tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056726967594213562024-03-14T10:27:18.808-07:00Musing Over My OatmealRandom thoughts and radical whimsyJane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-17520248020113083272023-08-23T08:40:00.000-07:002023-08-23T08:40:57.765-07:00On Being 78<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf_E3un17Uwonv0M1kkV159fWNRyWSY1AtQxkd5mwYCu8K1z5UF5lb3sxb32jQ6PjBhEeSvcCZd3EHq2N6VWwBbwJvZmo5ueYSwJVup6A3LqgAMBpLjS0jb_Iy-HSqN3hnX1aezZR5TB6oaaorYNom9BxjZ9mWIhVzHKFcU3uqvW3zDAgAAJGnuhtsGA/s967/Jane%20at%20Pepsico%20cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="792" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf_E3un17Uwonv0M1kkV159fWNRyWSY1AtQxkd5mwYCu8K1z5UF5lb3sxb32jQ6PjBhEeSvcCZd3EHq2N6VWwBbwJvZmo5ueYSwJVup6A3LqgAMBpLjS0jb_Iy-HSqN3hnX1aezZR5TB6oaaorYNom9BxjZ9mWIhVzHKFcU3uqvW3zDAgAAJGnuhtsGA/w164-h200/Jane%20at%20Pepsico%20cropped.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>All the while<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I lean closer to hear what a friend is saying<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I take the steps one foot at a time<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I squint to read the fine print<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I search for the name of a favorite writer<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"> or the name of
that beautiful blossom<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I consider the fact that my father never reached this age </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I celebrate<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I am here.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I feel well despite two bouts of cancer<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I no longer hesitate before striking up a conversation
with a stranger<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I am still writing--even some stuff that’s pretty good<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I take time every morning to check in with myself,
the world, the birds</p>that, though I have lost many friends, the circle keeps
widening<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">that I still challenge myself to try things I thought I
couldn’t do</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">like dancing or traveling to France by myself. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />Yes, I am growing old</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">But I'm still growing!<o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-74749824933145887212023-05-19T06:29:00.000-07:002023-05-19T06:29:32.997-07:00Writing Implements<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLcGSJmUzkpslQaC6f2Jvg9K98g6Oz3RxkPNN9omKdqArLv8bGwCVr_S4kIN9ntHqZTt3jKIiYNQ3FgI_7LzA99mauJv_3QEvrfub5apNJwhthLYNrzDvrrOdcbhHzCm1myAVY5-N0ripEEs4xSuTo6pbmiXQj3C_IbQPl5qV0hbWMsta2amrxqUm/s3115/pencils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3115" data-original-width="2495" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLcGSJmUzkpslQaC6f2Jvg9K98g6Oz3RxkPNN9omKdqArLv8bGwCVr_S4kIN9ntHqZTt3jKIiYNQ3FgI_7LzA99mauJv_3QEvrfub5apNJwhthLYNrzDvrrOdcbhHzCm1myAVY5-N0ripEEs4xSuTo6pbmiXQj3C_IbQPl5qV0hbWMsta2amrxqUm/s320/pencils.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Somedays</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">they are not there--</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">those tiny pieces of graphite </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span> </span><span> </span>with inspiration attached.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Somedays</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">after you've ground down the pencil</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">to its last grain of darkness</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">it's better to try</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">a leaky pen.</span></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-91695543462099749722023-04-26T09:47:00.001-07:002023-04-26T09:47:58.787-07:00The Sister I Never Met<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1sYQQOYC0G8TnfgQC_yHTCkPonP_SD1EIrKTssmvHgAVjmIyyERXP-tt3AwZylOdOjY7ezoHVeP8KvVALu7cd8f7HkVKG6yMOfalmNZSUqtdwyc5f5Va3JawONA_R4CdJBq9g0RCvGOsJTCZUauCbg-in-eWuyze2kz3fhYZXW73HIqlVqD95Dv5/s846/Rose%20Grave%20rev.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="737" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1sYQQOYC0G8TnfgQC_yHTCkPonP_SD1EIrKTssmvHgAVjmIyyERXP-tt3AwZylOdOjY7ezoHVeP8KvVALu7cd8f7HkVKG6yMOfalmNZSUqtdwyc5f5Va3JawONA_R4CdJBq9g0RCvGOsJTCZUauCbg-in-eWuyze2kz3fhYZXW73HIqlVqD95Dv5/w174-h200/Rose%20Grave%20rev.jpg" width="174" /></a></div>Her name was Carolyn May—named for our two
grandmothers—Carrie Rose Schneeloch and May Reid Gilpin. August 5, 1943, marked
both the date of her birth and the date of her death. She arrived full term, but
was never able to take in that first breath. <div><br /></div><div>She was buried in a tiny casket in
the Rose family plot in Oak Grove Cemetery. Her name was never engraved on the
granite stone beneath which already rested our Rose great-grandparents, Great Aunt Lottie, and Grandma's first husband Joseph Roberts. Later Grandma and Grandpa Schneeloch would join them. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I was born two years after Carolyn, my mother would talk about
her, and I began to think of her as the perfect sister that I would never measure up to. Carolyn
never would have painted the new wallpaper with shoe polish, Carolyn never
would have knocked out Mother’s front tooth with a tuna fish can, Carolyn never
would have cut a hole in Ann McGinity’s red sweater. Never having lived to make
mistakes, she remained free from blame. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I grew and heard more of my mother’s story, I gained a
better perspective. When I was about two years old, she became depressed, and not understanding these feelings or where they were coming from, she talked to Dr. Leff, our family
doctor. He suggested that perhaps what she was experiencing was grief that she hadn’t dealt with over
losing her first baby. He comforted her as best he could and encouraged her to
find something that brought happy thoughts.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="83" data-original-width="318" height="83" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9j0fVK-EASq2HhIES-0dkRYzSxhvow4y7trnJVS-MknbrTe0P1uqiGocNkJ8l3cn8HxLqPs86X3I0SdBLW-kRgmbbKS4Q4qp6DQhHh0kIp3Yh3F-dpLukVAivZVOM6ft8wZY21JhgmmzPMEXvkyYTuWzmONsZKYp0xYNrAKPVpC42jGD3XXCmz1d/s1600/smile%20lyrics.png" width="318" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div>She chose singing. She had
always loved to sing, so she began to use this as therapy, starting to sing
whenever the dark mood would come upon her. Her repertoire was extensive ranging from Irving Berlin to Nat King Cole to Methodist hymns. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t until she was in her nineties that she told me
more details about Carolyn. It had been1943, in the middle of World War II.
Nurses were scarce, many having volunteered for the service. It was her first
pregnancy, so she relied on her sister Gertrude who, by that time, was the
mother of five boys. Gertrude’s pregnancies and births were free from complications,
so she thought that’s what she could expect. Other friends at the time had hired
private nurses to be with them as they knew the hospitals were short-staffed,
but she decided against it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After she arrived at the hospital, it soon became apparent that there was a problem. The nurse on duty was tending to other mothers, so that when she finally came and called for the doctor, the baby had been in distress too long to survive.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Here it was seventy years later, yet her feelings of guilt were still fresh.
All those years she had lived believing that had she hired a nurse, had she
done something different, she could have saved her child. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I had never heard this part of the story before, did not full appreciated the scar it had left. To me, my mother was a happy and optimistic person, always trying to look on the bright side of life. Perhaps all that singing had worked its magic.</p><p class="MsoNormal">because she continued smiling and singing until the very end.</p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIjEdE_u4Kn_4U-DTJ2kUEMrTyUih6vlz0Rlww6Z5MXpagG8HChW-hem3H8ACbN961pRVfNyjXYgI82s9uLLSAtE7otD_cgLmEu0qL3nEK4bS-ljgQV0sCYSD2p03JEMRPmB28Paq0QdeqwnywC3n6Ivooox9PF0KTXmKVQfizdHKmvu4gBByCDHJ/s347/smile%20lyrics%202.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="137" data-original-width="347" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIjEdE_u4Kn_4U-DTJ2kUEMrTyUih6vlz0Rlww6Z5MXpagG8HChW-hem3H8ACbN961pRVfNyjXYgI82s9uLLSAtE7otD_cgLmEu0qL3nEK4bS-ljgQV0sCYSD2p03JEMRPmB28Paq0QdeqwnywC3n6Ivooox9PF0KTXmKVQfizdHKmvu4gBByCDHJ/w320-h126/smile%20lyrics%202.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /></div>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-33673103157925291462022-05-28T09:52:00.000-07:002022-05-28T09:52:45.807-07:00Remembering Sonny on Memorial Day<span style="font-family: arial;">Sonny was all I ever heard him called, though officially he was George Gilpin, Jr., son of my Great Uncle George. I never met him as he died two years before I was born, but my mother, aunt, and cousin Ruth used to talk about him a lot, recalling stories of when my mother went to Atlantic City to babysit for him and his sister Alice and the times they enjoyed at the beach. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">But mostly what they talked about was how First Lieutenant George Gilpin, Jr. was killed, shot down over Africa in World War II. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">As a child I didn’t fully comprehend the grief that they shared. They talked about a lot of other relatives I had never met. They were just names to me then. It wasn’t until I started working on my family tree that I began to understand who he was and the tragedy of his story. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>First I found the pictures of the boy they had known: the laughing boy lifted high as he played<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6KhI7QGTVsxh8WqRoy9Ic_rEWz5PeS7llRVlOgBxljBSsaUmylnDc3h1415aO36WR7ok9NMlvQSaNqAxBEbtGPZQ53UxWp-t14bWYtiKrrC8r0EPyKI3EcFSlk5BLX9HX-Eox_7gnUsQENN7jWLrE4Spami78LUC9iCPW2N5j2xJ-GGTithsHMYU/s1411/sonny%202%20pics.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1411" data-original-width="367" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6KhI7QGTVsxh8WqRoy9Ic_rEWz5PeS7llRVlOgBxljBSsaUmylnDc3h1415aO36WR7ok9NMlvQSaNqAxBEbtGPZQ53UxWp-t14bWYtiKrrC8r0EPyKI3EcFSlk5BLX9HX-Eox_7gnUsQENN7jWLrE4Spami78LUC9iCPW2N5j2xJ-GGTithsHMYU/w83-h320/sonny%202%20pics.png" width="83" /></a></div>at the beach, the young fisherman standing at attention presaging what was to come not ten years later. Here was a real flesh and blood person who was loved and lovable. Here was a happy boy who became a serious and patriotic man who enlisted in the Army at 19 a month before Pearl Harbor. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I imagine Uncle George and Aunt Olga were apprehensive as their only son enlisted, but I can't imagine their unbearable grief when they received the awful news about his death--painful news that spread throughout the family.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I had never asked where Sonny was buried, just imagining he was buried in Atlantic City. Then one day as I was perusing military records, I found not only a record of his burial but a picture of his grave. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There was his memorial, just one white cross in row upon row of crosses in</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> Africa American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia. He had never made it home. </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Not only had Sonny and his tragedy become real to me, but then I thought of all the other families who had received the same unbearable news. All those young souls, full of life, silenced too soon. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">So on this weekend when we lift up all those who have given their lives, I remember Sonny and all the others, like college friends who were killed in Vietnam, and so many others gone too soon.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE36hiNTZtfPcsY-xf5JY1V6ucSOePOV-r89uaWe25I0_Rslffxy1FX2wesZ8PhJqnHPvXLAzQuH-NcRrHRahlx74lInCYeQDHk1xN6U44F9hY_Az3JAxSbsFTJLXVQj3hKuwIewwgO-asLz4mX5_PvkAi8imYhovUp7xHs-yd2GiqPt_0SSOUiIGb/s1300/sonny%20gilpin%20grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE36hiNTZtfPcsY-xf5JY1V6ucSOePOV-r89uaWe25I0_Rslffxy1FX2wesZ8PhJqnHPvXLAzQuH-NcRrHRahlx74lInCYeQDHk1xN6U44F9hY_Az3JAxSbsFTJLXVQj3hKuwIewwgO-asLz4mX5_PvkAi8imYhovUp7xHs-yd2GiqPt_0SSOUiIGb/w394-h640/sonny%20gilpin%20grave.jpg" width="394" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-11147325550469355342022-02-04T10:04:00.000-08:002022-02-04T10:04:48.485-08:00Angels, etc.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiit09WYdXqQkutRzCQVMd3Xd8C6Vqf42H3C6IfY2sAreZAXN1lAawYQvs1-nxn9IkeJjl7wAGihSxbI6paiLkWwv1SAGyH_r-FthlFIr-cpQWLtpWBkaOrAKV_3ExF-79QRy3_bVeomHiyw3gWk6VETkQwbcLZtyfq9Rv0S_KB02Di4nhfd8gftrJD=s320" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="248" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiit09WYdXqQkutRzCQVMd3Xd8C6Vqf42H3C6IfY2sAreZAXN1lAawYQvs1-nxn9IkeJjl7wAGihSxbI6paiLkWwv1SAGyH_r-FthlFIr-cpQWLtpWBkaOrAKV_3ExF-79QRy3_bVeomHiyw3gWk6VETkQwbcLZtyfq9Rv0S_KB02Di4nhfd8gftrJD=w155-h200" width="155" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">I was just listening to a program about the late <a href="https://rachelheldevans.com/">Rachel Held Evans</a> who became well known
as someone who came from a very conservative Evangelical home, but who began to
question the literalism of the Bible and wrote about this in a blog and several
books before she died very suddenly in her 30s. While she became very popular
nationally, the strict Evangelicals around her were very critical. Much of that
criticism fell upon her father who taught, among other things, a course on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_angelology">Angelology</a> at
Bryan College, the college named for William Jennings Bryan, famous for helping
in the prosecution of John Scopes in the famous Scopes Monkey Trial. I had
never heard of Angelology before, and I’ve never been a real believer in
angels. Now I’m really curious about what the curriculum is. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>Disagreements about angels and such are not new. In 1765 poet William Blake<span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> saw his first vision of angels while walking on Peckham Rye. "A tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars." </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He returned home to share his thrilling experience with his parents to be met by threats of belt lashings from his furious father, who thought he was lying. His mother interceded, saving William from a whipping.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZcNgRY2318XT2PjV_ClDL9r6mcrR84ZWLVGWFM5NbvSGukunM5SekEONelc3e5YUKVWPyoqLlDfgZ9LachMa7CTfhHpaATal5UL-XlvVNpNyAW3ffFJeUSvGSkqSRmk3o0IZJ1Bk0ESxK3ZcI1Bec-nQnkRlU2ZaMJuiGODNGTDz_myO3RnN2Vn-g=s415" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="345" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZcNgRY2318XT2PjV_ClDL9r6mcrR84ZWLVGWFM5NbvSGukunM5SekEONelc3e5YUKVWPyoqLlDfgZ9LachMa7CTfhHpaATal5UL-XlvVNpNyAW3ffFJeUSvGSkqSRmk3o0IZJ1Bk0ESxK3ZcI1Bec-nQnkRlU2ZaMJuiGODNGTDz_myO3RnN2Vn-g=w166-h200" width="166" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">My Great Aunt Corinne would tell stories of angels whenever
she came to visit. The one I remember best was about the time her granddaughter
Bonnie had wandered out into a busy street and was about to be hit by a
speeding car when an angel came and whisked her out of the way. I was probably
7 or 8 when I heard this, but even then I had doubts about unseen spirits
jumping into traffic to rescue children. It wasn’t until years later that I
began to ask about the innocent children who weren’t saved. Did they not have a
guardian angel? And if not, why not? Still I am not so cynical that I don’t
believe that there are things that defy logical explanation, and I believe
there is a greater reality than that which we can see and measure.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My mother has been dead nearly 14 years, and my father 32,
yet sometimes just as I am waking up, I sense their presence. Also when I’m
working on my family tree, exploring the lives of people who died long before I
was born, I feel a connection beyond a date and a name on a page. Like Ruth
Forman, I feel surrounded by souls.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHn-GLO71C5u_Fz93Vx9r3r6645tjiBaCPTY14NEpYSEvnIbyWeAzp7TAVRIAqIy7iw51zypfg8QqNFU4UBBzxwEULRlFMsOBlHJsd-V_Gg75uN7YHtJ3OSE-gCPuOlvWv9EG6itk7ON5muHaf0s_0NJ9Xaw42d50LmYX1FnArqLyQWN0sQGcLP8nW=s850" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="850" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHn-GLO71C5u_Fz93Vx9r3r6645tjiBaCPTY14NEpYSEvnIbyWeAzp7TAVRIAqIy7iw51zypfg8QqNFU4UBBzxwEULRlFMsOBlHJsd-V_Gg75uN7YHtJ3OSE-gCPuOlvWv9EG6itk7ON5muHaf0s_0NJ9Xaw42d50LmYX1FnArqLyQWN0sQGcLP8nW=w200-h132" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Last night I watched a <a href="https://www.kpbs.org/news/2022/01/21/nova-ancient-maya-metropolis">Nova</a>
program on the ancient Mayans. I found it fascinating. I imagine those
archeologists finding fragments of a 1000-year-old cup covered with Mayan
hieroglyphs must have felt something similar. Someone more than a 1000 years
ago painted the story of a war on the cup, and now people in the 21<sup>st</sup>
century were reading it and making a connection to these old, old souls.<br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">While I feel these non-physical connections, there is a
surety that Dr. Held and Aunt Corinne have that I envy.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-47692526063883427842022-01-07T10:49:00.000-08:002022-01-07T10:49:23.993-08:00Snowy Morning Wanderer<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb11bYYnlyfOGGyiHIQbcEVaKMa6X0zLzPgglakzzG9SgGbKTgEwzH_hME37PVZP_87t-DGpBeoUewKLaynzYXuHcuTS1Is5DYljxhN7tMO-e86kMAmb2tlOrPWth-TQjhKIw1UY0zEAv0YJh1e8Q979v3OJZODDOPNAyNan9dBmRrg0-EPoMx5KCe=s760" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="612" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb11bYYnlyfOGGyiHIQbcEVaKMa6X0zLzPgglakzzG9SgGbKTgEwzH_hME37PVZP_87t-DGpBeoUewKLaynzYXuHcuTS1Is5DYljxhN7tMO-e86kMAmb2tlOrPWth-TQjhKIw1UY0zEAv0YJh1e8Q979v3OJZODDOPNAyNan9dBmRrg0-EPoMx5KCe=w161-h200" width="161" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On this white white morning<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">not the blue jay, nor the cardinal<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">have camouflage,<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">nor the large black cat<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">who appears from time to time.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I see a faded red collar.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Who would have left her out<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">in such weather?<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then I remember Patsy<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a sturdy feline, a gift on my seventh birthday<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">who wandered off on a similar winter day.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When he did not return<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I knew my first desertion<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the pain of offering my love and devotion<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">to another being<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">whom I could not control.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW_attocFzoHVNmQ1mRtNSvQ9MNhk7lQK0Ptg2AWAtmEcHxi79t51IXd-ZTgmP5tXuw3bar3-Y8Rxa45oMKWKZkEYupCOthkq9Wu0Y_5KafvUIU7zqthY3Av6gW0iKvCvnGqMOAIrPEjUREHODBQtEjHQBgGfwFINDqIxGplGUrUBj9PQsnItjQal0=s574" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="501" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW_attocFzoHVNmQ1mRtNSvQ9MNhk7lQK0Ptg2AWAtmEcHxi79t51IXd-ZTgmP5tXuw3bar3-Y8Rxa45oMKWKZkEYupCOthkq9Wu0Y_5KafvUIU7zqthY3Av6gW0iKvCvnGqMOAIrPEjUREHODBQtEjHQBgGfwFINDqIxGplGUrUBj9PQsnItjQal0=w174-h200" width="174" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A week later<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">when he ambled back home<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">appearing well and well-fed,<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">what had I learned?<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That those we love can break our hearts?<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">or<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that cats will do as they please?</span><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"></h2><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-75240723788424162562021-08-22T10:49:00.003-07:002021-08-22T10:50:36.213-07:00Hair Conditions<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> I admit it--I am vain. At the first sign of gray hair, I began visiting Claire, my hairdresser, every six weeks for a "cut and color." Now after a year of cancer treatments, I have very little hair and all of it some shade of gray. It's easy to take care of, and I'm saving on shampoo and conditioner, but I wish it were longer and closer to its previous color.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Of course, aside from washing my face and brushing my teeth, I don't have to look at myself, so it's easy not to think about it. Then yesterday, I got the good news that one of my poems was accepted for publication. The bad news is they want a "head shot."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Which Jane should I send?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Jane of a year ago?</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqyl6dZlP93Gx3XTMMi7gUDfj0gSGpCcJUnaypen4D7nrqM-hpTvc3h1gpSb8JJY2Jom7tbba-WLZaAVz8_M0IGlxDGldEdkTiU9aYGrZOR9KVyPx8JU7mIJQmkJCkzkAaCrf_Dto1hc/s371/Jane+in+Sox+shirt+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="231" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqyl6dZlP93Gx3XTMMi7gUDfj0gSGpCcJUnaypen4D7nrqM-hpTvc3h1gpSb8JJY2Jom7tbba-WLZaAVz8_M0IGlxDGldEdkTiU9aYGrZOR9KVyPx8JU7mIJQmkJCkzkAaCrf_Dto1hc/w124-h200/Jane+in+Sox+shirt+crop.jpg" width="124" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJP1A2rX8-Phq72MH2XWV6Ys5HW9Ya4p2JbRhr3AUweUEcedXjLNGXbAaViCWh6OCKwvTTWHmJd6lk3mrVgQKxw45kV_DNfWcTQJ9KCUcHj5oQ1AT-ySKZFu7TrEAgmXQT1PzH2s8W6M/s640/fuzzy+jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJP1A2rX8-Phq72MH2XWV6Ys5HW9Ya4p2JbRhr3AUweUEcedXjLNGXbAaViCWh6OCKwvTTWHmJd6lk3mrVgQKxw45kV_DNfWcTQJ9KCUcHj5oQ1AT-ySKZFu7TrEAgmXQT1PzH2s8W6M/s640/fuzzy+jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Bald Jane</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Fx7dA7E_ZMhlh4S6kAWtyJ4BQ2lCdBYIkbGhMTafL-SegihmON3f3KH1jXOdBSaX1YijDHKZqKIIy30N3L5FHLsDBFDML3UoNm7Nuos1IBUOtS1oD_jrEashaLWIWWl62uWnBm1M_BA/s312/bald+jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="268" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Fx7dA7E_ZMhlh4S6kAWtyJ4BQ2lCdBYIkbGhMTafL-SegihmON3f3KH1jXOdBSaX1YijDHKZqKIIy30N3L5FHLsDBFDML3UoNm7Nuos1IBUOtS1oD_jrEashaLWIWWl62uWnBm1M_BA/w172-h200/bald+jane.jpg" width="172" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Turbaned Jane in Chemo?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYROgjl7gumeMXTkJohhfNhn8YGu1FPINCgkonCJFW0ftIK6WuHC2OLuBWp73bLyquxcUnBwAAFCHVfkiYAYxeRoSJ4vBRFKLhYIO80HO7CCkhbVwWlWyVlE8XB2_iOdzdvihIdjV6f0/s640/turban+jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="453" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYROgjl7gumeMXTkJohhfNhn8YGu1FPINCgkonCJFW0ftIK6WuHC2OLuBWp73bLyquxcUnBwAAFCHVfkiYAYxeRoSJ4vBRFKLhYIO80HO7CCkhbVwWlWyVlE8XB2_iOdzdvihIdjV6f0/w142-h200/turban+jane.jpg" width="142" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">or fuzzy Jane today?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqHKwJ-qQ5NowH0Ou2CVKqgNz8_f97ZczQZB1YMYywFJUMYjrl1WbG19mXJ0OdlA-J21vxK8QO3xjopmKKQYnNcocGQwZe0I8f0khDN9WbgCnXRJOB1OuYNZ-BgExRkFeYwBKauGJEZM/s640/fuzzy+jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqHKwJ-qQ5NowH0Ou2CVKqgNz8_f97ZczQZB1YMYywFJUMYjrl1WbG19mXJ0OdlA-J21vxK8QO3xjopmKKQYnNcocGQwZe0I8f0khDN9WbgCnXRJOB1OuYNZ-BgExRkFeYwBKauGJEZM/w150-h200/fuzzy+jane.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Which will win out--my vanity or my honesty?</span></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-58541466605572334882021-04-03T04:36:00.001-07:002021-04-03T04:36:51.972-07:00Holy Saturday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EIH9-sIpCokZvKAL0LIbgH9thXIdkD8q35hqsehJEbRyHeHA4e-E1ocOTFSHuIa9fWfdAuf4KqxN5dl_cA4xFnlinEeqUIN5bf5rVDNrZGZ4nLl1T9K2p_bXKqGKOLT1w4nPH4TlCak/s250/8F814BB4-6EB5-4336-BA1B-E031311FDCA7.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="250" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EIH9-sIpCokZvKAL0LIbgH9thXIdkD8q35hqsehJEbRyHeHA4e-E1ocOTFSHuIa9fWfdAuf4KqxN5dl_cA4xFnlinEeqUIN5bf5rVDNrZGZ4nLl1T9K2p_bXKqGKOLT1w4nPH4TlCak/w200-h130/8F814BB4-6EB5-4336-BA1B-E031311FDCA7.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">What is holy about</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">this day after disaster</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">this time of utter defeat</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">this era of dissolution?</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">All our energies</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">our hopes</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">have been killed--</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">horribly killed.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We may try to deny</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">our role in the effort</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to erase our fingerprints</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to cast blame on others.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We may question</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">whether it was all worth it</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">whether what we believed</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to be true, was true.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The day stretches out</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">from Friday's agony</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to the utter darkness</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">of midnight.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But if we can hold on</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to one filament of hope</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">one wisp of belief,</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">dawn will come</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">again and again.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12.7px;"> </p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-61927936664725866612021-01-05T06:39:00.000-08:002021-01-05T06:39:50.424-08:00Reading, Trying to Write, Learning<p>Once again today I sit down by the window to read <a href="https://wwnorton.com/books/9780393070224" target="_blank"><i>What is the Grass </i>by
Mark Doty</a>. It’s one of those wonderful books I love to read a little bit at a
time because it is so rich, so full of his reflections on Walt Whitman, poetry,
life, and the universe. As I read, I write in my journal quotations that move
me and what my thoughts are about them.</p><p class="Body"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS4g9-QSHCzxTlDJLj1_o2YSBgLllBfkonqYY5dXsGqZzPnkHqImTWpwcRBgCrCl7tDG-Ron57tlJNi_XsdPO6UrZQmI81zOGVrdvvC1GHMCHyrZoXI3qLwDHV1ogiGVjpgpnIJUkK40/s640/What+is+grass.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS4g9-QSHCzxTlDJLj1_o2YSBgLllBfkonqYY5dXsGqZzPnkHqImTWpwcRBgCrCl7tDG-Ron57tlJNi_XsdPO6UrZQmI81zOGVrdvvC1GHMCHyrZoXI3qLwDHV1ogiGVjpgpnIJUkK40/w150-h200/What+is+grass.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><o:p> </o:p>Today I wrote the following where Doty reflects on his experience
ducking out of the rain in a beach changing shed full of men of various shapes,
colors, and ages. He uses the word <i>plethora</i>, but decides...<p></p><p class="Body"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Body"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="Body"><o:p> </o:p>“The word I want to use here is <i>pleroma, </i>a Gnostic term
for the fullness of all that is divine; it means the totality of God, who is
darkness and silence, and only knowable through the aspects of divinity that
come into light out of that fecund absence, a ‘space’ that is not a space.”</p><p class="Body"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRXG9Wo1cIO24s0JeUR9bYTIYDCAa7SEcqCEoBU8LyNFgp4n2oOTUEK9AYDIlupuulk0-dPqNnj6B65TdxZXXzbj6KS3E7ix1caAgq8RxVAEDV-74DhYvwHYIIv1NlvQ-pwEQ3S8-ggo/s960/kat+helps+me+write.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRXG9Wo1cIO24s0JeUR9bYTIYDCAa7SEcqCEoBU8LyNFgp4n2oOTUEK9AYDIlupuulk0-dPqNnj6B65TdxZXXzbj6KS3E7ix1caAgq8RxVAEDV-74DhYvwHYIIv1NlvQ-pwEQ3S8-ggo/w200-h150/kat+helps+me+write.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An old pic when I still had hair</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p> </o:p>As I am writing this, Kat jumps on my lap for her regular morning
cuddle and examination of my bathrobe for whatever breakfast has been left
there. I try to continue my writing holding her and my pen in my right arm. It
is not easy, but I continue until she finishes with the bathrobe and decides to
start licking my face. Whether this is true affection or mere exploration for
treats, I do not know, but it totally prevents me from writing.</p><p></p><p class="Body"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Body"><o:p> I</o:p> am annoyed only for a second until I see the truth of what Doty
is pointing at. This, this sweet animal, this fellow sharer of the universe, is
part of the fullness of all that is divine, not unlike the birds and the
squirrels who scurry around the yard. Tears well in my eyes as I recognize the
gifts here all around me.</p><p class="Body"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Body">Thank you Mark Doty for leading me there, and thank you Kat for
reminding me of all that is divine.</p><p class="Body"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Body"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="Body"><br /></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-77400896777863593942020-11-19T12:40:00.000-08:002020-11-19T12:40:00.692-08:00Companions<p></p><span style="font-family: arial;">Sixteen years ago after a suspicious mammogram and subsequent
biopsy, I drove to my doctor’s office for what both she and I knew was bad
news, but news easier to be heard in person. I was not alone. Riley went
with me. Riley was my fluffy grey Lhasa Apso, my boon </span><span style="font-family: arial;">companion, my soul mate, who went almost everywhere with me. I’m not sure if he understood why I was
crying, although he was pretty smart, but he looked at me with those soft brown
eyes, and I was consoled. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdAlAv1f1bL5yXIoPA66eliLJYCDUi5sD2de5EmNI_nniavN-fKwiifBbxWY5W0w5jLeDetHCrX6xQtctRKM_hdXLyEUwKKY-n4LXpdMhAizxIDHC9vgD_fnxukBAuwibygwN3RbTre0/s1538/Riley+on+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="1538" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdAlAv1f1bL5yXIoPA66eliLJYCDUi5sD2de5EmNI_nniavN-fKwiifBbxWY5W0w5jLeDetHCrX6xQtctRKM_hdXLyEUwKKY-n4LXpdMhAizxIDHC9vgD_fnxukBAuwibygwN3RbTre0/w287-h195/Riley+on+book.jpg" width="287" /></a></div></span><p></p><p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">Five years ago we made another office visit together, but this
time only I walked out. </span></p><p class="Body"></p><p class="Body" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsk4sLny31ya06aGTIYw_sQjDwYwT6NEUhpQjxDg6g05Q8tlMajevFLcmtdsIFv3Z2oI6VivUtgHKQIQjud6YrV9fMM0Z10XgAQUL_3XVtPXKOGILIgr3yPVo8Swm1GU5_cUpoMyh6lA/s2048/patsy+and+pumpkin+ed.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1848" data-original-width="2048" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsk4sLny31ya06aGTIYw_sQjDwYwT6NEUhpQjxDg6g05Q8tlMajevFLcmtdsIFv3Z2oI6VivUtgHKQIQjud6YrV9fMM0Z10XgAQUL_3XVtPXKOGILIgr3yPVo8Swm1GU5_cUpoMyh6lA/w200-h181/patsy+and+pumpkin+ed.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Riley was not my first pet. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">There had been Patsy, the
tiger cat who was a present for my seventh </span><span style="font-family: arial;">birthday. Patsy, also grey, was a
friendly but independent feline. He loved to rub up against my leg, and his
purrrrrrrr went on forever, but he was also a hunter and not infrequently he showed up at the
front door with the present of a chipmunk in his teeth. We were together until
I started college, and he chose the wrong time to cross the street.</span></p><p></p><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was sad when Patsy died, but it was different with Riley. Riley
and I were a team. So much as we could do things together, we did. Not only did
we explore the trails and paths of Forest Park, but he went with me to the Cape
where he got to run on the beach (off season) and explore wooded trails near cranberry bogs. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">Almost immediately friends started to ask if I were going to get
another dog. I thought about it, even explored some shelters online, but I kept
coming back to this: I didn’t want another dog; I wanted Riley. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUVsDR6VCM2RrVt9PwSiFQuqK4_MB_9mMV1RKTbMWViXblp29-UQN73YNXIJ3kIqgbe5qq34bQT9ZVo-HVf81mKt-7oy_2hLr5QQgO7Zl474uHq_hc2Du_XBtd9KydQ_AeLnQ0duutIs/s263/kat+at+the+door.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUVsDR6VCM2RrVt9PwSiFQuqK4_MB_9mMV1RKTbMWViXblp29-UQN73YNXIJ3kIqgbe5qq34bQT9ZVo-HVf81mKt-7oy_2hLr5QQgO7Zl474uHq_hc2Du_XBtd9KydQ_AeLnQ0duutIs/s0/kat+at+the+door.jpg" /></a></span>In the meantime, my friend Angie became ill. Angie had a
chihuahua named Kat to whom she was devoted, and every time she had to go into
the hospital, she would call and ask if I would take care of Kat until she got
home, and each time before she left the hospital, she would call me to be sure
Kat was home when she got there. She didn't want to be away from her more than she had to. Then one day she didn’t come home, and Kat
remained with me.</span></p><p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Kat is a lovely dog. Unlike many chihuahuas, she is not yippy,
but extremely affectionate. She likes nothing better than to climb on me, nuzzle
into my neck, and lick me. She demands little except attention and affection.
She only barks to tell me that there’s someone at the door whom she welcomes
with a wild wag of the tail once she sees who it is. But, she isn’t Riley. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">So in those early days after Angie died, I asked around for
another home for Kat. I even visited one place that seemed a good fit, but it
didn’t work out. So days went by. Every day I would put out her food in the
morning, then sit down to eat my oatmeal by the window, and after she had eaten, she would come and look up at me expectantly, and I would pick her up,
and she would lick my face. Every day I would take her out for a walk around
the block, and neighbors began to know her name and talk to her. Every day as I
filled the bird feeders, she would follow me outside and chase any squirrels
who happened to be nearby. Every day I came to understand that Kat was Kat,
different from Riley, but special in her own way. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">I think our relationship must be like a second marriage after a
long and happy first marriage. It will never be the same or as sweet as that
first, young love, but it is rich in the way that age gives us perspective to
see what’s important and what’s not. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">Recently another mammogram and another biopsy has again delivered
bad news, and tomorrow I will begin chemotherapy. I don’t know where this will
lead, but I do know that when I return home, this tiny tan soul will greet me
with unlimited love and loyalty, and what better medicine is there than that?</span><o:p></o:p></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-84863042074361335862020-10-08T09:03:00.000-07:002020-10-08T09:03:20.911-07:00Hope is a Thing with Brown Fur<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVHSi1NLDn5UiM29YIU0bBAJW5d4Gh_FvPJRXNQFiGIuk0RLeu-EwhuVevDQ35FyFVpfjI4OtfX3weD5seJdaVSTX5vuz3pxInsscP1x7aDZDur8hJ4wdCjh6pYDvZ9g59YdCcfuLbes/s1066/kat+on+the+outlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1066" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVHSi1NLDn5UiM29YIU0bBAJW5d4Gh_FvPJRXNQFiGIuk0RLeu-EwhuVevDQ35FyFVpfjI4OtfX3weD5seJdaVSTX5vuz3pxInsscP1x7aDZDur8hJ4wdCjh6pYDvZ9g59YdCcfuLbes/w283-h210/kat+on+the+outlook.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br />Kat the dog is ever hopeful<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">always expecting affection<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">from whoever happens to be near<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">pawing at at a pant leg<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">whining oh so quietly,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Love me, Love me.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Most comply</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">offering pats or smooth strokes down her back.<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Still it is never enough.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Before she was mine<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">she was Angie’s.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Before that<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">her history is unclear<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">except that she would have been abandoned<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">had not Angie taken her in.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">So she begs to be picked up<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">while I write or talk on the phone.<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">She does not understand my annoyance<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">or a guest’s allergy.<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">She only knows love me and hope.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">And because we do love her<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">and grant her the affection she desires,<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">her hope for more<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">only grows.</span></div>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-33036572076128972172020-09-01T05:39:00.000-07:002020-09-01T05:39:26.769-07:00Peaches<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIjYugH5LpwI-WMHQJB7yMDnk-kOZ-iJVLcySZFkJHWmWOSdCIOdujaZRfhValGvfQHDKvXCP5z7GMNmwrSBQ0RlbsFwowQnucrezXO3HSsw_0Qe8fekHBFJzw9vfBf4SlGw0tot6UTM/s1000/peaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="1000" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIjYugH5LpwI-WMHQJB7yMDnk-kOZ-iJVLcySZFkJHWmWOSdCIOdujaZRfhValGvfQHDKvXCP5z7GMNmwrSBQ0RlbsFwowQnucrezXO3HSsw_0Qe8fekHBFJzw9vfBf4SlGw0tot6UTM/w210-h154/peaches.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /> “...those peaches, hanging like constellations in the leafy<br />sky? In this darkening world, they are the only steady light.”<br />Barbara Crooker</span></div><p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I try to imagine what the Greeks meant by ambrosia, that
food of the gods delivered to Olympus by doves, I cannot imagine anything more
heavenly than ripe, sweet golden peaches picked fresh from a tree in August.
Fortunately I do not have to wait for avian delivery, but merely a trip to
Bilton’s in Hampden. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">On a recent trip I asked when they would last have peaches and
was told, “The end of August.” So this morning, the first of September, I was
pleased to see I still had a few left before the long wait for next
season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">I picked one that looked ripe and perfect, no blemishes, then
squeezed it every so gently, and it responded, “Yes.” I peeled off its downy
skin with my fingers, cut off sections, removed the fruit willingly from the
pit and slipped it onto my oatmeal, my hands dripping with its sweet, slippery
juice.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">But the pure joy came with my first bite. This was the perfect
peach at the perfect moment. A day or even an hour earlier or later, and it
would have been less-than, but here on this morning I was enjoying ambrosia!</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">The last few days have been difficult for me as I am dealing with
the news that my cancer, dormant for 16 years, has returned. I don’t know what
lies ahead, but I am reminded once again this morning that we only have this
moment, and moments like this are meant to be savored. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wishing you many perfect peach moments!</span><o:p></o:p></p>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-38239432813364849262020-06-10T20:44:00.001-07:002020-06-10T20:44:39.266-07:00On Sumner Avenue<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9rZFZYUAw9ssxo_oMc-yMj5zQzM7I8EVJ1ZUog5-IjLKNES85aHAsIS9P5DCqpUcb-DriWWYzTo_nJDXcIMFpghXyM780Cmrd0ADv4AIKx5ub5KIzlQ_u6CxHEbPcyN5qurvuvHewBo/s5717/solidarity+vigil.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="5717" height="69" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9rZFZYUAw9ssxo_oMc-yMj5zQzM7I8EVJ1ZUog5-IjLKNES85aHAsIS9P5DCqpUcb-DriWWYzTo_nJDXcIMFpghXyM780Cmrd0ADv4AIKx5ub5KIzlQ_u6CxHEbPcyN5qurvuvHewBo/w640-h69/solidarity+vigil.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><font face="arial">On one side of Sumner Avenue we held signs that read “Black Lives Matter,” “End Racism Now,” and one with the carefully written names of victims of racial violence.</font></div><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">As the Carillon tolled for 8 minutes and 46 seconds we, a group of about 60 mostly white people wearing our masks, stood or kneeled as four lanes of busy traffic rushed by, many honking or raising fists in support.</font></div><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">All the while I stood there, I was watching a family across the street. This young black family was sitting on their front steps. There was a mother, a father, a baby, a young boy maybe 4, and an older boy about 11.</font></div><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">I wondered about theses people—these neighbors I had never met. I wondered if they felt protected by the police, or threatened by them. I wondered about the older boy in the red shirt resting on his yellow bicycle. Will he be able to live out his dreams? Can he ride his bicycle freely through the streets of the city as I had done when I was his age in this same city?</font></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="arial"><br /></font></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGkwJpbMSt-V0dzhASMnPo8XrWMwSNVTeXU5KitIyNkzk7qrg5gvKcuKMKkc5_Omp769ATzLpCVwWbsjvL0Y-Tiz9tINQKnxNLJhFgvQRHU0uncj0Sji38pCEqgQNgEsOdwira_HdqnM/s1087/Charles_Sumner_-_Brady-Handy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><font color="#000000" face="arial"><img border="0" data-original-height="1087" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGkwJpbMSt-V0dzhASMnPo8XrWMwSNVTeXU5KitIyNkzk7qrg5gvKcuKMKkc5_Omp769ATzLpCVwWbsjvL0Y-Tiz9tINQKnxNLJhFgvQRHU0uncj0Sji38pCEqgQNgEsOdwira_HdqnM/w148-h200/Charles_Sumner_-_Brady-Handy.jpg" title="Senator Charles Sumner" width="148" /></font></a></div></div><div><font face="arial">The street where we stood, Sumner Avenue, was named for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Sumner">Charles Sumner</a>, a senator from Massachusetts during the Civil War. Wikipedia describes him as a leader in the abolitionist cause, “A radical Republican.” At one point in his career </font><span style="font-family: arial;">after an impassioned speech against slavery.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> he was attacked viciously, nearly fatally by another senator on the floor of the Senate</span></div><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">Over 150 years later he is remembered here by this street and the school on it. Yet the racism at the heart of slavery that he fought against, and nearly died fighting, is still here.</font></div><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">So there I was in my white skin silently protesting this evil of racism across from a black family I did not know, realizing all too clearly that there is more than 4 lanes of traffic that separates us.</font></div>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-41660728120002212182020-05-25T13:27:00.000-07:002020-05-25T13:27:16.438-07:00Memorial Day 2020<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ojxLPBkQW-PDy5EvJiJwPPFnilBlt2KTcozi2FPikybMgv1GAmFQ7m5qL8umegMluWYRpleOspTJS32FcY-dqQat6W-fNT6c8b3v6h5Rcn3YPWRifofenw6gRvwPIo7zrOlac3OpxbE/s1600/Wm+John+Gilpin+Jr+young.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1107" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ojxLPBkQW-PDy5EvJiJwPPFnilBlt2KTcozi2FPikybMgv1GAmFQ7m5qL8umegMluWYRpleOspTJS32FcY-dqQat6W-fNT6c8b3v6h5Rcn3YPWRifofenw6gRvwPIo7zrOlac3OpxbE/s200/Wm+John+Gilpin+Jr+young.jpg" width="138" /></a>I never knew my maternal grandfather, William John Gilpin, Jr. as he
died before I was born, yet I’ve been thinking a lot about him this weekend. There
was the annual Memorial Day visit to his grave at Quabbin Park Cemetery in
Ware, but even before that, I had found his 1936 federal income tax form in a
box of family photos and documents in the basement. <o:p></o:p></div>
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IRS Form 1040 A records that he made an income of $1,886.49 as a
machinist at National Equipment Company, of which he paid $28.38 in taxes.
Though small, it is important to remember that not only was this 84 years ago, but
it was also the middle of the Great Depression, so having a job and any income
was a plus, and he had held several different jobs in his lifetime, including
selling insurance for Metropolitan Life when the job required him to go house
to house picking up payments during the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic. Fortunately,
he never got sick.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitApNS-6a8CtGbAsPrARUDYAcHmVEo3-uoPoQwRtkIk-rSHHZL9s3lDsYdUIY6XYt3VQdzCOl5OzvnGiO5QaDchz1apzFiUKWqqGBBR0_rQHw6rijjH5HgzBvSewtHh7c6ienZKO1mM_8/s1600/William+and+May+Gilpin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="1528" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitApNS-6a8CtGbAsPrARUDYAcHmVEo3-uoPoQwRtkIk-rSHHZL9s3lDsYdUIY6XYt3VQdzCOl5OzvnGiO5QaDchz1apzFiUKWqqGBBR0_rQHw6rijjH5HgzBvSewtHh7c6ienZKO1mM_8/s200/William+and+May+Gilpin.jpg" width="200" /></a>It was indeed fortunate because my grandmother, May Reid Gilpin, had
died very suddenly the year before. She had been ill when he left for work in
the morning, and when he came home for lunch, she was dead. That story demands
more time than I have here, but suffice it to say that the events of that day
changed the family forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My grandfather was left the sole parent for my mother, Vera, age five, and
my aunt, Gertrude, age nine. Taking care of and supporting them became the
focus of his life. This sometimes meant the girls had to stay with family while he was away working.<br />
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By 1936, the date of the tax return, he was living in his sister Alice
Moffatt’s home on Revere Street in Springfield. There he shared a room with my
mother (age 24). (By that time my aunt was married and living in Vermont).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Alice’s four adult children also lived
there. Elmer worked at the US Armory, while Sally, Emma, and Harriet worked at the
two big department stores downtown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know there were conflicts with that many adults living in one house,
and my grandfather could have chosen to move, but his priority, as always, was
his daughters. Aunt Alice was his older sister and took a sort of parental
attitude toward him, and as the mother of four girls, she felt she knew what
was best for them. Education was wasted on girls, she insisted. After all, her
girls didn’t need an education to sell handkerchiefs at Forbes and Wallace or
women’s dresses at Steiger’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvCDNxSZClDC3TKvTddlwpoT8BePrJrxcB81NxnxMBgcGn21rHn4OKp_LzwyEo8TuakATqTFMa4WQCwchjQoWytC6lYuw90V08y_lEbeR2TG_j2md7u_LNxF_pJKQjffYwcnJyeMuFcI/s1600/Wm.+Gilpin+stone+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="864" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvCDNxSZClDC3TKvTddlwpoT8BePrJrxcB81NxnxMBgcGn21rHn4OKp_LzwyEo8TuakATqTFMa4WQCwchjQoWytC6lYuw90V08y_lEbeR2TG_j2md7u_LNxF_pJKQjffYwcnJyeMuFcI/s200/Wm.+Gilpin+stone+2.JPG" width="112" /></a>But my grandfather ignored her advice and sent both my mother and my
aunt to Bay Path which prepared them to become a secretary and a teacher,
respectively. He knew all too well that life can change in a minute and that
you need to be prepared to take care of yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wish I had met my grandfather, but I suspect many of the qualities he
had were reflected in his daughters. They were both dedicated to their families
and raised children to be responsible and independent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe if I get serious about cleaning the basement, I’ll discover more
treasures, maybe find out more about the names on the cemetery stones.</div>
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<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-37675235062390484852020-05-17T07:05:00.001-07:002020-07-18T08:14:33.594-07:00Pedernal<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP_OBHPDCHRlnS9jQ4mix4XIA1OxNBel9-o91kfd8UGePbprRLYrWxk7elJ4pCRHPIZPwh44HSJ7RsHDsolWs1tkx7Vlram00LH9osNgE5S9j306G_0y9hrfNYzfTrNOXZI0j4N-W7MI/s1600/Pedernal.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP_OBHPDCHRlnS9jQ4mix4XIA1OxNBel9-o91kfd8UGePbprRLYrWxk7elJ4pCRHPIZPwh44HSJ7RsHDsolWs1tkx7Vlram00LH9osNgE5S9j306G_0y9hrfNYzfTrNOXZI0j4N-W7MI/s320/Pedernal.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small;">"My Front Yard, Summer, 1941" by Georgia O'Keeffe</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is </span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cerro
Pedernal, a part of the Jemez Mountains in Northern New Mexico. Its image keeps reappearing in the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe. She said, </span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s my private mountain. It belongs to me. God
told me if I painted it enough, I could have it.” After she died, her ashes
were scattered there, as she had requested. </span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH__UIJAfHxhwj8VtfQfsE4yH5C-D4fr2mNHiD1_4InXl5kiz_ZPHdSAdkGjfpChK4U9g8C4PzxpLKtTai1z1WlEwjYtgWQe8UmcDK42mE_R3vds-FRru-cblUJz4xzqFtlxA_ZX4eLnI/s1600/ladder-to-the-moon.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="572" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH__UIJAfHxhwj8VtfQfsE4yH5C-D4fr2mNHiD1_4InXl5kiz_ZPHdSAdkGjfpChK4U9g8C4PzxpLKtTai1z1WlEwjYtgWQe8UmcDK42mE_R3vds-FRru-cblUJz4xzqFtlxA_ZX4eLnI/s200/ladder-to-the-moon.jpg" width="148" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small;">"Ladder to the Moon, 1958"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><div>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Her statement
seems almost laughable—that God would give it to her, as something to own, but the more I think
about it, maybe it’s not so strange. It certainly was hers when she was alive.
All she had to do was look up from her studio at Ghost Ranch, and there it was.
She preserved it in painting after painting. It appears even in those paintings whose subject was not the mesa.</span><div>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"></span></span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;">And perhaps she is not alone in receiving such gifts. What of this
earth </span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;">is given to us—not as a possession, not as a piece of property with a
deed—but as a gift to be cared for?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">This morning I
heard part of an interview with Dave Pollard, author of the blog “How to Save
the World.” He described the Earth as being in Hospice—no longer capable of
being healed, only cared for as it comes to its end. Cheery news to start the
day!</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 12pt;">I cannot accept this, so I look out every day on my “Pedernal”—the aging
hydrangea that is sprouting green flames of leaves, the row of leafy hostas
along the back fence, the tulip tree that I planted as a sapling that now towers above the maple, and, of course, the birds—the usual visitors
the sparrows, finches, and starlings, and the new visitors—the orioles and the
catbirds.</span><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
<h3 style="background: rgb(252, 252, 252); margin: 16.5pt 0in 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">This is what has been given to me—the
tiny bit of the planet for which I am responsible: to appreciate, take care of,
and understand its connection to everything else--from the maple across the back fence to the rainforests of South America to the mountains in New
Mexico.</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></h3>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">"Our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this planet. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">We all breathe the same air. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">We all cherish our children's future. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">And we are all mortal."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">John F. Kennedy</span></span></span></div>
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Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-63588827095236065902020-03-27T07:11:00.000-07:002020-03-27T07:11:16.119-07:00Stars<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Zvj4XqDNrOY6seDZyJmf_D2LPw4GaaN_wvY5K6Aq-ja2NWRe3n1MVe4nEd6V652I2RlzYnOFBQDlSxwCFWLJ1foDZy4cbQ2296bcRJE0VsNjf2RNnE9yVpCH2nQmg6yEGtwjsDXByUE/s1600/stars+and+trees.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="1119" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Zvj4XqDNrOY6seDZyJmf_D2LPw4GaaN_wvY5K6Aq-ja2NWRe3n1MVe4nEd6V652I2RlzYnOFBQDlSxwCFWLJ1foDZy4cbQ2296bcRJE0VsNjf2RNnE9yVpCH2nQmg6yEGtwjsDXByUE/s400/stars+and+trees.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several years ago when I was part of a mission trip to the tiny village of Las Mercedes in Nicaragua, we would gather at night on the field, reflect upon the day, and just stare at the millions of
stars. The stars, of course, were no different from those shining over our
homes back in Massachusetts, but we could see them here in all their splendor
because after the great star disappeared, there was no artificial light to
distract. Because of the absence of the light we were used to, we could clearly
see the beauty that had been there all along.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are living in a time of absence now—absence of human
contact, absence of familiar schedules, and, for many, absence of hope. It is
not hard to sink into the darkness, to focus on what we are missing, not knowing
when things will go “back to normal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But into this darkness have come some bright spots—some
stars, if you will. You may have heard of the Italians coming together in a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBByYjjvNzs">Balcony Flash Mob</a>. Others have collaborated on virtual balconies. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was </span><a href="https://youtu.be/QagzdvzzHBQ" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Love, Sweet Love</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">” sung by the
students of Berklee College of Music, </span><a href="https://youtu.be/kWhm7sfJxPU" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Me and the Sky”</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> by cast members and fans
of Come From Away, and my favorite: Beethoven’s </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eXT60rbBVk" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ode to Joy”</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> by members of the
Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">None of this music was new. All the performers had played or
sung before. What was new was the sharing across boundaries of time and space
and the desire to make the world brighter in a dark time. May you find the stars in
your darkness today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will
endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.” Og Mandino</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-47092596868328399752020-01-03T08:11:00.001-08:002020-01-03T08:11:07.163-08:00Distractions<br />
<div class="Body" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0T_Uvo_uvf6xWny52cMaKKgAOp7dOYWTYr4tHGk3BGGe0aLclUfyI_LM4YZKy1Mc2mtivtrYRBcxSjcbVWAYPdTK_7_diPVE6NcshJbKE6GeGYaakRVLvGDtDvi8o64PH3SCvaH8I6sQ/s1600/spaghetti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0T_Uvo_uvf6xWny52cMaKKgAOp7dOYWTYr4tHGk3BGGe0aLclUfyI_LM4YZKy1Mc2mtivtrYRBcxSjcbVWAYPdTK_7_diPVE6NcshJbKE6GeGYaakRVLvGDtDvi8o64PH3SCvaH8I6sQ/s200/spaghetti.jpg" width="200" /></a>“Allow distractions, don't shoo them away. </div>
<div class="Body" style="text-align: right;">
They may be knocking
on the door of your poem.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="text-align: right;">
Billy Collins<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Once when I told a person who studied astrology that I was a
Gemini, his response was, “Oh, spaghetti brain.” I laughed because it is so
true. My mind can find tangents within tangents within tangents, sometimes
ending up finding no answers, but a lot of interesting ideas to pursue later.
The Internet has only made my particular pasta more intertwined.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
My latest wander began on New Year’s Day when I read Barbara
Crooker’s poem “The New Year” on <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="http://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-january-1-2020/">Garrison
Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac.</a></span> I really liked the contradictory nature
of this poem that begins with the proverbial door shutting, but the window,
instead of opening, slams on your fingers. It concludes on a more positive note, “In spite of
everything, you sit at your desk and begin.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I was not familiar with Crooker and saw that the poem came from
her collection <i>Some Glad Morning. </i>That immediately started Albert E.
Brumley’s hymn <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="https://youtu.be/-L26dFqRFiw">“I’ll
Fly Away</a></span>” playing in my mind, and also reminded me of one of my
favorite television programs, also titled<span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0101124/"> “I’ll Fly Away”</a></span>
starring Sam Waterston, long before <i>Law and Order </i>or <i>Grace and
Frankie. </i>(You may have noticed there are already three links in this story
so you can get distracted too if you choose to).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6w4ZnSdwIZJ0ZtFrvZtmfAuacMxYZ4HR2fLvqFH21umpY2eBn4CIZxibkAWZoQPkE-Ozopc0RI_XLgnX95Sg5EmUfO8aY_ucteNgFOjL9gXNkV7dmGsnjEEyTK79dKHGHuT0p1y6z93M/s1600/ill+fly+away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="286" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6w4ZnSdwIZJ0ZtFrvZtmfAuacMxYZ4HR2fLvqFH21umpY2eBn4CIZxibkAWZoQPkE-Ozopc0RI_XLgnX95Sg5EmUfO8aY_ucteNgFOjL9gXNkV7dmGsnjEEyTK79dKHGHuT0p1y6z93M/s200/ill+fly+away.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Much as I love Sam Waterston, I was, at that moment, more
interested in the poem, so I went on <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07X7S6BLB/ref=dbs_a_def_awm_hsch_vapi_taft_p1_i0">Amazon</a></span>
to find out more about Crooker and the book. I discovered two things. One, she
has been widely published (Why was I just discovering her?) and two, she wrote
about some of the same things I did, i.e. faith, peonies, Edward Hopper, and
Georgia O’Keeffe. I immediately clicked “Buy now with one click,” (Who invented
this irresistible temptation?) and true to Amazon’s promise, it arrived the next day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
So this morning I am still sitting here, long after the oatmeal
is finished and Kat has returned to warm my lap, just reading these poems that
touch me in familiar and new places. “Black and Purple Petunias” delves into
Georgia O’Keeffe’s 1924 painting, one I had not written about in my O’Keeffe
collection, <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/climbing-to-the-moon-by-v-jane-schneeloch/">Climbing
to the Moon</a></span>. Crooker, like O’Keeffe, sees deep inside the flowers,
“They will not let the darkness eat them.” “Peaches in August” delights in
these fruits as “the only true light” in a darkening world. I too had written about peach moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
With each poem I am feeling more and more of a connection with
this poet. I go back on the Internet where I find her <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="https://www.barbaracrooker.com/">homepage</a></span>. I look under Events
to see if there is anything close by, and there I see that she’s doing a
workshop of ekphrastic poetry at <span class="Hyperlink0"><a href="http://www.poetrybytheseaconference.org/">Poetry by the Sea in Madison,
CT, </a></span>in May. Perfect! Poetry, art, the ocean, and meeting my new
favorite poet! Sign me up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
So, Billy, I didn’t get a poem from my journey, but a blog post.
And I think I’ll go back to “I’ll Fly Away” and write something, It’s still
playing in my mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-36560783969054261622019-12-23T08:04:00.001-08:002019-12-23T08:04:54.775-08:00Feeding and Being Fed<br />
<div class="Body">
The truth is I didn’t want to go that Wednesday. It was dark and cold, and
I really just wanted to stay home, have bowl of soup, and take a nap. Then I thought about the people who were already lined up on this wintry day just waiting for us volunteers to distribute the food brought with the Mobile Food Bank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinncs_LVpX_fRF0oxWTM0T6eGT1407PbEsjVqPwnER_Mcl20vPZFPGIEGeH5rBx315IFvx4lKk_k9GrnGpLpLrUq6Z9Kw6MuvxBYMrivJesm8mOWR3q8szCt1R0Magg7qzSx_6nc_TJYk/s1600/food+bank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="640" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinncs_LVpX_fRF0oxWTM0T6eGT1407PbEsjVqPwnER_Mcl20vPZFPGIEGeH5rBx315IFvx4lKk_k9GrnGpLpLrUq6Z9Kw6MuvxBYMrivJesm8mOWR3q8szCt1R0Magg7qzSx_6nc_TJYk/s200/food+bank.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="Body">
Sponsored by <a href="https://www.foodbankwma.org/">the Food Bank of Western Massachusetts</a>, the Mobile Food Bank comes to <a href="https://www.trinityspringfield.org/">Trinity United Methodist Church </a>on the first and third Wednesdays of every month. The truck
arrives about 1:15 full of food that has been donated from local farms, stores, and the government. The driver unloads pallets of potatoes, onions, squash, or whatever
the fare is for the day. We volunteers take up a station in front of one of
the pallets and proceed to pass out the food to the people in the line.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On our busiest days there can be more than 300 people representing a virtual United Nations including Mexico, Nepal, Pakistan, Greece, and Russia. There is no charge for the food, and the people who come are only asked the number and ages of the people in their household. They come on the hottest
days of the summer and the coldest days of the winter. And they wait patiently--very patiently.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
On that Wednesday I was handing out beets—4 large beets per person. Quite a
few turned them down, but several smiled brightly when I suggested they could
make borscht. Once I began dropping the beets in their bags—some flimsy
plastic, others more sturdy from Big Y, and some backpacks on wheels—I
remembered why I like doing this, even when the weather is not pleasant.
Everyone is so grateful. One after one, they smile, say thank you, God bless
you, and, in return, I cannot help but smile back.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X1kcR5ffWme0s4Uga69TYfQRx_F70K8rZ11FmPJqJF357TWR3rsDkIExQNs5QoURKjBpC5LALjEzdmPV092xBsupNnOPjqIUmTpovmAwDxm3nWquJ7xACW57Ns-Wnv9nTM9l4dC_bDY/s1600/food+bank+winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="960" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X1kcR5ffWme0s4Uga69TYfQRx_F70K8rZ11FmPJqJF357TWR3rsDkIExQNs5QoURKjBpC5LALjEzdmPV092xBsupNnOPjqIUmTpovmAwDxm3nWquJ7xACW57Ns-Wnv9nTM9l4dC_bDY/s200/food+bank+winter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
There are some regulars I recognize like Max who is Russian. I discovered awhile back that he is an amazing pianist. I smiled and asked if he was
doing well, “Not good,” he said, “excellent!” Ann usually comes with her
youngest child and always greets me with a hug. I am fed by these people who
come here for food.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
It was a slow day. Maybe people were still dealing with the
aftermath of the recent storm. It gave us a little more time to talk
to the people coming through the line. When an older man in a gray flannel
shirt held out his bag for me to drop the beets in, I could see that he’d been
crying. I asked what was wrong, and he just kept repeating, “I’ve lost
everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
What does one say to that? The words I uttered—I’m sorry—felt
insufficient. He told me then that his wife had died of cancer. Then he repeated, “I’ve lost everything.” He moved on to Kathy who was passing out
carrots, and I could see that she was tearing up. I gave him a hug before he
left. What else could I offer?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I hope we see him again, but I may never find out his whole story. There are so many stories behind all these faces. Most of these people would be labeled poor. To stand in line for hours to
receive several pieces of food would seem to support that.But there is a richness to be had
in hearing people’s stories, in touching another human, in sharing smiles on a
cold day. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I was glad I went. I went home feeling much richer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-74666786703851933642019-11-15T08:59:00.001-08:002019-11-15T08:59:45.714-08:00The October Holiday - a month late<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsidIiNgG9mwSDkBmUh7jVgPkF4AlusGVq6waa4r34YYdyK6mgH4q-FizTYDhBTES03xH3wCB8vOJYFZrqw1uM2GXD8cFCpjqN5S1i_IaegGT0sdqTQOICAQQn-vpxnhUL2atvnJlCe9w/s1600/dignity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="280" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsidIiNgG9mwSDkBmUh7jVgPkF4AlusGVq6waa4r34YYdyK6mgH4q-FizTYDhBTES03xH3wCB8vOJYFZrqw1uM2GXD8cFCpjqN5S1i_IaegGT0sdqTQOICAQQn-vpxnhUL2atvnJlCe9w/s200/dignity.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Dignity" Chamberlain, SD</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">"</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was much discussion last month about what has traditionally been called Columbus Day. Many places have started celebrating Indigenous People's Day instead. As with much these days, it's become a binary choice, one or the other. Instead. I would like to propose we celebrate both.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The more we learn of Columbus, the more we see the cruelty and violence that he brought with him--the enslavement, raping, and pillaging. All true and reprehensible to us 500 years later.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNEwCSDWw2SW0PaduAtobMRXzPVJxpKaEstJTNgvEj-2nat3MWzkXjejj0QCKn70HvpiBlxNvXUtPLB9jv4oVIHrpdGEC-ixPHF8VB_iTAWiQgvZybamdUffyhAE6nA0NjlsNpBxLG-g/s1600/columbus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNEwCSDWw2SW0PaduAtobMRXzPVJxpKaEstJTNgvEj-2nat3MWzkXjejj0QCKn70HvpiBlxNvXUtPLB9jv4oVIHrpdGEC-ixPHF8VB_iTAWiQgvZybamdUffyhAE6nA0NjlsNpBxLG-g/s200/columbus.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Christopher Columbus" Providence, RI</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The native people had been living on the lands we call America for centuries when this band of Europeans and those who followed them (or preceded--consider Leif Erikson) came with a belief that it was their God-given right to conquer and take what they found.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today we are quick to label and condemn those years ago who did not live up to our current moral principles. I sometimes wish I could jump into a time machine just to see what behaviors we accept </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">today </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">as normal, even honorable, that would be condemned by future societies. What if, for example, it were discovered that our great feat of landing a man on the moon had somehow disturbed the cosmos in ways we cannot imagine today? Wouldn't the people of the future be quick to castigate us?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Columbus, like all humans, was complicated. He was motivated by ego and greed, and his actions towards the natives were inexcusable to us. But he was also brave and determined, and led the way for a greater and greater understanding of the planet we share.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ironically we are also only beginning to discover lessons the indigenous understood--the importance of sharing the earth and protecting it for future generations. These lessons are </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">critical to our very survival.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe we should rename the October holiday Discovery Day in which we celebrate what we continue to learn about the Earth and all its people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-80129308286739216712019-11-11T06:54:00.000-08:002019-11-11T06:54:00.801-08:0011-11-18<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dYsl4xC8vidxQqqQs_9Ay_d0n1hW-eM5I1-FBbac2i3G-ymvxbYmqeXpvQ2BPTfW52uC7IfgDwq90iYODyrjzk71_D21Qdi5kmA8VCuNKfV1pBU3K_gpuLEFW9pC3JJl2lkOn01uTSA/s1600/poppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dYsl4xC8vidxQqqQs_9Ay_d0n1hW-eM5I1-FBbac2i3G-ymvxbYmqeXpvQ2BPTfW52uC7IfgDwq90iYODyrjzk71_D21Qdi5kmA8VCuNKfV1pBU3K_gpuLEFW9pC3JJl2lkOn01uTSA/s320/poppy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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November 11, 1918<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was learning to read.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every day she carried home<o:p></o:p></div>
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new words and calculations--<o:p></o:p></div>
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offerings to the grandmother<o:p></o:p></div>
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who signed her name with an X.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She first heard the news<o:p></o:p></div>
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from the kids at Eastern Avenue School<o:p></o:p></div>
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then from the neighbors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Great War was over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The boys were coming home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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People filled the streets<o:p></o:p></div>
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shouting, banging pots and pans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a noisier than the Fourth of July.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The war to end all wars was over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Smiles were everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But once inside, she found<o:p></o:p></div>
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her grandmother in tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She tried to tell her the news--<o:p></o:p></div>
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today's lesson to share,<o:p></o:p></div>
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but Grandma had already heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She knew the fighting had stopped<o:p></o:p></div>
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that soldiers were coming home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her tears were for the others--<o:p></o:p></div>
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the boys lost far from home<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the mothers still waiting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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At six how could she understand<o:p></o:p></div>
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a mother's grief over a lost child?<o:p></o:p></div>
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This illiterate woman who remembered<o:p></o:p></div>
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the baby drowned back in Ireland<o:p></o:p></div>
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was well schooled in suffering.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-55042068745275779282019-10-03T17:10:00.000-07:002019-10-03T17:10:02.578-07:00Before Chopped<br />
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As I watch the Food Network’s <i>Chopped </i>where four chefs compete to create three courses from
separate baskets of strange ingredients, I am reminded of my mother who put
together so many meals—sometimes standard, sometimes unique, but almost always
delicious.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYGOkJKJG-S8oaUskKi6w1Aa_gFycfOaIGBPcSF5ZagNPDOfSVBXFmFXCtiPUCWCh80sXIFTP8qJQuNxPRe2r8ODPpBbCGlXdgh3vDrsCV4z6k-DrJOVGXnECo1sGI2TgG96cRSoINPA/s1600/big+top+peanut+butter+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYGOkJKJG-S8oaUskKi6w1Aa_gFycfOaIGBPcSF5ZagNPDOfSVBXFmFXCtiPUCWCh80sXIFTP8qJQuNxPRe2r8ODPpBbCGlXdgh3vDrsCV4z6k-DrJOVGXnECo1sGI2TgG96cRSoINPA/s200/big+top+peanut+butter+glasses.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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There were the formal Sunday dinners where the roast would
be in put in the oven before we left for church, and upon our return, we would
each set to our duties. My job was to set the table in the dining room using
the good dishes (purchased at the church rummage sale) and the best glasses
(which originally had held Big Top peanut butter). My brother helped to fold
the napkins. After the roast was removed from the oven, my mother would set
about making gravy from all the wonderful drippings in the roast pan. My father
usually mashed the potatoes and cut up the roast. There were vegetables, of
course, warm rolls, and usually a relish tray. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhuHHb_mpHyOQZeZ3BGvQjzi4WjSa8jMQaC4A-LBa1UqD3QxShB5F5iGCnRYEo8hB_Xqi51IAwbiJvrkTci2Io-NwL8pKKXwH2ARwpSHefkRSXPsAlZMZt-Q3zM2VKI5yf-uBEvMdhK4/s1600/leftovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="636" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhuHHb_mpHyOQZeZ3BGvQjzi4WjSa8jMQaC4A-LBa1UqD3QxShB5F5iGCnRYEo8hB_Xqi51IAwbiJvrkTci2Io-NwL8pKKXwH2ARwpSHefkRSXPsAlZMZt-Q3zM2VKI5yf-uBEvMdhK4/s200/leftovers.jpg" width="200" /></a>On regular week nights, dinner was simpler. We ate at the old
oak table in the kitchen with the everyday dishes and glasses. Perhaps my
mother made meatloaf or chicken or spaghetti, but towards the end of the week
there were always the leftovers to deal with. My mother had two methods of
dealing with those.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes she would take out the large Revereware frying
pan, fill it with water, and assign each morsel to its own custard cup and
place it in the pan to warm. Then we would bring our plates to the stove to
select from the “buffet.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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But my favorite nights were when she did her own version of “Chopped”
and created something new from whatever was in the refrigerator. She worked her
magic mixing together what had never been combined before. The results varied,
but many times they were exceptionally good, and we would rave about her
original creations. To which she would always say, “Don’t ask me to make it
again.” It was a one-of-a-kind, once-in-a-lifetime creation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m thinking now that there should be a spin off of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped </i>where the chefs get plastic
containers of leftovers to work with. My mother could have won that contest easily!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-42111759146533241822019-07-05T14:12:00.000-07:002019-07-05T14:16:02.273-07:00Weeding<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNsutRqEWbvDisQQWAt_0UxMVEc8vjzRqj8dNqMBEaDcnP9o4Budp0yQIKbk7Dh1sXh2PU8I4Wp1f4kgrAiX5-VbmQrMmLp5-zP9EG2Arh5IueXoCbCJIy94bPHaS2YSTmRn57j27ayU/s1600/cone+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="455" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNsutRqEWbvDisQQWAt_0UxMVEc8vjzRqj8dNqMBEaDcnP9o4Budp0yQIKbk7Dh1sXh2PU8I4Wp1f4kgrAiX5-VbmQrMmLp5-zP9EG2Arh5IueXoCbCJIy94bPHaS2YSTmRn57j27ayU/s200/cone+flowers.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Along the border between my neighbor to the north and me, a
chain link fence marks the line between his neat, flat lawn and my wild
collection of clematis, milkweed, cone flowers, day lilies, and a varied
assortment of weeds. All but the clematis arrived here thanks to either birds
or winds that pay no heed to fence or border.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My challenge today was to clear out the weeds that I have
been avoiding. Sunny, the woman who lived north of the border when I moved in
here 37 years ago, explained to me her definition of weeds: anything that’s growing
where you don’t want it. So, though I never planted it, the milkweed stays.
Besides its lovely fragrance in June and those parchment pods full of magical
white stars in the fall, it provides essential food for the Monarch
butterflies, and I love butterflies. Cone flowers tend to attract them as well.
The day lilies stay too. They were here when I moved in, and I admire their
tenacity and the splash of orange.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With my sturdy garden gloves on, and armed with clippers and
trowel, I head out to extract the wild grasses, the thistle, and that sturdy,
winding bittersweet that weaves itself around anything nearby, especially the
galvanized steel mesh of the chain links. Most of the regular weeds come up
easily, but the bittersweet is a challenge. It involves un-weaving its tiny
branches from each diamond of chain link and frequently clipping a small piece
of branch with one hand while catching the piece with the other hand lest it
land on my neighbor’s lawn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I am doing this, I think about Sunny and the fence
between us. A delightful woman and an inveterate gardener, she was 93 when I
moved in. Every square inch of her tiny city lot was planted with some variety
of edible or flower. She even had a tiny koi pond in the middle of the back
yard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back then the fence was covered with pink roses that she
encouraged me to pick. She would frequently come to the fence with a gift from
her garden or some wise piece of advice for the new homeowner. She taught me
much about plants and nature. “If you plant a garden,” she said, “you’ll always
have something to look forward to.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our friendship grew because she saw the fence as a place to
meet and share—both flowers and wisdom.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-89164862398542496562019-06-07T06:10:00.000-07:002019-06-07T06:10:59.946-07:00My Kids<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoJ7ksvQocu0DmYjxg8H5d54YQR0HQW5MwfascM1SY57RVtWSyqqKMic0-wvH8QjpXPk5_J5Vw65d5lejQ06uANGGIulzSeUraKm_otJi5v-L0mB8beNGicNDwIAuwhcOYzN8576WJB0/s1600/teenager+silhouette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="660" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoJ7ksvQocu0DmYjxg8H5d54YQR0HQW5MwfascM1SY57RVtWSyqqKMic0-wvH8QjpXPk5_J5Vw65d5lejQ06uANGGIulzSeUraKm_otJi5v-L0mB8beNGicNDwIAuwhcOYzN8576WJB0/s320/teenager+silhouette.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
find it hard to believe that I have been retired from teaching for 17 years. Of
course, when I see my former students on Facebook showing pictures of their
grandchildren, it brings me back to reality. That’s one of the things about
Facebook I most enjoy—seeing those “kids” now grown up and doing well. For some
of them, I wasn’t so sure it would turn out that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Most
teachers I know are invested in their students, want the best for them, worry
about them, try to encourage them. So when you have a class load of 120+ kids,
that’s a lot of worrying. I was reminded of that worry yesterday when I was
volunteering at an event for fourth-graders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">One
girl made an impression on me. She was small, with short dark hair and big dark
eyes. As she reached for another cookie, she explained that she was getting it
for her grandmother. We chatted for a while, and I was impressed with her
composure, her conversational skills, and I guessed that she was an older
sister to one of the fourth-graders in the group. When she had left, I asked
her teacher how old she was. Ten! I couldn’t believe how mature she was for
such a young age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
her teacher began to tell me her story. She and her brother were living with
their grandmother because her mother was “drugged out.” Now, however, her
grandmother had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. “What will happen to
them?” I asked. The teacher just shook her head. I could see the pain in her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
she turned to speak to a boy who had been running around disrupting the group.
“He’s so smart,” she said to me, “and he tests me all the time.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly
I was back in front of my students, worried about the sweet young woman who was
being abused by her step father, frustrated by the so bright young man who was channeling
all his energies into gang activities. So many students with real problems that
I could do little about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">These
are the kids that break your heart as a teacher, the ones you want to take home
and nurture, the ones you pray for, the ones who you hope will show up on
Facebook someday with happy stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-69236458159074496672019-05-06T08:18:00.001-07:002019-05-06T08:18:22.729-07:00Dream a Little Dream With Me<br />
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If daydreaming counted as exercise, I would have no need of diet plans
or gym memberships, and I would be quite fit, thank you very much!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I enjoy these short excursions into fantasy or nostalgia. Are they any
different from delusions that comfort?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
mother in her last years loved to tell about how she had walked the fifteen
miles to visit my brother and her grandsons; all the while she remained in her
room at the care facility. There was no arguing with her. She knew it was
difficult, but believed she had indeed accomplished this. Maybe the advantage
to the delusion is that you don’t have to come back to reality.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuV3qYNRvbqTUQDGrrUWbP_jJQ92ng488GX31Zr1BqwoVNO9heZEjrGSIT2yus0WUkXG13uVymUDuygbsLIDiJ0aC33ZkJJBrmZJ8vXgD4_SCSSx76mnwlPZGt_OAA-CKvZi_-jmtwbTs/s1600/bay+of+naples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuV3qYNRvbqTUQDGrrUWbP_jJQ92ng488GX31Zr1BqwoVNO9heZEjrGSIT2yus0WUkXG13uVymUDuygbsLIDiJ0aC33ZkJJBrmZJ8vXgD4_SCSSx76mnwlPZGt_OAA-CKvZi_-jmtwbTs/s200/bay+of+naples.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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In my daydreams I go back to places I've been like the Bay of Naples or
the deserts of New Mexico, and the advantage of doing all this traveling in a
reverie is that you don't have to pack, or worry about the TSA, or finding your
luggage on the carousel, and it’s free! It's off to faraway places in just the
flash of a memory, and then in another flash you're off somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyr5iUd6-HitJ-kOQLA_A2CeWRqFZLF5WNncJF8SaCOdl6cf3cP8GXT7f7hUsGNJXcIapO0L8zCgTdqBvUDjizcRb2zW_E2c7FLy-fpnPiUT_-zyfRpPCNObBvwqHpCYdUEFadQhylFRQ/s1600/Pat+Paquin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1387" data-original-width="979" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyr5iUd6-HitJ-kOQLA_A2CeWRqFZLF5WNncJF8SaCOdl6cf3cP8GXT7f7hUsGNJXcIapO0L8zCgTdqBvUDjizcRb2zW_E2c7FLy-fpnPiUT_-zyfRpPCNObBvwqHpCYdUEFadQhylFRQ/s200/Pat+Paquin.jpg" width="140" /></a>Daydreams summon back mother, father, grandparents, and friends
whom I can no longer see with waking eyes, and I can go back to happy memories
over and over again like playing on the swings in the rain with my roommate Pat,
tasting my grandmother's vanilla pudding with orange slices, or watching the
stars fly off the grinding wheel as I stood next to my father at his tool
bench.</div>
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Maybe I'm in denial of the sharp intrusions of reality, and even if it doesn’t take the place of physical exercise, daydreaming
will remain part of my regimen,.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805672696759421356.post-84805188415306863092019-02-28T07:16:00.000-08:002019-02-28T07:16:00.278-08:00My Churches - Yet Again<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I first posted this in 2013, then again in 2016. This week after the painful reports back from the special session of the United Methodist Church General Conference, I feel the need to post it again, if only to remind myself that the first of these churches hasn't changed and is still the warm and welcoming place I know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My Churches </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">December 2013</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzoGxjlLeyAQ_3GA9jtjiXissODQshG_B5dEIYXmncG99FA8LcTR3t8ygF7xKMh3P896W-WQY5YmNgzqsAV2ggKhgyFGm__c_Zba-ioSjHfFvDVqZl57Sx9g-xp-N5oL4gpz8ru5PhHQ/s1600/carillon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzoGxjlLeyAQ_3GA9jtjiXissODQshG_B5dEIYXmncG99FA8LcTR3t8ygF7xKMh3P896W-WQY5YmNgzqsAV2ggKhgyFGm__c_Zba-ioSjHfFvDVqZl57Sx9g-xp-N5oL4gpz8ru5PhHQ/s200/carillon.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">On Christmas Eve after the presents are opened, the dishes loaded into the dishwasher, and the guests have left for home, I will sit for just a minute and look at the tree. Then I will bundle myself up and travel down the road to the candlelight service at church. This is always a highlight of my holiday. The beautiful music, the warm candlelight, and the familiar story of wanderers finding crude shelter where their baby will be born amid the animals all remind me once again of what this season is about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">When I speak here of church, I am speaking of the church I attend nearly every Sunday—Trinity United Methodist Church in Springfield, MA. The stone cathedral structure next to Forest Park is quite recognizable to anyone in the Springfield area. It is a beautiful building, but when I refer to the church, I am really talking about the people there. Everyone from the toddler playing peek-a-boo from two pews up to the man from AA who comes in silently, then leaves. Trinity is a warm and welcoming place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">This is why it pains me so when I hear about the other church—that larger church we are a part of—The United Methodist Church. That church has been in the news lately and not for being warm and welcoming—quite the opposite. That church has tried and convicted one of its clergy for violating church law—a law that forbids clergy from marrying couples of the same sex. In effect, that church has punished one of its members for showing love and compassion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I struggle with being a member of these two churches, and I know I’m not alone. Can I go along worshiping and working in the church that ministers to everyone while, at the same time, being a part of that other church that excludes, judges, and condemns? I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">A couple of Christmases ago as I entered Trinity for the candlelight service, I saw one very bright star alone in the sky right over the church. I thought, of course, of the Magi who were guided by the star. This Christmas I will pray for that light to fall on both of my churches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My Church<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is my church - doors open to the noise of the city<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is not my church - doors safely closed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is my church - hands stretched across barriers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is not my church - hands rigidly folded<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is my church - a harmony of diverse voices<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is not my church - a monotone of narrow doctrine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is my church - hearts warmed by love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is not my church - love limited by decree<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My church -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">not the closed inn doors<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">but the welcoming stable.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Jane Schneelochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17306636470473717152noreply@blogger.com0