Day 13, January 13

I cannot think of my mother without remembering smells: sun-dried sheets--she was well into her 50s before she had her first clothes dryer; homemade bread--redolent with yeast, whole wheat, and honey; Estee Lauder's Youth Dew cologne--it was her one indulgence.

My mother grew up in Tennessee's Appalachia during the Great Depression. Upon graduating from high school, she dreamed of attending college. It was not to be. Instead she went to secretarial school, obtained a job in Washington, DC, and sent money home to her family.

She married my father, and, when I was born, left her government job and stayed at home. She was there when my sister and I left for school in the morning and again when we returned home in the afternoon. At the time I did not realize what a precious gift that was. When I had my own children, her example influenced my choice to be at home with my children.

After my sister and I left home, she started substitute teaching at the local high school. She read what her students were reading and entertained them with her lively wit. Learning remained a passion with her. Always.

So, for today, I am grateful for my mother ... and for mothers everywhere.

Day 12, January 12

I love books. I love the feel of them. I love the smell of them. I love the sound they make as I flip through the pages. I love the way they look marched across a shelf or piled on a table.

My love affair with books began early in my life. Reading has always been a passion with me. In fact, I cannot remember a time that I wasn't reading. Nancy Drew, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Tom Sawyer all found their way into my life and mind.

Nancy Drew gave way to Perry Mason and Agatha Christie, the grande dame of mystery. Books took me on trips to foreign lands. They allowed me to time-travel to Twain's 19th century Americana and Dickens' Victorian England. They dared me to think beyond the confines of my own experience; they challenged me to dream.

Books encourage me to test new ideas, to try on roles. In books, I am an explorer, a warrior, a diplomat, a leader.

When my children were born, I read to them, even when they were too young to understand the words. We read from children's classics and Bible stories. We read for the pleasure of hearing the sounds that words make when put together in lyrical form. We read for the sheer joy of it.

Now that I have grandchildren, I read to them. We are princesses. We are dragons. We are ballerinas. We are robots. It matters not so much what we read but that we read.

Books occupy every room in my home. In planning an addition to the house, I told my husband that I wanted built-in bookshelves.

So, for today, I am grateful for books and the worlds they open to each of us.

Day 11, January 11

Today I padded into the bathroom, used the facilities, washed my hands, brushed my teeth, and splashed water on my face. Later, I will do a load of laundry and run the dishwasher. All of these activities require water. I am ashamed to admit that I rarely give thought--or thanks--for the abundance of clean, abundant water that is available to me with the turn of a faucet or the push of a button.

As I related in a previous post, my father's ancestors settled in Arizona's Gila Valley in the 19th century. Water was scarce, more precious than gold. Irrigating crops was a laborious undertaking. A water-master was assigned the task of allotting water rights and settling disputes.

With all the technological advances we enjoy today, we still rely on life-giving water. Emergency preparedeness plans always include bringing containers of water. Without it, no other supplies will help in sustaining life.

There is another kind of water that is also life-giving. In talking with the Samarian woman at the well, Christ describes Himself as the "living waters." His Word gives life--eternal life--to anyone who will partake of it.

So, for today, I am grateful for clean water ... and for the living waters of Christ.

Day 10, January 10

I have a confession to make: I don't iron. Ever. I remove clothes from the dryer, promptly, gave them a hard shake, and consider it good enough. Those garments too hopelessly wrinkled, I donate to a thrift shop, hoping they will find a home with someone with more ambition, energy, and patience than I possess.

I have a second confession to make: liberal applications of Vaseline not withstanding, I have wrinkles. On my face. While I'm not particularly fond of these grooves and valleys, neither am I ashamed of them. They represent a lifetime of living: the furrows on my forehead started as I waited for a teenage daughter to return home at night; the lines fanning from the corners of my eyes were earned during time spent in the sun; the brackets around my mouth are the result of laughing with my friends.

No, I am not ashamed of my wrinkles.

I just re-read what I wrote and realize that I sound like a female version of Columbo with his rumpled raincoat and hangdog face. Oh, well.

Though my blog is only ten days old, I am discovering some recurring themes, aside from the stated one of gratitude. One such theme is appearance versus substance.

The daughter of some acquaintances received upon her graduation from high school the gift of breast augmentation (a boob job in the vernacular) from her parents. I question the wisdom of this "gift." (This beautiful eighteen year old girl also has hair extensions and artificial nails.)

I have no problem with people wanting to look their best. (After all, Lady Clariol and I are on first-name basis.) We all desire to look as good as we can. That is only natural and right.

However, I do have a problem with the values implied in this gift. Is this child-woman now pondering what should she do next, questioning what else is wrong with her? What will happen, when, age, inevitably, has its way and her beauty fades? Will she have the strength of character to accept that and find other reasons to feel good about herself? Or will she be constantly searching for the next "fix?"

For her sake, I hope not.

So, for today, I am grateful for wrinkles. I earned every one of them.

Day 9, January 9

A few weeks ago, I drove a seventy-ish friend to the grocery store. She made her purchases and, while checking out, asked the checker to give her ten dollars worth of quarters. The checker did so. When the transaction was completed, the checker handed her a $10 bill as well. My friend gently pointed out the mistake. Flushed, the woman thanked her for her honesty.

Like many seniors, my friend lives on a fixed income. An extra ten dollars would come in handy, but it never occurred to her to keep the money. Her integrity could not be bought.

Contrast this with the actions of politicians, large company owners, and celebrities.
Too many of our country's leaders demonstrate on a daily basis that their integrity can be bought--with junkets, privileges, and bribes. The CEOs of major businesses embezzle from their investors, robbing hundreds of thousands of people of their hard-come-by retirement funds. Celebrities flaunt their affairs with a wink and a smirk.

The elastic morals of such people who claim the spotlight too often convince me that such behavior is not only accepted but is also to be expected. My friend's unwavering honesty was a much-needed reminder that individuals who respect themselves and others do exist.

So, for today, I am grateful for honest people and the example they set.

Day 8, January 8

I admit it: I wear an underwire bra. Age, gravity, and children have taken their toll.

My bra, a miracle of modern engineering and micro-fiber, has been known to set off the sensors as I go through airport security. (And, really, does a middle-aged Mormon grandmother with bad feet, arthritic hips, pasty white skin, and dyed blonde hair represent a threat--to anyone? But that's a story for another day.)

I am grateful for my bra, which provides much-needed support and keeps "the girls" in place. I can hear you thinking now: why is she nattering on about her bra? Aren't there more important subjects she could write about? Please bear with me as I meander to the point.

As mentioned in the prologue to this blog (December 31, 2010), the last five years have tested me in ways in which I never wanted to be tested. They have caused my resolve to falter, my strength to crumble, my heart to shatter.

I am not so arrogant ... or so foolish ... as to believe that it was any virture on my part that saw me through the rough times. What has gotten me through are what I like to call the "3 Fs": faith, family, and friends. I have been blessed with remarkable friends. Like my bra, they support me. (No, I am not being facetious here.)

My friends hold me and uphold me. They strengthen me. They sustain me. They succor me. Their humor lightens my heavy heart. Their compassion acts as balm of Gilead to my wounded soul. They rejoice when I rejoice; they weep when I weep. And, through it all, they are simply there. Always.

So, for today, I am grateful for underwire bras which support me ... and friends who do the same.

Day 7, January 7

I am a baby-boomer, growing up in the 50s and 60s. Computers belonged to the future. We had never heard of iPods, iPads, or the internet. (Notice how all of those being with the letter I?)

We didn't have language labs, media centers, or cafe-auditoriums. We brought our lunch from home, wore dresses every day to school, and minded our manners.

What I remember most from those years are the teachers: Mrs. Little, my kindergarten teacher. Miss Pease and Miss Bush, who taught second and third grade respectively. Mrs. Kennedy, who taught fourth grade and navigated my class through the first presidential election I can remember. Mrs. Biedler, who taught sixth grade and challenged the class to read every day.

These special teachers taught me reading, writing, arthrimetic, and so much more. They taught me how to think. More, they taught me how to dream.

Fast forward two decades. I was married, had a young family of three little children, and pulled one of my dreams out of cold storage. I wrote a short story and sent it to a magazine. To my amazement and delight, it was accepted. An editor liked my story! What's more, she sent me a check for it. Someone had paid me to write. It was a heady feeling.

I continued writing, selling a story here, a story there. My mother wrote to say that Miss Bush called her to tell her that she had read one of my stories in a magazine. I was touched that she remembered me and took the time to contact my mother.

Our family grew to include two more children. I kept writing, eventually selling a book, then another. All the while I remembered those teachers who instilled in me a love for words and how they could be strung together to form sentences, paragraphs, pages, stories.

So, for today, I am grateful for teachers who care enough to inspire.