdued pair of pearl studs and call it a day!

Earrings #1

Earrings #1

1) This pair of dangling earrings measures 3 1/4 inches in length. Each contains four 6 mm round black jasper beads, a round mother-of-pearl, silver rondelle spacer, and an ornate silver connector. A leverback ear wire completes the look. (Black jasper is said to absorb negative energy, if that helps with your decision!)

Earrings #2

Earrings #2

2) This pair of chandelier earrings measures 3 1/2 inches in length. Each contains five 6 mm round obsidian beads, three 6 mm faceted round crystal beads, a daisy spacer, and an ornate silver chandelier. A leverback ear wire ties it all together. (Black obsidian is said to cleanse the environment of negativity, disharmony, anger, fear, and resentment.)

Okay, y’all, start voting! If nobody likes either pair, well, I guess we’ll have more bad weather somewhere along the line, and I can go back to the drawing beading board!

And thanks in advance for helping me out.

It’s an Irish Thing!

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Dallas here.

Mama’s up to her ears working on a short story this afternoon, so I’m commandeering her blog again. You other doggins out there should give it a try! Why should our moms have all the fun??

Anyway, I think mama told you we had a LOT of rain here. More than six inches this month already!

Needless to say, with all that water — and the resulting flooding — the lawn guy hasn’t been able to get here to mow my back yard.

Mama says I’m knee-deep in grass when I go out to investigate and do my “business.”

This morning, I noticed my grass was shorter. That yard man came on Saturday, and nobody bothered to tell me.

How do they expect me to be a watch-dog if they don’t let me know when strangers are coming to prowl around my house?!?

So Mama turned me out, I checked things over for her, saw it was all good, and came right back in for my cookie.

When she started laughing and pointed her camera in my direction, I gave her this look:

What's so funny, Mama??

What’s so funny, Mama??

Guess you don’t see it either. How ’bout a closeup?

I've got green feeties!!

I’ve got green feeties!!

I can assure you, Mama was NOT trying to dye me like her friend Katybeth dyes Rascal! Though Rascal seems to enjoy it (probably a girl-thing, huh?!)

Now me, Mama, and the Domer all have green “shoes.” Just one big happy Irish family.

Too bad St. Paddy’s Day has already passed!

Spring in Central Illinois

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It’s been raining off and on for much of the week. Wicked lightning and frightening claps of thunder split the early morning hours; standing rain is a common sight. We hope this means no drought this year, but who knows?

Nevertheless, I managed to step outside between showers and capture a few signs of Spring. Please enjoy!

Trees are beginning to leaf out.

Trees are beginning to leaf out.

Yellow daffodils are in bloom.

Yellow daffodils are in bloom.

This weeping cherry is a replacement for the blue spruce we lost last year.

This weeping cherry is a replacement for the blue spruce we lost last year.

This is a closeup of the weeping cherry blossoms. I understand that when they die off, they're replaced by leaves.

This is a closeup of the weeping cherry blossoms. I understand that when they die off, they’re replaced by leaves.

Blue hyacinths dot a neighbor's yard, wafting their perfume everywhere.

Blue hyacinths dot a neighbor’s yard, wafting their perfume everywhere.

Hyacinths come in pink, too!

Hyacinths come in pink, too!

No roses yet, but this show rose is full of leaves.

No roses yet, but this show rose is full of leaves.

A yellow forsythia hedge.

A yellow forsythia hedge.

This magnolia tree is going to be splendid!

This magnolia tree is going to be splendid!

Do you call this a jonquil or a daffodil? Whatever, isn't it beautiful?

Do you call this a jonquil or a daffodil? Whatever, isn’t it beautiful?

Fancy-Pants has a hurt foot

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You can thank me for this later.

Last week, Mom had a doctor’s appointment so I chauffeured her in her fancy-pants car.

I don’t particularly like driving it. I wasn’t the one who picked it out or did the test-drive. She likes it; that’s what’s important.

Anyway, after her appointment — which went w-a-a-a-y longer than it should have, causing me to become even farther behind in my work than I needed! — I took off from my parking space, headed for home.

Yes, I was flustered. And in a bit of a hurry. But in my defense, I wasn’t driving with Road Rage. Or like a bat out of h-e-double matchsticks.

As I came to an intersection with no Stop sign for me, a battered heap of a car was stopped on my right. Fearing that Mom’s fancy-pants car wouldn’t have sufficient room to make the right turn without kissing the front end of the trash-mobile, I narrowed my turn.

Little did I realize the curb would reach out and grab Fancy-Pants by its right back foot!

An awful noise ensued, and the tire indicator light on the dashboard illuminated.

Since I’ve driven Fancy-Pants before, I assumed the light was telling me the tire pressure was uneven.

Every time the weather changes (particularly when it gets colder), this light goes on. You see, this is Fancy-Pants, and it wants to alert you that conditions are unpleasant for it.

So I hit the OK button and proceeded on my way.

At least I’d missed the trash-mobile.

Driving along, I noticed Fancy-Pants wasn’t behaving in his usual manner.

He was struggling. And groaning. And making thumping noises.

I listened to the car while Mom was regaling me with everything of importance that happened at the doctor’s office.

Then something told me to check that tire indicator light again.

Whoops! This time, the message told me the right rear tire had NO pressure.

Well, actually it indicated the number “1.”

In big orange lights.

I pulled to the curb, hopped out to check, and there it was — a tire as flat as the proverbial pancake.

We called a local tire repair shop, a guy met us and exchanged our “ruined” tire for a spare, sending us on our way.

Naturally, they have to order a special tire. We’re talking about Fancy-Pants, remember?

So my advice is this — watch out for curbs.

Particularly curbs that have deteriorated from construction or bad weather.

They’ll get you!