Hanukkah Thoughts

Tonight as I mixed latkes, finally, on the fifth night of Hanukkah I had these thoughts:

Born to two Jewish parents I was raised celebrating Hanukkah and the commercial Christmas. For 14 years now I have been married to my Catholic husband. We share the same spiritual beliefs and are raising our children to be compassionate and respectful human beings. This time of year we light the Hanukkah candles, string the Christmas lights around our house and on our tree. For eight nights they open gifts from us and on Christmas morning they revel in gifts from their grandparents and Santa. We live in a town that at last check was 46% Catholic and 46% Lutheran. There is a church on every corner, some across the street from each other and there is one Jewish Synagogue that I/we have visited on rare occasions. 

I’m invited into my kids’ classrooms, sometimes by them and sometimes by their teachers to share about Hanukkah and our traditions. I thoroughly enjoy these occasions but it also leads me to deep reflection. Growing up we only exchanged Hanukkah gifts if we couldn’t wait until Christmas to give a specific present to a family member. I attended Hebrew School from first grade until mid-year in 7th grade, at which point I became a Hebrew School drop out before my bat mitzvah. I don’t recall much from Hebrew School other than that one of my classmates’, Rachel’s, mom’s was our 2nd grade teacher and that in 4th grade we did a few big art projects. I wonder if my teacher was an art teacher by day. The strongest feeling I remember though was that I did not belong. I felt stupid and that everyone else, except Jacob, were more Jewish than me. Whatever that meant. I remember once going to Rachel’s house for a Hanukkah party and having fun. During the day at school I was the only Jew, other than Aaron, who did not attend Hebrew School with me, that I was aware of.

My oldest child turns 11 next week and I have worked very hard these past 11 years to create traditions for 

Ruggelach made last week by ME!

my family. I do not recall many memories from my childhood, but the ones centering around Hanukkah are fewer than most. A few (or maybe many) Passovers were spent at my aunt’s house with long sedars, always beginning with delicious matzo ball soup.

Ironically, to me, I felt the “most Jewish” when I was in college in Alabama. Life pointed me toward enrolling in Judaism 101 and like Hebrew School many years before I dropped the class. But I did later fulfill my foreign language requirement by enrolling in Hebrew 101 and 102 (or was it 201? - the numbers are irrelevant). My teacher was an Israeli grad student and I enjoyed the class and remember studying hard and feeling successful. I attended services at the Hillel House on several Fridays and felt a sense of belonging that I had never felt at any synagogue I was a member of as a child.

So, here I am tonight making latkes and wondering why I have chosen to give my children a gift a night for Hanukkah. Hanukkah, I keep reading, is the least significant Jewish holiday, yet it’s the only one my children know. Which leaves me thinking, “Am I celebrating the commercial Hanukkah?” 

I love that Hanukkah is about the miracle of the oil burning for seven nights longer than expected, but most of all my spirit loves that the underdogs, the Macabees, won the war against the Greeks to continue practicing their religion. America is about freedom, freedom of religion included so I am also left wondering tonight if I am simply American? I have felt a deep connection with my Jewish heritage for many years; but as a culture rather than a religion.

One of our basic needs as humans is the sense of belonging and I guess I continue to search for this, even after I think I have found it externally, I search within. 

Shoes and Gender?

Kids' shoes come in the same sizes regardless of gender, but once your feet get above about a size 6 you then have men’s or women’s feet and the sizing changes?! Anyone else confused by this?

Random Thoughts of the Day

1. There’s a professional football player named Rambo?!
2. Old traditions brought into a new home is a wonderful feeling.
   
3. I actually wish it would snow. I want to go crosscountry skiing and the view out my windows is much more picturesque when it is covered in a white blanket of snow. Can it really be that we had a white Thanksgiving, but won’t have a white Christmas?!
   
4. I baked many cookies this weekend, it was wonderful!
   
5. The first two weeks of this month were incredibly busy, can’t remember the last two weeks that were this hectic. I’m looking forward to Winter Break as much as any kid.
   
6. I hope I can reschedule the massage I scheduled for late January for MUCH sooner!
   
7. My motivation for running is lagging, I hope Santa brings it back to me.
   
8. I love traveling with my kids, but miss the days of only needing to buy 2 plane tickets.
   
9. Yesterday was 12/13/14, things like this make me smile. I wish I had to write the date more.
   
10. Today marks the second anniversary of the horrific events that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I wish every 12/14 was on a weekend so that all children affected didn’t have to go to school on this day.
    

Winter Flooding

Since moving back north nearly 15 years ago I have appreciated and more recently learned to enjoy winter. After all, after six years in Alabama it was my choice to move back to four seasons. I don’t particularly like the frigid temperatures, but most of what I don’t like is the long nights and the shortened hours of sunlight that comes with them. The past few winters in my old house were not good for my mental health. I sincerely began to think that I had S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder). I’ve found that running through winter helps, it warms me up and gets me closer to the sun’s rays. But it was during these past few winters that my desire to move into a different house took flight and drove me to convince my husband that the time to move into a different house had finally arrived.

This time last year I looked at the house I am living in now for the first time. I instantly noticed and fell in love with the flooding of sunshine that poured (and continues to) through the many windows and the skylight. After we moved in on January 31 I found myself staring into the snow-covered woods out my back door in awe of mother nature. 

Between the few short weeks that have past since turning our clocks back an hour I instantly fell back into my dread of the approaching shortened days. Then last week it snowed! The ground was covered and the sun reflected off the beautiful white blanket that was laid on my yard and in the woods. MY house, the house I fell in love with 10 months ago opened itself up to the flood and I’ve found that this past week I’ve been breathing easier even on these cold winter days that have arrived much sooner than in the past. I can’t recall the last time I was this excited to see snow.

A First

I have never reposted a link to another person's blog on my blog before. But when a previous professor of mine turned friend quotes me in her blog and causes me to tear up because of the eloquent way that she fit my quote into her writing I am unable to hold back from sharing.

She writes of her recent trip to the Dachau Concentration Camp.

Click Here to be moved and read her story.

Proud Parent Teacher Conferences

Last night I attended my 2nd and 5th graders’ parent teacher (& student) conferences. I didn’t exactly learn anything new about my kids; I already knew they were both kind, smart, talented, respectful and succeeding academically, but I was given the largest sense of pride a mother could receive. 

My son’s teacher, whom we do not know well, beamed with pride as she talked about giving an assignment, any assignment, and how my son listens and then successfully runs with the assignment. She shared some of his writing and beamed once again with a teacher’s pride of having a student with a large vocabulary, the ability to expand ideas in detail and write creatively. Her face could not hide what her words did not say, but previous teachers have: She would love to have a class full of students like him. I truly believe she could not have spoken with more pride unless she was his mother. 

My daughter’s teacher, whom my son had three years earlier, praised my daughter’s ability to contribute and add to classroom conversations on a variety of topics. But it was when she spoke about my daughter’s heart that I thought I saw a hidden tear of happiness and hope in her eyes. She said that my daughter has the most golden heart of any child she has ever met. I tried to take responsibility for that, talking about how I have tried to teach her that, but that even I knew that it didn’t all come from modeling, that she instinctually is a kindhearted human being. The teacher said that the way she treats and helps the students who need extra help makes her wonder why she (the teacher) is even there….she is naturally empathetic, a trait that, I, as a school counselor know is incredibly difficult to teach. And above all the students she is helping see her as a friend.

My heart is bursting with pride; every day I see how wonderful my children are, but to hear it through their teachers’ eyes makes me incredibly proud to be their mother. 

My son is as well rounded as my high school class president: smart, cute, and athletic.

My daughter is as smart, respectful and helpful as my favorite teachers growing up.

Who knew I, the average student, who failed the mile in junior high, didn’t enjoy gym class and talked her way through many classes could give birth to such amazing humans?!

Daffodils

Since having my own home and gardens I have had daffodils and have enjoyed them sprouting up in early spring, often in between snowflakes. They offer the first glimpse of spring with their bright colors of hope and rebirth.

During my visit (a year and a half ago) to the U.S. Holocaust Museum’s gift shop I was exposed to seeing daffodils in a new light: as a living symbol and tribute to the 1.5 million Jewish children who were killed in the Holocaust. The daffodil is yellow like the yellow Star of David the Jews were forced to wear and it also has six petals similar to the six points of the Jewish Star. In the gift shop, I saw and purchased a yellow and black beaded bracelet for my daughter (although after returning home I learned it was too large for her wrist and just right for mine.) They were being sold to raise funds for The Daffodil Project inAtlanta, Georgia. To learn more visit their site: http://www.daffodilproject.net 

Salusia & Milius with a nurse?

The other day the weather and timing were perfect for me to plant the 40 daffodil bulbs I had purchased to plant on the hill behind my new house. Ever since I had bought them weeks before the Daffodil Project had crossed my mind. I liked the idea of putting significance behind my daffodils. The morning of planting, hours before the actual planting, I began thinking about Salusia and Milius, my grandmother’s niece and nephew who were lost/disappeared during the Holocaust. All that was left of them, that anyone is aware of is photos with notes written on the back that my great aunt mailed to her parents in New York from Poland. Their fates remain unknown.

However, when the planting began, with my own son by my side, I forgot to think about those two sweet children I only known from photos and focused on the mosquitos, the steepness of the hill and how many 40 actually is….A LOT! But during the digging of yet another 4-5” deep hole Salusia and Milius flashed in my mind, then I hit a rock. “Aw come ON!” I dug up the rock only to discover it’s shape resembled a heart. I chose to place the rock over the bulb I planted, I may not be able to locate the rock again when the brush grows in, and hopefully the bulb will grow around it, but it was at that moment I remembered why my heart was planting 40 daffodil bulbs. 

Age is But a Number

My mother past away a few months shy of her 65th birthday. She would have loved to celebrate turning 65. See, to my mom growing older was never something she minded. (Other than the fact that her mother had alzheimer’s and she had a worry it would happen to her —dying at 64 from lung cancer she found that the positive side was that having dementia or alzheimer’s was not an option. She could find the positive in anything. As soon as she celebrated the age of whatever age was needed for a discount she proudly declared she was that age, to receive the discount of course. Hmm, so maybe it was just a good discount she appreciated.

A little over a year after she died someone I knew was celebrating their 65th birthday and when asked how they would celebrate the response was she has no plans and may just cry all day. All I could think about was how I wished my mom had a 65th birthday. 

It’s poetic to me that the American Cancer Society’s slogan is now “Official Sponsor of Birthdays”. I agree that birthdays should be celebrated, because the alternative is real and sucks.

Last month I turned 39. Just in case you were wondering.

When I was about 16 years old my mom’s boyfriend’s daughter came to live with us for a short time. I would have referred to her as my stepsister but those who know me well and from back then might wonder when my mom got married — (I did respect him like a stepfather though). Anyway, Jeannie was 30. From the moment I remember meeting her I remember thinking that now that 30 had a face to me it wasn’t old at all. She was hip, cool and fun. 

When I was 22 I worked with a few 40 year olds who also gave me a face letting me know that 40 was no old. In fact, 40 is confident, knowledgeable and also fun. It’s Josephine’s face that sticks out in my mind though, she was a naturally, confident, talented beautiful woman. There was only one thing that set her apart from Pam, another confident, talented beautiful and fun 40 year old woman who I worked with and who I actually felt more connected with. Josephine wore no makeup. Not a brush of eyeliner that I recall or lipstick. 

I have never been a big fan of makeup, maybe in opposition that my mom wouldn’t leave the house until “her face was on”. There was a clear moment in my mind that I thought to myself when I am 40 I want to be confident enough in my appearance to not wear makeup. This morning, at 39 and a few weeks old I looked into the mirror and saw extremely tired eyes looking back. I put on makeup to try to cover it up all while in my head I knew that the only way to truly cover them up is to get more sleep. Most days I do, indeed, go out of the house with no makeup on, especially in the summer, but more often than not I put on a little eyeliner and shadow. 

My goal for the year, something I have just now consciously decided, is to get more sleep. Enough talking and thinking about it, now is the time for me to do it. Because when I’m 40 I want to be a younger woman’s Josephine….especially if it’s my daughter’s.

Skunk Season?

Lately I have seen several, not just one or two or three, I mean several skunks dead on the roads; country roads, “city” roads and on roads just outside of the “city”. I have no recollection of ever seeing or smelling for that matter so many dead skunks in a short time. 

Around here it’s easy to know when it’s deer hunting season for many reasons, but one is there are more dead deer on the sides of roads as they are hit by cars while fleeing from hunters in the woods. So, today as I drove by; I took extra care not to drive over, three dead skunks in the road I wondered….is there a skunk hunting season?

I also think of my mom when I smell skunks. That sounds pretty bad doesn’t? Well, the reason is because she always enjoyed the smell of skunk; seriously who enjoys the smell of skunks?! 

Her explanation: She grew up in the city and at the age of 32 she moved to the country - Connecticut - and she told me that when she smelled skunk she knew she was in the country. So, apparently there are no city-dwelling skunks. By the looks of the roads in my city of 50,000 people I think that may be true here too.

The Loss of Robin Williams

When Robin Williams died I mourned his loss by watching movies he was in. I excitedly introduced my kids to Mrs. Doubtfire and was internally joyful when they fell in love with her and laughed at her antics. 

I was very saddened by Robin Williams’ death, but I was not surprised. What I mean by that is that “we” never know another person’s pain or sorrow unless they choose to share them with us; and we all have pain and sorrow. Maybe it’s my counselor brain speaking or just my life experience, but I am never truly surprised when someone attempts or commits suicide, deeply saddened yes, but never surprised. 

What affected me the most about Robin Williams’ death is how he devoted his life to making other people laugh and cheering other people up during their darkest hours. All while he was deeply saddened himself, dying slowly on the inside. His comedy (and from what I have read since his death) his truly kind, thoughtful and generous inclination to help others was a mask he created, in my opinion without having known him, in an effort to make himself feel better, and I don’t mean in the way that some people who have a lot give to those who are less fortunate as a way to make them feel better for having so much. No, I mean in a way that his pain grew inside his head while his heart gave so much to so many.

I have read stories about him requiring that people who were homeless be given jobs on his job sets. I read a story about how giving he was in his home city of San Francisco. In one such story I read he would drive up to a kid run car wash and ask what school they were from, what they were raising money for and then would pull out all the money in his wallet and say he didn’t have time to get his car washed all while handing over the wad of money in his hand. On more than one occasion I have read how he has helped people who were homeless get jobs. 

While Robin Williams was making millions of us laugh (and cry) he was making a difference in so many other people’s lives in such a way that those of us who paid $5, $7, $9 or more to watch his movies couldn’t even imagine.

Also since his death people all over the internet have been posting quotes from his movies; words that he spoke in a script about suicide. I wonder if he even remembered speaking these lines among the millions he spoke in front of a camera? 

Robin Williams hung himself after years of millions of us hanging onto his every word. I hope that Mork, Mrs. Doubtfire and Patch Adams among the many others he remarkably played removed themselves from Robin Williams at the time of his death making way for eternal peace to reside inside Robin Williams the person, father, husband, and son…..na nu na nu

I think he would have wanted me to end with a laugh :)

Soccer

I was impressed with myself by posting a few times in July and then August came. Not sure how the entire month passed by without posting, but it did. OK, maybe I do know. I’ve mentioned before how I “write” a blog a day in my mind. It’s the sitting and typing, which sounds absurd to myself since I’m on my computer more than a few times a day.

OK, enough procrastinating and excuses; let’s get to the writing.

As my daughter was in soccer practice tonight I wondered how the word soccer came about. I agree with the rest of the world that soccer is football, honestly it’s the best named sport there is, it doesn’t get more obvious. FOOTBALL is played with your foot! No hands allowed (except if you’re the goalie, but there’s exceptions in every sport, right?). But this time I began wondering where the American name of “soccer” actually came from. I thought about googling it and then sharing what I found with you, but decided instead that if you were as intrigued as me you could search for it yourself….something else for you to do.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

On Facebook I see people write statuses wishing people happy birthdays who aren’t even on Facebook and therefore will never seen it. I have read heartfelt statuses to friends and family who have died. There is no Facebook in heaven in my friends (at least not my heaven). Although mistaken for a private journal Facebook is incredibly public. 

With that said I want to wish a very happy birthday to my most loyal reader of my blog - my dad! I will not disclose his age, although I’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t look it. Working hard, both mentally and physically, his arms show muscles of a much younger man. His stories, that are easy to listen to, are what show his age. Stories about flying on airplanes when security was minimal and there was no need to show up hours before your flight. Although being the punctual person he his, I do have a memory of being dropped off at an airport three hours before my flight. He has stories about growing up in a time when hanging out the gas station was what guys did. A place to talk about cars and girls too, I assume, because after all back then the gas station wasn’t just a place where you filled your car up, it’s also the place the mechanic actually worked on your car too. He has stories about working in New York City during a time when the mob was at its height…..and that’s all I’m going to say about that, because this blog after all is quite public as well :)

My dad is the one who will send me an email reminding me I haven’t posted anything to the blog in awhile, so being that I just posted yesterday, it may be awhile before he sees this. But, I’m sure he’ll see it before my card arrives in his mailbox (oops, time slipped away, sorry Dad, it’ll get there within the year). 

My dad is social, but chooses to live in his house quietly when he isn’t out visiting with the mailman, bank teller or other people he runs into throughout his day.  My parents were divorced 28 years ago and I figured he’d remarry when hell froze over. That was before he met Lisa a few years ago. He found a woman to listen to his stories, and live quietly in his house with, all while supporting her to reach her dreams; most recently of learning how to drive and get her driver’s license! On the day of their late October wedding there was a blizzard; I wouldn’t call Connecticut hell, but it sure did freeze over that day. The following year there was a hurricane on their anniversary. I guess this is the woman he was suppose to grow old with, one birthday at a time! 

Happy Birthday, Dad, I love you (as do most people who know you)!

Soup Market

Last week’s market was a soup market. That’s what I call the farmer’s market when I walk up to it and smell onions and dill and see carrots. That’s when I know it’s time to make my chicken soup.

Random Things on My Mind Right Now

1. We “adopted” a Monarch caterpillar and after almost two weeks it remains to be alive! It’s grown from 1/2 to 1 centimeter, I hope it makes it to become a beautiful butterfly or I will feel incredibly guilty for saying, “yes” to my daughter after she found it and asked to bring it home. I later realized it was 

2. Before moving we put many of our things into storage and after a month it was broken into. A month later we emptied it out after moving. We have discovered a few things missing, but the only thing I miss terribly that creates a lump in my throat is our guest book. Not from our wedding, but from our guest room in our old house. My mom (who I got the idea from) wrote in it faithfully whenever she came to visit. Even my dad wrote in it. Each entry was a personal letter to my family and besides sadness I am in complete confusion on why it hasn’t turned up and hope that it just miraculously appears one day…..SOON!

3. I love playing games and often wish to have a monthly game night, I think I would enjoy it even more than my book club. Hmm, I may have to move forward with this idea.

4. If I lost my phone I think I would get over it quickly, but instead it’s almost always near me. Why the extremes?

5. I’m really hoping that I can find the flower I want at the farmer’s market tonight, but am afraid that July 18th is too late to go flower shopping.

A Patriotic Independence Day to Rival Others

On July 4th my Facebook status read as follows, “I had the honor of watching 101 people become United States citizens yesterday, one of whom is a good friend. The ceremony was wonderful, emotional and my kids even got to be a part of welcoming our newest citizens by giving them their own American flags. My first reaction upon seeing the group was pride that this is what American looks like = diversity! We are a lucky country and the ceremony left me wondering and hoping that I am using my born citizenship wisely and to its fullest. Happy Independence Day!”

 One of my dearest friends texted me a few weeks ago to invite me and my family to her husband’s citizenship ceremony in just two weeks. That was the notice they were given. My immediate reaction was, “Of course I will be there! What an amazing opportunity for my kids and I to witness! A once in a lifetime opportunity*!” I, unfortunately, have missed two other milestones in her life and promised her and myself, that I would not miss this one. Her husband is a sweet, calm soul who was born in Zimbabwe. My husband, unfortunately, was unable to be away from work during this time so the kids and I trekked out on our first road trip together sans dad. What followed was a weekend of amazing memories and experiences.

Picture it: Indianapolis, IN, July 3rd, pulling into a parking lot just moments after our friends, surprising our soon to be new citizen who did not know we were coming.

The ceremony took place outside on the lawn of the President Benjamin Harrison home. Under a tent, 300 seats were placed, including 101 for our country’s newest citizens. We chose the last row where behind us grew a gorgeous maple tree with peeling bark and low branches. The tree looked to be 100 years old in my untrained eye and the four kids (my two, theirs and another friend) played around and on that tree in such a picturesque way. 

Just before the oath was taken, the judge presiding over the ceremony invited all elementary aged children to come forward and take part in the ceremony. As she called each country represented the individuals were instructed to stand and a child would approach them, hand them a small American flag, look them in the eye and shaw their hand.

My children were fortunate to hand out about three flags each and this is when the tears built up. To see our children, not just mine, but the country’s welcome new citizens to our country, the oldest being 74 years old was heartwarming. Prior to the start of the ceremony when everyone was in line I just thought, “THIS is what American looks like; different skin tones, different hair colors and different accents.” 

I thought about my two grandmothers who immigrated to the United States. My maternal grandmother in 1928 from Poland at the age of 11 who became a U.S. citizen in 1964, unbeknownst to her children, who always assumed she was a citizen. My paternal grandmother’s story is a bit more vague. Born in 1906, according to family stories it only became known that she was born in Russia, even to herself, when she applied for social security! 

To read more about the citizenship ceremony in Indianapolis: http://www.indystar.com/story/news/politics/2014/07/03/indianas-new-us-citizens-see-land-opportunity/12183159/

* After the excitement passed I “remembered” that my Dad’s wife, my kids’ Nini, is in the middle of the journey of also becoming a United States citizen, having been born in China. I look forward to one day witness her day of naturalization as well.

Meet Tiffany

In 1977 my parents built their dream house. Just before I turned two years old we moved in. My mom bought a Tiffany light for this 1970s color-schemed house. In the kitchen for ten years hung this red, orange and marigold yellow light over the table that sat on a linoleum floor of similar colors surrounded by marigold yellow appliances. 

After we moved the decor changed to paisleys and blues and greens, with no place for Tiffany. She was hugged in multiple layers of bubble wrap and moved into the attic. Eventually she and the other contents of the house moved south in 1999. 

Sometime in the early 2000’s my mom came to visit me in my home in Wisconsin. We were in my kitchen surrounded by walls of an updated marigold yellow color and valances hung over the windows filled with crimsons, olive and subdued oranges and yellows. It was at that moment she thought about Tiffany and told me she would look great in this kitchen and she wanted me to have it. I have no recollection of how or when Tiffany wrapped in her bubble wrap blanket moved into my attic. There was no road trip between WI and FL, so she must have moved here in 2009 on the U-Haul truck I drove after my mom passed away. 

Nearly five years later she was moved into a new home and unwrapped to reveal numerous panels cracked and one missing. To put it frankly, Tiffany was in deep disrepair. I knew she had cracks, but had no idea the extreme until recently. To my surprise it didn’t take long to hear about Old Hickory Stained Glass in Onalaska, WI where a man named Bob had been creating and working with stained glass since 1976, around the time Tiffany was likely born. I never met Bob, he was a behind the scenes kind of guy, but my expectations and hope were high. A few months later I picked up Tiffany only to discover she was beautiful! Yesterday she was hung in my new kitchen of the same yellow walls and I am convinced this kitchen was built for her, more so than the one my mom remembered her in.

After 27 years in storage she hangs with dignity and grace, a centerpiece restored by an artist who was able to match her glass nearly perfectly simply because his years of experience rival her age. I was told he was amazed she was still around, these pieces were not built to last he said, he reinforced her and I believe was in awe of her as I was told if she begins to sag he will happily reinforce her again.

Royalty

I heard this endearing story from a teacher today:

Last Friday she subbed for one of my 10 year old son’s teachers and told my son to treat his mom like a queen this weekend, because it was Mother’s Day. His response, “My mom prefers to be treated like a Princess, she says queens are too old.”

Doing the Right Thing because it's The Right Thing TO Do

WARNING: This video will touch your heart.

(Just when I thought I wasn't going to need a tissue I got choked up.)

Remembering Linda Madigan

During my undergraduate program I took an Abnormal Psychology class (and of course self-diagnosed myself throughout the semester). I was required to complete 20 hours or so of volunteer hours. While in college I missed spending time with kids (“back home” I had babysat frequently and worked at a day camp summer after summer with three and four year olds). After looking down a list of possible agencies provided by my professor I decided on volunteering at a domestic violence shelter for two reasons; I could work with children and because I had a close relative who had been raped and subsequently volunteered at a rape crisis center. Twenty hours and four years later I received an award for being “Volunteer of the Year” and I moved to Wisconsin with the plan of finding a shelter there to continue my volunteering at.

Skip ahead 20 months. I was working a job, not to be confused with a career job. I loved everything about my new town except my job. It was clearly time to call that shelter I looked up 20 months prior. I walked through the door prepared to fill out a volunteer application only to have the volunteer coordinator encourage me, tell me to apply for the open children’s advocate position. I had no experience I told her. “You have lots of experience,” she insisted. I had three days to turn in my resume.

I was given an interview. I had nothing to lose. In mid August dressed for an interview and nervous as all get out I declared that if they thought I could do the job than I’d do it. I recall sweating my way through the interview and while walking out to my car taking a deep exhale. Linda Madigan, the director, was one of five people interviewing me.

Fast Forward ahead 5 years. Linda, who encouraged, supported and expressed her belief me was no longer there and neither was I.

Change the clock ahead to today. I attended Linda’s memorial today. On April 1^st she past away from cancer. Damn cancer.

Linda never introduced herself as the Director of New Horizons, she never once made staff believe she was better than any of us. Her support meant more than anyone’s to me at the agency, and it wasn’t because she was the director. It was mostly because she, too, had been the children’s advocate before, she knew what my job entailed and because she was the director who never gave herself a title in a group of people.

She had a heart full of passion and a green blazer hanging on the back of her office door. Linda was always dressed comfortably and her blazer hung there in the event the media wanted to talk with her. That green blazer dressed her up and was worn in every TV interview with Linda I ever saw.

Linda was a quiet, private person and after her retirement I only saw her once.  We shared a plane out of our town’s small airport. My family was on our way to a vacation and Linda was on her way to a Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans. This did not surprise me one bit. Of course Linda was volunteering with the American Red Cross, she was the epitome of activist and I wholeheartedly admired this in her. She once told me “DV (domestic violence) work gets in your blood.” A year after I left New Horizons to be a stay at home, full-time mother I completely understood what she meant. I will forever envision Linda Madigan on an airplane destined to help where people need her.

8 years later I continue to volunteer in my community.

RIP Linda Madigan, those, including myself, who were fortunate enough to see your passion to help those in need firsthand will never forget you.

To read more about Linda click here to read an article in the La Crosse Tribune published after her death.

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month

My son won 2nd place in a t-shirt design contest for child abuse prevention.

You’re Never Too Busy

Busy week and busy day, but it only took 30 minutes to make a difference.

Rather than vent about my busy, full life I will only tell you about the difference I made tonight and challenge you to think about what you can do in 30 minutes or less to help others.

It only took me 30 minutes to donate about 50 leftover hotdogs and four boxes of Girl Scout cookies to my local Salvation Army shelter. They were appreciative to have tomorrow’s lunch and I was appreciative of having somewhere to bring them.

What will you do?

Slow Down and Enjoy Nature

I was getting frustrated as I was rushing to get to work yesterday. It had suddenly started snowing and the roads were slick. I was driving slow and thinking about how there was a good chance I was going to be late, which I absolutely hate. It wasn’t like I was going to be late to sit at a desk. I was on my way to talk to a class of 3-5 years about child abuse; safe vs. unsafe touches and how the blue ribbon serves as a reminder to grownups to “keep kids safe”.

The car in front of me was slowing down even more and that’s when I saw a white bird on the other side of the street in the middle of the lane. I was on a residential road about a mile and a half from my house.  My initial thought was that it was a goose which I knew made absolutely no sense, so I thought oh it must be a turkey that would make sense! Then I realized, no it wasn’t a turkey, only the head was white! It was a beautiful bald eagle that was in the road not injured as I originally thought but with a squirrel in its talons! It flew overhead to a field to eat. I pulled over and wished I had been able to take a picture but it was too far away at this point and I sat on the side of the road for a minute or two while I watched three crows fly down around it. Yeah right like a bald eagle with a seven foot wingspan is going to share with three cawing blackbirds! Not a chance, and it didn’t even flinch when they landed.

I continued on to work with a smile on my face and a reminder that in spite/despite the snow and ice I live in a beautiful part of the country.

St. Joe the Realtor Saint

Shortly after we put our house on the market in December a friend excitedly told me, "You should get and bury a St. Joseph statue!" Being the Jewish woman married to a Catholic school boy (he's not a school boy anymore of course, he's a grown man) that I am I had no idea what she was talking about, it turns out my husband didn't either. 

One morning soon after as we met for a morning run she delivered the said saint in a box, all commercialized up, pamphlet of explanation included. I will paraphrase what it said...bury St. Joseph upside down in the front lawn of your house either by your for sale sign, your front door, facing north, facing south, in the middle of the night during a full moon with a shovel in your front yard so your neighbors will talk about how crazy you are your house will sell. As long as you have fixed major repairs, the foundation is sold, your house is clean, your house is listed, you say a prayer and believe that this little statute will help you sell your house, then your house will sell. 

Okay, okay at this point St. Joesph started to sound more like Realtor Joe to me so I figured since I already didn't believe in him I'd have a little fun with him. 

After rescuing him from the box I unthinkingly put him on the shelf by my front door. Soon after I said, "Oh hey! Look, some people have an Elf on the Shelf, I have St. Joseph on the shelf?" Let the fun begin! It started with me putting him in our Lego Christmas Advent Calendar scene (no picture).

My son awoke the next morning and St. Joe was blocking the next door to be opened so he moved him to theses snowmen. (House still not sold)

A few days later my daughter thought he might want to play football with a different snowman. Unfortunately the snowman fumbled St. Joe soon after this photo and in the words of my daughter, "His head popped off and rolled under the couch." (House still not sold)

After head surgery by Krazy Glue he was cuddled and cared for by this snowman. His head is pointed toward the neighbors' house, also for sale, which received an offer soon after. (Our house still not sold) 

Before leaving for our Christmas vacation I turned him upside down in the arms of this snowman (no picture) after some friends assured me that if I buried him in a flower pot outside (the ground was frozen) that my house would sell. I appeased them by putting him upside down.

A week later we came home to two offers on our house. We closed on our new house on Jan. 30, moved in on Feb. 1 and handed over the keys to our "old" house that "Realtor Joe" helped us sell the following week.

It was then brought to my attention that once moved into our new house he should be placed somewhere in our new house to ensure a happy life there. The snowmen grew quite fond of him so they continued to hang out with him by the fireplace (no photo). Two days ago the snowmen were put away in hopes that spring will arrive sometime this year.

Yesterday he found his new calling in our new home.......

My daughter has made him a fashion model with paper doll clothes. She announced this morning as she posed him leaning against an anchor (no photo) that he has won many photo shoots. 

She then declared this his wedding dress.

When he is buried she stated that he has to be buried in all these clothes. I'm not sure if she was talking about his funeral or his realtor duties...

Our house sold in about a month of putting it on the market and we are very happy in our new home. Hmmmmm..................

Late Mother

My mom died 4 ½ years ago, this is nothing new. She passed on, is deceased, but yesterday it occurred to me she was my late mother for years before she died, all my life she was late for everything.