We began with four. Our membership now boasts nine or ten, with an average of five or six each month.  Lately the average has been higher, probably because we have such great fun while we are becoming cosmopolitan readers. We are a diverse bunch, varying ages, all with grown children and most, if not all, boasting grandchildren.  Three of us attend the same church, several belong to the same bridge club, and becoming acquainted with each other is also becoming a highlight of the month.

We usually meet at various coffee shops at eleven o’clock, where we enjoy a light lunch and good coffee.  Today, however, we met at the beautiful country home of Marilyn, the first friend I asked to join, well, actually the only friend who accepted my invitation.  I had enjoyed her home many times, but the other ladies had not.  Listening to them ooh and ahh at the fascinating collection of furnishings and artistic, creative talents of Marilyn and her husband, Jerry (with whom I attended grade school a good many years ago), made me smile. 

As they toured, I sat in the sunroom and gazed through huge windows at the small lake that nearly surrounds the house.  I’m not anti-social; I have a hip whose joint grinds against bones that should glide smoothly.  So I avoided the two flights of stairs.  Two weeks from yesterday, that hip will be replaced with a shiny state-of-the-art new one.

Next Wednesday, Marilyn will become a member of another club, one I joined five years ago, when I received a new knee.  It’s membership increases by the hundreds daily, most often with wonderful perks for its members.  Five days before I acquire the bionic hip, Marilyn will gain a similar knee.  Did I mention that most of us are grandmothers?

“My house won’t be this clean again for a long time,” Marilyn quipped when she invited us to meet at her house.  Having been through the PT of the new knee, I know first hand how right she is.

This month’s book choice was Emily and Einstein, a fanciful tale of reincarnation.  It’s a good read, and I heartily recommend it.  There has been only one book that was difficult for me to “get into,” and that was Three Cups of Tea.  I can’t recall the author’s name at the moment. At the meeting, a couple of the gals were discussing the possibility that the author of that book had possibly not told the whole truth.

Here is a list of books we have read and enjoyed:

Outlander  by Diana Gabaldon….Maisie Dobbs by Jacquilin Winspear…Legacy of Silence by Belva Plain…Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver…Water For Elephants by Sara Grun…Waiting For Snow in Havana by Carlow Eire…No Graves as Yet by Anne Perry…The Lion’s Game by Nelson DeMille…The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Shaffer and Barrows…Private by James Patterson…Little Bee - cannot recall author.

As the list shows, we are eclectic in our tastes and reading preferences.  Linda, a sweet, gentle teacher of small children, loves contemporary mysteries and murder stories.  Marilyn, the adverturer/world traveler, chooses unexpected books, the ones that make us think.  Marlene has a delicious sense of humor and loves all books.  Sue and Marti are out-going and gregarious, and their title suggestions are always good ones. Mary-Ellen is a romantic.  Sherry is busy with work and grandchildren; she reads and attends as often as she is able. We have two newer members, Mary Clark and a newcomer to Salem whose name I did not get; but I’m looking forward to her input and recommendations. Me? I love books: mysteries, series, dramas, historical fiction, contemporary fiction, sagas….if it has pages and words, I like it; but don’t offer to loan me your Kindle or Nook!  I love the heft of a real book in my hands, real pages to turn and dog-ear, books in which I can put my name, loan out and never have returned.

While our focus is on reading and discussing books, we don’t let that stand in the way of other subject matter: such as exactly what goes on at the infamous nude dance club in a tiny little hamlet in Southern Illinois; how any sane woman can believe that women have no desire to look upon the “flesh” of men, not even their husband, and that women should always dress so as not to expose their “flesh” to men, else they “inflame them with lust.”  Sounds like Sharia law to me.

We exchange opinions about politics, food, teaching, children, grandchildren, gardening, husbands, education, travel, and other intriguing matters.  And, of course, there is always lunch or snacks or coffee/tea wherever we meet.  All in all, it’s a wonderful way to spend a couple hours once a month, on the second Tuesday, twelve times a year.

Care to join us?

Dad

Hair combed straight back, a crooked smile, tall, dark and handsome, too,

My father was a quiet man with eyes of steely blue,

His hands were rough and calloused, sometimes black with gritty sand

From hours in the foundry, that could kill a weaker man.

Hard times, hard work and little pay can make a young man old,

But country music, baseball games and beer renewed his soul.

He played an old flattop guitar.  He could strum it by the hour;

And when I asked, he always played my favorite, “Wildwood Flower.”

He never had a lot to say, but I listened when he did;

And when he had too much to drink, I often ran and hid.

Portrait of my dad in WW2

Sometimes I wondered if he cared about this little girl.

And then he’d smile and I would know to him I meant the world.

He seldom ever went to church, and I never heard him pray;

But faith or something got him up to face the dawn each day.

Before he died he looked at me with love and called my name,

And I knew that life without my dad would never be the same.

I miss the walks we never took, and the talks we never had.

The silent sound of his absent voice, Lord!  How I miss my dad!

Now silver lingers in my hair, and years, more than a few,

Have etched a lot of laugh lines in a face no longer new.

But every day I see the man in the mirror where I view

My daddy’s eyes look back at me in that shade of steely blue.

From left to right: Billy, my mother, my father, me

Barbara Elliott Carpenter

“On October 23rd, we’re going to have another baby!” I announced.  The two women, one in her late forties, the other in her teens, looked at me with a touch of dismay.

“Oh,” said my husband’s mother.  “They’ll be really close, won’t they?”  She sounded uncertain.  Nine years separated my husband and his sister, so their mother basically had two “only children.”  There had been no competition for their mother’s attention.  On the other hand,  a gap of only twenty-three months separated my younger brother and me.  I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t part of my life.  However, while I was having babies, he was serving a four-year stint in the U.S. Air Force.

I loved being pregnant!  After a few days of early morning sickness, I felt good.  I had carried my daughter high, but this baby literally sat on my lap, even when I was standing.  During the last weeks, I often cradled my lower abdomen when I walked, just to relieve the pressure on hip joints.  Heartburn reared it’s uncomfortable head, but the goal was in sight!  We chose a boy and a girl name, for there was no way of predetermining the sex of unborn babies at that time.  My husband had his heart set on a boy, but I didn’t care.  To coin that old phrase:  I just wanted a healthy baby.At six o’clock on the morning of October 18th, 1962, I rolled over in bed–AND MY WATER BROKE.  I nudged my sleeping husband and told him it was time to go.  Sleepily he mumbled, “Go where?”

“My water just broke,” I told him.  He lay there for several seconds before he sat straight up.  I had to laugh.  His mass of wavy hair stuck out in every direction and his eyes were swollen with sleep.  “Call your mom.  She can stay with Becky, so we won’t have to wake her.”  He jumped out of bed, naked and beautiful as God made him, and ran to the living room, the location of our only phone.  His mother lived only half-a-mile from us, and she arrived in a short time.

The labor pangs were not severe until around eleven that morning; but when the baby decided to make an arrival, he came in a hurry!  A quick gurney ride to the delivery room, and we were in business.  In what seemed long to me, but was actually a very short time, I heard the first squeaky cries of my new baby.

“Well, hello, Little Fellow,” the doctor said.  “I hope you ARE a little fellow, or I know a daddy who’s going to be disappointed.”  Seconds later both he and the attending nurse laughed.   “Oh, it IS a boy!  Congratulations, Mama!”

Exhausted but happy, I smiled at the squirming, messy  little bundle the nurse held up for me to see.  I laughed.  “He’s so skinny!” I said, and my eyes couldn’t take all of him in quickly enough.  THIS IS MY SON! I had a son!  A baby boy!  “His name is Michael Scott,” I bragged.  He already had the look of his father, and there was a unique blaze of white in his soft hair, just above his left temple.  He weighed six pounds, three ounces, even less than that when we took him home.  At five pounds, twelve ounces, he was a tiny little guy.

The doctor made his exit, eager to tell my husband about his new son.  Three days later, we took him home.  “Mommy, did you bring me a new sisser?” our little girl asked.

“No, we brought you a little brother.”

“Oh!” she squealed.  She was delighted with the new addition to our little family.  Now we were complete.    Our intentions were to call our son “Scott.”  Becky, however, wasn’t having it.  She called him “Mikey,” and Mikey he was, I think until he went to high school.  I still slip occasionally and revert to the old name.

As Mike grew, he managed to crawl, climb, fall, ride…anything and everything that was potentially dangerous or hazardous.  At the age of four, he fell on the edge of the bathtub, creating a gash that required five stitches just below his chin.  At six, he climbed twenty-five feet up a tree in the back yard, stepped on a dead limb, and plummeted downward.  Thankfully, he landed on the giving hood of a car before he bounced onto the ground.  He had only a couple small scratches from twigs that brushed his arms as he fell.

His dad and several other men were standing right around the tree at the time, so I was pretty vocal about the “macho” mentality that allowed a little boy to climb that high in a tree.  It was only the grace of God that kept Mike from being broken, paralyzed or killed.

At the age of eleven, he tangled with a wasp nest…and lost.  One of his eyes was so swollen from stings that not even his lashes were visible.  He played basketball in grade school, and that sport left him with an ankle that was sprained more often than it wasn’t .  I think he must have sat out some of every game with his foot in a bucket of ice.

My children were toddlers when I introduced them to the local library.   Becky learned to read shortly after her fourth birthday, so she looked forward to choosing two books from the library every week.  At two, at three and at four, Mike’s choice was simple.  Every week we returned “Green Eggs and Ham,” and every week he checked it out again.  He never tired of sitting curled up beside me,  hands locked around his bent knees, while he listened to Dr. Suess one more time.  Even so, he had no interest in learning how to read.  To this day, he will not read a book.  He read and reported on the same book every year of high school English:  “Grandpa and Frank.”

It was the only book he ever read that held his attention, and I think it was the first line that caught his interest.  “Grandpa crapped in the furnace vent again last night.”  The memory of it can still make him smile.  Homework held no appeal for him, either.  When questioned, he always replied, “I finished it at school.”  I had too options:  believe him or nag him until he hated me.  I chose to pretend that I believed him.

When Mike was fourteen, his dad bought a dirt bike for him, nearly over my dead body.  Motor bikes, all sizes, scared me then; and they scare me now.  I yelled, protested, threatened, all to no avail.  So I told both men in my family that, in my mind, I buried my son.  I reasoned that if I accepted the very worst case scenario, I would not be shocked when it happened.  Fortunately, it didn’t happen; but he didn’t tell me about the wrecks, scrapes and near-misses he had until he was grown.  I can’t remember the number of times I have looked at him, shook my head with helplessness, and fought back tears of fear for him.  That hasn’t changed much over the nearly five decades of his life.  I still do it.

The dirt bike was exchanged for a couple of big, heavy cycles; and there were lots of nights I didn’t sleep until I heard the rumble of one or the other come up the driveway.   He sold his bike when he married his brown-eyed sweetheart, recognizing the danger to her.  After his son was born, one day he said to me,”I can’t believe you and dad let me get that bike!  I would NEVER let my little boy ride one of those things!”  I practically had to restrain myself from doing him bodily harm!

The day I heard the rumble of what I thought was a big truck come up the driveway, I opened the back door to see a sight that made me literally nauseous.  There sat my son on a big Harley-Davidson, his twelve-year-old daughter, Stephanie, behind him.  I think my face turned white.  “What have you done.”  It wasn’t a queston.  I could SEE what he had done.

“Well, I thought I’d just come and take my whipping and get it over with,” he told me.  I swallowed hard and turned away.

“I can’t talk to you now,” I told him; and I went inside, barely getting the door closed before I broke into sobs.  NOW I HAD TWO GENERATIONS TO WORRY ABOUT ON A DAMNABLE MOTOR CYCLE!   Once again, I had to come to terms with something I could not change.  Funny.  It wasn’t the Harley we eventually had to worry about.

A few years ago I wrote an article called “A Beautiful Scar.”  It chronicled the traumas my son had to face in one year.  The first one was an irregular heart beat so sever that the doctor he was seeing sent him to the ER.  A heart catherization later showed no damage to his heart or arteries, but he took  medicines for awhile.  He has since decided that he doesn’t need them.

Not long after that episode, he finally went to see a dermatologist about a spot on his nose that would not heal.  I thank God every day for my daughter-in-law, who insisted that Mike see about it.  I suspected that the spot was skin cancer, but I never dreamed that it was melanoma.  Thanks to his beautiful wife, the surgeon was able to get all of the cancer, and there has been no recurrence.  Things like that bring us to the reality of what is important.  Family.  There is nothing that outranks family.

Mike has done funny, hilarious things that we still laugh about, but one of the funniest was when he sat before a video camera and did a performance with a guitar, which he cannot play.   He began with his own version of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”  He can really sing!  Then he introduced his next “number,” and he lip-synced to Josh Turner’s lusty “Born to Be Your Man.”  He nailed it!  The only thing that gave him away was that he forgot to fret the guitar!   His daughter still threatens him with blackmail!

My son has been a source of joy, laughter, pride  and love.  He was a week away from being twenty-three when he got married.  He had lived in our home his whole life.  On his wedding day, Mike and I were the only ones left in the house. I stood before the vanity mirror,  putting on the final touch of makeup when he came in.

“Well, I’d better go,” he said.  I turned to him and threw my arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.  I could not stop the tears.

“Oh, Mike,” I said.  “I am so happy for you, and I know that you and Joyce are going to have a good life!  I love her, too!   But nothing will ever be the same again!”  He hugged me tightly.  “I love you so much!  Just be happy!”

Mike and Joyce 50th Wedding Anniversary, June 2009

“I love you, too, Mom,” he said; and he wiped tears from his eyes.  I forced a laugh.

“Now, go!  I’ll see you at the church.”

It was a beautiful wedding.  I will never forget the way they looked at each other as they exchanged their vows.  Within a few years they had a beautiful son and daughter, Scott Michael and Stephanie Lynette.  They built a lovely, two-story house when the baby was two years old, and now she is eighteen.  Both children are in college, and the nest is emptier than Mike and Joyce want.  Such is life.  They have weathered some hard times, some tragedies and illness; but  the good times and good years have far outweighed the not-so-good.  My son is the best father I have been privileged to know.  From the day their son and their daughter were born, he has said that being a dad is the most important thing in his life.

From left to right: Joyce, Michael, Scott, and Stephanie at Mom and Dad Carpenter's 50th Wedding Anniversary, June 2009

The greatest blessing I can hope for my son is that he live another forty or fifty years in good health, that he will be able to see his son and daughter have happy marriages, that he and Joyce will be able to live near five or six grandchildren and watch them grow to adulthood.  It is the very best scenario life has to offer.

There are days when I look at Michael and I get a tiny glimpse of what God must have felt  when He said, “This is my son.  In him I am well-pleased.” …….not that Mike can walk on water!  And not that he wouldn’t try!

Happy Birthday, Michael.

I lay there on the examining table, feet still in the stirrups position, and let the doctor’s words wash over me.  Four months earlier, I had miscarried at two months; so I was almost afraid to believe the doctor’s words.  There I was, still nineteen years old, married eight months, pregnant for the second time and scared to death.  It was mid-February, and I would be twenty on the twenty-seventh.

“Your baby should come around the fourteenth of September,” Dr. Kemper continued.  “We’ll get you set up with prenatal vitamins and monthly appointments.  Congratulations.”

My husband was less than happy when I told him my news.  Looking back, I can understand why he was even more scared than I was.  He farmed a couple hundred acres, but he didn’t really have a steady job.  My working was not even a consideration, for in those days, not many women worked outside their homes.  That poor, scared, twenty-two year old kid was terrified about supporting a new wife and now a new baby.

I was healthy, and the pregnancy progressed without complications.  Our baby girl came a few days earlier than the doctor predicted.  On September 7, 1960, she arrived, weighing in at six pounds, twelve and one-half ounces.  She was beautiful.

I thought I knew what love was.  I loved my parents, my brother and sister; and I adored my handsome husband, whom I had dated over three years before we were married.  I had carried and protected and loved my unborn baby, sometimes wrapping my arms around my abdomen and whispering to her.

But it wasn’t until she was placed in my arms that I realized what it was to love someone from the inside-out, head-to-toe, with a nearly heart-stopping, fierce, all-consuming, unconditional emotion than connot be described with one word: love.  But there it is.  There is no other word for it.  Love.

We named her Rebecca Lynne, a name we had chosen over all others.  It fit her.  It still fits her.  Rebecca has dignity, tradition, strength and can be shortened to Becky, which it has been.  Even at birth, she had her father’s big blue eyes, passed to him from his mother, and to her from her father.  Becky’s eyelashes were outrageous, even as baby.  They curled, just like Bambi’s!  She didn’t have much hair; but when it came in, it was naturally curly, blond and lovely.

He might not have been thrilled to learn that he was going to be a father, but when that little girl arrived, she wrapped herself around her daddy’s heart.  He became fiercely protective, not even wanting other children at church to breathe on her.  One of my sweetest memories is of him, shirtless, sitting in a rocker with his week-old daughter on his chest, her tiny fist curled into the mat of hair beneath her cheek.  She burrowed her little head into the warmth above her father’s beating heart; and she went to sleep, almost as if she knew he would always be there to protect her.

Becky was an easy child, obedient and loving.  She developed a love of music, especially for the piano, from the age of six, when she started her first lessons.  She excelled in school, but she worked at it, bringing a stack of books home with her most evenings, from early grade school through high school.

Then all of a sudden she was sixteen.  My obedient, loving little girl had turned into a boy-crazy (her words!) teenager!  She was never openly defiant.  Living in the country probaby had a lot to with that, for she lived too far from town to take off on foot!   There was only one boy who worried me, and he was the one she wanted!

Still, she and I both survived that time without bloodshed; and in the end, she made up her own mind about that boy.  He was not for her.  Time passed so swiftly.  Overnight it seemed, my little girl became engaged, then married and then the mother of two beautiful children, a boy and a girl.

During all that time, she was the organist for our church; and for a good many years, I was the pianist.  It was a joy for me to play with her for a good many years, communicating with each other across the platform, playing as one person.  She has a gift for directing musicals, choirs of young and old singers.  She gives it her all, pulling music out of people who don’t know they have it in them.

I have watched her struggle through some hard times, watched her make some difficult, heart-rending decisions; and she has come through them with a strength refined in the fire of life.   She is so strong that I sometimes stand back and watch in awe.  A weaker woman would have broken beneath some of the burdens.

At the age of twenty-one, she became a licensed investment broker, one of the youngest registered on Wall Street. For the past eight years, she has been co-manager, with Sherry Baker, of a Raymond James Investment office.  Last year, she and her business partner, Douglas Monical, purchased what was the original United States Post Office in Salem, Illinois.  Renovation as been ongoing for several months, and they are now established inside the building.  It is quite magnificent.

Life continues to be good for my daughter.  She is healthy, beautiful, with her long, chestnut-hued hair, and eyes so blue they rival October skies.  I am so proud of her, of her stamina, her strength, her determination, her talents and her faith in God.

My first child now has a married son and a six-year-old grandson.  Her daughter just graduated from college and is working toward her masters.  It is my greatest hope that I’ll be able to watch her blossom into even greater grace and beauty as she grows older.  It’s like watching petals of a rose open to reveal an even deeper hue of color.  She makes me smile, that Rebecca Lynne…not that I’m biased or anything like that.  I just know quality when I see it, and I admire strength and endurance, especially contained in small vessels. 

I love her…and that about says it all.

Scott Michael

Today, July 25th, is the twenty-first birthday of my second grandson.   His parents and grandparents eagerly awaited his arrival, but he took his time getting here.  After a long day of hard labor, his mother’s doctor decided that it would be best to deliver him by C-section.  His soon-to-be dad told us and Joyce’s parents that he would come get us when the baby was delivered.

I waited for several minutes before I decided that I could not let my son wait alone.  I told  the others that I would “be back,” and I went downstairs to the surgery wing of the hospital.  I rounded a corner and there on the floor, outside the operating room, sat my son, hands hanging limply across his knees.  The worry on his face broke my heart.

“They’ll be okay,” I told him.  “Everything’s going to be all right.”  It seemed like a long time, but it really wasn’t.  They came out and told Mike that he was the father of a baby boy and that both baby and mother were well.  They told him that the baby didn’t breathe right away, and that the doctors worked with him for about ten minutes before they were satisfied that the little guy was going to be fine.  It was a miraculous moment.   

 We called him ”Scottie” from birth, and now it’s okay to call him “Scott;” but sometimes we still revert to “Scottie.”  I have to stop myself from saying, “Scottie-wottie-doodle,” a name I devised for him when he was very little. I’m fairly certain it’s not one of his favorites.

Scott Michael, Age Nine

As a toddler, Scott was one of the most beautiful babies:  platinum blond hair, sweet little face, blue/green eyes and long lashes, and a smile that could twist your heart.  I often described him as “sparkling like a freshly-scrubbed penny,” he was so bright and cheerful.  He became a delightful little boy who played little league baseball, wrestled with his cousin, Zach, pestered and ran from his tempetuous little sister, Stephanie.

Scott Michael, Age 6 months

One afteroon, as Scott sat in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat, my husband nudged me.  “Look at Scott,” he said.  “He looks just like your dad.”  I glanced at that beautiful boy, and my heart turned over.  The three-quarter vision of his face was identical to my father, who died thirty-eight years before Scott’s birth.  A wonderful feeling of continuity enveloped me, a sign that we truly continue to live through our children and grandchildren, to infinity, as long as the world exists.

For a long time Scott would not stay overnight at our house, but he loved to stay at his other grandparents’ home.  He seemed to like being with us, and I enjoyed keeping him and, later, his little sister.  Then one day he told his parents why he wasn’t comfortable staying all night with us.  “Grandpa Donoho is big, and he could protect us if someone broke in,” he said, “but Grandpa Carpenter isn’t that big; and I’m not sure he could stop a bad guy!”   I was relieved, for I had been concerned that I was doing something wrong; and I had to laugh at Scott’s reasoning.  It made perfect sense to him!  Now he “house sits” for us when we leave, and he’s big and strong enough not to worry about “someone breaking in.”

Scott played basketball in grade school, and he was quite good.  However, he’d had enough of the “hoops,” and he gravitated to football in high school.  I don’t think we missed over one or two of his games; but I came to dread seeing “NUMBER 22″ run down the field, holding onto that pigskin with a death grip, trying to avoid all those bruisers who were intent on killing my grandson!  Scott loved it!  I asked him about all the bruises and scrapes and sprains, but he always shrugged them off.

Scott Michael, Age Two

“It’s fun, Grandma!” he said.  I shuddered.  He loved being a part of the team and he loved his teammates.  Only a few weeks after his high school graduation, one of those young teammates was killed in a tragic auto accicent.  We were not able to celebrate Scottie’s eighteenth birthday.  On that day, he was a pallbearer for his Wildcat teammate, Brandon, one of the hardest days of his young life.  It’s a day he will never be allowed to forget, not that he would ever want to forget.  Scott is loyal and steadfast.

I know that boys don’t want to be called beautiful, so I will say that Scott is a very handsome young man of medium height, hair not quite as blond as it once was, eyes that have become a stunning shade of green, and a smile that still twists my heart.  His laugh is a sound I never tire of hearing.  He still looks more like my dad, his great-grandfather, than any of my other grandchildren, or even my son.  I think he got a double-dose of Elliott genes.

Scott loves music, and he is a talented drummer.  He often plays in the praise team at church on Sunday mornings, and he has a strong faith in God.  He knows who he is and what he believes.  He is kind-hearted and gentle with children.  He loves his dad, adores his mother and is very protective of his younger sister, Stephanie. 

Scott will be a senior in college this fall.  I don’t yet know what he wants to do with his time on this planet, but I hope that it is something he will find fulfilling, something he will enjoy and find profitable.  He is a wonderful young man, steady, loving and compassionate.  There are not enough words to describe how proud of him I am. I wish I had been able to tell him that one day he would look around and discover the right girl, the perfect girl, one who had been right under his nose; but that did not happen.  I’m going to trust that she is out there, just waiting to be discovered.

Happy birthday, Scottie-wottie-doodle!  You give me a happy heart.

My son, Mike, was a couple years older than Joyce’s older brother, David; but the two boys were friends as they all grew up.  When Mike was fifteen, he complained to me one day that there were no “nice girls” in high school.  I assured him that there many nice girls, but he wasn’t having it.  I smiled and told him, “One of these days you’re going to look around and discover that Joyce Donoho is the prettiest little thing you have ever seen.”

“Aw, Mom!” he said.  “She’s just a kid!”  Well, he was right.  She was–then.  Time passed, and Mike dated a nice girl for a couple years.  Then the strangest thing happened.  Even though we and the Donohos attended the same church, and our families saw each other every weekend, Mike did a double-take one Sunday.

“Mom, have you noticed Joyce Donoho lately?” he asked me later.  “She’s really cute!”  I grinned.

“She’s always been cute,” I told him.  “In fact, she’s always been beautiful.”

“Yeah, but not like now!”  I bit my tongue until I swallowed blood, but I didn’t say “I told you so.”  At least, not then.  I just stood back and watched the explosion of fireworks. 

There were two problems: the other girlfriend and the fact that Joyce was still only fourteen years old, just entering her freshman year of high school, while Mike was nineteen, out of school and working.  She was not old enough to date.  It was fun to watch the suddenly renewed friendship between Mike and Joyce’s brother, David.  Mike broke up with the girlfriend, and he began to spend a lot of time at the Donoho house.

Boundaries were set by Joyce’s parents. There would be no dating until she was older, and Mike would have to be one patient young man.  Time proved that his intentions were nothing but honorable, and he gave Joyce an engagement ring for Christmas when she was a senior in high school.  Neither of them dated anyone else during those four “waiting years.”  In October after Joyce’s graduation, she and Mike were married in the church we had attended all those years.

It’s not every mother-in-law who can say that they whole-heartedly, unconditionally, love their daughter-in-law.  I can.  Joyce, MY ONLY BROWN-EYED GIRL, is my second daughter.  I love her with the same tenderness and passion I feel for my son and my daughter.  She is another part of me.

I didn’t think I could love her more, but with the births of their son, Scott, and then their daughter, Stephanie, three years later, I discovered that love just grows and becomes more binding.  Their children are grown now, Scott almost twenty-one and Stephanie is eighteen.  Mike and Joyce will celebtrate their twenty-fifth anniversay in October.

For the most part, life for them has been good.  The single most tragic event for them, for all of us, was the sudden death of Joyce’s brother, David, at the age of thirty-seven.  I held her in my arms that day, and I wanted more than anything to take away the pain and sorrow of that terrible loss; but I could not.  Some things we just have to struggle through the best way we can.  My son told me that David had been the only brother he would ever have.  He grieved for his wife’s loss, as well as his own.  All they could do was cling to each other; and time has strengthened them.

Joyce is even more beautiful than she was twenty years ago.  Her dark-toned skin is honey-colored, and her hair has gold glints among the darker strands.  Her deep brown eyes glow with humor, but they can glisten with anger, too.  She managed to train the sloppy tendencies right out of my son shortly after they got married; and he turned into a house-proud young man, capable of cleaning like a pro.

Joyce is a talented homemaker and cook, a wonderful, devoted mother to her son and daughter; and she still loves her husband, my son, with the same fierceness and territorial passion as when they were first married.  She has a quick wit and delicious sense of humor. While she managed her home, she held a job and advanced to a position of authority in her career.  She is one fantastic young woman, and I remain happy and pround that I can call her my daughter-in-law.  Both my children were blond, blue-eyed babies; and I am forfunate to have been given Joyce, my brown-eyed girl.

On July 2, I wish her a happy birthday, with the hope and faith that she will enjoy at least fifty more with her husband, her children and whatever grandchildren may be waiting out there in the future to “rise up and call her blessed.”

I certainly do.

Drs. Joseph Ready (from left), Jef De Brabander, Andrew Pieper and Steven McKnight discovered a compound that boosts learning and memory in rodents.

DALLAS – July 8, 2010 – UT Southwestern Medical Center researchers have found a compound that preserves newly created brain cells and boosts learning and memory in an animal study.

The study of this compound, which appears in the July 9 issue of Cell, springs from a $2.5 million National Institutes of Health Director’s Pioneer Award to Dr. Steven McKnight, chairman of biochemistry at UT Southwestern and senior author of the study. 

Over a three-year period, the research team led by Dr. McKnight and Dr. Andrew Pieper, assistant professor of psychiatry and biochemistry at UT Southwestern, screened 1,000 individual molecules to see which ones might enhance the production of neurons in the adult mouse hippocampus, a region of the brain critical to learning and memory. The scientists found that one of the compounds, called P7C3, achieved this by protecting newborn neurons from dying.

The researchers then administered P7C3 to “knockout” mice lacking a gene that controls the generation of new neurons in the hippocampus. Humans who lack this gene have a variety of learning disabilities, and the “knockout” rodents show related abnormalities as well as a poorly formed hippocampus. When the “knockout” mouse received P7C3, however, normal structure and function of the hippocampus were restored.

In elderly rats, which characteristically show a decline in the birth and formation of hippocampal neurons, the researchers found that P7C3 increased both the birth and survival of new neurons, and the memory and learning capability of the aged rats.

“It’s been a wonderful experience,” Dr. Pieper said. “At first there was a lot of doubt, because we could have gone through the whole screen and found nothing.”

The researchers currently are studying the mechanism by which P7C3 protects cells from dying, and whether it might have any protective effect in other models of neurodegenerative disease.

“We don’t know yet whether P7C3 can block the death of mature nerve cells, which is what occurs in humans with these conditions,” Dr. McKnight said.

Dr. McKnight was one of the first 12 recipients of the NIH Director’s Pioneer Award, which is designed to allow researchers to pursue risky experiments that have the potential for producing highly innovative results.

“When I received the award, I thought ‘I’m not going to waste it on something safe – I’m going to go for it. That’s what the NIH expected of me and my team,’ ” Dr. McKnight said. “I’d like to give the NIH credit for betting on ‘cowboy’ science. If this pans out, it will be the most useful contribution of my career.”

Dr. Francis Collins, director of the NIH, said Dr. McKnight’s results exactly fit the award’s purpose.

“The NIH Director’s Pioneer Award gives highly innovative investigators the freedom to pursue bold new avenues of research. Such approaches can yield substantial payoffs, as in the case of the exciting clinical implications of Professor McKnight’s basic neurobiological research discovery,” Dr. Collins said.

Other UT Southwestern researchers involved in the study were Dr. Jeffrey Long and Shanhai Xie, both research scientists in biochemistry; graduate students Ginger Becker, Emanuela Capota, Ching-Han Shen and Kerstin Ure; Sandi Jo Estill, research associate in biochemistry; Jeannie Zhong, research scientist in psychiatry; Paula Huntington, research associate in psychiatry; medical student Shauna Goldman; Maria Capota and Jeremiah Britt, both research technicians in psychiatry; Dr. Tiina Kotti, assistant professor of molecular genetics; Dr. Noelle Williams, associate professor of biochemistry; Dr. Karen MacMillan, assistant instructor of biochemistry; Jacinth Naidoo, research assistant in biochemistry; Lisa Melito, research associate in biochemistry; Dr. Jenny Hsieh, assistant professor of molecular biology; Dr. Jef De Brabander, professor of biochemistry; and Dr. Joseph Ready, associate professor of biochemistry.

Dr. Daniel Brat of Emory University School of Medicine also participated in the study.

In addition to the NIH, the study also was funded by The Hartwell Foundation, NARSAD, the Staglin Family Fund, the UT Southwestern High Risk/High Impact research program, the Morton H. Meyerson Family Tzedakah Fund, the Simons Foundation and an anonymous donor who has supported Dr. McKnight’s research for 15 years.

Try to grind your own if possible

In an effort to make aging a little more “fun,” I’ve come up with a list of magic foods that have special nutrients and chemicals unique to those foods.   I started by trying to find recipes with turmeric because there are some researchers and doctors who swear by it.  They say that turmeric helps to keep the circulatory system in good shape.  Since turmeric is a spice and not an expensive drug or supplement, I thought I’d give it a try.  However, the recipe must use at least a teaspoon of turmeric; I like the taste of it, but not that much.  So I started to look for flavors that could make a teaspoon of turmeric taste, well,  not so turmeric-y.

What I found instead was a small group of other foods and spices that are either good for a particlur body function or aid in the digestion of the other special foods (e.g. pineapple and black pepper).

When you look at the list, the first thing you may say is: “John, coconut milk is not good for you for it has saturated fat!”  Well, there’s an argument that not all saturated fat is the same.  I won’t go into it here; but please, by all means do your own research. (Search for:  “short and medium chain saturated fat.”)

So, here’s the challenge: create a recipe that tastes good and uses as many of the magic ingredients as possible! 

1. Turmeric
2. Pineapple
3. Coconut milk (not coconut juice)
4. Bananas
5. Cauliflower
6. Ginger
7. Almonds
8. Basil
9. Tomatoes
10. Black Pepper
11. Garlic
12. Carrots

Here’s a head start:

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/ginger-almonds-recipe/index.html

 Good luck and let us know what you come up with!

Barb’s cousin:  John

spice photo by: Gavin Bell

In the early afternoon, my daughter, Becky, and I met her daughter, Jessica, her son, Nick, his wife, Karissa, and their six-year-old son, Caden, at the Science Center in St. Louis, MO.  They had just come from a great morning at the St. Louis zoo and lunch at the California Pizza Kitchen in the Galleria Mall.  Some wonderful exhibits were on display at the Center, but our goal was the Omnimax showing of the Hubble Telescope Satellite.

I had seen photos and online pictures, but nothing had prepared me for the “in-your-face” experiences of the launch, the repair and images transported back to earth from outer space.  I think I murmured, “Oh, my!”  and “Wow!” often.  It was an incredible experience, and I recommend it with unabashed exuberance!  How’s that for an endorsement?

After the show, our group wandered around the Science Center, playing with computers and games and being amazed at the possibilites in the world.  I did a lot of people-watching, being entertained by the diversity and attire of said people!  There must be a lack of mirrors in many bed/bathrooms!  I think it was the poet, Robert Burns, who wrote (paraphrased here) that the greatest gift the gods could give us is to ”see ourselves as others see us.”   I would have to add a hearty “amen.”

From the Center, we drove to a district in St Louis called “The Hill.”  It’s one of my favorite communities: many Italian restaurants, various shops, lots of row houses and small dwellings set close together, bits of lawns that show loving care and colorful flowers, among them, multiple bushes of incredible hydrangeas.  There is a real sense of community on The Hill.  People gather on front porches and enjoy the summer evening and neighbors.  Driving slowly along the streets brought memories of other summers, childhood days I spent in the small town of Arcola, IL, many years ago.  The Hill invokes recollections of days from another era.

Our favorite restaurant on The Hill is Mama Campisi’s.  Small, located on a corner, it is owned and operated by the most delightful man.   Very tall and thin, he must have the world’s most aggressive metabolism if he indulges in the mouth-watering food he prepares in his restaurant!  That evening, entertainment was provided by a wandering vocalist who sang a variety of songs quite well.  At one point, he offered a small, pink teddybear to Caden, who shook his head.

“Bring me a blue one, and I’ll take it!” he told the singer, who didn’t miss a note.  Within a few minutes, he returned with a brown bear; and Caden graciously received it.  Shortly after our waitress took our orders, the tall man appeared.  He fixed stern eyes on Caden.

“I bet a dollar that before you leave here, I’ll have that bear,” he said.  Caden kind of shrunk into himself for a moment before he slowly shook his head.

“No way,” he replied; and he clutched the bear close to his chest.  The man pointed his finger at Caden and went about his business.  We dined well, but we were running short of time.  Becky, Jess and I had to be at the arena on Washington University’s campus to catch an eight o’clock show, and it was nearing seven-thirty.  Jessica ordered four tiramisu to go home with her brother; and our bill was brought to us.

The tall man reappeared, looked at Caden’s empty chair, looked beneath his chair and all over the table.  He spoke to Caden, who by now was on his daddy’s lap.  “I know!” he said.  “You’ve stashed that bear in someone’s purse!”

“Caden, I think he owes you a dollar!” I told the little boy.  The man, still unsmiling, walked away.

“Caden,” Jessica whispered.  “Tell him you’ll trade the dollar for his tiramisu recipe!”  Already in the spirit of the game, Caden nodded; and when the man returned, Caden made his proposition.  A smile lingered at the corners of the tall man’s mouth.

“Tell  you what,” he said.  He took a business card from his pocket and wrote on it.  “You email me at this address, and I’ll send you the recipe.”  He offered his hand to Caden, and they shook, like true gentlemen.  He looked at Caden’s parents.  “Can I have him for forty seconds?  I’ll bring him right back.”

After the slightest hesitation, we all agreed it was fine for Caden to go with the owner of the restaurant to the kitchen.  “I don’t believe this!” Jessica exclaimed.  “I’ve been trying to get him to give me that recipe for years!  He wouldn’t even talk to me about it!”

I had to laugh at the indignation in her big blue eyes.  The restaurant’s owner returned Caden in less than the forty seconds, and in Caden’s hand was the biggest popsicle I have ever seen.  It must have been two feet long!

“This young man will be in college before you know it,” the man told us.  “He will do well.  He has good manners, and he’s very intelligent.” He addressed  Caden.  “Young man, no video games for the rest of the weekend!  Go home and read a book!  Read lots of books.  Don’t waste your time on those video games!”

He thanked us, and we thanked him for the meal and for a delightful evening.  Nick, Karissa and Caden headed for home, and Becky, Jessica and I headed for the show at the arena.  In the car, Jess changed from her zoo clothes to a pair of white slacks and a black top, which sent all of us into giggles.  Both Becky and I were dressed in combinations of black and white, unintentionally choosing the same colors.  It must be genetic!

We arrived at the arena, parked our car on Washington street across from the park-like grounds in the middle of St. Louis, and barely got to the theater  in time for the performance to start.  It was packed!  Thousands of people (many women dressed in combos of black and white!) were already in their seats to witness the summer’s hottest pair of controversial newspeople, Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck of Fox News.

The next two hours were filled with some of the most titillating give and take I have ever witnessed!  What the three of us watched and participated in deserves its own post, so I will close this one and try to do justice to O’Reilly and Beck on another post, but not today.  I will end with this:  As we crossed the street to our car, the crowds of people and cars were directed by traffic officers.  Several young men on bicycles, all of them shirtless and tatooed, were stopped, waiting for their turn.

“Hey, let’s go protest Glenn Beck!” one of them shouted.  My first reaction was “What’s the matter with you!  These men are the only media people who will tell us the truth!”  My daughter calmed me down with the following words.

“Mom, isn’t it wonderful that they can protest if they want to?  Isn’t it wonderful that in this country, we still have that right?”   I deferred to my daughter’s wisdom and we drove home.  As I said at the beginning of this post, it was a wonderful day.  When I finally crawled into bed after midnight, I thanked God for all of it, for my family, for freedom, for liberty…and for the most comfortable bed in the world!

During a brief span between wet and dry seasons, when the water level is just right, the many varieties of algae and moss bloom in a dazzling display of colors.

Without any roads leading to this river, it must be accessed by horse.

Becblog 1: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 2: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 3: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 4: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 5: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 6: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 7: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 8: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

Becblog 9: Caño Cristales near La Macarena in Columbia

The information in the message is factual and the photographs are genuine. The river shown in the photographs is the Caño Cristales, which is located near the town of La Macarena in Columbia , South America . The river, world famous for its colourful display, has been called “the river that ran away to paradise”, “the most beautiful river in the world” and “the river of five colours”.

 During Colombia ‘s wet season, the water flows fast and deep, obscuring the bottom of the river and denying the mosses and algae that call the river home the sun that they need. And during the dry season there is not enough water to support the dazzling array of life in the river. But during a brief span between the wet and dry seasons, when the water level is just right, the many varieties of algae and moss bloom in a dazzling display of colors. Blotches of amarillo , blue, green, black, and red – and a thousand shades in between – coat the river.