Porch Prayers

Some mornings
I go to the porch to pray.

Other times
I meet the dawn with poetry
studying the world
from one artist's angle,
and then another.

Occasionally
I pay heed to the bumblebees already at work
their busyness a sharp contrast
to the rabbits nibbling clover,
or the woman sipping coffee.

Then there are the mornings
I close my eyes
shutting out everything
but the sun's warmth on my face,
a golden movie played just for me.

It is tough to say

which of these prayers

draws me closest to God.

The Post about the Pickles

Here's what you do, friends.

Buy a regular-sized jar of your favorite dill pickle chips. Then drain off all of the dill juice, reserving about two tablespoons. Mix the reserved dill juice with 3/4 cup of sugar and 1/2 cup of white vinegar. Are you with me so far?

Depending on how hot you like it -- and you like it hot, don't you? -- add to the liquid a 1/2 to 1 teaspoon of red pepper flakes (or more, if you're feeling spicy). In my mind, you are especially zesty people.

Pour this hot mess back into the pickle jar with the pickles. Shake it well (uh, shake the jar, too), and refrigerate. If you can resist (you probably can't; we've all been there) give the pickles a couple of days to absorb the new flavors. This is when the magic happens.

Once a month, you will thank me. Oh, yes. You will.

Tossing aside that empty, crumpled bag of mini chocolate donuts, you will head for your fridge and grab the jar of spicy pickles.
 
You will stand at the kitchen counter in your "Honey Badger Don't Care" t-shirt, and you will eat the pickles straight from the jar with a fork -- or maybe your fingers -- because no one would dare correct you this time of month.

Like you, the pickles are a little sweet, a little tart, and just the right amount of spicy.

You might eat 10 pickles. You might eat 58 of them. It doesn't matter. You are zen.

Your children will run into the kitchen to tell you things that children tell you in the loud way that children tell them -- but you will simply raise your pickle-soaked finger and and give them The Look. Because they are bright children who recognize The Look, or because they learned bear safety tips from the Discovery Channel, they will quietly back out of the kitchen and leave you to your pickles.

When your husband spies you at the counter with the jar of pickles, this will be a sign unto him that he is to run far and run fast and not return without a chocolate malt. If he is very, very lucky, you will maybe forget for five or 10 minutes that you hate his face.

Caught up in pickle euphoria, you will not remind him of that thing he did that one time. Or that you know he doesn't watch Giada De Laurentiis for her cooking.

Whatever. Giada can suck it because she never made pickles like this.

Forget that no one else in your house knows how to change a toilet paper roll. Block out the ball game blaring from the TV room. Who cares that your children are blaming each other for eating the last Klondike bar? Laugh quietly to yourself because you ate it. It's okay; you deserved it.

This is your time. These are your pickles. Carpe diem and all that crap.

But where the hell is your husband with that malt? That's just like him, considering he did that one thing that one time. And who left their dirty socks on the kitchen floor? And dammit, are you the ONLY one who knows how to put a dish in the dishwasher?!

Sigh. Thank you, anyway, 58 pickle chips. It was nice while it lasted. Maybe you can lick some of the chocolate from the donut bag.

It's Not the Size of Your Branch..Actually, It Is

After a day of spring yard work and tree trimming, my husband asked if I thought our city sanitation department would cart off the bigger branches we now had littering our yard.

I giggled and assured him they would.

"How do you know?" he asked. "And what is so funny about that?"

Turns out, I had called the city about that very issue after a major storm a few years ago. Several large tree limbs were piled at my curb, and I was concerned they were too big for the the city's yard debris services.

"Are they skinny?" the female sanitation worker asked. "Or are they big and fat?"

"Um, long and skinny," I said. "But they are very long."

"Honey, it doesn't matter how long the branches are," she said, "It's the thickness of the branch that really counts. You know what I mean?"

I couldn't see her over the phone, but I am fairly certain she winked at me.

"I think I do," I said.

And now you know. As if you didn't already.

My tree is not amused. I can't wait until he talks to me.

Thank you, Mr. Armstrong

Today is my son's last day at his elementary school. Although he won't be dismissed until 3 p.m., and I haven't yet attended his "Fourth Grade Farewell" ceremony, I'm typing this post through tears. Part of that is my 40-something-year-old hormones (I cry a lot. I broke a wine glass the other day and grieved. We had been so close).

But most of the tears today are because my little boy is growing up -- and I will dearly miss those who helped him become the fine young man he is.

We have been fortunate that his (public) school has been such a loving, nurturing, enriching place for my son and other students. He has been blessed by many teachers and staff members who always go above and beyond what is asked of them.

As much as his school staff rocks, though, this is dedicated to someone else -- someone who volunteers his time each and every school day to brighten the lives of children.

Mr. Armstrong is my son's school greeter. He also is my daily inspiration.

He stands in the school's parking lot each day, opening the car door for youngsters and greeting them with a smile, a small pep talk for the day, and a "fist bump." Come rain or shine, Mr. Armstrong is present. It's more than showing up each day for kids. Mr. Armstrong is present in the sense that he is engaged. He is involved. He is committed.

Mr. Armstrong, who has worked for ESPN and others as a monster truck commentator (so the kids already think he is super cool), could easily choose to relax at this station in life. But that isn't who he is. He is a man who must do something, something that matters.

I had the opportunity to speak with him at length one day, and he explained why he volunteers his mornings greeting elementary school students.

He told me it was important to him that children begin the day with a smile and some encouragement.

"I like to think it makes a difference in their days," he said.

Moms and Dads can get in a rush. We might gripe about the milk that was spilled. We might have our minds on that big meeting at work. We might be mad that our child just told us he needs khaki pants that night for the chorus concert he also forgot to mention.

We might forget to let our children know each and every day that they matter.

Mr. Armstrong's gift is that he helps children remember.

Every. Single. Child.

Every. Single. Day.

"Hey, sport!" he'll say, as a student climbs out of the car. "You look sharp today! I hear good things about you from your teachers. Go get 'em today!"

If Mr. Armstrong notices a child who is having a bad morning -- and he does notice -- he often pays a little extra attention to him or her, asking the youngster to hang out for a few minutes and keep him company. He'll tell his trademark funny stories, making sure smiles outshine tears before the child heads into school.

He reminds parents they matter, too.

He often leans into the car, greets any siblings and says to us frazzled, harried parents -- some of whom are still wearing pajama pants and flip flops and just trying to keep it together (er, not that I know anyone like that) -- "You have great kids, you know. Great kids. Super kids."

I nod. I remember. I do have great kids. Super kids. He has reminded me and my son of this every school day for the past five years, and I am thankful.

As I pulled away from the elementary school one last morning, I said to my high school daughter, "I wish I could be more like Mr. Armstrong."

I wish we all could be more like Mr. Armstrong.

Scenes from a Marriage: Send me something sexty next time, k?

The husband sent me some constructive criticism on a Porch post. I told myself to respond maturely.
 
Nailed it.