tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74260189093369956222024-03-13T19:22:41.925-06:00Searching for My WilloughbySearching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-20169953966294476002014-04-04T18:32:00.001-06:002014-04-04T18:32:25.442-06:00Needing Air<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lately I've been feeling buried. Life is pressing in from all sides, and this box I find myself in, is getting smaller and smaller. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sit on the couch and look outside but can't find the energy or strength to break out. Perhaps I'll lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and have a good cry. When was the last time I had a good, hard cry? 2005 when my dad passed away? This is not how I want to feel. I know what I need, but it so easy to stay mired.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm trying to set aside a few times a day to focus on intentional thoughts and not allow this default setting to control my day. Taking a few moments to breathe deeply and focus my mind. Pushing hope to the front to overshadow despair. In a more physically practical way, I am trying to force myself outside because I KNOW the air will start to wake me. It always does. It's taking the first step.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Depression isn't something I've ever had to deal with much. After my mom's death, my dad's long recovery period, my dh losing his job and his depression, I had a rather long period of on/off depression. Looking back, I recognize it clearly. At the time, I was blind to it. Having a good mental picture of myself at that time can serve as a warning beacon. The warning lights are flashing. I'm thankful I can see that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now to do something about it.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-9682600032448363082014-01-31T20:30:00.001-07:002014-01-31T20:30:23.872-07:00Clear Skies....<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The inversion has lifted, and we have clear blue skies. I went outside barefoot, ignoring the cold, looked up at the sky and breathed. Glorious. I just wish my mind would clear, and I could breathe freely in my mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will go along for some months, shutting my mind to the things I don't want to hear, and then something will happen that forces me to pull my head out of the sand. Bishops exorcising the demons out of gays, every week another gay being fired by a Catholic institution while listening to our local Catholic radio station supporting extremely right wing politicians who don't want to extend unemployment benefits and praising Ugandan policy on gays. For a short time I'm able to focus on the beautiful spirituality, the Mass, on the Gospel message, on Jesus, on all humans at the table, and then doctrine squeezes it out. I feel I can't breathe deeply. Peace is replaced with anxiety, frustration, discord. It always happens. Then, in an effort to survive, I move away, distance myself. That's when I wonder if the only way I can save any spirituality is to walk away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that breaks my heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I look for spring when I can disappear in the orchard, dig in the garden, smell the earth. Then I'll find my peace again and be able to breathe inward, deeply. I always find myself looking to make peace with the church when winter comes, followed by feeling suffocated and in turmoil, and then looking for spring when I can find my peace and breath and spirituality outside. It's a cycle that repeats itself annually. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Blue skies give me hope.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-63310847860223441582013-05-07T10:12:00.000-06:002013-05-07T10:12:01.590-06:00Thunder Storms and Safe Places<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last night as the lightning blazed against the dark sky, BG and I went outside to sit on the front step to feel and smell the storm. We kept our eyes on the foothills so we wouldn't miss the beautiful light show. Too soon the wind picked up, blowing leaves in my glass of wine, and then big drops began to fall so we headed inside. (Somehow the wind caught the screen door wrenching it out of my hand against the house and twisting the frame. Another honey-do for the dh.) We watched for a few more minutes, but it was a short-lived storm. We do love to watch a thunder storm.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Abra and I decided to watch Dr. Who; we have made it up to the third doctor played by John Pertwee. While we were curled up on the couch with a bowl of buttered popcorn, I noticed the twins running between the dining room and upstairs, but as I was focusing on the doctor, I didn't pay much attention to what they were doing. By the time I was ready for bed, Abby was throwing up and Abra was saying she thought she was too sick for school. Such is life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This morning while continuing the search for my missing brains (composition notebook with every thought, book, idea for school) I looked behind the dining room table. There I found blankets, pillows, books, notebooks, pencils, pens, two containers of cereal, an old cell phone, and several owl banks. I asked BG what they were up to, and she told me that was their safe space during storms completely stocked with all the necessities. Ah, that's what they were so busy with last night. I like safe places with life's necessities. That's what my home is, and no doubt, why I rarely feel the need to leave.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-76464324424821135542013-02-26T11:55:00.000-07:002013-02-26T11:55:34.011-07:00<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Woke up today to snow and temperature in the 20s. By 11:00 most of the snow has melted and the sky is a bright, clear blue. My spirits have soared with the clearing sky.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've been crocheting granny squares like crazy, using up bits of old yard. The twins are arranging the squares into an interesting color pattern. While working on the border, I noticed that I had used two different crochet hooks, supposedly the same size. Supposedly but not actually the same size. Consequently, there are two different sizes of granny squares. As I dream of making beautiful yarn creations, my granny squares don't even match up. The twins don't care; they think it's beautiful. Both of them have been busy making their own creations. They aren't afraid of mistakes. Indeed they turn their mistakes into their own unique styles. Why can't I be like my children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked up <i>The Wisdom of Menopause</i> by Christiane Northrup. All because of the title. 'Wisdom'. If there's any wisdom in this foggy brain, I want to find it. First time I flipped through the book it fell open to the page on belly fat! So appropriate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On religious thought, I finished a book by Marcus Borg. Can't recall the title right now, but it seemed a rehash of some of his other books I've read. Along with that, I read <i>Jesus Through Pagan Eyes</i> by Mark Townsend. I appreciated it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For current reads I have <i>Paul and Jesus</i> by James Tabor (so far worthwhile) and <i>I Don't Believe in Atheists</i> by Chris Hedges (no opinion yet). I'm finishing up the Wicked Years with <i>Out of Oz. </i>If I leave too many years between books, I'm apt to forget what happened in the story. Then I have to go back and re-read. No wonder it takes me so long to read anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm so sick of scandal, popes retiring, cardinals resigning, the vatican imploding, conservative know-it-alls and liberal know-it-alls. let's throw them all out along with the representatives in washington and start over. with a new plan. would it be any better? could it be any worse? i need earplugs and blinders.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-67958157427119961632012-12-13T13:49:00.003-07:002012-12-13T13:49:39.218-07:00Christmas Books<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Christmas Candle</i> by Richard Paul Evans</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Clown of God</i> by Tomie dePaola</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Christmas Box</i> by Jo Anne Stewart Wetzel</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Mary, The Mother of Jesus</i> by Tomie dePaola</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Christmas Tree Memories</i> by Aliki</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Little Fir Tree </i>by Margaret Wise Brown</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree</i> by Gloria Houston</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey</i> by Susan Wojciechowski</span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-3281930025949709472012-12-11T07:05:00.002-07:002012-12-11T07:05:56.117-07:00Christmas Books<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Christmas Cobwebs </i>by Odds Bodkin</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Spirit Child A Story of the Nativity </i>by John Bierhorstill; by Barbara Cooney :)</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Angel of Mill Street</i> by Frances Ward Weller</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Silver Packages</i> by Cynthia Rylant</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Apple Tree Christmas by Trinka Hakes Noble</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Merry Christmas, Strega Nona</i> by Tomie dePaola</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Legend of the Candy Cane </i>by Lori Walburg</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Attic Christmas</i> by B.G. Hennessy</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-35144730271657770152012-12-06T14:13:00.000-07:002012-12-13T13:49:54.978-07:00More Books....<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The Miracle of Saint Nicholas </i>by Gloria Whelan</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Christmas Tapestry</i> by Patricia Polacco </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(an absolute favorite)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Holly Claus The Christmas Princess </i> by Brittney Ryan</span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Guess Who's coming to Santa's for Dinner? </i>by Tomie dePaola</span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Welcome Comfort</i> by Patricia Polacco</span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tonight we shall trim the tree!</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-46499163703358716872012-12-05T07:45:00.001-07:002012-12-05T07:46:23.486-07:00Books....<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We pulled out the Christmas books and hit the library. So far we've read:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Christmas in the Country</i> by Cynthia Rylant</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>An Orange for Frankie</i> by Patricia Polacco</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Santa Claws: A Scary Christmas to All</i> by Laura Leuck</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Who's That Knocking on Christmas Eve</i> by Jan Brett</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Home for Christmas</i> by Jan Brett</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Christmas Mouseling</i> by Dori Chaconas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>A Cowboy Christmas: The Miracle at Lone Pine Ridge</i> by Audrey Wood</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We're finishing up <i>The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate</i> by Jacqueline Kelly</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm reading <i>A Glass of Blessings</i> by Barbara Pym</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">BG constantly has her nose buried in a Warrior book. How many are there?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Abby finished the final Unfortunate Events book and is now reading <i>The Wolves of Willoughby Chase </i>by Joan Aiken.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Off to read some more Christmas books.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-3494277622951919182012-04-12T11:00:00.002-06:002012-04-12T11:06:00.574-06:00Health<span >For me: I finally had to make an appointment for another endoscopy with dilation. My esophageal stricture has been getting worse and worse. This meant that first I had to see my regular doctor, get a blood test and then get the endoscopy done. So far, nothing has been covered under my insurance policy meaning nothing has even applied toward my $5,000. deductible. I'm keeping my fingers crossed about the endoscopy. They also took a couple biopsies since my esophagus was more red and inflamed than 3 years ago when I had it done. $$$$$ Plus, they want to prescribe Nexium (I haven't tried that one yet). I hear it's expensive, and I have no prescription coverage.</span><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >For Tim: His 'annual' 3 year check up resulted in a blood test, an MRI for his back (to compare with the last one in '08), a trip to the cardiologist, and a sleep study test. Fortunately, his insurance, while not as good as it used to be, is far better than mine.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >The joys of being over 50, I guess. It's the only time I'm cognitively aware of my age - at the doctor's office.</span></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-52980997911191390692012-03-27T19:03:00.003-06:002012-03-27T20:14:44.242-06:00Looking Back Over 2011<span style="font-style: normal; ">A little late, no doubt, when most people look back over the previous sometime in January. Still, March is pretty good for me. And by looking back, I mean the important things! Books that were read.</span><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >January<br /></span><div style="font-style: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>The Tale of Oat Cake Crag</i> by Susan Wittig Albert</span></div><div><i style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; ">The Shooting in the Shop</i><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "> by Simon Brett</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>Grace Will Lead Me Home</i> by Katherine Valentine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>On a Wing and a Prayer</i> by Katherine Valentine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>Halloween Party</i> by Agatha Christie (for the 7th or 8th time)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>Three Act Tragedy</i> by Agatha Christie</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; ">February</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>The Boomerang Clue</i> by Agatha Christie</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>The Third Jesus: The Christ We Cannot Ignore</i> by Deepak Chopra</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; ">March</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; ">Hmmm..... I'm sure I read something....</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; ">April</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande'; "><i>The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party</i> by Alexander McCall Smith</span></div><div><span ><i>The Earth Path</i> by Starhawk</span></div><div><span ><i>A Lesson in Secrets</i> by Jacqueline Winspear</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >May</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>As I Lay Dying</i> by William Faulkner</span></div><div><span ><i>The Spiral Dance</i> by Starhawk</span></div><div><span ><i>Claude and Camille: A Novel of Monet</i> by Stephanie Cowell</span></div><div><span ><i>Aunt Dimity Down Under</i> by Nancy Atherton</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >June</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Busy out of doors, I guess.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >July</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>The Fountain Overflows</i> by Rebecca West</span></div><div><span ><i>The Gospel According to Biff</i> by Christopher Moore</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >August</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>Wild Strawberries</i> by Angela Thirkell</span></div><div><span ><i>In the Company of Others</i> by Jan Karon</span></div><div><span ><i>Less Than Angels</i> by Barbara Pym</span></div><div><span ><i>Death in Five Boxes </i>by Carter Dickson</span></div><div><span ><i>Sparkling Cyanide</i> by Agatha Christie</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >September</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>Jane and Prudence</i> by Barbara Pym</span></div><div><span ><i>A Graveyard to Let</i> by Carter Dickson</span></div><div><span ><i>Left to Tell</i> by Immaculee Ilibagiza</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >October</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>Death in a White Tie</i> by Ngaio Marsh</span></div><div><span ><i>Drood</i> by Dan Simmons</span></div><div><span ><i>Led by Faith</i> by Immaculee Ilibagiza</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >November</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>Bishop of Rwanda</i> by John Rucyahana</span></div><div><span ><i>An Ordinary Man: An Autobiography</i> by Paul Rusesabagina</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >December</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>Friends at Thrush Green</i> by Miss Read</span></div><div><span ><i>No Holly for Miss Quinn</i> by Miss Read</span></div><div><span ><i>Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves</i> by P. G. Wodehouse</span></div><div><span ><i>High Rising</i> by Angela Thirkell</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><i>The Fountain Overflows</i> was a very pleasant surprise. None of the books was very taxing; my brain wasn't up to handling too much, and this list reflects that. The books about the Rwandan Genocide were very difficult to read. For weeks I found myself thinking about the tragedy - especially at night. Tim then read them, and that led to quite a few discussions, usually at night. Why do we always get into these deep, disturbing conversations at night? I've been wanting to watch Hotel Rwanda and Sometimes in April. After watching them I can make a better decision about Abra viewing them.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >This list feels incomplete. I'm sure there were some other Christie books and such that I never listed. I have an almost complete list of our read alouds. That's another post.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-89364356820282387112011-11-06T09:27:00.002-07:002011-11-06T09:39:26.018-07:00Feeling Alone<span class="Apple-style-span" >There's no reason for me to feel alone. Husband, daughters. Usually it's all I need. Then somedays. It's just not enough. I remember having friends. I think maybe I can do it again. I try. Try it on little by little. A little bit doesn't feel too bad. Then add a little bit more. Then I feel it. The pretense. The dishonesty. Then the emotional roller coaster starts up again. I physically feel it. Emotionally feel it. It doesn't work. Sad, so conflicted, verging on depression.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So I leave it behind. Yet again. Then starts the recovery process. Digging myself out of this dark hole I intentionally put myself in again. I think. Why do I do this? I know how it turns out. Where is my spot? I want to find my personal, intimate spot. I know where it isn't. That must be half the search, right?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >That was just for me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Onwards. The weather is cold. The air has that biting, stinging cold feel in it. Little ice specks touch your face. It's warm inside. A lazy Sunday morning. Listening to John Anderson, Michael Buble, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Horton. Music the entire family agrees on. Biscuits in the oven. Hashbrowns on the stove. Sausage in the skillet. Soon there will be gravy. It makes me feel warm, content. A cozy kitchen full of homey smells. I ask my mom, "enough flour", "more milk", "think it's ready yet". I listen very intently for her voice. I can still hear it. I hope to never forget it. I will bury myself in my home and forget all else. For today.</span></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-69785814384362528382011-09-11T13:41:00.000-06:002011-09-11T13:41:32.454-06:00Harvest Time<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Harvest time. Tim warned me the other night that it was getting to be that time. Pears, plums, tomatoes, peppers, then a little later grapes and apples. Do I know what I'm going to with the produce, where should he put it, and when should he start picking?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Secretly, I wish it would all go away. I'm tired. Worn out. Burned out. I've been at this for years. Every summer. In the hot kitchen, made all the hotter because usually two burners on the stove are going, peeling, cutting, filling, cooking, cleaning, back feeling like it's breaking. I've done my share. I've lived simply, worked with our earth, grown and produced much of our food. I'm ready for my little cottage by the ocean with fireplace and bookcase and comfy over-stuffed chair.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But.... then I remember how it feels to look in my cupboard and see it full of food we have produced. From little, tiny seeds to jars full of healthy, life-giving food. How it feels to grab a jar from the shelf, pop open the lid and smell the smell of our hard work and reward. And how I enjoy secretly laughing at the people running to the store in that God awful traffic just to pick up something. I've already got it. All natural. Nothing toxic. Didn't get shipped thousands of miles. Didn't cause any pollution. And how I was blessed with the opportunity of getting my hands dirty, seeing dirt under my nails, smelling that sensual, earthy smell on my hands. How I had that time in the morning while weeding to talk out loud to God with no-one listening. Except the neighbor having his early morning cigarette who probably already thinks I'm a total whack job. It's is absolutely amazing how many problems you can solve while getting your hands dirty.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So. I will find some energy that's been hiding away and tackle the harvest. My kitchen will be the heart beat of my home. The floor will be dirty and sticky. I will be hot and sweaty and achy and tired (I'm that anyway). I will stir prayers into my preserved food. I will watch my cupboards fill up with food. It will mark the end of the old year. And I will look forward to my time of rest.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-50542482144383520902011-06-07T18:47:00.002-06:002011-06-07T18:57:08.959-06:00I Love My HusbandOn June 1st we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary. We went to a favorite sandwich shop, walked by the river holding hands, stopped at the store to pick up some ice cream for the family, and watched Lost in Translation. Quiet, simple. Just the way we are. Dining in one of the most expensive restaurants could not compare to holding his hand, feeling his arm brush against mine, leaning my head on his shoulder. It has been a wonderful journey together with its ups and downs, good times and bad. It hasn't always been a bed of roses. But even when it was one of those down times, I knew, without a doubt, that he loved me, and I hope that he has always known without doubt how much I love him.<div><br /></div><div>Certainly death doesn't end this love. When I create my own religion, I will borrow from the LDS their belief in eternal marriage. It will be a most interesting religion indeed.</div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-26327829589544959532011-05-15T09:45:00.002-06:002012-12-13T13:50:18.775-07:00As I Lay Dying<span class="Apple-style-span">It was uncomfortable. Distressing. Disturbing. At times nauseating. An emotional roller coaster. Yet with each page, I felt more and more addicted. Compulsively re-reading sentences and paragraphs - each time resulting in a different emotional reaction. I just shut the book. Finished. Before the day is over I will again pick it up and see what new feelings it can elicit.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">When was the last time I felt this way after finishing a book?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">The last time I read Faulkner.</span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-61289036390089281312011-04-19T13:16:00.002-06:002011-04-19T13:25:29.682-06:00Simple PleasuresSharing favorite books with your daughters.<div><br /></div><div>Abra and I are reading The Lord of the Rings together. Would you think me silly if I told you I would fantasize about reading this book aloud to my children? Why did the first two get away from me without this happening.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did read all the Harry Potter books (except The Deathly Hallows) aloud to Abra when she was younger. She couldn't wait for me to read the last one, so before I knew it, she was already half way through it. Well, B.G. has been wanting to read the first one, which happens to be the only one I don't own. Well, I did own it. But then I loaned it to my sister. Which means I no longer own it. Finally, I received the call from the library that my copy was waiting for me to pick up. That I promptly did. As I held the book in my hands I found myself remembering back to the adventures Abra and I shared with Harry, and I realized I didn't want to be left out even though I've been through all of them once before. So I called the twins and asked if they wanted me to read. I honestly can't ever remember getting a 'no' for an answer to that question. Then I pulled out Harry and started reading. Abby crawled up next to me snuggling as close as she could; a few minutes later B.G. was on the other side. Usually they're on the floor while I read; last night they were right next to me for the entire reading. A few minutes after starting, I saw Abra come in and grab a chair. So what if you've read them before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe someday they will share these books and memories with their own children, and it will be a real Tradition. Just makes me all warm and fuzzy feeling to think about it.</div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-70243865136389530922011-03-12T08:56:00.003-07:002011-03-12T09:24:30.779-07:00Friendship and DeathIt has been a very long, very sad, very difficult week. I've been wanting to write but there are no words to express these feelings. How I wish I could find words when I need them, and how I envy people who can weave words together to express their feelings. What a relief that could be.<div><br /></div><div>My friend's 15 year old son took his life last week. The funeral was this Tuesday.</div><div><br /></div><div>Disbelief. I just dreamed this. It isn't true. It can't be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Horror. Horror that this could really happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Despair. This can't really happen. Nothing is right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Helplessness. Couldn't something have been done? What went wrong? This needs to be fixed. But it's too late.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anger. If he had waited 24 hours, he might have felt differently. A day, a few words, some comfort can make such a difference.</div><div><br /></div><div>Incredible sadness and heartache. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing, among many - besides the fact that this was a young man taking his own life, that makes this so sad for me is the friendship I had with his mother mad fallen apart. And this reminds me of a friend who died last summer. Just a few years older than me. Another friendship that had fallen apart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Am I a bad friend? I don't really think so. But I admit I have fragile outer shell. I'm weak. There are friendships that take so much energy and such a strong personality that I don't feel up to the task. I have, also, fought tooth and nail to keep a friendship together only to feel deeply betrayed so my defenses go up and I'm very hesitant. My family is my world, my religion, and I cannot tolerate them be dissected and criticized no matter what the other person's needs might be. I need peace, calm, stability. Fighting, discontent, upheavals, anger, harsh words destroy my peace and calm. And so... I ended the friendship. No words; I just disappeared from her life. I'm good at disappearing.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the flip side of ending a friendship is the feeling helplessness at a time like this. At the funeral I hugged her, told her I was so very, very sorry for their loss, that I was holding her in my heart, that I loved her. It is all very true. My heart has ached every day for their loss. There has been no other death - not even my parents - that has affected me this deeply. I want to offer something, but I don't know how. Mentally I have drawn a circle of love around them - from a distance; mentally I hug them; mentally I send them my feelings.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it doesn't feel enough. I know it's inadequate. I just feel guilty. My punishment for ending a friendship, and my punishment for not wanting to resurrect that friendship in a real life way. Maybe I just make a better spiritual friend than I do a real life one.</div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-37941800353869867262011-03-02T18:37:00.004-07:002011-03-12T08:54:43.463-07:00At This Moment<span class="Apple-style-span">I am eating a salad with romaine, spinach, feta cheese, blueberries, walnuts, and homemade vinaigrette - all from Costco! While I sit here eating my salad, I dream of the day that the lettuce and spinach at least will come straight from my garden along with a cuke and tomatoes. Still, it tasted good and filled my need for fresh.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Spring seems so distant right now: the sky is dark and ominous looking, it's been raining off and on. Yesterday felt like spring; today feels like winter exerting her power before she is forced into hibernation.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">They are tearing up the road in front of our house to install sewer lines. Actually, not directly in front of our house yet; they are working down the street a ways but soon it will be in front of my home. Huge trailers, back hoes, tractors, and NOISE. Along with the fact that I'm not sure if we'll be able to get out of driveway.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My oldest is asleep on the couch - after spending the afternoon braiding her little sister's hair. Little teeny, tiny braids. And she has a head full of hair. She has to work tonight so she's trying to catch a nap before leaving.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My other daughter is having car trouble among other troubles. The stressful life of an adult. I wish it weren't.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My darling husband was so cranky yesterday. Today he apologized. Right now he is napping.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I'm trying to find something uplifting about today... I'm still thinking... Oh, I read from <i>The Willows in Winter</i> for about 45 minutes and drank tea. In fact, I think I will go read my latest <i>No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book</i>. That is always uplifting.</span></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-52227445944322274342011-02-27T18:44:00.002-07:002011-02-27T18:50:26.964-07:00More Sunday ThoughtsAnother Sunday. I have many, many thoughts but can't quite find the words right now so they will remain unsaid. <div><br /></div><div>It has been a very special Sunday. It started with my oldest daughter calling to ask if her father and I would like to join her and her sister for breakfast. Of course. We had a delightful time. Not something we get to do very often - spend time alone with our oldest two without our youngest three around.<br /><div><br /></div><div>On another note, my kitchen smells wonderfully homey with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves; two loaves of pumpkin bread is baking. I shall have a couple slices with some Constant Comment tea. A very nice way to end a very nice Sunday.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>And now I leave you with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jH7G3qI-wuk&feature=related">this</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-74625230530640905942011-02-20T11:39:00.000-07:002011-02-20T11:41:24.368-07:00Sunday ThoughtsSome <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhtcaRRngcw">thoughts</a> to ponder this SundaySearching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-24037135281216459642011-02-17T08:13:00.003-07:002011-02-17T08:21:06.298-07:00Small PleasuresWe woke this morning to find the ground covered in white. More than a skiff, enough to make some tracks and throw a few snowballs. Certainly not enough to make a really decent snowperson, but enough to have some awesome fun.<div><br /></div><div>So when presented with a choice between starting school on time or playing in what will most likely be the last snow of the season, what do you think we chose?</div><div><br /></div><div>I am thankful that we can grab these opportunities when they appear. Grab the moment and live. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-40356197949199251972011-02-14T12:44:00.002-07:002011-02-14T12:55:29.946-07:00More IllnessesThe illness that came to visit hubby over Super Bowl weekend decided to linger. It had found a house full of willing hosts. My children. Abra first, Abby second, and last, but not least B.G. From oldest to youngest. Please note, the mother was excluded, again, as usual. All of them ran fevers, ached, and developed a nasty, nasty cough. I hate to see my children sick and miserable. I brought them blankets and pillows, snuggled them up on the couch or lazy boy, brought them tea, took their temps often so they could keep track, and watched movies.<br /><br />Of all of them, it is hardest for me to see Abby sick. It's heartbreaking. To understand this, one must know the child. She is ALIVE. She is DRAMA. Life exudes from her every pore. And most especially from her eyes. From the moment her feet hit the floor in the morning until her little motor finally, finally runs down at night, this child is LIVING HUGELY. And when she is sick, the LIFE is gone. The pure spirit and life that comes out of her eyes is totally missing. Dull, listless, glazed. The only thing that keeps my heart from totally breaking is the fact that she will snuggle with me when she is sick. She does not snuggle. Very primp and proper hugs and few purrs, and that's it. But when she is sick, she actually snuggles her whole body up next to mine. That is a gift to be forever treasure.<br /><br />This morning I was asking what they all wanted for breakfast. I heard Abby's voice answering: pancakes, an omelet, waffles with extra whipped cream and strawberries, a smoothie with a swirly straw, and candy. Before I even turned around I knew what I would see. LIFE! BIG HUGE LIFE. She's on the mend. Except for that damned cough. She's is back with the living, keeping us in smiles.Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-32018808908698799172011-02-06T10:30:00.002-07:002011-02-06T10:35:42.345-07:00Super Bowl Sunday<div>The Groundhog predicted an early spring, and the last few days were proving that fortune teller correct. I spent some extra time cuddled up in my favorite chair, daydreaming, and I could feel the warm dirt in my fingers and smell that wonderful warm, earthy, musty garden smell. The weight on my shoulders felt infinitely lighter, and my family was rewarded with more smiles and laughs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then today dawned grey, overcast, and dreary, and with that the weight is back. My morning smile was replaced with morning grouchiness, and instead of laughing, I found everything coming out of my mouth rather snitful. I am going to put on shoes and jacket, and go outside to face this dreary day head on. I will find something beautiful and hopeful in it, and I will bring that hope back inside.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tim seems to have come down with the flu. His body aches, he feels congested and tired and is napping. The girls have been having a Get Smart marathon. I had to ask them to go upstairs and try to tone down the laughter since their dad was sleeping. You should have seen the look they gave me. Obviously watching Get Smart without riotous and very loud laughter isn't possible. They are giving it their best shot, though.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nachos and beer is a tradition for Super Bowl Sunday although it appears Tim might not be joining in. Might just be the girls and me. Hmmmm..... no. If there's anything that will get that man out of bed (other than work) it's football. We'll just quarantine him to one side of the room.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm off to face my enemy, the dreary sky.</div><div><br /></div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-42145839660620147702011-01-23T15:13:00.003-07:002011-01-23T16:18:49.752-07:00A Time to Reminisce Before Looking AheadChristmas is over. I guess most people would be thinking, "Well, duh, January is almost over." For me, Christmas goes on for about six weeks. See, I love Christmas. I love the holidays.<div><br /></div><div>It starts the weekend after Thanksgiving. I tried the whole thing about not celebrating Christmas until Christmas really comes, celebrating Advent. I tried not putting any Christmas decorations up until at least Gaudete Sunday (3rd Sunday of Advent), but I just didn't like it. So, all the decorations come out right after Thanksgiving. However, it's a process. Over the next couple of weeks I put out all my Christmas ornaments and decorations.</div><div><br /></div><div>I cover every surface I can find with lights. Lots and lots of lights. Of many colors. Tree, windows, mantel, top of the piano and entertainment center, doorways, stair railing, over the kitchen cabinets. The more lights that go up, the more my energy increases, the more my spirit soars. Then every little ornament I've collected plus all the ones I inherited from my mom find a special place. Some are from her childhood, quite old, with an odd arm or wing missing, paint chipping off which makes them all the more special. Every surface holds a memory for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there's the reading. All of our favorite Christmas stories. Read every year. After all these years of reading <i>The Christmas Tapestry</i> by Patricia Polacco, I'm still in tears by the end. <i>The Story of Holly and Ivy </i> by Rumer Godden, <i>A Cajun Night Before Christmas, The Donkey's Dream, A Cobweb Christmas, The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey, </i>and on and on. Oh, and <i>A Christmas Carol</i> cannot be missed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas movies. Every single version of A Christmas Carol although the one with George C. Scott is my favorite. White Christmas, Christmas in Connecticut, Holiday Inn, It's a Wonderful Life, Christmas Vacation, A Christmas Story (several times). Truthfully, I never tire of A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (animated), Frosty, and Rudolf. I remember before children thinking how exciting it would be to watch those shows with my children. And I have. Every year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Baking. Cookies, candy, snacks. Abra and I made a list of all the cookies we wanted to try, went to the store to collect ingredients, and then cooked something almost every day. Extra pounds. Oh, so what. They come off - mostly. And gingerbread houses. This year Rachael came over to make gingerbread houses with her little sisters.</div><div><br /></div><div>And while all this is going on, there is Christmas music playing in the background. I love Christmas music. Any and all Christmas music. While not classical, Bing and Nat King Cole are still my favorites.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas Day. Early Mass on Christmas Eve, pick up a pizza on the way home, and the traditional early gift. Always new PJ's which is the signal that it's time to go to bed. Then Santa and his helper go to work. Santa is very particular about the way he arranges gifts. They must be perfect. The girls take my phone upstairs so they can call when they wake up - usually around 6:00 AM. Santa's helper gets up, turns on every light and the music, gets Santa out of bed, turns on the video camera and calls upstairs to let the girls know everything is ready. There is an order to how they come downstairs. Youngest first. I'm sitting here with a goofy smile remembering. They play with the Santa gifts while mom puts on coffee. We wait for the bigger girls and their husband/boyfriend to show up before we open the wrapped gifts. It must be done slowly. One at a time. Everyone watches and oohs and aahs at the appropriate moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since there has been so much cooking going on all month, mom takes Christmas Day off. Egg and hashbrown casseroles for breakfast, take out Chinese food for dinner. PJ's all day, if you want. Lay around reading, watching A Christmas Story over and over, playing a new game or putting together the new puzzle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing comes down until after Ephiphany, usually the weekend after. And then it again is a process. No hurry. In the evening, when everyone is quiet and the littler girls are in bed, I turn on the Christmas lights and sit on the couch with a cup of tea, or maybe a glass of wine, and watch the flames in the woodstove and the multi colored lights and am as contented as can be. I savor that time. It feeds me.</div><div><br /></div><div>So what is it about Christmas? The religious aspect. Truthfully, no. I wish I could say it was all about Jesus, but it's not. Jesus is not ignored, but he is not the reason I love Christmas so much. Is it the gifts? No. I love giving, but that's not it. This year gifts were quite sparse as money is very tight, still the entire season was no less. My mom loved Christmas. She was like a little kid about Christmas. The entire house would glow with Christmas. Mom wasn't particularly religious; she wasn't anti-religious, just not overly religious. For her, in fact, her whole life, was about family. That was her religion, her spirituality. Family.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I'm her daughter.</div>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-41777854139513502132010-10-23T15:45:00.003-06:002010-10-23T16:13:40.321-06:00Thoughts on Reaching 50 Years<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:130%;">In my normal, roundabout way.<br /><br />Earlier this summer, my eldest was making plans for her 21st birthday. While most new 21 year olds are out proving they can get as drunk as any idiot, taking all the free drinks the bars offer, my daughter chose to spend her birthday with her family. My daughter chose to spend her 21st birthday with her dad, mom and little sisters. I just had to say that again.<br /><br />In spite of the mistakes I've made - and they were numerous - my daughters love their family. Having my daughter choose her family to spend her special day with instead of partying with friends might be enough to carry me through for the next 50 years. I don't have any special awards to put on the walls, no public recognition, but my children actually like me and want to spend time with me, and that is all I need. Beats awards all to heck.<br /><br />And what does that have to with turning 50? Well, as I was pondering the fact that my daughter was turning 21, I turned my mind back to the day she was born. My first pregnancy, my first labor, my first baby. All those memories. Then I thought about how we hadn't rushed into parenthood. In fact, I was a few weeks shy of 29 before my oldest was born. HUH! HALT! Back up there a moment. If I was almost 29, and it's been 21 years, (silent mental math going on here) that makes me a few weeks shy of my 50th birthday.<br /><br />50? How in the heck did that happen. I knew it was coming, yet it really had not registered. I don't feel 50. I have to force myself to do the computation. Yes. 50. If I went off what I feel, I would guess I'm still in my 30's. Ah! The cruelest joke of all must be time. I'm not depressed over turning 50. More than anything, I'm in awe that it happened so fast. It feels it happened without me being aware of it.<br /><br />Well, the day has come and gone. Hannah and her boyfriend, Rachael and her husband, Tim and I went out for lunch to one of my favorite sandwich shops. I spent the day with my husband and children. It was quiet. Rather like me. The way I like it. Then it was all over. It just was. Nothing was any different. Yet everything is different.<br /><br />I remember my dad talking about when he was 50 and how far off 80 seemed. Yet, here he was at 80, and it happened so quick. That cruel trickster again. Have my priorities changed? No. I still want to treasure every moment. I want to not miss a chance to love my family, smile, laugh, cry, enjoy this one wild and precious life.</span><br /></span></span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426018909336995622.post-24560728130488935212010-08-06T21:49:00.001-06:002010-08-06T21:51:07.684-06:00All I Want Is Justice<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;">Mark Hurd, CEO of Hewlett-Packard <a href="http://www.businessweek.com/news/2010-08-06/hp-s-mark-hurd-resigns-after-sexual-harassment-probe.html" rel="nofollow"></a><a href="http://www.businessweek.com/news/2010-08-06/hp-s-mark-hurd-resigns-after-sexual-harassment-probe.html">resigned</a> due to unethical conduct.</span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;">Over the last five years he has earned over $100,000,000. Yup, I counted the zeros. Plus, he will receive over $12 million in a severance payment. Yeah, you read right. He's unethical, funnels money to his lady love, has to resign, and still gets more money on his way out the door. How many people get severance payments when they quit? How many people get severance payments when they're forced to quit due to unethical, illegal activity? Only if you're a CEO.<br /><br />Twenty-eight years my husband gave to that company. A year after Hurd became CEO my husband finally got cut in one of his massive lay-offs. Bitter? Surprisingly, I haven't been extremely bitter until today. There were so many people losing their jobs, that I never took it personally, and for some reason, never felt bitter. Today is a different story. I am beyond bitter. Just totally ticked off is more like it.<br /><br />I want justice. Who wants to join me in demanding justice? Anyone?<br /><br />Oh well. While I'm waiting I'm going to have an icy gin and tonic and a bowl of guacamole.<br /><br /></span></span>Searching For My Willoughbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350927584173570044noreply@blogger.com0