tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-269500152024-02-02T04:50:01.799-05:00Laughter, Love and LilyMusings, Miracles and Meika...Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-4161212641787177472009-10-12T22:35:00.002-04:002009-10-12T22:42:12.303-04:00NEW BLOGGING ADDRESS<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I have a new site! Please come and book mark me at: <a href="http://wordswrittenincrayon.squarespace.com">www.wordswrittenincrayon.com</a></span></span>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-8906548975199626772009-10-12T22:34:00.001-04:002009-10-12T22:34:46.284-04:00MONKEYS AND CRICKETS AND BABYDOLLS, OH MY!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpP2VTe3AhjcyXoWgJIAmVKyzw-Lrs9c0cXIomhfmqJnLFeDD9UQF4z-63Vs_ygutDQnPGbP4yj0w5ioTTjzJhmAuNFWBtC3zfK9zRJTA0Ql3GYjtW3X2QYrG2D2vHrHERYvVipg/s1600-h/doll.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpP2VTe3AhjcyXoWgJIAmVKyzw-Lrs9c0cXIomhfmqJnLFeDD9UQF4z-63Vs_ygutDQnPGbP4yj0w5ioTTjzJhmAuNFWBtC3zfK9zRJTA0Ql3GYjtW3X2QYrG2D2vHrHERYvVipg/s400/doll.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391906908296821234" border="0" /></a></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So, I have previously mentioned #1 daughter’s fear and disgust when she even catches a glimpse of a baby doll. I’ve tried to trace this back to see what may have triggered this trepidation when it comes to this most popular of toys. When I was a child, I adored dolls and had quite a collection; a collection that I di</span><span style="font-size:85%;">splayed on top of the wardrobe standing across from Lily’s crib. Oh… Did I inadvertently traumatize my eldest for life by placing these replicas of human children high above her infant form long before she possessed the ability to express her terror and request that I remove them? Oh, bad, bad Mama!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Once she could speak and articulate her fear, the dolls were quickly moved from her presence and have remained boxed ever since, but I fear the damage is done. She has never like them, never wanted to play with them and shuns the site of them. In fact, as mentioned in a previous post, she claims the site of them causes her to lose her appetite and make her feel sick. Weird. Now, Barbies, Brats, even Meika’s new Ling doll, she enjoys to a limited extent and when I ask her why this is so she tells me because they represent teenagers, not babies. The Ling doll, which really is quite beautiful, now resides on top of the wardrobe, the former home to all those other baby dolls, but because Ling is not a ‘baby’ Ling is admired rather than met with apprehension.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Stuff animals she has galore and plays with them endlessly, Lily loves critters, she loves them all… except monkeys. When asked, she will tell you she doesn’t like the way they move, or that she just doesn’t know why she despises them so. But I, the Mama think that again, it was me who, though not purposely, none-the-less instilled an abiding fear in my dear child. At the time of her adoption a friend sent a life-sized, crouching, very realistic looking monkey as a gift for her. It was the same size as she was, she being less than a year old. One day I set her a</span><span style="font-size:85%;">nd the stuffed monkey on the coach to take a picture of them together for my friend. She took one look, one very recognizable look of shear panic, and started screaming her head off. I quickly removed the beast, but I think it marked her for life. Again, bad, bad, Mama! We still have the monkey, but he is locked away in the attic, and frankly, when I go in there and see him hunkered down in the corner I shutter myself.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This summer, we discovered a fear that Lily has that is so distressing to her that it can paralyze her in a fit of fear. What scares her so? What causes her to stiffen in panic and screech in utter terror sending lightning bolts of dread and dismay through her mother? It is this, the discarded casings of cicadas. For some unknown reason, below the surface of our backyard reside a city of cicadas, and each spring they emerge to latch themselves to the bark of our trees and transform into their winged and green, twittering selves. I rather enjoy the seasonal sounds of cicadas; a calm inducing night time chorus starting from hushed and slow beginnings and gradually building to the satisfying rapid chirping that denotes a hot and peaceful summer night. And indeed, Lily has absolutely no problem with the winged creatures, it is their casings, left behind clinging to trees, the fence, blades of grass and even to our house that send her into hysterics. I initially had no idea she had this aversion until one day this summer she was outside getting ready to feed the dog and she started to scream. The kind of screaming that denotes either extreme terror, severe pain or that one of the Jonas Brothers has just come into our yard. The kind of heart stopping don’t-even-stop-to-think-get-yourself-to-your-kid-NOW kind of scream. I was only a few feet away on the patio, and turned to s</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ee her standing in the middle of the yard, clutching a dog food can with both hands until her knuckles were white, her eyes closed and her mouth wide in that horrible cry of sheer terror. All sorts of things flew through my mind in that split second; is she hurt? Don’t see any blood; is there a snake in the grass? Don’t see a snake. Did she cut off a finger on the can of dog food? See all ten fingers. And in a few seconds I am standing in front of her shaking and still screaming form trying to break through to her, but she isn’t stopping and she isn’t telling me what is wrong, she just goes on shrieking and shrieking. Neighbors come out of their houses and start yelling too, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?! I have to actually take Lily by the shoulders and shake her a little to get her to TELL ME WHAT IS WRONG!!! She pries one of her hands off the can of dog food to point at the spot in front of my feet. Sitting in the grass is one single cicada casing, all fragile and lonely. “What? I don’t see anything, what?”</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“That BUG! AAAAHHHH!!!!”</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“What? This?” and I pick it up. Her eyes widen to colossal saucers and she screams some more. “You have GOT to be kidding me! THIS is what you are screaming about?! This is just an empty shell, honey, watch.” And I drop it and step on it and crush it into non-existence. She stops screaming, but she goes on shaking and crying. It takes a while to calm her after I shout to the neighbors that it is alright, it was just a cicada casing and rolling my eyes in embarrassment. But Lily’s fear is real even if it seems exaggerated to me, she is genuinely petrified. I can’t help but chastise her for making me think that she was in real danger. I tell her that I think that she is overreacting a bit.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“But Mama, aren’t YOU ever scared of something?”</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> “Fair enough, you’re right, I’m sorry. But you scared the livin’ daylights out of me you know.” So we spend the entire summer with her pleading dreaded cicadas in order not to have to go into the yard to do any chores. I tell her she needs to work it through and confront her fears and so watch her pick her way slowly across the yard to reach the critters every day; see her examine the swing in minute detail before sitting on it; stare for long minutes at a time at the gate before touching it. But she muddles through while I run around the yard when she isn’t looking stomping into oblivion any casings I see. I just don’t understand what is so scary about an empty shell. This is a child who regularly carries around worms, and daddy long legs and toads. I child who would gladly run into a cage of crocodiles if it meant she could touch them, and she is afraid of this wisp of insect carcass?</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And then, one day not long after this incident I am in the laundry room, minding my own laundry business when something hits my knee. I look down to find myself staring at and being stared back at by a CAMEL CRICKET! Now, many people who are reading this are probably not familiar with camel crickets, in fact, I was unaware of their existence until I moved south of the Mason-Dixon, so let me tell you, I am a fan of the cricket, the normal, black, chirping cricket. The kind in Mulan. The Jiminy Cricket kind. If I find one in my house I lea</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ve it, sighting the old Irish lore that they are lucky to have in your home. But CAMEL CRICKETS! Ha! These horrid creatures should not even BARE the name cricket. Okay, they have big old legs, in fact, their legs are freakishly large, and they sort of have a cricket like head, but these mutants are EVIL! SHEER EVIL I tell you! They are one of those bugs that seem to have intelligence far beyond what a bug should have. They are downright aggressive! They like damp and dark, so they like those soggy towels in the laundry basket. They like the shadowy, creepy corners of a tiled room. They like the big old bowl of cat food sitting there inviting them in. And when you unsuspectedly open the door to the laundry room, flip on the light and see them gleefully hopping across your floor? and this is the WORST! THIS is what makes them so evil; they don’t run and hide, they stop. They stare back at you. And then…oh I can hardly bring myself to utter the words…they don’t use those big back legs to chirp, in fact, they don’t make any sound at all, they use those big, horrible, hairy legs to JUMP ON YOU! Yes folks, these creepy-crawly fiends JUMP RIGHT AT YOUR BODY. Frankly, the mere sight of them totally makes my skin crawl. I mean it, it crawls, and just the thou</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ght of them makes my whole body do that trembly thing all over. I am absolutely terrified of these bugs. The picture I have attached to this post? Each time I glimpse it I convulse.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So, this summer, for the first time in this house, there is an infestation of camel crickets. I read up on how to get rid of them, why they are in my house, where they could be coming from. Apparently, they creep in through cracks and windows, but I don’t have cracks or open windows, so the only place left is through the drier vent. Oh horrors! To think that they might be creeping into my dryer and are being tossed about with my clean clothes is just too much. Each time I open the door to that room, I flip on the light and scan the area before setting one toe in. If I spot one, well, that is bad enough, but if I want it to die it means I will have to try and stomp it, and that isn’t easy because they SEE you coming, they anticipate your every move, they gang up on you, and while you are busy trying to flatten their creepy butts, they are leaping at you! It is battle full on! Screaming ensues on both sides and I am sure I look like a total fool hopping around in Wellington boots, a plunger in one hand, a golf club in the other trying to smash these huge and horrible creatures. And yes, if I succeed, because they grow to such great dimension</span><span style="font-size:85%;">s, there is then the almost equally disgusting disposal of the body to deal with, causing me trauma and non-stop quivering for the rest of the day.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But the absolute worst of the worst was one day, while going about my business; I went in<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy90JGrvhvc2CkR2sauBmPhB_G8Z6T0mMo6D2crP6TbI4xqOJ2R7CDZ86djRe6txbTuz3Q01fcC3HKjr0Yl9HxBcCdjOr9CTURnGl1Dc6NKLB2OyINTkoqsvWF18SAuY9_TeKHAw/s1600-h/CricketCamel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy90JGrvhvc2CkR2sauBmPhB_G8Z6T0mMo6D2crP6TbI4xqOJ2R7CDZ86djRe6txbTuz3Q01fcC3HKjr0Yl9HxBcCdjOr9CTURnGl1Dc6NKLB2OyINTkoqsvWF18SAuY9_TeKHAw/s400/CricketCamel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391906639567612642" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">to</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> t</span><span style="font-size:85%;">he laundry room to get something. I forgot to case the joint first and walked in, retrieved what I was looking for and w</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ent back into the kitchen. I was standing at the counter reading a recipe when I spot something move out of the corner of my eye. Something move ON MY SHOULDER! I reacted swiftly and like a ninja, I didn’t bother to look at whatever it was first, because it was BIG, I just swept it from my person onto the floor and THEN I looked. Yup, you guessed it, the biggest, fattest, hairiest camel cricket in existence was eyeing me </span><span style="font-size:85%;">right back. THA-WAP! I got him before he got me</span><span style="font-size:85%;">, but the resulting hysterically trembling, creepy crawly skin and whimpering that resulted lasted for hours.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So what do I do now when I see one of these mutants of nature? Why, I call Lily of course, because camel crickets don’t bother her in the least. Nope. She will deal with them for me. Oh the shame, I must call my nine year old to come and smash the big bad bug because I cannot stand the site of them. And she will want to pick it up and take it outside. “NO, NO, NO! KILL IT! KILL IT!”And she says to me, “Mama, don’t you think that you are overreacting a bit?” And I say, “NO! No I am NOT overreacting. And I will never say another word to you about your fear of cicada casings. Never! Deal?”</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Deal Mama.”</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">©KKW 2009</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /></span> </div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-847937460247944542009-10-09T23:24:00.003-04:002009-10-09T23:28:18.873-04:00TODDLER JESUS AND THE SPLENDID YARD SALE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7wyFVBsh9vEzOUjKNehQJt7klTwTQ_ebXTJ2X-dO2SKcePDWjOr0mbpFL9RnZy_Epjaa_26yeKWGjnPtH_MAdD7Lr5lx8SagEN-kQszkWnIA2fb8l1o15v4io8NziXFlp63GvQ/s1600-h/BJ.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7wyFVBsh9vEzOUjKNehQJt7klTwTQ_ebXTJ2X-dO2SKcePDWjOr0mbpFL9RnZy_Epjaa_26yeKWGjnPtH_MAdD7Lr5lx8SagEN-kQszkWnIA2fb8l1o15v4io8NziXFlp63GvQ/s400/BJ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390807962837181346" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">To say that the town in which I grew up, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, has a large Catholic population would be an understatement; when I was growing up in Parma it was just assumed that you went to one of the gianormus Catholic parishes in town. While in high school I had only one friend who went to a protestant church. One. She was Lutheran. After spending one Saturday with her, my friend’s mother offered to drive me home, but first she needed to drop something off at their church. She asked if I wanted to see their sanctuary and I replied that I would. I thought it was lovely and simple and very blue, far different than the pomp, marble, gold and spender of Saint Chuck’s (Charles) Romanesque architecture where my family attended. When I mentioned my amazement at the simplicity of their church building at dinner later that day my father totally freaked that I had been take to, and been physically present in, a church building that was not Catholic. A building that had not been ‘blessed’ and sanctified; its pews and dais liberally drenched in holy water. I had no idea that it was against Catholic law to set foot in a protestant church. He threatened to call “this woman” and straighten her out about exposing my poor innocent soul to the corrupting influence of a Protestant church building. Fortunately, my mother calmed him down, but thus was the atmosphere of being raised in a Catholic family in a town full of them.<br /><br />Once I had moved to the south after college, Catholic churches became a rarity, they are speckled here and there, but the Baptist and Christian churches seem to be favored here. A few years ago while visiting Ohio during the Christmas season, Lily having never been in a resplendent Catholic church building, I thought that she would enjoy it and so we attended a midnight mass with my aunt. My daughter was used to a lot of socializing before the services back home in the realm of the plain and simple churches that we had attended. The silence as we sat waiting for the mass to begin that Christmas Eve and the sheer splendor of the building in which we waited was unnerving to her. My kid is just NOT used to having to be quiet…for anything, but the stillness in this gothic marble space was so overpowering, and the sites so brilliant and foreign that for once she was relatively quiet. At least that is until the mass started and the questions began. Most were asked while the chanting and singing were going on, so her urgent questions and my whispered answers were not much of a disturbance. But then came the communion with all those around us going up to the front of the church to receive the host and wine while Lily and I stayed seated. She watched and she waited and then while a reverent hush lay over the congregation she indignantly asked “Hey Mom, why do THEY get a snack and juice and we don’t? Not fair! I want a snack too!” Now in a southern church anyone hearing that would laugh freely, but in a Catholic church people either tried to pretend they hadn’t heard her or we were given the evil eye. And I KNOW that everyone heard her because the acoustics are really good that way in such a vast gothic hall.<br /><br />Anyway… I had not visited the town in which my father lived during the summer time for nearly twenty years, if I was able to make it to Ohio it was usually during the frigid winter holidays. So it was with much delight that I discovered yard sale signs popping up all over the neighborhood at the end of the week that I was there. I am a total sucker for a yard sale, and as we were attempting to leave early on a Saturday to head back to Virginia, the van just didn’t get very far as we encountered sale after sale after sale. The signs and set ups of these suburban sales were truly amazing. The yard sales I am used to where we live are sort of slapped up affairs with all the stuff thrown on a blanket in the yard and you have to ask how much everything is, which is fine, no worries, it’s a yard sale, but let me tell you, Parma, Ohio knows how to put together a yard sale sister! Everything was so organized and clean and all the stuff had price tags. Items were neatly laid out for viewing on tables and grouped by category, it really was dreadfully impressive, and it was like this at every single one. PLUS, there were SIGNS that had the date on them and actually led you to the sale, unlike the signs in the country where we live that might have been up for months because apparently it never occurs to anyone to date them or to go back and take DOWN their signs after the yard sale is over. The drooping florescent posters in Lousia could lead on a many miles long and winding trip to nowhere. Wasteful and incredibly frustrating! Once you’ve gone down one of our country roads, you might drive for days before encountering a crossroads or a highway sign. It’s like a short story by Stephen King; the-never-ending-country-road-to-nowhere-that-you-can’t-get-off-of. I’ve actually ended up several counties over on occasion by following one of these errant signs, and rather than turning around because I have already come so far, I continue to remain optimistic that I will come upon another road in which to put my hope and in so doing end up in West Virginia. Ah, but I digress yet again…<br /><br />So there I was in suburbia, perusing the racks of children’s clothing and shelves of chotskies when I spotted ‘Toddler Jesus’ in the free box. TODDLER JESUS, in the FREE box y’all! He is adorable AND FREE?! He is by far the cutest Jesus I have ever seen and I quickly snatched him up and held him tight. One of the women having the yard sale sees my delight and comments on it; I tell her that I haven’t seen one of these since moving to the south. “Well then, you might want to keep it hidden.” She says facetiously, “You could find a burning cross in your front yard some night.” Oh dear, she doesn’t exactly have a very positive picture of the south now does she? I assure her that no one will place a burning cross in my yard if I take home Toddler Jesus. She then asks why I am in town if I live in the south. I tell her I am there for my father’s memorial service. She asks what parish the funeral was done at and which priest performed it. SEE? SEE? She just ASSUMES. All I know to tell her is that the priest is called Father Russ, and was a friend of my father’s. “Oh!” she replies, “He is at Saint Leo’s. He’s wonderful!” All righty then, glad she approves.<br /><br />Having appeased the church ladies, I departed with my treasure back to the minivan and looked him over. It had been so long since seeing one of these, and never had I seen one so cute! He is dressed as a little king in a red, lace trimmed robe, cape and crown and is holding a sphere with a cross on top in one hand while giving a two fingered benediction with his other. (Sure, MY toddler stands around like that all the time). I was so used to having seen this version of wee Jesus that when daughter #1 asked why he was dressed the way he was, I had to admit that I really didn’t know, I’d never really thought about it. She was quite puzzled though and asked, “Mama, why is he wearing a red cape? Do they think he is Super Man?” and before I could answer that I didn’t know, she continues with, “Well, I guess he sort of is, isn’t he?” She then wanted to know what you were supposed to do with him. I told her that when I was a child many people attached them to the dashboards of their cars and I demonstrated. “But why?” She wanted to know. “Well, I guess they thought that it would protect them from accidents, kind of like a good luck charm, but I have always thought that if you are going to attach him to the dash he should really be facing this way so that he can see where he is going“, and I turned the little statue to face the windshield. A sigh and an “Oh Mom.” Is what I got in return. But to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know why he was dressed in such an elegant way, or why he was being depicted as a child in the first place rather than an adult Jesus. It is just one of those things that you grow up seeing around you so often that to actually think about the ‘whys’ never occurs to you. After all, I grew up in the land of ‘Bathtub Marys’ and plastic pink flamingos in every other yard, so baby dolls dressed up in lacy finery meant to represent a young Jesus was just something you saw all over the place. Toddler Jesus watches over restaurants and bars from perches high on a shelf next to the TV broadcasting the sports channel. He peers from shop windows, peeks from behind cash registers and gazes down from fireplace mantels in private homes. But it did spark a need to know, so once back home I set to finding out what I could about this dapper little guy even though I had no idea what this kind of depiction of the Christ child might be called. Still, it didn’t take long to find the information I was searching for on the internet by entering in a brief description, (bless the web’s little mechanical heart).<br /><br />Apparently, these statues are meant to be copies of The Infant Jesus of Prague which is housed in the Church Of Our Lady Of Victory in Bohemia ( it certainly makes since that he would be so popular in northern Ohio since most families in the area have roots in eastern Europe and Italy). The Infant of Prague is considered a “miraculous image”, and here are the basics of the story: in 1620, Ferdinand, Emperor of Austria won in a battle against the united Protestant armies near the city of Prague. He attributed his success to the infant Jesus because just before the battle, as he and his Catholic advisors were preparing to attack, the priest that ministered to them, a learned Carmelite priest called Father Dominic, held high a painting of the nativity of Jesus and exhorted the emperor to go forth in unwavering confidence in the all-powerful help of the infant Jesus. Apparently, they did so and interpreted their victory as reward for their faith. In gratitude, the Emperor founded a Carmelite monastery at Prague. So things went along for a few years, the infant Jesus not really playing much of a part in the life of the monastery until one day, a noble lady came to the city to visit her daughter, the Princess Polixena. She was presented with the gift of a highly prized family heirloom; a wooden statue with a wax coating representing the infant Jesus in all his majestic splendor. He was clothed in a well decorated dress and mantle, and held a globe of the world topped with a cross to represent his kingly sovereignty (called an Imperial Orb), and his other hand held in a sign of peace. Later, the Princess decided to give the little king to the Carmelites with the direction to honor the infant so that they would never be wanting. Through these early years, the image came to be associated with the fulfillment of answered prayers, thus it being venerated as “miraculous”.<br /><br />Unfortunately, in 1631 the Swedish Protestant army invaded Prague and Catholic churches and monasteries were pillaged, the wee statue was tossed upon a pile of garbage where it lay for seven years, its tiny hands broken off. When once again the priests were restored to their monastery, there came a novice named Cyirlus who remembered the statue and searched for it until it was found once more. He claimed the statue spoke to him and commanded that its hands be restored to it. Once he had recovered from the shock of being addressed by a wooden doll covered in refuse, he set to finding a benefactor to pay for the restoration. He found one that gave him so much money that he decided to replace the entire statue. When the imposter was set in the original’s place however, it was quickly struck down by a falling candlestick and broken to pieces. The prior became very ill and had to resign and everyone took this as a sign that the original statue was very displeased that it still did not have its hands after SPECIFICALLY asking for them to be given back. The new prior set to restoring the hands to the original statue. Once happily re-establish and given a new gold plated shrine, the little statue once again set to dispensing its favor and in recognition of this, was given a crown to complete his regal ensemble in 1655. And there he has remained to this day, being reproduced by the millions and distributed throughout the world. Wow.<br /><br />Have I mentioned Lily’s revulsion towards baby dolls? Dolls depicting teenagers or women are apparently fine for some reason, so Barbie and Brats are no problem, but baby dolls totally give her creeps. Lily claims to be so repulsed by the site of a baby doll that she can’t eat if one is in the same room. She claims that they make her sick. My Toddler Jesus has remained in the minivan since I acquired him and Lily claims that the site of him is causing her great distress. Even if I turn him around so that he is facing away from her, she still protests. So I guess that Toddler Jesus is going to have to find somewhere to reside out of Lily’s site. Perhaps I could use him as a guard to keep my kid from ‘borrowing’ my stuff. Can you imagine? Every time Lily goes to peek into one of my drawers out pops Toddler Jesus. No, I am not so cruel as to use him for such a purpose. Although, to rig something up where a disembodied voice moans “My hands! Give me back my hands!” when an off-limits drawer is opened IS quite tempting. But no, it won’t be gold plated, but I will find a shelf somewhere in the house for ‘TJ’ to rest upon. I will keep the little guy close at hand so that when I am confused about a decision that must be made, he will remind me to ask ‘What Would Toddler Jesus Do?’ WWTJD y’all.<br /><br />©KKW 2009<br /><br /></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-9947196704185530342009-09-16T20:58:00.008-04:002009-09-16T21:05:43.598-04:00HAPPY MEIKA DAY!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj606aRX_w-z4b8WwpjnHtzHqrC9KL-vZgFJEH6sWO84hCmWcrulLy4d_OxHGFJuB3fRAM-UE-H_WZEX3dpnzb2eSAJvZacbPo8EE3vB21v3wti278Ugrzn40xS5T8QdEqwjn8O-Q/s1600-h/image001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj606aRX_w-z4b8WwpjnHtzHqrC9KL-vZgFJEH6sWO84hCmWcrulLy4d_OxHGFJuB3fRAM-UE-H_WZEX3dpnzb2eSAJvZacbPo8EE3vB21v3wti278Ugrzn40xS5T8QdEqwjn8O-Q/s400/image001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382234534559814514" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >A year ago today I was handed a screaming, terrified two year old half-way around the</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > world and sent on my way. After five minutes, I don’t think either of us has looked back even once. It still amazes me to think about how I becam</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >e a parent, I still sometimes just shake my head in wonder….and bewilderment…..or maybe that is just caused by sleep deprivation.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgUvFcfI1TCho1Gzfx_SkjnxmXNNrvjenL1HdR9zRLh7CAsx5xJu63bQTHHdYkDLugqorl0EDC8edFUIwyCjIuC3rolDvyg6PYXlHi7yJCg1wjXimBbRRr3VCTjQZ9aU3xp3_ag/s1600-h/DSC_0425.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgUvFcfI1TCho1Gzfx_SkjnxmXNNrvjenL1HdR9zRLh7CAsx5xJu63bQTHHdYkDLugqorl0EDC8edFUIwyCjIuC3rolDvyg6PYXlHi7yJCg1wjXimBbRRr3VCTjQZ9aU3xp3_ag/s400/DSC_0425.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382235132825313282" border="0" /></a></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-62730739311914269962009-09-14T20:56:00.002-04:002009-09-14T21:01:52.712-04:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziz-ROaP7lIMXP_hCVJnJqhbyUOLFjVuKwvMtVJFHM6v2Zi35AzWyrRLPbxA9QvjTHYxlFsxXyn7ZDlKiZSiM8BM3ouuTyhcSe7yalqee8gnLzdbyHkJtJ-XXV8XKUh1Zs7tvmg/s1600-h/LilyBD1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziz-ROaP7lIMXP_hCVJnJqhbyUOLFjVuKwvMtVJFHM6v2Zi35AzWyrRLPbxA9QvjTHYxlFsxXyn7ZDlKiZSiM8BM3ouuTyhcSe7yalqee8gnLzdbyHkJtJ-XXV8XKUh1Zs7tvmg/s400/LilyBD1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381492433706535122" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">On September 8th, Lily became nine years old! Wow, where has my baby gone? We celebrated quietly at home the day before with a chocolate-chocolate cake and she opened gifts from her Grammy, Miss Nan and Mama and Meika. Grammy sent several gifts, but the most special is a brooch that Papa Dewayne had given to Grammy that belonged to his mother of a most beautiful dragon with pearls and turquoise, both Mama and Lily had a time of it keeping the tears from their eyes since Papa Dewayne has been gone from us now for three years. Lily having been born in the year of the dragon also makes the gift quite cool!<br /><br />Miss Nan sent her always beautifully wrapped gifts, she has added to the sea shell collection she started for Lily a few birthdays back and sent some exceptionally beautiful specimens along with a book to identify the shells. She also sent another of the huge box of crayons, which is fortunate, since Lily had decided that her little sister didn’t need so many crayons when she got a box like it for HER birthday and had absconded with half of them. She sheepishly retrieved her sister’s box and replaced it. Does M</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR74DjlqsmQkN4Svhn6kkYndViJDfsSKmuZAKoZieAfAaCiEwQd57c-hOpvkPeeAnitPW57SVJv_IHscAwBUH9rJlWVhr0l2a7krLnO5JmJ2TXGCKAba5H3YvBecHKUMW0zgARvQ/s1600-h/LilyBD2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR74DjlqsmQkN4Svhn6kkYndViJDfsSKmuZAKoZieAfAaCiEwQd57c-hOpvkPeeAnitPW57SVJv_IHscAwBUH9rJlWVhr0l2a7krLnO5JmJ2TXGCKAba5H3YvBecHKUMW0zgARvQ/s320/LilyBD2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381492834021903746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">iss Nan know this girl or what?<br /><br />From Meika she received a whole pile of books and declared that her sister really knew how to pick out some good books (and the Mama just happened to hit a dollar sale at Borders too). From Mama she received a new WII game to play together (if the Mom ever finishes this years drawings for Corning and can do some fun stuff), and several new outfits which included a real silver necklace that Lily had admired one day while out shopping.<br /><br />She would have like to have her friend Rya over for a sleep over since she has been bugging the Mama for years to have a sleep over, but having just gotten back from the memorial service in Ohio for Kim’s dad, we didn’t have time to plan it despite the cries of ‘NO FAIR’ from the birthday girl (and the Mom just didn’t have the energy to stay up all night refereeing). So that will have to be sometime in the near future.<br /><br />Happy Birthday sweet daughter, I’m glad you are mine!!<br /><br />©KKW 2009<br /></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-9630094053148048782009-08-24T20:14:00.002-04:002009-08-24T20:34:53.740-04:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEIKA!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu22W33KXlFpE2_HVka7ZMUTDiFs7ajOEAoDXAkhIWl6qYE4l2RgzKE_GAkhNzlKaL5oErH92rei2XNXu-IwvoB14G_o-TW8CGZhw9zl2pwW0pUqkBHtYXSisyAK4qbmb3ATtKA/s1600-h/cakecandles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu22W33KXlFpE2_HVka7ZMUTDiFs7ajOEAoDXAkhIWl6qYE4l2RgzKE_GAkhNzlKaL5oErH92rei2XNXu-IwvoB14G_o-TW8CGZhw9zl2pwW0pUqkBHtYXSisyAK4qbmb3ATtKA/s320/cakecandles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373693163066862962" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Meika celebrates her third birthday today, her first with her family! On Sunday our friends Jennica, Rya and Teak came over for cake and gift opening. Meika received a very lovely Ling doll from her friends, one the Mama had read about and admired before they ever came out. Even Lily, who is not fond of dolls, decided that she could make an exception for that one, so the Mama had to place Ling up high for her own protection.<br /><br />From her Grammy, Meika received some wee dinosaurs that grow when they are added to water, an alphabet puzzle, which she and Teak immediately set to putting together, a very cute glass alligator which had to be quickly put ‘back to bed’ in its box so as not to loose any limbs, a sweet little heart box filled with M & Ms which Meika generously shared with her party-mates and the flamingo plates and napkins which we were using to serve the cake.<br /><br />Miss Nan, a friend of Mama’s from</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the old days at Colonial Williamsburg, sent the biggest box of crayons any of us had ever seen, plus two brand new coloring books, yummy anim</span><span style="font-size:85%;">al crackers and the most beautiful d</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ress up shoes, tutu, crown and wand, all of which Meika wanted to sleep in that night.<br /><br />From Mama and sister Lily, she received ‘Ni Hao Kia Lan’ toys, a real find since they are normally somewhat hard to get hold of, but we hit the local Target just at the right time one Saturday and sc</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV96j7fAT08Ce_fdqcg9ptwGSQWWXiZtDKGZ_iUEkJBdLcy0bp29DRTHdahefL9sUrmMETuv6K21E3AAjeLwB50dSmp7DopSBtBKidkHQnkSZl569T723DUmPToZQy2H31iTVWg/s1600-h/Mpresents5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV96j7fAT08Ce_fdqcg9ptwGSQWWXiZtDKGZ_iUEkJBdLcy0bp29DRTHdahefL9sUrmMETuv6K21E3AAjeLwB50dSmp7DopSBtBKidkHQnkSZl569T723DUmPToZQy2H31iTVWg/s320/Mpresents5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373692913183769522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">ored two play sets, a bubble maker and a DVD.<br /><br />So, all in all, quite a haul for one so young. Last Christmas, Meika having only been home with us for three months, the concept of presents was a new one and though she was happy to play with the resulting toys, the idea that they were just for her was one she didn’t quite grasp. Not so this time around, she got that the brightly wrapped presents were for her and her alone. She realized that she was suppose to rip off the pretty paper to reveal a hidden treasure; and no help from anyone, thank you very much. Though very willing to share her treasures once unwrapped, the actual unwrapping part she wanted all to herself.<br /><br />And then of course, there was cake, no explanation needed there, she sat smiling and pleased as we all sang the birthday song and quickly understood what she was to do with the candles. And later at dinner time, once the Mama told her there would not be another piece of cake for dessert unless all the vegetables were also eaten on her plate, those veggies were quickly gobbled up and birthday cake devoured lickety split. Today she will be taking cupcakes to preschool and I am su</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi090bbkSe49qAsHyyZE5bU5TyTOnB-6YWM45h1XrZe-ejpAm83aP0IRghaZ0X7TOdjrL3Fw0alpcZN8JKgwdpWS76JBdxuwQdcPpRlo-R03d77zasCLkQQLfCgQ3j7qhovTZig-A/s1600-h/Mdressup1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi090bbkSe49qAsHyyZE5bU5TyTOnB-6YWM45h1XrZe-ejpAm83aP0IRghaZ0X7TOdjrL3Fw0alpcZN8JKgwdpWS76JBdxuwQdcPpRlo-R03d77zasCLkQQLfCgQ3j7qhovTZig-A/s320/Mdressup1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373692419895681026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">re, more attention will eagerly be lavished upon her. What fun! Happy Birthday Meika, we are glad you are ours!<br /><br />©KKW 2009<br /></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-24973090584353593802009-08-19T20:16:00.027-04:002009-08-25T20:40:17.387-04:00A CIRCLE COMPLETED<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0wtLtLlTPUB8v7J2mEw940trJ8oKUVqgYcoB2yWuXY82iIuyoFj4NqUorncM1pwx6WQj1GbvQIAKwF0gOkbXozpwGjLGYAB8aEBQWPF_m7eN5V6TTWqK8uqASHFsVMWF_BSrWA/s1600-h/Ed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0wtLtLlTPUB8v7J2mEw940trJ8oKUVqgYcoB2yWuXY82iIuyoFj4NqUorncM1pwx6WQj1GbvQIAKwF0gOkbXozpwGjLGYAB8aEBQWPF_m7eN5V6TTWqK8uqASHFsVMWF_BSrWA/s400/Ed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374065708331354514" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >My father, Edwin John Wagner, died today, two days short of his 83rd birthday. He had been battling cancer for several years and waged a valiant fight. Since he had been ill for so long, my brothers and I had time to prepare for his going, never the less, the death of a parent takes a piece of a child’s soul with it. </span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">My dad wasn’t the perfect figure of a father. He expressed to me several times that he had never intended to be a family man; never intended to or had any interest in having children. Still, here we are, myself and two brothers with children of our own. I do not know why my father felt the need to tell me, his child, that we were essentially unwanted by him. I can speculate, but I’d rather not since he did not tell me this in anger or regret so much as it being an excuse for his shortcomings. We are what we are and we work with what we have. Hopefully, we give the best that we are able.<br /><br />My dad was a high school teacher when I was young, but when I started kindergarten, he began law school and became a lawyer when I was in 4th grade. He was a liberal through and through and as such had a soft spot for the down trodden. He seemed to take the cases no one else wanted because of their inability to pay and as a result, he was not an attorney of means; he made a middle class living in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. M</span><span style="font-size:85%;">any times he would barter for his services and some guy would show up at the house to fix the furnace, or the roof or mow the lawn or work on the car.<br /><br />He loved to golf above all else, and my brothers and I will be scattering his ashes at his favorite course</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> soon. He made many of his friends on the golf course and I am sure, spent his best hours there in the sunshine on the green of a closely cropped lawn, whacking the heck out of that little white ball.<br /><br />My children did not know him well since he lived in Ohio and we in Virginia; Meika, my youngest, has never met him, but Lily has spent time with him and can remember for her sister. In his battle with cancer his right ear was removed several years ago, there after Lily would get on the phone with him and each time ask if his ear had grown back yet. This made him laugh, and I’m grateful that she did so; to be able to laugh at one’s self is an estimable quality.<br /><br />I have always heard my father introduce himself as ‘Ed’ Wagner, yet curiously it seems many of those outside his family called him ‘Eddie’, even those who had just met him. I was amazed to call the hospital recently</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM_66mQplNfhJjvLGz3bd2LxJGn97LdJs1Q5DkYOMBY9oZtm0ShiOtPVTrnIBumFQhjB5fSf_2APYl4x4_tz8WRPsIrJ3PuKH_XfRRXmR5Hxjkg0F6fJLnDCGF0xODGX4RkPqRw/s1600-h/Eileen_Ed_Har_Jim.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM_66mQplNfhJjvLGz3bd2LxJGn97LdJs1Q5DkYOMBY9oZtm0ShiOtPVTrnIBumFQhjB5fSf_2APYl4x4_tz8WRPsIrJ3PuKH_XfRRXmR5Hxjkg0F6fJLnDCGF0xODGX4RkPqRw/s400/Eileen_Ed_Har_Jim.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374065523951076162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> and when a nurse answered the phone and I asked to speak to him I heard her say, “Hey Eddie, it’s your daughter on the phone.” It made me wonder, what made him ‘Eddie’ to so many? It remains a mystery to me, but there must be a reason and perhaps someday I will know what it is. His siblings and parents called him ‘Bud’, which was short for ‘B</span><span style="font-size:85%;">uddy’. When my dad arrived on the family scene in 1926, his older brother Harold began calling this new playmate his “little buddy” and the nickname stuck. I think I was about ten years old before it occurred to me to ask my Grand</span><span style="font-size:85%;">mother why my dad was being referred to by the name ‘Bud’. (That's him on the right with several of his siblings)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />My father was quite talented artistically, but didn’t often use his gifts. There remain a few paintings and drawings and I believe that from him I inherited my artistic abilities. It is those abilities that have led me to a career illustrating books and several years ago I contracted to illustrate an archaeology book written by a well known archaeologist here in Virginia. He had grown up in Ohio and it turns out he attended the high school my father taught at in the 1950s. My father coached him in football and he told me that my dad had been an enormous influence on him in those early years of his youth. That ‘Coach Wagner’ had advised him and supported him when he desperately needed someone to do so. He also knew my mother and her family; his elder sister was my mother’s best friend in high school. And here I was thirty years later illustrating one of his books; a book he said that he was able to be successful at writing in part due to my father’s encouragement and lessons in determination. Wow, talk about full circle!<br /><br />He coached a lot of athletic teams in his school teaching days and as a young child I would jump at any chance to be with him. He went to every basketball game at the high school at which he taught, even if he wasn’t coaching and I always asked to go just so I could spend time with him alone. To this day, the sounds of a basketball game; the pound and squeak of sneakers on a highly polished wood floor, the ping of a well inflated ball, the overly loud buzzer sounding the end of the game, and the smell of popcorn takes me straight back to standing in the door way of a high school gymnasium, my dad towering above me, arms folded, shouting encouragement or insult in the direction of the game.<br /><br />There was also a time when my father decided to attend Mass each morning before work in addition to </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Sundays, and I would drag myself out of bed in the wee hours of the bitterly cold Ohio winter mornings so that I could go with him just to have him to myself. We never spoke, I just tagged along in silence, but it was enough just to be with my dad, hoping to win his approval in any way I could, kneeling beside him in the nearly empty, echoing church.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskNGMClWktVC_y69sBKfrirFq-slHE0z-av4pRLei0DE1qgZ_VU6zsAbhoJadIl6IAGkIg1CnaxLMt_XBlMzwZevn6AOBE59n4G7b6BkH8M0l-xKkE3boPY8ABvahKGtce-b5rw/s1600-h/Grandpa_Lily_1206_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskNGMClWktVC_y69sBKfrirFq-slHE0z-av4pRLei0DE1qgZ_VU6zsAbhoJadIl6IAGkIg1CnaxLMt_XBlMzwZevn6AOBE59n4G7b6BkH8M0l-xKkE3boPY8ABvahKGtce-b5rw/s400/Grandpa_Lily_1206_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374065212907113106" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I know that I have spent much of my life seeking that approval and attention from my father; his praise did </span><span style="font-size:85%;">not come easily, and I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter, but it did, it trailed after my life silent, but ever present. It mattered. And then after adopting my second daughter Meika almost a year ago, he told me more than once how very proud he was of me, that I was a good and loving mother to two children who needed one. I had waited fifty years, but in the end my dad was proud of me and told me so. And look at what he was proud of me for, not for any accomplishments of career or fame or fortune, but for being a parent; a good parent, the very thing that he professed to have not wanted</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> and claimed not be good at. Circles of living experiences. Circles of deep emotion. Circles of life. Within me and my brothers and our children the good in my father will live on.<br /><br />©KKW August 19, 2009<br /><br /></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-87476470833013298022009-06-11T21:17:00.008-04:002009-09-18T23:56:32.823-04:00MY INNER DIALOGUE WON’T SHUT UP<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87-gvzDRpFnN2fIhGMWi0dEuYFEGGm7BZPsjnv8uI2Oe6ynLeP2CxIeG4e1ONlSB6ehukdg0CxwKZB_YaQPUmdkw5UjE0JAtFqC0_dRcG0raxAZ6yyoFMKFFpoZ7oR_A31jnOqw/s1600-h/Brain.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 314px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87-gvzDRpFnN2fIhGMWi0dEuYFEGGm7BZPsjnv8uI2Oe6ynLeP2CxIeG4e1ONlSB6ehukdg0CxwKZB_YaQPUmdkw5UjE0JAtFqC0_dRcG0raxAZ6yyoFMKFFpoZ7oR_A31jnOqw/s320/Brain.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347028153425236818" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I’ve been exceedingly tired lately and have developed a twitchy eye. I’ve come to the conclusion that these are due to the ceaseless, non-stop badgering of my own psyche. Does everyone have such a noisy mind? If I wake up in the middle of the night and need to use the bathroom, my brain just can’t pass up the opportunity to cause me grief.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Oh, you up? Great, I was thinking…..”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Shut up! Just shut up will you? Let me go to the bathroom in peace, it’s the middle of the night for crying out loud, I can’t do anything about anything right now. Dang, leave me alone!”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“No, seriously, I was thinking about your schedule for tomorrow, or is it now today? Anyway, at lunch you need to….”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Shut UP! Leave me alone, can’t you see that I am trying to go back to sleep? Stop talking already!”</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />“Oh, sorry, my bad. Go back to sleep. See you in your dreams.”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Wait. No! What?” Because yes, even my subconscious is not safe from the badgering of my ever present infuriatingly noisy intellect.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes I am successful in maintaining only a semi-state of unconsciousness, just long enough to stumble to the bathroom and back to bed and fall back asleep quickly, at other times I am doomed to lay there staring into the dark while my brain bombards me with useless information and imaginings. Once awakened in the morning, I haven’t even opened my eyes before the list of what needs to be done that day is being shouted at me by…well, me.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Meditation helps, but the practice of trying to think about nothing has been a difficult one for me to master. My attempts at clearing my mind usually result in a blank slate for my subconscious to throw things at, yet I persist and it is helping.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Lists help as well, if I can order my tasks on paper it frees up some of the free-flowing perpetual nagging. Sheesh, I am being nagged by myself, how pathetic. But there is a lot to have to tackle in a day and even more to keep track of. I am a single Mama with two young daughters, a full-time day job which I commute to an hour each way dropping the kids off at two different schools. There are their activities and friends; shopping, food preparation, laundry, house cleaning, yard work. There is my free-lance work that needs to be worked on in the evenings after the kids are in bed. The pets need attention, the kids need attention, my poor aching brain needs attention. And then there are all the things that I would LIKE to do that don’t get any attention because there is no time left over, like creative projects, painting, drawing, sewing, writing, practicing on my musical instruments. And building projects; the small deck that has remained incomplete for four years, the swing set my children want built, the repairs needed to the critter’s pens, the expansion of the vegetable garden. There just is so much I want to accomplish and the days are so short! As a result I create and build things in my head while driving, or while working on a drawing at the office. These blog entries? Totally written in my head and then quickly typed up when ever I get a few minutes to myself; a rarity. The benefit to this ultra reviewing of all creative projects though is that once I am able to devote any time to them, they have been well worked out and planned for so that I can jump in like a frog on a live wire and get it done; power tools buzzing and dust flying. While I am typing this up I am also working out the details of the raised beds I want to build for the veggie garden.<br /><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">And it isn’t just about what I have to do, or need to do or even what I am doing at that particular moment, it is a constant, running dialog about EVERYTHING, news, the world, people, my kids, television shows, books, this blog, music, poetry, art, world hunger, how to build a tree house, what the word “atherosclerosis” means, the design of the latest web site I am working on, the best recipe for brownies, what I am going to have for lunch, do I even have time for lunch, no? then what errands need doing at lunch, why does the name ‘Pia Isadora’ sound so familiar but I don’t remember who or what she is, what ever happened to that red raincoat I had when I was seven, what was the name of my first grade teacher, wonder how old she is now, maybe she’s dead, what was that dream I had last night, what did it mean, why did I dream about praying mantises taking over the world and making us all tap dance, do I need to get gas? Milk? A sedative maybe?</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I’ve heard the statement often: “I don’t know HOW you do it!” Usually, I just smile, but what I am thinking is, “Yeah, neither do I.” Or more truthfully, “I don’t! It’s <span style="font-weight: bold;">not </span>all getting done! Life wasn’t meant to be this hectic! I want time, more time for fun stuff! I want to take the kids camping, I want a pedicure, and I want a clean house, clean laundry, my lawn mowed. I want to paint, write, and draw. I want to try and remember how to play the hammered dulcimer, I want to read more to the kids, build them their swing set, cuddle more and bake cookies with them more often. I want the stupid deck finished and I want time to sit on it with a cold iced tea and a magazine. Somebody heeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeeeee!!” Oh, sorry, I feel better now, really. Just needed to mentally throw a bucket of cold water in my face.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I’ve actually argued with myself about whether sleep is really a necessity. “Surely you don’t need to sleep tonight; just think about all you can get done!”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“No, I need eight hours to function properly.”<br /><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“No, no you don’t, three would be just fine, you can do three.”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">”No, I need at least seven.”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Seven? No, three, four at the most.”</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">But what usually happens is that I just go until I can’t go anymore and fantasize about what it would be like if there was someone who could carry me to bed because once I reach that point I am hard pressed to drag myself up the stairs, brush my teeth and collapse into unconsciousness.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">So, what my brain has been working on most lately is how to remedy this situation. I feel myself building to some sort of breaking point. No, don’t worry, I am not in any danger of freaking out, ‘breaking point’ is probably not the correct phrase, ‘break through’ would be more like it. I need to figure out a way to change the status quo, a way to live the life I wish for myself and my children. I – need – a - plan. How to accomplish this, I am not sure of yet, but my brain is working on it. It’s working so hard that my twitchy eye is madly twitching at this very moment. And when I have figured it out you’ll be the first to know. Cheers!</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">©KKW 2009</span></span> </div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-45807856322867922562009-06-04T21:32:00.017-04:002009-06-11T21:38:44.277-04:00THE HIGH COST OF HIDDEN THINGS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP6Vu5oRNVBsb33XT9e0BCIcNfyk_S_XSfxoDD0TnUn5zsioa_FHiP7Vv_Mzr1qR-h0dAiE-UmCGHa1bQjVVj9uVg0-_5Nd232ksqM4hlCmpP1TMBbLrGzFVBslymUfGMX1z_FQ/s1600-h/Unders.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP6Vu5oRNVBsb33XT9e0BCIcNfyk_S_XSfxoDD0TnUn5zsioa_FHiP7Vv_Mzr1qR-h0dAiE-UmCGHa1bQjVVj9uVg0-_5Nd232ksqM4hlCmpP1TMBbLrGzFVBslymUfGMX1z_FQ/s320/Unders.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346249518902179026" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I have a huge drawer full to the brim with underwear that I have never worn and will never wear. I have been going through it recently and attempting to part with what I do not need because it is ridiculous to continue to rifle through an entire draw of clothing each morning just to find the few pairs of undies I will actually wear. Kind of weird though giving away underwear, even to the thrift store, I mean I don’t feel comfortable selling it, even if it’s new on Ebay for heaven’s sake. (Although, who knows, maybe there is a market for middle-aged women’s granny pants. Eeeww, too creepy to think about, forget I ever mentioned it!). Finding underwear that both fits and is comfortable, as all women know, remains a life’s quest. If you find a brand you like, stock up, because they won’t be available next month due to changing styles and materials. Even if the store allows it, trying them on there just isn’t something I want to do and when they end up being ill-fitting or uncomfortable, I end up with a drawer full of stuff I will never wear.</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I used to be young and thin and was utterly unaware of my blessed state. I rarely thought at all about my body image and ate what I wanted. But with the onset of age and the removal of my thyroid for medical reasons, on came the weight. My body is a pretty equal opportunity kind of girl, the fat distributing itself fairly evenly on all body parts, so suddenly I have breasts for the first time in my life, something I thought that I wanted when I was a wee thing, oh foolish, foolish girl.<br /><br />When I was young I didn’t really need to wear a bra, my breasts were fairly small and stayed where they were suppose to stay. I wore a bra or camisole solely for modesty’s sake. In fact, while I was in college the camisole wasn’t yet available (although a “teddy” was, remember those? Totally impractical!), so I went to the children’s department of J.C. Penny’s and bought girl’s undershirts and wore those. Wow, I used to be so tiny! And anemic. Now however, between the effects of gravity and weight gain, my going bra-less w</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ould NOT be a pretty site! Walking down the street this way might cause folks to run screaming in the opposite direction with their hands over their eyes. What cruel twist has Mother Nature wrought that when slender and young I am barely an A cup, but in order to enjoy being busty I must also endure being fat. Not fair!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In my opinion, bras are hateful things, who the heck decided that breasts ought to be imprisoned in such an uncomfortable way? Under wires, over wires, side support wires, goodness, my breast aren’t wild animals that need to be confine</span><span style="font-size:85%;">d for pete’s sake! Does steel actually need to be involved in a piece of underclothing? At least for the moment, my breasts still point forward and not down at the floor, so it isn’t like I need a cage built around each one in order for them to stay in the general area to which they originally grew. Something in a nice natural fabric like cotton would be nice, but most under things are made of synthetic fabrics for some reason. Why, oh why would I want to place hot, unbreathable, restrictive synthetics up against the most delicate parts of my anatomy? And I live in the south, where come August all fabric, including cotton ends up feeling like latex against one’s skin because of the combined heat and humidity. I might as well wrap myself in plastic wrap and be done with it, because that is about how comfortable the average bra is. So it got me to thinking about who, in all his vast wisdom, invented the bra and why.<br /><br />Throughout the last two thousand years of history most women in the western parts of the world wore a chemise under their many layers of petticoats and dresses, this doubled as an under-garment as well as a sleeping gown. Linen and wool were the most commonly available materials for fabrics; both are rather uncomfortable in there own ways, even linen. And if you are thinking of the lovely silky smooth linen of today, think again, I’ve made linen from scratch (I really have, it was part of a job I once had at a museum I worked at many years ago) it is made from the flax plant which has a tough outer husk and when prepared by hand the process is not only tedious but imperfect; bits of husk invariably end up in the finished product causing skin irritation. A popular fabric of the day was called ‘linsey-woolsey’; it was a blend of both linen a</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTbKG2US7gB-SPYqhT7Gs0uqVZtrX_ylaj6erVUxZUgIKqLFJtvBgmn6cNh4QlKq9wgMEdCpwdFmACm-mLzW0FBlbBI5122R8eBnwEUjIkFfccsEP4he0hTtqDYFLd3Nb8L_vZA/s1600-h/220px-Camille_Clifford.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTbKG2US7gB-SPYqhT7Gs0uqVZtrX_ylaj6erVUxZUgIKqLFJtvBgmn6cNh4QlKq9wgMEdCpwdFmACm-mLzW0FBlbBI5122R8eBnwEUjIkFfccsEP4he0hTtqDYFLd3Nb8L_vZA/s400/220px-Camille_Clifford.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343658009865231730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">nd wool. So for the price of one skin torturing textile, you could get two competing elements for who will be the prickliest and drive you to go commando first. There was of course cotton, but it was expensive owing to the high cost of picking the pods and then plucking out all those cotton seeds, and much of cotton early on was imported from the East.<br /><br />Up until the early 16th century, most breasts were free to be breasts in all their resplendent, dangling, perky or downward</span><span style="font-size:85%;">s pointing glory. Then began the reign of the corset and suddenly breasts were made to contort themselves into shapes and</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> places that didn’t come naturally. Some corsets pushed the bust up, some down, some pushed them in and some just squished them flat, and thus it went for several hundred painful, breath stealing years. And to add to the restrictions of the upper torso, women’s underwear also included hoop-skirts and fanny rolls and even bust padding. One of the more bizarre styles to have developed, in my opinion, was the idealized figure of ‘The Gibson Girl’ around the turn of the 20th century; a miniscule waist, a stuffed bust that ran from waist to neck and a padded back end, all of course fabricated with corsets, bone, metal and many ties. I’m having trouble breathing just thinking about it. (See the photo at right, is her posture the style of the day or is her nose seeking out much needed oxygen? It appears even her hands are beginning to curl up from lack of the life sustaining stuff!)<br /><br />The invention of the cotton gin and the spinning jenny in the second half of the 18th century made cotton more available and affordable and this allowed for the making of mass-produced underwear in factories. Suddenly undergarments were available in stores instead of having to make them at home.<br /><br />In the late 19th century the union suit was invented in Utica, New York, it was a one-piece front buttoned garment usually made of knitted material. It had long sleeves that extended to the wrist, legs that extended to the ankles and buttoned up to the neck. Oh those inventive repressed Victorians! Great in the winter I suppose, but a bit warm for some parts of the country. And though it had a buttoned flap in the back to make it easier to access body parts that needed regular attention, I can’t think that it was very convenient, especially for women who also had layers upon layers of skirts to deal with, and in a limited confining space such as in an out-house. Thus long johns, a two-piece version of the union suit, soon followed.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXdbqbciPZj9M2JIPACqgFQdAxrU5R8U_iaVay6WOlza2j8RIcyp_rz2murEe4w05lYyed-19OSWno3Jf-q6eBJNDQRd3MoQxwoJ4PAw1YKMt2THdd9ecXi5QAqpzz6SX9QOJ-A/s1600-h/351px-Bianca_LyonsCUT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXdbqbciPZj9M2JIPACqgFQdAxrU5R8U_iaVay6WOlza2j8RIcyp_rz2murEe4w05lYyed-19OSWno3Jf-q6eBJNDQRd3MoQxwoJ4PAw1YKMt2THdd9ecXi5QAqpzz6SX9QOJ-A/s400/351px-Bianca_LyonsCUT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343657782569511842" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Finally, in 1913, a New York socialite named Mary Phelps Jacob created the first brassiere using some ribbon and two handkerchiefs. Apparently, her original intention was to simply cover the whale bone sticking out of her corset, it being visible </span><span style="font-size:85%;">through her sheer dress. She then began making them for friends; the word spread and within a year Jacob had a patent for her design and began marketing it in the States. A woman invented the bra?! And here I just assumed </span><span style="font-size:85%;">that I had a man to thank for this torture device because I didn’t think that who ever invented the thing must have ever actually had to wear them. But then again when I think about the time in which the</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> modern bra was invented and the original materials used, Mary’s idea could actually be considered liberating. (In actuality, bra-like clothing had been worn for thousands of years by women, just not regularly and no one until Jacob had thought to launch a marketing campaign). Couple the popularity of the new brassiere with women beginning to take an interest in athletic pursuits such as cycling and tennis, plus a metal shortage due to the First World War and soon the demise of the corset was assured. (Praise be.) Leave it to war to be the mother of invention!<br /><br />In the 50’s and 60’s manufacturers began experimenting with synthetic fabrics (blast them!), as well as with color and style. What used to be simple white pieces of under clothing suddenly became colorful and stylish. The bust once again began to be emphasized and the ‘bullet bra’ inspired by Christian Dior’s designs hit the market. I remember my fifth grade teacher Miss Augustine favored these. Miss Augustine was a very, um, ‘healthy’ woman of perhaps forty. She had a flaming red bouffant, a big, very round behind and a breast shelf that you could balance a family of acrobats on. I remember watching her each morning as we pledged our allegiance to the flag as her hand came up to rest upon the vast expanse of her conical projections. I stood spellbound as only a nine year old girl could be, imagining the wonders still in store for me as I matured. Alas, the likes of which Miss Augustine displayed were never to appear upon my person, for which I am now quite grateful. Whew! dodged that bullet...bra.<br /><br />Of course th</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnYNGW4QHkPSTAUzDZ5_OWaVih0V3DgUmniSKQvYsYwHDLmWts0X3bMbwwpGx3jAH3jyiaCBiQii4rbtHx6tQcnFvd8n8iiAOjQmBttwjOM3mp2c0bU8OGNxIO6WO2rIZAGRlAw/s1600-h/bullet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnYNGW4QHkPSTAUzDZ5_OWaVih0V3DgUmniSKQvYsYwHDLmWts0X3bMbwwpGx3jAH3jyiaCBiQii4rbtHx6tQcnFvd8n8iiAOjQmBttwjOM3mp2c0bU8OGNxIO6WO2rIZAGRlAw/s400/bullet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343657251910157570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">e 60’</span><span style="font-size:85%;">s also had that brief few years of young women declaring their desire to burn their bras, although I have always suspected that it may have been more the influence of the young men in the crowd encouraging that craze. Or perhaps women just felt a little left out with many combat aged men burning their draft cards during the Vietnam War, and searching quickly for a symbol of their oppression grabbed what was closest at hand; their brassieres.<br /><br />And so, after this long history lesson on unmentionables, we arrive back at my personal dilemma; finding comfortable, natural fabric, inexpensive bras and undies. I had seen on Oprah that the “experts” suggest that women have</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> a bra fitting at least every few years and that she needed to have at least seven bras, one for each day of the</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> week. I held this information in my head for quite awhile before one day while finding myself in a large department store with my eldest; age seven at the time, I decided it was time for a fitting. (For me, not my seven year old).<br /><br />I explained to the “fitter”, who was a dead ringer for Miss Augustine, that I found bras to be quite hateful. She seemed to take offense but quickly shook it off and hustled me into a fitting room while pulling her tape measure from around her amble neck. When I striped to the waist in the presence of this stranger my young daughter gasped. “Mama! We are not supposed to show our privates to strangers!” she cried in horror. Before I could respond the fitter declared that she had seen “thousands, maybe millions of pairs of breasts, no big deal, dear.” I added my reassurance to my little one that it was okay; that this was the woman’s job. “It’s her job to look at breasts?!” she almost screamed, and I am sure that her high little outraged voice carried all the way to the store’s main floor. Oye. I told her that I would explain it later and to just sit there quietly please. Did you know that a blush extends all the way to one’s breasts? Well, it does, now you know.<br /><br />After measuring me here, there and all around, a size judgment was made and dozens of bras were brought before me to try on. It was horrible, I hate trying on clothes as it is, but bras, ugh! We had to rule out all synthetics, lace and spaghetti straps, that left about three bras; at least the vast numbers were quickly diminished. I decided that there were two that were okay and then looked at the price tags. Now, if I had just looked at the prices to begin with I would never have put myself through this torturous process in the first place. $100.00 for a bra?! $55.00 for a single pair of underpants?! No way…. Seriously? I tried not to show my shock and picked the least expensive, which was $75.00 figuring after all this trouble I should at least give the thing a chance to change my figure…and it dog-gone better change my life in some positive way as well at that price! I took it home and figured its horrid under wires might be more comfortable after I washed it. I was wrong. I have never actually worn this particular bra for more than a few minutes; there is sits, sad and lonely with all the rest of the underwear rejects in the afore mentioned dresser drawer. I can get rid of the rest, but this one is brand new and too recently purchased; it will have to sit in that drawer a while longer before it finally meets the fate of all the rest of the castoffs. Silly, I know, but it’s my way. Fortunately for me I made a wonderful discover at Target last week, a soft, cotton, wire-free, lace-free reasonably priced ($16.00!) bra that fits and is comfortable. Thank you Gillian O’Malley (brand) for hearing my silent scream, er, plea. Once I had actually worn this version all day and had not been tempted to shred it from my body while at work since it is really quite comfortable, I went back and bought the requisite seven bras, one for each day of the week, just like the holy experts instructed. I have considered going back and loading up because I just know they won’t be there the next time I am ready to buy, but I will try to restrain myself. And that expensive one from the department store? I think I’ll burn it and symbolically liberate my breasts. I’m sure if they could they would dance for joy, or if not dance, they can at least dangle with delight.<br /><br />©KKW 2009</span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-53363745849108882002009-05-11T22:43:00.011-04:002009-05-11T23:00:55.559-04:00ANNIVERSARY OF HOPE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCugVyWO38eBOvxW9jKeCnGxbN387y1dy0vKPfHOFw-Lr-ekG5Db2a6tDAZSD_EIPDheWLgX986HcQrEf5OK6QO9EgqOwNvm0Uhf5C2Cd2TZo62v4mKI8GdiZQ6_rqAIrgfGc7aA/s1600-h/IMG_1280.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCugVyWO38eBOvxW9jKeCnGxbN387y1dy0vKPfHOFw-Lr-ekG5Db2a6tDAZSD_EIPDheWLgX986HcQrEf5OK6QO9EgqOwNvm0Uhf5C2Cd2TZo62v4mKI8GdiZQ6_rqAIrgfGc7aA/s400/IMG_1280.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334766791797976034" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A year ago on April 15th I received & accepted the referral for my second daughter who was living in an orphanage in Chengdu, China. A few weeks later, on May 12th, the devastating earthquake hit Sichuan Province and horror at the loss of life and anxiety for my two year old daughter whom I had not yet met consumed me. It was three days later that I received news via a kind stranger in Beijing who personally called the orphanage for me at her own expense, that my new daughter and all others at the orphanage were safe but living in tents outside the buildings worried about frightening aftershocks.<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In September of 2008, four short months after the earthquake, I and my eldest daughter along with my best friend traveled to Chengdu to finally meet & I adopt my second daughter from China. Though we saw no obvious evidence of the earthquake in the city, it was not far from my mind as I know it will live always in the minds and hearts of all of China. There were bill boards with words of thanks for the relief efforts and signs of remembrance, not just in Chengdu, but in the other areas of China to which we traveled as well. I am so grateful that my daughter, the other children and kind caregivers remained safe and strong through all the months that they spent in tents. But my heart still breaks for those families that lost their children, parents, siblings and friends. Due to the one child policy in force since the 1980s, probably in most cases families had lost their only child. I look at the faces of my children, who are mine in part due to this very same policy, and bless their birth parents and grieve with those who lost the most precious of gifts. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">While in Chengdu I wished desperately to know how the people were recovering, but didn’t want to cause more grief by asking. Our guides seemed surprised that we were so well informed about the disaster and that we cared so much. I explained how well it had been covered in our media and about NPR having had reporters already in Chengdu during the quake and their amazing reporting efforts. Still they seemed surprised at our knowledge. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I remain so very impressed with the people of China; their strength at pulling together to help each other and their resilience. Their persistence in trying to find out why so many school buildings collapsed causing the death of 10,000 children. Their willingness to both help each other recover and accept help from the outside. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Those who have survived this tragedy will hopefully someday recover, if not fully, at least enough to again find joy in life. My own little one, having endured the initial quake as well as weeks of strong after shocks remains frightened of loud rumbling noises, but fortunately, that seems to be the only lasting anxiety for her. But back in her place of birth there remain thousands of children left injured, physically and emotional, I encourage you to visit www.HalfTheSky.org for more information on how they are helping the children work through the grief & fear brought on by this tragedy.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">With the anniversary of the earthquake comes media coverage, I was watching a documentary on Sunday night about the children killed while they were in their classrooms at school and the efforts their parents made to bring to justice those responsible for the inadequate construction of the school buildings. As the tears ran down my face my eldest who is eight came into the room and seeing me crying asked why. I tried to explain to her that I felt so sorry for the parents of the hurt children because I could imagine the pain that they felt, I could imagine it because I had children too and would feel such pain if anything were to happen to them. “But Mama, we’re fine, we’re okay, don’t cry.” “I know baby, this is also why I am crying, because I am grateful that you are okay.” I reached to take the tissue that she had just pulled from the box but she insisted on carefully wiping away my tears herself. How very scary loving someone this much is. The Dali Lama has said that ‘great love involves great risk.’ And I think that this statement is especially true when it is applied to one’s children; to love a child is to risk one’s own life, heart and soul, but also to be so enriched that the risk seems as nothing to the gain. With the recent addition of my second child I have doubled that risk, but I’ll take it willingly and gratefully every moment of our lives.</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">©KKW 2009</span><br /></span>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-7311503747494061332009-05-11T22:41:00.000-04:002009-05-11T22:42:48.866-04:00FOR MOTHER’S DAY<span style="font-family: arial;">What am I to my children? </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Well, sometimes I feel like nothing more than a blanket, bed, chair or pillow; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a cup-holder, spoon and source from which all food comes; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a communication devise which translates, delivers messages and interprets; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">an encyclopedia and fount of all knowledge; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a tissue, napkin and towel; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a maid, servant, cook and laundress; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a toy, playmate, jungle-gym, entertainer and audience; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a doctor, nurse, psychologist, and pharmacy; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a hairdresser, stylist and social secretary. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I am a clock and time-keeper, scheduler and taxi driver. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">But I am also a teacher and a coach. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Protector, bodyguard and private investigator. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The listener, the adviser, the shoulder to cry on. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I am comfort, discipline, rule maker and sage. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I need to be strength and provider, wisdom and understanding. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I must use good judgment, good humor and good intelligence and insight. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I mustn’t be too tired to laugh at silly jokes or to harsh in correction or to busy to hug. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I am a home, the port in a storm, the lap to crawl into when life hurts. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The title of mother has never felt so exhausting or challenging; </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but neither has anything compared to its rewards and sense of satisfaction. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">No other earthly role takes so much and gives so much back to the soul. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">No other responsibility has caused me more heartache, sleepless nights or worry, </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and no other has brought more joy or contentment. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">What an amazing challenge and tremendous honor it is to be a parent. </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Now could someone please add a few more hours to my days, </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">send me energy enough to compete with my kids, </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">clean my house, order me take-out, and send a masseuse to my house occasionally </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and I’ll be just fine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">©KKW 2009</span>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-63557751282636593572009-05-05T20:30:00.010-04:002009-05-21T23:17:25.754-04:00THE ANTS GO MARCHING TWO BY TWO<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29rJ2hpqQ0W7TXz79lxy4yuOG9AITOWfnJ2belzXCJWWxnqDgtJMK0-otObJXEwb6KCzQ5kOyYGV91Vsj_0y2VTpY8oHMkiqrqibV2kCQcfY0PdblG-Eq_EEtPvKnhzWS5wf4Kg/s1600-h/ant.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29rJ2hpqQ0W7TXz79lxy4yuOG9AITOWfnJ2belzXCJWWxnqDgtJMK0-otObJXEwb6KCzQ5kOyYGV91Vsj_0y2VTpY8oHMkiqrqibV2kCQcfY0PdblG-Eq_EEtPvKnhzWS5wf4Kg/s200/ant.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332504375516928866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Three weeks ago, I got myself my first brand new riding mower. Now, it probably says something about me as a woman that I am excited about this, more so even that I care that it is my favorite color, red. Should I care what color the dad burn lawn tractor is? It isn’t that I like lawn work very much, it’s simply something that must be done, I would much rather tend the flowers and patio plants. But after years of paying someone to do it, then a couple more years feeling horribly guilty about my wonderful next door neighbor doing it and not letting me pay him for it, I finally had to buckle down and spend the money. It had to be a riding one since I have several acres to mow and I once tried to do it with a push mower last year when the weather was still cool and I barely finished just the front yard before conceding defeat and collapsing in a heap of sweat and lost breath, covered in a think layer of pollen. I just couldn’t do that every week during a sweltering Virginia summer without it seriously affecting my physical and mental health.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />My new mower was delivered on a Saturday morning and once daughter #2 was safely napping in her bed and daughter #1 was equipped with a walkie-talkie in order for me to check on her while still keeping her inside the house and away from the mower, I hopped on to do my duty as a home owner. It was almost a pleasure zipping back and forth across my property, the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, the grass clippings in my teeth. My only complaint is that in taking my foot off the brake to round corners or stop, once started again the thing would take off in earnest, causing my head to whip back and my hands to grip the steering wheel in a panic so as not to topple off backwards which might wound more than just my pride; precious body parts would be at stake!</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Once I finish with the lawn, I still must start up the push mower to get at the smaller spaces where the riding mower won’t fit. Finishing that, I should then use the weed wacker to trim the edges of everything, but at that point I am done-for and usually quit, I don’t really care if there are a few raggedy edges. My next door neighbor however, usually comes over with his weed eater and does mine after finishing up his own yard, he is so amazingly helpful, or perhaps it just makes him crazy to see the frayed edges of my lawn.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">After coming in from my first successful lawn cutting experience, I headed to the shower. My dirty clothes were left in a heap on the floor until I finished and as I gathered them up to take downstairs to the laundry room I discovered that more than just grass clippings were carried in on my pant legs; a large host of tiny ants had also hitched a ride! I stomped the tiny beings and threw the clothes into the washer to be done immediately, but by that night word had apparently gotten out through the ant grapevine and the little critters were arriving in droves. Now I know that I did not bring this many ants into the house with me, so I am amazed at the speed with which the diminutive creepy-crawlies passed along that there was a new place to hang out. I am also mystified as to why they would want to, it’s a bathroom for pig’s sake, there is no food in there, nothing to interest an ant; I just don’t get it. Not to mention the fact that it is the upstairs bathroom, do you have any idea how far those wee bugs had to travel to go and tell their friends about the novel resort they had found and then trek all the way back? And for what?</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Ants are actually very complex creatures, there are 20,000 species of ant. They are social, and live in colonies, the adults caring for the young and their queen. They are divided into specialized groups and castes; there are reproductive castes (the queen and her boy toys) and the nonproductive caste (the workers, all female). The queen ant has wings until her first mating, which when once completely she tears off (ouch!) The males keep their wings, but their only purpose in life is to mate with the queen, once a guy succeeds in doing so, he dies within two weeks .(Dies of what I wonder? Did that little tryst with Queenie take so much out of him that he must now lay down and die? Harsh.) The female ants do all the work; they raise the kids, gather the food, and build, tend and defend the nest. Huh, so the boys live in a little ant harem at the beck-and-call of the queen, but if they win the grand prize and mate with her they die, while all the women raise the kids, gather the food and do all the work. Not really sure who has the better lot in ant society.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />For a couple of days I let them be, I figured that they would discover nothing of interest and move along. If I don’t have to participate in a mass extermination, even of insects, then I would just as soon not. Besides, I don’t like bug sprays in the house, especially with curious young children and to this point we hadn’t needed any. But after two days the crowds of tiny black dots had grown and it was obvious that not only were they not deterred, but that they quite liked the place. Was the trip to my bathroom some sort of adventure for them? A holiday away from the colony? Or just something new to investigate and report back on? I just couldn’t figure on why these petite creatures would desire to visit my toilet so badly.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />So I tried placing a paper plate full of sticky honey in one corner of the bathroom thinking that they would come, gorge and then get hopelessly stuck like a fly in amber. It sort of worked, but as the air dried the honey out a bit not all of the ants got stuck, they just came….and gorged….and invited their friends and family. In no time at all there was a major highway of ants marching down the wall, across the floor and having the party of their lives right there in my tiny loo. It was at this point that I lost it and started searching the house for a simple can of insect spray, but because of my afore mentioned hesitance to use such a product, none was to be had. ‘Think! Think!’ I frantically thought to myself as I raced through the house grabbing the spray bottle used for ironing and a bottle of Dr. Bonner’s liquid peppermint soap. I mixed, I aimed, I shot. And shot, and shot and shot. At last, success! Those little buggers finally went belly up, and since most likely a large part of the colony was merrymaking in the paper plate, they were conveniently congregated and effectively wiped out in one soapy battle. And as an added bonus, my bathroom got a much needed cleaning.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />For the next 24 hours, the occasional stray ant would wander into the previously fun-filled area, but I had my trusty spray bottle filled with minty deadliness at hand and soon my bathroom was my own again and smelling decidedly refreshing. I imagined one lucky little gal, for remember, all the foot soldiers in an ant colony are female, sent to find out what happened to the queen’s explorers and actually making it back to report due to my being elsewhere in the house at the time and therefore unable to shoot her with my spray bottle of annihilation. “Your highness, I have traveled far, but no trace can be found of my many sisters. Oh woe dear queen, our colony is a ruin! What horrible evil has offered up such sweet riches only to snatch it away along with the lives of our brave soldiers?”</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />As annoying as it is to have vast amounts of tiny insects crawling around one’s bathroom, it was, non-the-less, interesting to watch them. In fact, I kept having to prompt my eight year old to leave off the ant gazing and come and eat dinner. When I went to take a shower I would find myself staring in fascination at how each wee being greeted all others that she passed. What information was being transmitted I wondered. Ants communicate using pheromones. These chemical signals are more developed in ants than in any other of their insect group. They perceive smells with their thin, mobile antennae which provides information about the direction and intensity of scents. They leave a pheromone trail that their sister ants can follow. When an ant foraging for sustenance finds food she marks the trail on her way back to the colony; then the other ants follow her trail back to the food and in turn reinforce the trail when heading back with the goods. (well, this explains how and why the ants were able to invade my bathroom so quickly, but doesn’t explain what they found so interesting. Did the sweet smell of soap perhaps confuse them into thinking there was something good to eat?)</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Pheromones are not just used as trail markers though; a crushed ant emits an alarm pheromone that sends the message to nearby ants to attack and attracts re-enforcements from further away. (ah ha! This explains why my stomping on them did not make them go away, but sent even more ants!). Some species even send out “propaganda pheromones” to confuse enemy ants and cause them to fight amongst themselves. (How very interesting! Political ants making little pheromone propaganda posters!) Ants even exhibit interactive teaching, which makes them the only group to do this outside of mammals. An experienced ant will take on a naïve nest-mate and she will follow along and learning from her tutor, step by tiny step.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Not all ants are pests though, weaver ants are used as a biological control for citrus cultivation in parts of China. Ants also perform other ecological roles that benefit humans, such as keeping down other kinds of pesky insect populations and aerating the soil. In parts of Africa and South America large ants are used as sutures to close wounds. Any one else see this demonstrated in the movie “Apocalypto”? The wound is pressed together and ants are applied along the cut, the ant “bites” the edges of the wound with its mandibles and they lock in place. The rest of the body is then cut off at the head leaving the closure. And anyone ever drink rooibos tea from Africa? The seeds that comprise this tea are too small for human collection; ants do it and then store the seeds in their nests. Humans then raid the nests of up to half a pound of seeds.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Ants are also eaten in many parts of the world, not only by animals and other insects, but by humans. In Mexico there is a dish known as escamoles that consists of two kinds of ant larvae. They are considered a kind of insect caviar and are priced accordingly. In Colombia they are toasted; In India, Burma and Thailand, a paste is made of green weaver ants and served as a condiment and ants and larvae are also used in salads. In Australia they are mashed up in water to make a lemony tasting drink.</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Okay, so it didn’t occur to me to make a meal of my little visitors, but perhaps another time, honey covered ants anyone?</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">©KKW 2009</span></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-62670869210250076312009-04-28T21:25:00.010-04:002009-05-05T20:48:56.626-04:00VACATIONING WITH MERMAIDS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCr2-5u8mcOKJvVjW4LY61TUSyF-8WhbRFIVDi0B4TFWIomyqPR9gp2qx1foqQMJw9s_gXJ7ch3KJQuHUf9Y8tuUgctKmaM13ymXrrOcCYsEZWNFFtDEgD0fhNBn0C2m0JIZMUIg/s1600-h/Dolphin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 343px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCr2-5u8mcOKJvVjW4LY61TUSyF-8WhbRFIVDi0B4TFWIomyqPR9gp2qx1foqQMJw9s_gXJ7ch3KJQuHUf9Y8tuUgctKmaM13ymXrrOcCYsEZWNFFtDEgD0fhNBn0C2m0JIZMUIg/s400/Dolphin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329921387362861154" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1033"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <p face="arial" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_s1026" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;" wrapcoords="-73 0 -73 21538 21600 21538 21600 0 -73 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image001.jpg" title="Dolphin"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></p><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">With spring break’s arrival I decided we would go and visit my mother in Florida. It actually makes more sense for me to take time off of work to do this than to pay the high cost of da</span><span style="font-size:100%;">y care for Lily in addition to Meika’s, for some reason it is ridiculously expensive to do “out of season” daycare, I guess they know they’ve got you where they want you; desperate and in dire need, so they can charge whatever they wish. But the availability and affordability of quality daycare in this country is a whole other subject and I was rambling on about vacation. So… </span></div><p face="arial" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1027" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:101.4pt;margin-top:116.4pt;width:100.95pt;" wrapcoords="-108 0 -108 21561 21600 21561 21600 0 -108 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image003.jpg" title="Pedro"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >After the many hours spent packing (for some reason we needed more “stuff</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">” to go to Florida for a week than we did to go to China for a month), we set off at 3am on Saturday morning, and being that I now have a vehicle that I am not terrified to travel more than ten miles in, it made for a much more pleasant driving experience. I choose to leave in the middle of the night because it seems to work well with small children, they still have several hours of sleep ahead of them and it is still dark with nothing to interfere with </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQhwnPz8WwHEE9I4yVoE2PnHKZxFnyxEAA5E9ke7fa24hpJUED946n5yGkzBSLJCBlq51ZoPI-AkBQRrtM7DfzWZ5IxMEL_aYLbIXnsDGNY7oYFNLUQAgLd5aDnrWHG7Qp9QrxQ/s1600-h/Pedro.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 145px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQhwnPz8WwHEE9I4yVoE2PnHKZxFnyxEAA5E9ke7fa24hpJUED946n5yGkzBSLJCBlq51ZoPI-AkBQRrtM7DfzWZ5IxMEL_aYLbIXnsDGNY7oYFNLUQAgLd5aDnrWHG7Qp9QrxQ/s400/Pedro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329920402187252546" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >them falling quickly back to s</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >leep, giving me several blessed hours of quiet in which to drive. Plus, the traffic is quite light in those wee hours before dawn. And I need that silence, it is thirteen hours of actual drive time to arrive at where my mother lives in central Florida, plus all the stopping that must be done in order to use the restroom, eat, stretch and just maintain sanity. Once I pass <b style=""><i style="">So</i></b></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><b style=""><i style="">uth of the Border</i></b> I know that I am nearly halfway there and that past this point there will not be another Starbucks for 400 miles, so get it now sweetheart because Mama needs that liquid fuel just like the van needs petrol.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We had no particular plans other than to just hang out, my mom has a pool, which Lily would spend all waking hours in if </span><span style="font-size:100%;">allowed, and anything that I got to do that didn’t involve going to work or our usual routine is a vacation to me. I hadn’t been able to sit down and read even one magazine since adopting Meika last September, so I had brought along a huge pile of unread material to try and get through…I succeeded in whittling down the pile by one, oh well, it was far more relaxing just to sit at pool side while Lily swam and watch the sun go down.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Easter Bu</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nny arrived a little bit late, guess he slept in (or due to driving so long forgot what day it was), fortunately, he was actually prepared, just delayed in his delivery. Then, another set of Easter Bunnies hid eggs and more baskets in the front yard and several other children and grandchildren of friends showed up and we had an egg hunt! What fun! It didn’t take Meika long to grasp the concept and hunt down her quarry. Lily of course was a blur as she raced around the yard searching for her eggs. That Easter Bunny was so cleaver that he marked all the eg</span><span style="font-size:100%;">gs so that the kids only gathered their own.</span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1028" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:0;" wrapcoords="-70 0 -70 21532 21600 21532 21600 0 -70 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image005.jpg" title="EggHunt1"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Then a couple of days later the Grandmas and Mamas and girls of these families all w</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p1v7sIuCSYdALxxt3h3wtOrBIskEwZ7OYEADXUfuX1SIcfs6LNyeXUpIp4KRrTD41kW-zXfpvt1Rwkq1wR-PjwRg7u9SxzQzJU6OXUguBtDCQso6sZJBYKrcP1lGGJ3W158h8w/s1600-h/EggHunt1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p1v7sIuCSYdALxxt3h3wtOrBIskEwZ7OYEADXUfuX1SIcfs6LNyeXUpIp4KRrTD41kW-zXfpvt1Rwkq1wR-PjwRg7u9SxzQzJU6OXUguBtDCQso6sZJBYKrcP1lGGJ3W158h8w/s400/EggHunt1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329920112140555122" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">ent to have a tea party at the local tea house, which was quite lovely. For the most part, manners were well observed. </span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1029" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:162pt;margin-top:25.8pt;width:270pt;" wrapcoords="-60 0 -60 21528 21600 21528 21600 0 -60 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image007.jpg" title="Mer3"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;">On another day we went to Weeki Wachee Springs State Park where there are mermaids!</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> The Seminole Indians named the spring, which means “little spring” or “winding river”. The bottom has never been found because it is so deep and each day 117 million gallons of fresh, 72-degree water bubbles up from the subterranean caverns. It is in the basin of the spring, lined naturally with limestone, that the mermaids swim 20 feet below the surface. A theater that sits sixteen feet below the surface of the spring allows visitors to watch the show in a dry environment. Opened in 1947 by Newton Perry as a roadside attraction, he found the spring fil</span><span style="font-size:100%;">led with old rusted refrigerators and cars. He had it cleaned out and being a former Navy SEAL, Perry experimented with underwater breathing hoses which supplied oxygen from an air compressor rather than an air tank strapped to the back of the diver, making the feat more dramatic and theatrical. He then sc</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0Lbm7hrELIOadr5LSCR_jqZUnHJUt489C8tUQlclmnYcbfpsCxZ5stkCFc64TAFxCMRWAjzT56Srr_gTyYi6OT_-N7TY4QSrR28SGFtuqVFCoZbpEbAN7T_V0vYSwCy2E-AYbg/s1600-h/Mer3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0Lbm7hrELIOadr5LSCR_jqZUnHJUt489C8tUQlclmnYcbfpsCxZ5stkCFc64TAFxCMRWAjzT56Srr_gTyYi6OT_-N7TY4QSrR28SGFtuqVFCoZbpEbAN7T_V0vYSwCy2E-AYbg/s400/Mer3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329919756269415586" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">outed pretty girls and taught them to use the air hoses and smile at the same time as well as to eat and drink while u</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nderwater and perform aquatic ballets. </span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We saw two shows, one was “The Little Mermaid” and the other was a demonstration from the Mermaids of their abilities. Lily spent most of the shows mumbling to herself and trying to decide if they were real mermaids or not. She could see the breathing hoses, but still….I suggested that perhaps they were half human and half mermaid because no ordinary person could hold their breath for that long. And indeed, one mermaid held her breath for almost 3 full minutes in order to swim down to the deepest part of the basin, it was quite a feat and very impressive! </span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="arial" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1030" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:0;margin-top:3pt;width:305.4pt;height:229.8pt;" wrapcoords="-53 0 -53 21529 21600 21529 21600 0 -53 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image009.jpg" title="KidsMer"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;">After the show we had a chance to take a picture with one of the mermaids, but Meika decided that she was still not comfortable being handed off to a total stranger, even if she <b style=""><i style="">wa</i></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTNWUWYezWQS86PWWL2R97FD4oYy5mOosMWqdh0nt78yjri4U2xk8Rj_Maq8BlAaiXrP-rdz_kdCi-kLCkXk3is0Y7MyzQHZ8JxKOfApABQIwaoz_P28HwWvqWWDnaf1j1Na_zw/s1600-h/KidsMer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTNWUWYezWQS86PWWL2R97FD4oYy5mOosMWqdh0nt78yjri4U2xk8Rj_Maq8BlAaiXrP-rdz_kdCi-kLCkXk3is0Y7MyzQHZ8JxKOfApABQIwaoz_P28HwWvqWWDnaf1j1Na_zw/s400/KidsMer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329919245406563874" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><i style="">s</i></b> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">a mermaid! It wasn’t just children having their likeness taken either, the park offers a photo service; they will take your picture with a mermaid and having her autograph it. There were several older adult women having this done. Huh. What exactly do these women do with this photo once home? Is it placed front and center on the mantal? And what can one say about it once framed, ‘Take a gander at this picture Mabel, me and a busty mermaid! Honey, it was the highlight of my trip!’ Okay, to each her own.</span></p><p style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1032" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:306pt;margin-top:37.25pt;width:118.8pt;" wrapcoords="-137 0 -137 21550 21600 21550 21600 0 -137 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image011.jpg" title="Flamingo"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1031" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'position:absolute;margin-left:0;" wrapcoords="-60 0 -60 21527 21600 21527 21600 0 -60 0"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Kim/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_image013.jpg" title="GMLShell2"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;">Following are some more photos of the day; that’s my mom in the shell with the girls. Lily has got the mermaid pose down just right. And that’s Maggie, my mom’s fiancé Dennis’ dog, she and Lily are real pals.</span></p>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-84009343300881073602009-04-28T21:06:00.016-04:002009-04-28T21:24:27.310-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWJ_WxlfyzzXOH-6K-aE19GkM-GD2onAi_cK7-CvNaOcGC-pYK6QMi-kNLQ_q4TtI09L832Q0qBv3mJSMVaBZIqB34zhDAeFkKvforH_9nykVnswye8r-vYmlmBtHvD5Vd9e6XA/s1600-h/GMLShell2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWJ_WxlfyzzXOH-6K-aE19GkM-GD2onAi_cK7-CvNaOcGC-pYK6QMi-kNLQ_q4TtI09L832Q0qBv3mJSMVaBZIqB34zhDAeFkKvforH_9nykVnswye8r-vYmlmBtHvD5Vd9e6XA/s400/GMLShell2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329918064285251026" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08eKAJm0j_urgfXhz8fcgv6jMg6D-fIok7c3NKE_YQ9dsny5eqe13l4_pYrY-oEFNwIJKAgkF9WXJGOHiytRElF3b58bsGd4jFm9_8yrGYlGS5_UuDKhPG51cGC2xdcSHYqJzkA/s1600-h/Flamingo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08eKAJm0j_urgfXhz8fcgv6jMg6D-fIok7c3NKE_YQ9dsny5eqe13l4_pYrY-oEFNwIJKAgkF9WXJGOHiytRElF3b58bsGd4jFm9_8yrGYlGS5_UuDKhPG51cGC2xdcSHYqJzkA/s400/Flamingo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329917966886848770" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGPIl7ZShXUghLV0ypuMdTJ4uGsQz8CVqL13ND_EDlx3GE3KxegiQxBQawl5ry-B0tAwOiZ_2BxKtA7pLTJIoYfPUC6YgJwz3mKikq-ZFYCekel3rf2BD6uBJmjGFCQ7suGF2Dg/s1600-h/LMer1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGPIl7ZShXUghLV0ypuMdTJ4uGsQz8CVqL13ND_EDlx3GE3KxegiQxBQawl5ry-B0tAwOiZ_2BxKtA7pLTJIoYfPUC6YgJwz3mKikq-ZFYCekel3rf2BD6uBJmjGFCQ7suGF2Dg/s400/LMer1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329917783837310258" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3J62RLOE5uygfVCCkPdjRSjr2Sj0r1SHDN_JSpAYpEXYcEy635H7P7YzfUpa6PtVQpvcabUanY651F5H1_zRMbbldnpeaQnDc3ODGNFNJ6HhI2fc45YhVF1S3Axq1yBLttjK0A/s1600-h/KidsGator2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3J62RLOE5uygfVCCkPdjRSjr2Sj0r1SHDN_JSpAYpEXYcEy635H7P7YzfUpa6PtVQpvcabUanY651F5H1_zRMbbldnpeaQnDc3ODGNFNJ6HhI2fc45YhVF1S3Axq1yBLttjK0A/s400/KidsGator2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329917590951520530" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmmJ1iVTAuQSrTICb9aojBDJmuRjiHBF6JH0fz26PKocnDCPZq7YHoXo3aB5s_grabHMpW66WIR93V4w4BGmZC0JSP4HprdEcHK1RG_6YYve34-qDRrlHFGkHGts6TIvq4O5GsA/s1600-h/MeikaDolphin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 379px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmmJ1iVTAuQSrTICb9aojBDJmuRjiHBF6JH0fz26PKocnDCPZq7YHoXo3aB5s_grabHMpW66WIR93V4w4BGmZC0JSP4HprdEcHK1RG_6YYve34-qDRrlHFGkHGts6TIvq4O5GsA/s400/MeikaDolphin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329917368141404146" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ48w55LhCqp40ybxWmAnmOC64YAuKFmhobN3VtnkeFAtqOKTShORDWn7nSAJU4btQawjRV0vozaSx8usxtXHAX9VPUNEfrYHQUufITer2663rErUh7oAflk3p92BBsh3tx1hoow/s1600-h/mermaid.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ48w55LhCqp40ybxWmAnmOC64YAuKFmhobN3VtnkeFAtqOKTShORDWn7nSAJU4btQawjRV0vozaSx8usxtXHAX9VPUNEfrYHQUufITer2663rErUh7oAflk3p92BBsh3tx1hoow/s400/mermaid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329917155445847410" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzOXpPArdOyD-vZDPtf0sNwwv3pnA_MH6Q_grn8XHp9VOYuUyw9VEK7xQNYA_erGMOy9QIkRbJ_XG2z3PIq2OaHgkm4pl0Q4FkXt6UVcE9MJHw9i_oZyXHN7PRNHg6wSj2ryAtw/s1600-h/MaggieLily.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzOXpPArdOyD-vZDPtf0sNwwv3pnA_MH6Q_grn8XHp9VOYuUyw9VEK7xQNYA_erGMOy9QIkRbJ_XG2z3PIq2OaHgkm4pl0Q4FkXt6UVcE9MJHw9i_oZyXHN7PRNHg6wSj2ryAtw/s400/MaggieLily.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329916945293672914" border="0" /></a>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-79530481751031679492009-04-22T20:30:00.001-04:002009-04-22T20:30:53.749-04:00ADVENTURES IN PARENTHOOD<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4as-HZyqfeesh3SoZNaw3PS9yuYCfNDgAq23twQubAnpKWz6qdsAJxX0-q2APzU_7x9R7Mwztx9E-i7ga_qEz4GN4i2YH66LcHYMEWRHfqyxtn7PpHNNAahvLAm4RgkR6N3hg0w/s1600-h/SuctionCup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4as-HZyqfeesh3SoZNaw3PS9yuYCfNDgAq23twQubAnpKWz6qdsAJxX0-q2APzU_7x9R7Mwztx9E-i7ga_qEz4GN4i2YH66LcHYMEWRHfqyxtn7PpHNNAahvLAm4RgkR6N3hg0w/s400/SuctionCup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327677317232780850" /></a><br />I’m driving and from the backseat I hear “Mom, mom! I’m pulling my forehead off!” I don’t answer. <br /><br />“Mom, did you hear me?!” <br /><br />“Yes dear, I heard you, I’m driving and I can’t look right now.” (I actually have no idea what she is doing, but know she is playing around in some way, not in real danger). <br /><br />“Mom, don’t you care if I pull off my face?” <br /><br />“Yes dear, I care, are you really pulling off your face?” <br /><br />“No, I guess not.” End of conversation. Once we stop and I get a look at her face for the first time I am horrified. “What on earth happened to your head?!” For right there, smack dab in the middle of her forehead is a huge purple circle! Turns out she stuck the suction cup from the brand new sun shades on her forehead and proceeded to play tug of war with it. I’m just glad she didn’t stick it all over her face! So, as we were on vacation at the time, many photos were taken, see if you can spot the ‘head hicky’ in each shot.Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-12665503798435714292009-04-05T22:34:00.022-04:002009-04-05T23:11:49.849-04:00RAMDOM PHOTOS<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadhsuq5mIIPGnB7vE0k0u5u4sJnGMhObZ66Xt-gTsgFZj3_I87eA605x00KlMTHwyLa4gMRr1oXlRc2tUDX7pbMJB7zAjznQVeYKH6Zo4LmLFZ7J9D_-QsycVNrfgx8sO5CNnjA/s1600-h/Lily_08-08E.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 358px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadhsuq5mIIPGnB7vE0k0u5u4sJnGMhObZ66Xt-gTsgFZj3_I87eA605x00KlMTHwyLa4gMRr1oXlRc2tUDX7pbMJB7zAjznQVeYKH6Zo4LmLFZ7J9D_-QsycVNrfgx8sO5CNnjA/s400/Lily_08-08E.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321407990702122130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I was downloading some photos from my camera and decided to post a few. </span></span><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSllw7QgehAjtkmEXq_RMFWkwyQCtjTJadAAcxSr6ntcKZMP2XMzS6CxzEh3GEnZwq0K9pzvzkx7g_wwKye31TGXxK7cPwbflpPMKuINW8ex0jjqSbXTW38IAd7M5b5AvB-Wo8Gw/s1600-h/karate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 373px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSllw7QgehAjtkmEXq_RMFWkwyQCtjTJadAAcxSr6ntcKZMP2XMzS6CxzEh3GEnZwq0K9pzvzkx7g_wwKye31TGXxK7cPwbflpPMKuINW8ex0jjqSbXTW38IAd7M5b5AvB-Wo8Gw/s400/karate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321407792764878514" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Lily dressed for combat at karate class.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmF_CPSzFEueCPMiN39EksGYLGTHAPO9N_LPmb6_O3g2WkURJxX6xorVEftmyjBlAH7dzcW1genb0-QJTx7GHiUeznQHwGISFWlzPrxJIZNrBPXzWG1vydWSid3088pFqWIEnDBA/s1600-h/DSC03274.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmF_CPSzFEueCPMiN39EksGYLGTHAPO9N_LPmb6_O3g2WkURJxX6xorVEftmyjBlAH7dzcW1genb0-QJTx7GHiUeznQHwGISFWlzPrxJIZNrBPXzWG1vydWSid3088pFqWIEnDBA/s400/DSC03274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321407697846068418" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Meika a week after arriving home from China.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWh9ke7RhbAQdbO7D21rov0bhRJw3uDLvZDz8kJRTtV2pd_mJTMG9n20yUyYjXL8ais1gqobyQvsIfl6uaHLu317RFj54yzf0XeLWS2fs3CvOt7cIOkdn3kDnTenB7VWDTyqmsGQ/s1600-h/IMG_0857.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWh9ke7RhbAQdbO7D21rov0bhRJw3uDLvZDz8kJRTtV2pd_mJTMG9n20yUyYjXL8ais1gqobyQvsIfl6uaHLu317RFj54yzf0XeLWS2fs3CvOt7cIOkdn3kDnTenB7VWDTyqmsGQ/s400/IMG_0857.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321407601174925666" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Meika Christmas Eve wearing one present from Grammy and eating another from Ms. Nan.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9c2NdXAgOLl4RBQ-VSAGwzrrgZfoE9O6mMeQI3HYrBqClQ2GISqIs_R5B0-z5AEXdBlgw6DKSY-UQUwqy4pAQew4d4IyDsG8Ayzfo5gHADj2yKtpHh7r5JKbTqju4Bne91PkFeQ/s1600-h/IMG_0166.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9c2NdXAgOLl4RBQ-VSAGwzrrgZfoE9O6mMeQI3HYrBqClQ2GISqIs_R5B0-z5AEXdBlgw6DKSY-UQUwqy4pAQew4d4IyDsG8Ayzfo5gHADj2yKtpHh7r5JKbTqju4Bne91PkFeQ/s400/IMG_0166.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321407006302262850" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Photos taken at a Pow Wow in Virginia last summer.</span></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jJz3g6j34XqYLbiphHe2urzee3J2vhdonQj1GPVy93nUlQb6WGWZqCy70iC8-aPCEP8dLbwQSEokt-cCjgSb7zzTh7Tw-mnszguk0XXxmEjqqGmdFhyIPpImunVJmpcR-nkXOA/s1600-h/IMG_0167.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jJz3g6j34XqYLbiphHe2urzee3J2vhdonQj1GPVy93nUlQb6WGWZqCy70iC8-aPCEP8dLbwQSEokt-cCjgSb7zzTh7Tw-mnszguk0XXxmEjqqGmdFhyIPpImunVJmpcR-nkXOA/s400/IMG_0167.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406928995456738" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPS6_8XQhmJWHYQPaXwAIlULduHFxN58-CROtlB7aL41KuSDiEBo9EuDXzNY2aIdRoYYD3h52O6ybhA-HAKNs_Nud2PbHBu9gPMYctmeJWzlFy3GgPK0W_Y4HjQ_x7S0oqh_N8Rg/s1600-h/IMG_0125.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPS6_8XQhmJWHYQPaXwAIlULduHFxN58-CROtlB7aL41KuSDiEBo9EuDXzNY2aIdRoYYD3h52O6ybhA-HAKNs_Nud2PbHBu9gPMYctmeJWzlFy3GgPK0W_Y4HjQ_x7S0oqh_N8Rg/s400/IMG_0125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406838403365314" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQGqb6mMlY4kcwAk1gcNLS0XMXx75BwYJR66BtghTtMBrlqn7uSPD7eGvgUzAyiWzzRqFXF8vLkSzpM1LX4Ayqk6s0qZKi7_TkHrKdi_cBMQW5uITydC0QGdDr_tJDVzSdLV7Pg/s1600-h/IMG_0116.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQGqb6mMlY4kcwAk1gcNLS0XMXx75BwYJR66BtghTtMBrlqn7uSPD7eGvgUzAyiWzzRqFXF8vLkSzpM1LX4Ayqk6s0qZKi7_TkHrKdi_cBMQW5uITydC0QGdDr_tJDVzSdLV7Pg/s400/IMG_0116.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406751023239506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaU9WJl6GEkssUnT9ohyphenhyphenW9LKm0p2kJVnIjVdnLYLnO5fT_is5lteVogzbqC1gSiS55wRLYPoGm_oRiXlrq_RCKb8AmGU7lrbJA98uk9kaxWttKNPgUh513gzolCr_LlWvK-0nqXA/s1600-h/IMG_0108.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaU9WJl6GEkssUnT9ohyphenhyphenW9LKm0p2kJVnIjVdnLYLnO5fT_is5lteVogzbqC1gSiS55wRLYPoGm_oRiXlrq_RCKb8AmGU7lrbJA98uk9kaxWttKNPgUh513gzolCr_LlWvK-0nqXA/s400/IMG_0108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406661487029682" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBzr-EHqVd5iq8VtQ6B9qD9sVwOXzTGW349xuqTMJX0cv7dHRpwDMQ6akwP4BSjHxoRHKVtM3ZfHZmUHxzwJ-tuL_VpvIkLRQBMeVDNIY_TLEk_cTh_-Az8B8WkXrHb9A9Hj9QQ/s1600-h/IMG_0104.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 399px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBzr-EHqVd5iq8VtQ6B9qD9sVwOXzTGW349xuqTMJX0cv7dHRpwDMQ6akwP4BSjHxoRHKVtM3ZfHZmUHxzwJ-tuL_VpvIkLRQBMeVDNIY_TLEk_cTh_-Az8B8WkXrHb9A9Hj9QQ/s400/IMG_0104.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406575049571314" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTdO8jFuWjRgk5q-cUSTlcuJGypoBr2ymJU3MwHollGjONauUDd9ZeUOZQe8OMW818HpTF-8zxPXTJmaw8XHn8Ty1-Tsn0AaXE-V6vOD2cYXWoO-r-e2huTQ_Kyp8kBXYb8K3cw/s1600-h/IMG_0092.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTdO8jFuWjRgk5q-cUSTlcuJGypoBr2ymJU3MwHollGjONauUDd9ZeUOZQe8OMW818HpTF-8zxPXTJmaw8XHn8Ty1-Tsn0AaXE-V6vOD2cYXWoO-r-e2huTQ_Kyp8kBXYb8K3cw/s400/IMG_0092.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406449734545618" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdpLCNbIhzhtj6w1r0HKwHykraY7W7e1Ksl0DQMSHxyebNB6k-w94jjCXGMoQCCy2h0MN4igU0ZzZjH1YU8cKzkpNLbAVY95y9aC5JYjpE01fMJW-4OyKAXi8d-BDXXI9OWARUug/s1600-h/IMG_0083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdpLCNbIhzhtj6w1r0HKwHykraY7W7e1Ksl0DQMSHxyebNB6k-w94jjCXGMoQCCy2h0MN4igU0ZzZjH1YU8cKzkpNLbAVY95y9aC5JYjpE01fMJW-4OyKAXi8d-BDXXI9OWARUug/s400/IMG_0083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406338988580578" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1HaRq0eHb-cVeGZdC3tr2qjBz-xFZjmYUwha1YKQJkIUdeX10gPsb0QzyMcretWukAXs4-bn3OnRXz_1qYXOooeRghMr1mzFnPb5Te-OrwstVLVRg1NYzh_2ZeWDiQd_eSJ-Uw/s1600-h/IMG_0072.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1HaRq0eHb-cVeGZdC3tr2qjBz-xFZjmYUwha1YKQJkIUdeX10gPsb0QzyMcretWukAXs4-bn3OnRXz_1qYXOooeRghMr1mzFnPb5Te-OrwstVLVRg1NYzh_2ZeWDiQd_eSJ-Uw/s400/IMG_0072.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406263635094114" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJcVf7yyCUepEffbZarWzxkV5rVgI-FY-rx_D6Sh1qXjeeCfZthX7p3EdGe3MFHleYZbdhVc97-zvSwC92JtaCkYWtn4kBlgxnscMAsGOGXumb5jk9Cfp9_1tmofIiY_Om_sl_g/s1600-h/IMG_0081.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJcVf7yyCUepEffbZarWzxkV5rVgI-FY-rx_D6Sh1qXjeeCfZthX7p3EdGe3MFHleYZbdhVc97-zvSwC92JtaCkYWtn4kBlgxnscMAsGOGXumb5jk9Cfp9_1tmofIiY_Om_sl_g/s400/IMG_0081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321406031510258594" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OFct05UvP7KlDJoZ52ZzywdswJZckwn2MbSYqoT7as0WTUOSNDE2MUtAJen0pJubbDRvYX99NluCib4SRi-F_3RZjoy9rJWmYY2v7MfH-WjfjwfCZO87IYJlSEdJr8hFzZ5kOQ/s1600-h/IMG_0073.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OFct05UvP7KlDJoZ52ZzywdswJZckwn2MbSYqoT7as0WTUOSNDE2MUtAJen0pJubbDRvYX99NluCib4SRi-F_3RZjoy9rJWmYY2v7MfH-WjfjwfCZO87IYJlSEdJr8hFzZ5kOQ/s400/IMG_0073.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321405958743552082" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gmJZVQYDqSBVVCvhqu_ng3I_YmK7owT3gvzfI7a0eh-oilGi4UL9K9QshFj3xZgq_x2kZ03s2U5mPKW_wiUs1Iw3jHYjKyaG61gTn-NWCxkc-QFjnVfHlO8D3GWjGKPhyxq7xA/s1600-h/IMG_0070.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gmJZVQYDqSBVVCvhqu_ng3I_YmK7owT3gvzfI7a0eh-oilGi4UL9K9QshFj3xZgq_x2kZ03s2U5mPKW_wiUs1Iw3jHYjKyaG61gTn-NWCxkc-QFjnVfHlO8D3GWjGKPhyxq7xA/s400/IMG_0070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321405765250431490" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-83874676892465533142009-03-24T21:35:00.010-04:002009-03-24T22:32:25.660-04:00NIGHT LIGHTS FOR THE DEAD<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5450pxXSdomhEZbqMAobT93O7VLYYx-mtm_ysbDan6OaR6pPnwqvMbXlXREukoQyRtb6iyAHiHIcHFiUbhebdkGXlqgoleEfmE3AeCsRGVu22r74rg3UV-Vr6T1GZO_Crlx49w/s1600-h/grave2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5450pxXSdomhEZbqMAobT93O7VLYYx-mtm_ysbDan6OaR6pPnwqvMbXlXREukoQyRtb6iyAHiHIcHFiUbhebdkGXlqgoleEfmE3AeCsRGVu22r74rg3UV-Vr6T1GZO_Crlx49w/s400/grave2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316936154889236258" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I don’t know if this is a national trend or just something popular in the small rural town I live in, but this past winter, as the darkness came on earlier each day and I was passing one of the local cemeteries, I noticed </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >a blueish-white light shining amongst the stone markers. As the weeks went by, more and more small lights began to appear, some of them having shape! As the poin</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ts of light grew in number, my curiosity finally got the better of me and I pulled the car over to get a closer look. Squinting into the darkness I saw what appeared to be solar LED lights sprinkled among the graves. Apparently, lighting the eternal resting places of family members had become the latest thing. Wow, night lights for the dead, amazing. Some of the lights were shaped like angels or crosses making the scene even eerier. So, one mystery solved only</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > to be replaced with another…why?</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div face="arial" style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:100%;" >I don’t mean to offend anyone who may have chosen to illuminate their r</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >elative’s small plot of earth in this way, but seriously, do the dead really need night lights? What could possibly be the logic in lig</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >hting graves? Have the dearly departed taken to reading in the evenings? Do you think that they are afraid of the dark? Or maybe the light is for the living; you find yourself visiting the eternal resting place of loved ones in the middle of the night and so need a light to mar</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >k your way. I have t</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >o admit, I find it a strange practice. But maybe that’s just me.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I do however, think it somewhat a shame that the necropolis (what a fantastic wor</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >d!) is not visited more often. One doesn’t usually think of them as a very cheery place to ta</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ke one’s family, but this has not always been the case. During the Victorian</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >period cemeteries were not mere places to lie to rest one’s family and frien</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ds</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >, but were also buzzing with life, at least on S</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >unday afternoons. At the time it was an accepted custom, after attendi</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ng church, for many families to sp</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJ3elU8TJSS2hzs2HKmvOgdzWa_btFFv5tj7aNFciBkaeVXsXysbYCtQSpBehS0kLBTEKMJRjEgbfJCtaF_G-UeRCfyXcdThV3KzaudpNMtxKFNzIP-yncEPyvJ2K8r38JtYSIg/s1600-h/800px-Hollywood_Cemetery-With_Skyline_and_River.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJ3elU8TJSS2hzs2HKmvOgdzWa_btFFv5tj7aNFciBkaeVXsXysbYCtQSpBehS0kLBTEKMJRjEgbfJCtaF_G-UeRCfyXcdThV3KzaudpNMtxKFNzIP-yncEPyvJ2K8r38JtYSIg/s400/800px-Hollywood_Cemetery-With_Skyline_and_River.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316934582981767906" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >end their afternoon going to the local cemetery, tending the graves of loved ones and having picnics on the fam</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ily plot. Cemeteries acted as the local park, and in fact, until recently, most cemeteries were called “parks”.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Within driving distance of our town is a wonderful cemetery of local fame. Hollywood Cemetery in downtown Richmond Virginia. It is a lovely place full of interesting history, beautiful statuary, flowering trees and rolling hills that looks out over the James River. Hollywood Cemetery, opened in 1849, was given its name because of the many holly trees that dotted its landscape. It’s quite large and sprawling (as witness</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ed by the aerial vie</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >w below) as well as peaceful and interesting. There are several somewhat eccentric monuments here </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >in true Victorian fashion. One of these</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">is a large black iron dog that guards the grave of a child. (See photo). Angels</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">abound,</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >and there are some really lovely examples. Two</span> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >United States</span> <span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;">Pr</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >esidents are buried here, James Monroe who’s ironwork monument you can see below right, and John Tyler, as well as the one and only </span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Confederate States President, Jefferson Davis. It is also the final resting place of 25 Confederate generals including George Pickett and J.E.B. Stuart. In 1869 an intere</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTh88B9F4atBt_Na7BCdpRBt9RkIXJTKCfCMpMVAs058_ksbUMUEI23jMfJrjYe5upNSB_fcZ5r3TGEju7EXSiJeP6ZUAVjrWmgJEW0f8rywmzj_H5U4o-iPPcf13BJXDvHCS5g/s1600-h/42-19931592.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTh88B9F4atBt_Na7BCdpRBt9RkIXJTKCfCMpMVAs058_ksbUMUEI23jMfJrjYe5upNSB_fcZ5r3TGEju7EXSiJeP6ZUAVjrWmgJEW0f8rywmzj_H5U4o-iPPcf13BJXDvHCS5g/s400/42-19931592.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316934126266271538" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >sting, 90 foot high granite pyramid was erected to commemorate the more than 18,000 men of the Confederate Army who are also buried in the cemetery, most of whom remain unidentified.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In addition to its beauty, Hollywood C</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >emetery also has</span> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >its local legends, including the many ghosts that haunt its mausoleums and the legend of the Richmond Vampire. The story of the Vampire began soon after the collapse of a railroad tunnel at Church Hill, a district of Richmond, which buried several workers a</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >live on October 2, 1925. The tale is told of a creature with jagged teeth and bloody skin hanging from its body that emerged from the cave-in and ran toward the James Rive</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >r. A group of men pursued it into Hollywood Cemetery where it disappeared into a mausoleum set into the hillside. </span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It turns out that this legend is based in truth, railroad fireman, Benjamin F. Mosby (1896-1925), was loading coal into the steam tank of Locomotive 231 when the collapse occurred and was horribly scalded when the engine boiler exploded and several of his teeth were broken, yet he made his way out of the tunnel and emerged in a state of shock with layers of his skin hanging from his body. He later died at the hospital, but the story took on a life of its own and is still being told many decades later. In 1926 the tunnel was filled with sand and sealed at both ends. A private effort to possibly excavate and retrieve the train engine is currently being explored. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0WEZH9EFzo8Sl4KOONnITiXttJMD47NiYjhCilI6BkW9frQuFg5B9AItrHU_JARheSZjW9evg55Kc7H9StBSE07ckJaYF2F4TZaoQm0NcKdVCLJW8vB2KQBdoMsY5JCOm5UJNQ/s1600-h/26003868.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0WEZH9EFzo8Sl4KOONnITiXttJMD47NiYjhCilI6BkW9frQuFg5B9AItrHU_JARheSZjW9evg55Kc7H9StBSE07ckJaYF2F4TZaoQm0NcKdVCLJW8vB2KQBdoMsY5JCOm5UJNQ/s400/26003868.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316935029167270146" border="0" /></a></span></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >Having worked in the field of archaeology, burial sites are included in excavations regularly. Sometimes that is the aim, as in a burial site or cemetery that is in the path of</span> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >upcoming modern constructio</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >n and</span> <span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >must be moved, or when bodies are discovered as part of an archaeological exploration. The photo at the end of this post shows me at the site of an excavated grave within Bruton Parrish’s cemetery in Williamsburg. It w</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >as my job to record the measurements, damage and decorative nail head of the coffin, which was amazingly intact after hundreds of years, though its lid had collapsed. </span></p><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify; font-weight: bold;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >At another site in Maryland, earth was being moved to lay the ground for a housing development when the machinery turned up what appeared to be human remains. After the police investigated and found that the remains were in fact quite old the archaeologists were called in and a family cemetery from the early 19<sup>th</sup> century was discovered, excavated and the bodies then re-interned elsewhere. But not before the archeological team had gleaned as much information as possible from the</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSsq3Pe4LB-Tjn293cOdCCRuEyCOaA_fZyHhTMsqT9G3cxdV1EKqe6IO56styn8YOwEtxT5kYfQdFwCVahwGmheTvSh6_2Xcy0cL8LP-RqUtJNTRttSvCTGK_2nAEPGRnrGdSUw/s1600-h/image-left-HollywoodCemetery.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSsq3Pe4LB-Tjn293cOdCCRuEyCOaA_fZyHhTMsqT9G3cxdV1EKqe6IO56styn8YOwEtxT5kYfQdFwCVahwGmheTvSh6_2Xcy0cL8LP-RqUtJNTRttSvCTGK_2nAEPGRnrGdSUw/s400/image-left-HollywoodCemetery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316935285155387810" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > bones, clothing and coffin remains to record for future study.<br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >It is for this very reason that I would choose to be buried rather than cremated. I envision my earthly remains being dug up hundreds of years into the future by a team of archaeologists and them trying to puzzle out my life based on what they had found. If I had my wish, my coffin would be stuffed full of my favorite things; photos of my children, their artwork and small gifts to me; my favorite toys and jewelry, my I Pod and books, many, many books. Some of my own artwork; my writing; video clips from everyday life. I can picture the excitement on the face of the archaeologist as she peers into my sarcophagus, takes out her dusting brush and sweeps away centuries of dirt to reveal an Ugly Doll Action Figu</span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >re or my boney hand clutching the poem my daughter wrote to me when she was six years old. I imagine her dialogue -- “Ah, see?” she exclaims, “we can tell this person was a female by her pelvic bone and skull, but see here, a contradiction, there is no scarring on the dorsal surface of the pubic symphysis which would indicate that she had not born children, yet the material culture she has been buried with would indicate otherwise. Interesting. I suppose she could have adopted. And see here on the middle finger of her right hand the build up of the bone on the end of that finger, which tells us that she held a pen - a <i style="font-weight: bold;">lot</i>. And down here on her right ankle, see the missing pieces of bone just there? Tearing the ligaments will do that; pull parts of the bone right off and cause a calcium build up in the area. So it appears that sometime in mid-life she has injured that ankle…mor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipNwTzE4kHGwOFoacp35FxAJkbMyMUgsqlevVc1A-m4ygx3x8ep7aK_calRNdMXOORt91Eph0uCp-8TAiMdVd5xWKYEyuol-wck0KvtfTo0nfgEvWM_Y-JoBetb64ApMbwVK99A/s1600-h/Kim&Coffin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipNwTzE4kHGwOFoacp35FxAJkbMyMUgsqlevVc1A-m4ygx3x8ep7aK_calRNdMXOORt91Eph0uCp-8TAiMdVd5xWKYEyuol-wck0KvtfTo0nfgEvWM_Y-JoBetb64ApMbwVK99A/s400/Kim&Coffin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316933644566905522" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" >e than once. Sheesh, what a </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">klutz! Oh wow, look at this, an ancient musical storage device clutched to her chest. Man, quite the eclectic taste in music. Fascinating. We should know more after we get Toby to take a look at that massive computer storage device. Did you see the size of that thing? It’s as big as my thumb, how on earth were they ever able to get anything done having to keep all of their electronic information on those troublesome pieces of posionous plastic? We sure are lucky to have all of our data stored at the ends of our fingertips.”<br /></span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This is sort of how I imagine the scene playing out. Morbid? I think not, just an imaginary tableau of a vessel used at one time by a spirit passing through. Oh, and since I plan on having books with me, could someone please lea</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ve a light on?</span></p><div style="font-family:arial;"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div face="arial"> </div><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p><div face="arial"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12;">©KKW 2009</span></span></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-65807974017941300822009-03-07T20:55:00.008-05:002009-03-09T21:35:38.222-04:00LET IT SNOW!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxETFbbDdWoFCgeTC-2CiBJkVCqo0AJojW2CGnK_FLlr-OSuY_EqFug4p2g47eSclvRlDBy0SbGPPRu1RnMzOj9Q-34vgrL1lsoBLJmQjgw8aBycc_bdBLHjiBGgdIl8wUOyUqQ/s1600-h/MeikaSnow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxETFbbDdWoFCgeTC-2CiBJkVCqo0AJojW2CGnK_FLlr-OSuY_EqFug4p2g47eSclvRlDBy0SbGPPRu1RnMzOj9Q-34vgrL1lsoBLJmQjgw8aBycc_bdBLHjiBGgdIl8wUOyUqQ/s400/MeikaSnow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310632895993768418" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Last week we got hit with that big east coast snow storm. It was nice to see it really snow and I would have loved to just sit and enjoy it and sip hot chocolate with the kids since of course the schools were closed, but alas, the office I work in closes for NO reason apparently; hurricanes, states of emergency, what ever, that place keeps its doors open. You never know while in crisis whether there just might be a graphics emergency, apparently I <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> make my way ther</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >e. So, when there are snow days I must decide if I should use a precious vacation day or spend it imposing on friends for a place to deposit my children. Oh, please forgive my whining and enjo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >y t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >he resulting snow day photos!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Lily of course was rolling in the snow the second her boots stepped out the door, but I think that this was the first time Meika had seen the stuff and she wasn't at all impress</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ed. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >She didn't want to touch it or have it touch her. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >She spent the whole time while we were out j</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ust standing there staring at it as if to say "So why are we out here and who made the whole of the outside white?"</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIJEyq9eVtGD5T15tBZORqW9BRmlQYkcOtEBK3_Fq9F2PU_vMVWS23XSS-tKEkn-cg6b2CxNFE2S5pN0b7nnhKRmJY1rEXIg9aFJ3QWTKVAxR_i2vnYFum6mvOzKsYpc43Sgc6A/s1600-h/MeikaSnow2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIJEyq9eVtGD5T15tBZORqW9BRmlQYkcOtEBK3_Fq9F2PU_vMVWS23XSS-tKEkn-cg6b2CxNFE2S5pN0b7nnhKRmJY1rEXIg9aFJ3QWTKVAxR_i2vnYFum6mvOzKsYpc43Sgc6A/s400/MeikaSnow2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310634481885466322" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7g63oAMR-mz2HKBQgz2w63Xze09AmYQ_V80oElEGmx_G3rzfaCcCm77qa3bvJAN2Gq3-17HkUmHddsjUEYLMUwGTCNHkc5cCns7DYfOXt1oZ1QBZ13Y6G4ZvW74T8RS_s6DhUg/s1600-h/IMG_1027.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7g63oAMR-mz2HKBQgz2w63Xze09AmYQ_V80oElEGmx_G3rzfaCcCm77qa3bvJAN2Gq3-17HkUmHddsjUEYLMUwGTCNHkc5cCns7DYfOXt1oZ1QBZ13Y6G4ZvW74T8RS_s6DhUg/s400/IMG_1027.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310634758156463794" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZ3DfoVELEFCXu5mLFwfWjeB_NgR4SWnANfi4GSZYLndhr9TM85L0FuMeevw6fpqG9BlgdaPbr8bPPL3Iah9etLxO7gdupLzJeChLz_MAXvxg6DuYI-Kzo7wnrAYLDz9FENXANQ/s1600-h/IMG_1011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZ3DfoVELEFCXu5mLFwfWjeB_NgR4SWnANfi4GSZYLndhr9TM85L0FuMeevw6fpqG9BlgdaPbr8bPPL3Iah9etLxO7gdupLzJeChLz_MAXvxg6DuYI-Kzo7wnrAYLDz9FENXANQ/s400/IMG_1011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310635122914485490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5XUfYVBcz7VhJYZlrmR3_juAHrZrB55rUhoyEuL4hJPjzpiQ1LOrClDj1dkonIn8ecIcb2jR5AJAFOsnfyz0diuGiRFd-8Z9Bgqt8eBbDeKWRjwqArXdYl6zqM7wPpvZEKUSAw/s1600-h/snowstorm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5XUfYVBcz7VhJYZlrmR3_juAHrZrB55rUhoyEuL4hJPjzpiQ1LOrClDj1dkonIn8ecIcb2jR5AJAFOsnfyz0diuGiRFd-8Z9Bgqt8eBbDeKWRjwqArXdYl6zqM7wPpvZEKUSAw/s400/snowstorm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310635390584064450" border="0" /></a></div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-70209784321389872632009-03-02T22:03:00.006-05:002009-03-04T20:31:29.101-05:00A PICTURE GAME<h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><em>My friend<a href="http://landjupdates.blogspot.com/"> Debby </a> tagged me for this cute little picture game.....<br /></em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>***Rules***</em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>1. Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.<br /></em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>2. Go to the 6th Folder and then pick the 6th Picture.<br /></em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>3. Post it on your blog and tell the story that goes w</em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>ith the picture.<br /></em></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" class="post-title entry-title"><span style="font-size:100%;">4</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>. Tag 5 other glorious peoples to do the same thing and leave a comment on their blog telling them about it. </em></span></h3><h3 style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;" class="post-title entry-title"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9hed78NSg-XkRk42F9W1557XWZKWN2WfXSAsV4S1430XLtNPkEA-VjAdRZVscQ7KRIUEqJqX-fVWF5dcHw_ciPsWqFWxoA8mAADTXKJJyeFPyjJI56fAnL3MdxmZCjc-xlzwBw/s1600-h/KarateKid.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9hed78NSg-XkRk42F9W1557XWZKWN2WfXSAsV4S1430XLtNPkEA-VjAdRZVscQ7KRIUEqJqX-fVWF5dcHw_ciPsWqFWxoA8mAADTXKJJyeFPyjJI56fAnL3MdxmZCjc-xlzwBw/s320/KarateKid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308794070965006898" border="0" /></a></h3> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, here is my photo from my 6th folder... my little warrior! Just look at that fierce face! Lily has been taking karate lessons since she was in kindergarten and is now an orange belt. The first time she tried boxing on the WII she kept trying to kick as well as punch, and can lay that WII guy OUT in no time. You go girl!<br /><br />I tag..... <a href="http://barrytrotter.blogspot.com/">Kate</a>, <a href="http://karamusings.blogspot.com/">Kara</a> and <a href="http://journeytohai.blogspot.com/">Kim H</a>.,<br /></span></span>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-11372542953514648832009-02-18T20:41:00.009-05:002009-02-22T21:51:41.353-05:00WHERE’S THE MAD HATTER?<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tdcyGQ5vRYN9BzheFBkcQnvA4xCLLuvc6-MVlmSowE5LIycVJdH0auKAZadO0eb3QSmU6Gli8GOPV0M9i4bSG4TYa9bpGpjct2FRlFsyaGo8WdvwWNQ93zzELDl3xr8XX7bXEw/s1600-h/ValTable.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tdcyGQ5vRYN9BzheFBkcQnvA4xCLLuvc6-MVlmSowE5LIycVJdH0auKAZadO0eb3QSmU6Gli8GOPV0M9i4bSG4TYa9bpGpjct2FRlFsyaGo8WdvwWNQ93zzELDl3xr8XX7bXEw/s320/ValTable.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305064694375574258" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >On Saturday we were invited to a lovely tea party to celebrate Valentine’s Day at our friends the Turners. Jennica and her daughter Rya played hostesses to several little girls all glammed up and ready to partake in girly activity. Here they are looking like they are waiting for the Mad Hatter, who must have been off with the White Rabbit somewhere, probably attending the Queen. They all waited patiently and with the best of manners for tea to be served.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Decorated cakes and cookies were ravenously eaten, sweet teas sipped and fresh strawberries delicately nibbled. Once all the little princesses appetites were sated, they waved their magic wands and the remnants of the party were miraculously swept away to make way for a heart-shaped frame craft. (the “magic” coming in the form of Mamas madly cleaning up after</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;"> their princesses…oh, so that’s where the madness comes in). We then retired to the backyard and play area to blow some bubbles where I discovered my two year old can quite expertly climb a ladder all by herself…yikes, good to know.</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh251_WKNH6s8njU3UjXJMgLK6WK7uCsKJWa6ddZi2kFqfFPAzoJcVlHCI0ZarOhEm04VmhCQH_bdafVIVrvs8utxyrbO8nEuTeAqfj5vSQgLltU_fnfc9kl4pB1ihVXx4scdsBqg/s1600-h/PrincessMeika.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh251_WKNH6s8njU3UjXJMgLK6WK7uCsKJWa6ddZi2kFqfFPAzoJcVlHCI0ZarOhEm04VmhCQH_bdafVIVrvs8utxyrbO8nEuTeAqfj5vSQgLltU_fnfc9kl4pB1ihVXx4scdsBqg/s320/PrincessMeika.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305064484536253890" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">A wonderful time was had by all and we are grateful to Jennica a</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">nd Rya for their ho</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">spitality and thoughtfulness.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">After arriving home I opened the back door to the mini van and this was the picture I was presented with; a little girl looking the perfect picture of ‘princess-ness’…wrapped in a pick furry coat, dress ruffles peaking out and her head topped with a silver tiara. A bag of g</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">oodies in her lap, a wand in one hand, a sucker in the other and a big smile on her face. She just seemed to be saying. ‘Ain’t America grand Mama?’</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">And there were still presents from the Mama as well! You just can’t be</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">at a holiday celebrating love, even though poor St. Valentine didn’t quite have the best of times on his day, him being a martyr and all. Actually, did you know that there isn’t just one Saint Valentine and that there are more than one Valentine’s Days? There were several early Christian martyrs named thus. Finally, in 1969, the Catholic Church formally recognized eleven Valentine’s Days! The Valentine, or rather, Valentines, honored on February 14th are Vale</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">ntine of Rome and Valentine of Terni. The one from Rome was a priest who suffered his martyrdom in about AD 269. His pieces reside in a church in</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;"> Rome, AND one in Dublin, Ireland….oh dear.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Valentine of Terni was a bishop in about AD 19</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">7 and was said to have been killed during the persecution of Emperor Aurelian. Parts of him are in Rome and Terni.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">It is unclear as to when romance be</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56B6WohilFX1IoopDADdW1cA9b_ps83DmWeBJ1VZRSRGtxx5zWvDHdGPuw9oieSnHLlXV17G8bAJq4PLqXEfVtQQzXEYMZlUD5NyOiSAyZOcwmNh32sIkyQzvXrT1lq65yQ1DYQ/s1600-h/ValentinePresents09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56B6WohilFX1IoopDADdW1cA9b_ps83DmWeBJ1VZRSRGtxx5zWvDHdGPuw9oieSnHLlXV17G8bAJq4PLqXEfVtQQzXEYMZlUD5NyOiSAyZOcwmNh32sIkyQzvXrT1lq65yQ1DYQ/s320/ValentinePresents09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305064321665289666" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">gan being associated with these guys and their feast day. There is mention of Valentine’s Day in Hamlet by William Shakespeare, but no clear history of the holiday’s evolvement into the giving of love letters could be found. In the mid-nineteenth century the holiday was reinvented through the exchange of letters and cards expressing friendship and love. No one really knows why the holiday suddenly took off in this way, but various stories abound, again, non of which could be verified. Possibly, it was some wily marketing executive wanting to unload an overstock of stationary. Or perhaps a group of young ladies with too muc</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">h time on their hands, set to making fancy cards expressing their shy feelings towards a secret crush. Though no one seems to know for sure, what does seem to be true is that much speculation a</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FeTIvSsiW418vuW3iDcOAht2mWhFRjQruyQNs7eg7wsx4pus35c_fSABfmu80DnncooAwoYGN_Lv8ESwMDSC-qD8C6-ypwqNERL0TvfmWl5p_unXpu40-YC1g6T0ybAqjrJ5SA/s1600-h/Val1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FeTIvSsiW418vuW3iDcOAht2mWhFRjQruyQNs7eg7wsx4pus35c_fSABfmu80DnncooAwoYGN_Lv8ESwMDSC-qD8C6-ypwqNERL0TvfmWl5p_unXpu40-YC1g6T0ybAqjrJ5SA/s320/Val1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305063333731422610" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">nd down right falsehoods have sprung up around Valentine’s Day. Typical of love, isn’t it?<br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">What I remember from my own childhood was the fun I had making the container that would hold my Valentine’s from an old shoe box. Personally, I found this to b</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">e the best part of the day. At right is what I remember the cards I used to receive looking like. Now of course most of the boxed cards children have to choose from have the images of pop and tv stars on them. This year we made ours, I just </span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">couldn’t bring myself to buy yet another High School Musical <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span>.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Here I leave you with the ruefully mentioned Valentine's Day spoken by Ophelia in Hamlet (1600-1601):</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">All in the morning betime,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">And I a maid at your window,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">To be your Valentine.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">And dupp'd the chamber-door;</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Let in the maid, that out a maid</span></span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Never departed more.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">(William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5)</span></span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />©KKW 2009</span></span> </div>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-81516422684994188572009-02-06T20:05:00.002-05:002009-02-06T20:29:44.157-05:00SLOWING DOWN AND TAKING NOTICE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOXTiX2xRZGab9iQPJSnAVnz3Sar2KgVtwne0dRPOFN3P66DZBG2fIcBiajUeTllWOd5liRJ5OPxYeO1Z2bQ-h6FmfOhU9GEAy3ZUvEEUizuoGmUePCJ5CeiIcXMyIMmZX1QF-Q/s1600-h/nf_LotsofFeet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOXTiX2xRZGab9iQPJSnAVnz3Sar2KgVtwne0dRPOFN3P66DZBG2fIcBiajUeTllWOd5liRJ5OPxYeO1Z2bQ-h6FmfOhU9GEAy3ZUvEEUizuoGmUePCJ5CeiIcXMyIMmZX1QF-Q/s320/nf_LotsofFeet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299861281784995090" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions; I just am not interested in resolving to do something I should already probably be doing anyway. But my falling down on January 2<sup>nd</sup> (<a href="http://kimlilyblog.blogspot.com/2009/01/nice-start-to-new-year.html">See Nice Start To The New Year</a>) has made me think that perhaps this year should be different. You see I am an assiduous multi-tasker and hopelessly and perpetually in a hurry. I am one of those annoying people who believes that everything happens for a reason and that there is a lesson in every error and I think that in falling down and injuring my ankle and knee that the universe is trying to tell me something, something like: ‘slow it down stupid!’</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I rush, it’s what I do, there just doesn’t seem to be enough time for everything that needs doing. Being a single mom with two young children is a full-time job just by itself, add to that a full-time day job and off-hours freelancing, doctors appointments, laundry, dinners, packed lunches, homework, house cleaning, the care of a large number of pets, yard work, car upkeep, shopping, karate lessons, speech therapy, drop-offs and pick-ups to and from school and daycare…whew, I am making myself feel exhausted and overwhelmed just listing what I have to do weekly. My point is, I don’t see an alternative to rushing madly about. I already rise at 4:45 AM in order to just get myself and the kids ready to leave for the day, and I really do try to get the required amount of sleep, which means I would have to be in bed asleep before 9 PM….the only time that happens is when all of the rushing has finally caught up with me and I am so weary that I can barely make it up the stairs to collapse on my bed, but most nights I am able to at least make it to bed by 11 PM and slip in some much desired reading time. This is my favorite time of day, when the house is quiet except for the gentle, steady breathing of my children and assorted pets. When I snuggle down into my flannel covered feather bed, cover myself in my silk cocoon comforter and pull out whatever book I am currently reading, I comfort myself with the thought that I have several hours to loose myself in blessed, hopefully uninterrupted, sleep.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In causing myself an injury that requires me to walk slowly and carefully I have begun to see some things in a new light. At first glance it would seem to be somewhat depressing to find that your two year old walks faster than you do. But it has forced me to slow down and smell the roses so to speak, even at work….”Oh, that’s a nice potted plant, never noticed that before,” as I am shambling my way to the restroom. And, if one walks slowly, one catches interesting bits of conversation floating from cubicles and offices, most of which is dull, but on occasion there is some sparkling jewel of useful information that could possibly come in handy in future, one never knows.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">While out in society, walking slowly can result in found money that has fallen to the ground, or small creatures in need of help out of a dangerous parking lot. Since progress is being made sluggishly, one has time to notice the mother duck at the edge of the pond gathering her brood around her with clucks and soft quacks, or the beautiful, puffy cloud filled sky, although caution should also be exerted when noticing nature since not paying attention to where I was going caused my forced leisurely gait in the first place. I am sure that there are less painful ways to make oneself take time to notice life’s small joys.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Not all multi-tasking need be a rush job, while commuting to work I have nearly an hour all to myself in the car and practice deep breathing and deep thinking. This results in a wondrous calming of my mind and spirit and helps to start the day right. However, by the time the lunch hour arrives I feel the need to pounce from my chair and bound out the door in order to run needed errands and usually come back without having eaten and all a fluster. I have one hour at lunch from the time I leave my desk until the time I am expected back at it to get my daily errands done. I am able to go into three stores, shop and arrive back on time. Lists are absolutely essential and must be ordered by store layout. Today I went to the party store for a friend for tiaras and wands for her tea party next week, then to the book store for myself, leaving shortly after laden with several volumes and still arrived back at the office with 12 minutes left to pop my Lean Cuisine into the microwave and land back at my post. For better or worse I work in front of a computer all day, so in some ways this allows me to slow down, albeit, at times a little too much, there are days when I find my head lolling and my eyelids uncomfortably heavy to say nothing of my sedentary body that cries out for some exercise. There is nothing worse than being sleepy and unable to just take a nap. I find myself wondering if anyone would miss me if I just slid under my desk for a little siesta. Corporate America really needs to rethink the work day, there is no doubt in my mind that if we all started with a little Tai Chi in the morning; exercise for both body and mind, and then had a little nap in the afternoon that we would all be more productive and happy.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In my younger adult days I was puzzled when I would hear someone say that ‘there weren’t enough hours in the day’. I thought to myself that there were plenty of hours in the day, at that time in my life I got done tons and had lots of time to play and do the things I wanted to do. I went to work and enjoyed it, I swam and worked out at the gym, I painted and created, I went out with friends or on dates, I saw movies and plays and concerts, and I read several books a week. But now I find myself wishing for a few more hours at the end of each day just to put my life in order. How on earth did this happen? When did my days get so short?</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">You may think that perhaps I am just not organized, but though it may appear so to the external eye due to the chaotic state in which my home usually exists, I assure you that I’ve got a system that works pretty well. On Sunday afternoon I do all the cooking for the week so that dinner is easily heated up and ready quickly when we arrive home. I pack all the kid’s lunches for the week as well and have them lined up in the frig. I lay out five outfits for each child after the laundry is done on Saturday. In the mornings I get myself dressed and ready before waking the kids. Once they are awakened and dressed #1 helps #2 eat her breakfast and go to the potty while I take out the critters and get them feed and watered. On my way out to do this I drop off my work day bag and the kid’s lunches and start the car to get it warmed up if it is very cold. When I come back in I fix my coffee, get the kid’s coats on and we are out the door. And as long as I don’t hit the snooze button on my alarm clock too many times we are on time. In fact this morning we were running 20 minutes ahead of schedule and had to sit and wait for the daycare to open. But it was nice; we all got to chat and laugh and sing to the music on the radio. Being early this morning was an especially nice way to start the day, I even had time to give both my babies extra kisses and hugs, reminding myself to savor each embrace from little arms and to commit to memory the feel of my lips on their dearly loved foreheads and chubby little cheeks. Because it is not the frustrations of my days that I will want to remember when reminiscing, but the smell of my children’s hair and their infectious laughter, causing me blissful pause and peace. Besides, the raising of little humans should never be a rush job.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">©KKW 2009</span></p>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-1757711552577112742009-02-05T21:51:00.005-05:002009-02-22T21:52:31.299-05:00IN MY NEXT LIFE I WANT TO BE OPRAH<div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6EpaICOiiVAbeCMgfRuEua1CxaAs25JAky3yS08WjaWsP_Q8NdZPbx8gO8DpnVhbY7_3AX6L6SXb3SzP1IbXK9HpkSNcGNyRr8xYVxtZFhjR7oAIhUJ1iTNHQqw3Q6o6R-HsGw/s1600-h/shower1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299512272332821266" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 213px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6EpaICOiiVAbeCMgfRuEua1CxaAs25JAky3yS08WjaWsP_Q8NdZPbx8gO8DpnVhbY7_3AX6L6SXb3SzP1IbXK9HpkSNcGNyRr8xYVxtZFhjR7oAIhUJ1iTNHQqw3Q6o6R-HsGw/s320/shower1.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >I love hot showers. I mean I </span><i style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><b>LOVE</b></i><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" > hot showers. I believe they are one of the top ten inventions of humankind, (as are warm, fuzzy socks). There is nothing that can wash away -- literally and figuratively -- the grime from a days work than an invigorating, revitalizing, clean, refreshing, hot shower. It’s the first thing we do when we arrive home, mostly because I’m a total germaphoib and the thought of all the billions of wee germies clinging to my two children totally creeps me out, but also because it instantly calms and revives me. The kids are the first to take baths and are then dressed in clean clothes and sat down with a snack to allow me to rejuvenate in my very modest, yet beloved shower. I’ve recently begun locking the door to the bathroom, otherwise both kids feel the need to ‘keep Mama company’ and no matter how many times I insist that I don’t need company while I shower it doesn’t seem to be getting through, so I lock the door and give instructions to #1 that unless someone is bleeding…profusely, or something is on fire, or there is some other immediate and dire emergency that I am to be left alone for just 5 minutes. And maybe 8 out of 10 times I remain undisturbed because #1 can see the difference between the frazzled woman that enters the bathroom and the more relaxed one exiting it a few minutes later ready to meet their needs once more. It is amazing how a few gallons of water poured over oneself can change ones whole outlook towards the world.</span></span> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">So, as I am standing there last evening, head leaning against the shower wall just letting the wonders of clean hot water flow over me, I think to myself that if I were a very wealthy woman I would have one of those showers that you see on luxury home shows, you know, the ones with water spraying at you from all angles. I imagine that Oprah has a shower like that. Yes, when Oprah gets home after a long, hard day of helping others, or partying with her famous friends, or just hanging out, I bet she steps into a room-sized shower and presses a button….no, wait, she wouldn’t even need to press a button, she would simply murmur ‘Shower on. Hot.’ and sparkling, wondrous, scalding, clear water would massage her every sore muscle. A delicious smelling soap product would rain down upon her weary shoulders and cleanse and moisturize her fatigued skin and then rinse her squeaky clean once more. And the hot water would never run out like it does at my house, where I don’t quite make it to the end of washing up before the water temperature suddenly drops, it would just keep pouring its rejuvenating, liquid self from all available, invigorating spouts. Yes, and the water would be from some green source and be renewable and the unit that heated it be energy efficient from sun and wind. It would be a blessedly mother earth friendly, guilt-free power shower. Oh my yes, Oprah would have a shower like that and I want one too! Can I be Oprah in my next life please?</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">What I admire so about Oprah (besides her possibly having an awesome shower), is her balance. No, not the fact that, unlike me, she can probably do a summersault and not then fall over, but her life’s balance. She has worked hard and amassed great wealth, and with that wealth she helps thousands in all parts of the world better their lives. Yet she is still able to both appreciate and be grateful for the luxuries she allows herself. Those ‘Favorite Things’? those are expensive sister! At least for most of us, but does she apologize for her love of luxury? No, and nor should she. She has chosen to be good to the world AND herself. Wow, what a life! To be able to help so many and still live well one’s self, what fun! Her social conscience, her willingness to help, to make aware, to take action, she appears to be made of this, and it is this that makes her a rich woman, she seems to have accumulated wealth of wisdom and generosity as well as property, can I <i>pleeeeease</i> be her in my next life? I want to live in luxury, I want to dispense wisdom, I want to help thousands achieve their dreams, and I want to weigh in on the side of a better society and world.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But hold the phone! Should I really have to be Oprah to do these things? To have a positive impact on the world around me? Sure, she has millions of dollars to offer to the needy (or is it billions?), but I work, I have funds, okay, so my pile is nowhere as big, but my dollars count too. Don’t my children and I save and contribute to various charities on a regular basis? There are so many great places to help, some of our favorites are Ox Fam and Heifer International, Swallow’s Nest, International Assistance and Adoption Project, and Half The Sky, Habitat for Humanity, Women for Women International, Smile Train, Operation Smile, The American Heart Association and let’s not forget the critters, The American Humane Society to name a few. Everyone I know does this: helps where and when they can, it’s inspiring both when we witness others kindnesses and are kind ourselves. Did you know that by being kind to another, or receiving a kindness from another or even just by <i>witnessing</i> a kindness, our serotonin levels increase (serotonin is that body chemical that gives us a feeling of happiness and well-being). Want a little jolt of the warm fuzzies during a long work day? Just close your eyes and think of a kindness done for you or by you and you will be injected instantly with giddy inducing serotonin. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh. Better yet, actually DO a kindness, go and tell a co-worker what a great job he did. Or help that poor co-worker clear the paper jam in the copy machine. Bring in cookies, baked goods are always a hit and instantly make the atmosphere a happy one. A home-made cookie is like a warm hug wrapped in sugar.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Compassion shown to strangers is great and helps us to live in a society of peace and fulfillment, but kindnesses done for those we love are, of course, just as important. Though I hope that I am teaching my children to think of others as well as themselves, it is not our contributions to charity that my eldest finds impressive. She tells me I am a hero when I jump out of the car during a rain storm to help the turtle attempting to cross the street make it to the other side. Or knock on a woman’s car window when we see her apparently unconscious in the drivers seat and pulled haphazardly off the road (she was fine, just sleepy), or when I read to her in the evening, or help with homework, or fix her favorite food for dinner. These are the things that she thinks are extraordinary.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And sure, if I had money aplenty and I still qualified, I would adopted more children. I would adopt more critters too for that matter. I would build a great big barn just like daughter #1 wants and fill ‘er up with creatures great and small. I know that I can not single handedly save the world, but I sure can make my little corner of it a happier place and keep those around me safe and warm and fulfilled. The two children I have and the many pets and all of my good friends are more than enough to spread joy on my peanut butter and jelly life.</span></p><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And I have my luxuries too, I have fuzzy socks! Many pair of them! I have a fluffy, warm feather bed for which I am nightly grateful to crawl into. I have a home, food, family, friends, work, health; sufficient abundance for anyone I would think. I am so grateful, really, really I am. So I guess my ‘Oprah Life’ will just have to wait, because I am too glad of the one I have at the moment. Although a great big, automated, room-size luxury shower <i>would</i> be mighty nice.<br /><br />©KKW 2009 </span></p>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-31957191480134040442009-02-02T20:58:00.003-05:002009-02-02T21:01:42.606-05:00BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjUwAuhcfEol73IJiINtTJ0BuqKTEer_3_xpOfCyt7ptVL9Fnq63BNnLhD3wfu2Ze34dQzNmR6IgjZMLA6WyGZd2Bil5VawLBXHgy9KM10n4kmgp0YR9CVerZLo7HPM6U-9O0aQ/s1600-h/WINTER.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 577px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjUwAuhcfEol73IJiINtTJ0BuqKTEer_3_xpOfCyt7ptVL9Fnq63BNnLhD3wfu2Ze34dQzNmR6IgjZMLA6WyGZd2Bil5VawLBXHgy9KM10n4kmgp0YR9CVerZLo7HPM6U-9O0aQ/s400/WINTER.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298385264664414370" border="0" /></a>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-84158659690384274512009-02-02T20:49:00.006-05:002009-02-02T20:57:00.394-05:00HAPPY YEAR OF THE OX!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMdpk8eenG1p2JA2bK-4RfR21X_AsMdCYq8C6yC7rjkeZ2cjPFOYOMwG9WYzzub81aOyA2T9MnP1ywesGBFc0TR0f9aDp5oFg8wTg1fvdiB5qMer0wdRCoTau4KnIy1ccEJlLag/s1600-h/Envelope.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMdpk8eenG1p2JA2bK-4RfR21X_AsMdCYq8C6yC7rjkeZ2cjPFOYOMwG9WYzzub81aOyA2T9MnP1ywesGBFc0TR0f9aDp5oFg8wTg1fvdiB5qMer0wdRCoTau4KnIy1ccEJlLag/s320/Envelope.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298383941048855746" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Gong Hei Fat Choi! (Congratulations and Be Prosperous!) The Lunar New Year began on January 26<sup>th </sup>this year, with the new moon and will conclude on February 9<sup>th</sup> with the full moon and we have been celebrating at our house for the past week. We’ve got a great big ol’ cardboard Kitchen God on our front door and twinkling red lights in the form of fire crackers. We’ve stomped on bubble wrap to scare away evil spirits (instead of setting off real firecrackers), and the kids have been generally making </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >a lot of noise, although there is n</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >othing new about that. On New Year’s Eve we devoured our celebratory feast of fish, stir fried bok choy, noodles and congee (rice stew), then ended the meal on a sweet note with lotus seed filled sesame balls (rice </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >balls) and fortune cookies. The Mama got a fortune that says <i><b>“Happier days are definitely ahead for you. Struggle has ended.”</b></i> Wow, now THAT is a good fortune! Although last year was a pretty happy year for me already, more happiness in the new year? Bring it on!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The girls were given gifts of new shoes and Hong Bao (red envelopes with money inside traditionally give to children and unmarried persons at the new year). And we </span><span style="font-size:100%;">watched the four hour extravaganza that is The Spring Festival Gala on CCTV (the Chinese television station we get on the satellite). Lots of skits, singing, dancing, acrobatics and colorful entertainment.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Lily’s third grade teacher was the first teacher she has had that knew what the Lunar New Year was and the class celebrated with games and food and treats on the first day of Spring </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Festival. (Chinese New Year, Lunar New Year, Spring Fe</span><span style="font-size:100%;">stival, these are all names for the same thing). Lily declared it the “funnest” day she has e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ver had at school. Thanks Mrs. Brown!! I’m sure that it helped that she was the only Chinese in her class and therefore felt herself the guest of honor.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWv1QbgdK_MHSyLXa9EbiSuWfePnyawXGqXKq6KI4WNmapJo5fUxDOOvUR0_GPwYLGfbD34aZ0Hb6eG-LKQur9fYXUOwRZyxkT0BRxcEf1i4GKKc2YSF7MBTpGlssXVdAtOliIw/s1600-h/3245676384_0cee13a9a2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWv1QbgdK_MHSyLXa9EbiSuWfePnyawXGqXKq6KI4WNmapJo5fUxDOOvUR0_GPwYLGfbD34aZ0Hb6eG-LKQur9fYXUOwRZyxkT0BRxcEf1i4GKKc2YSF7MBTpGlssXVdAtOliIw/s320/3245676384_0cee13a9a2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298384115293527538" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">This past Saturday our friends had several families with children adopted from China over to their house to allow us to all celebrate together. It was loads of fun for all and Lily declared</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> that now <i><b>IT</b></i></span> was the “funnest” day ever. We ate Chinese take out and May, another guest, prepared sticky rice, a traditional sweet made for children that has raisins and peanuts mixed in with the sweetened rice and is sprinkled with red and green jimmies.</p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The kids played and colored and received more Hong Bao. And we tried to get all of our beautiful girls to sit together for a photo on the sofa, but it was nearly as hard as getting all the babies to sit on the traditional red couch in China to have their photos take together. Someone is always crying or running out of the photo. Still, just look at all those gorgeous faces! And they all live in our little town! In fact, Maggie and Meika are </span><span style="font-size:100%;">from the same orphanage and now live only a mile from each other!</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Spring Festival is the biggest holiday in China, rather like our December holidays here in the USA. It is a time when people trave</span><span style="font-size:100%;">l to their home towns to visit with relatives, eat and make merry. A time of putting away the troubles if the year passing and starting fresh. People in</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8C8vYNIvyESjochlSD14ZhusNS37FozR4jkCloLXfFhV-KS2587mW1CWv6wWzqZeps5GDKN_5emr1tVoNr83jMKxJyFKQZ5Iuv2HOdDD-m1OBvduaRQL3fKEr4iNDPBLdZNQCg/s1600-h/CNY5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 103px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8C8vYNIvyESjochlSD14ZhusNS37FozR4jkCloLXfFhV-KS2587mW1CWv6wWzqZeps5GDKN_5emr1tVoNr83jMKxJyFKQZ5Iuv2HOdDD-m1OBvduaRQL3fKEr4iNDPBLdZNQCg/s320/CNY5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298383652830358434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"> China traditionally will pay all their debts, scrub their homes clean, buy new clothes and shoe</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s and try to follow the long list of do’s and don't s that have customarily surrounded the holiday. Though the house is thoroughly cleaned, all brooms must be put away before the first day of the new year so that any good luck arriving will not get swept away. Food, especially sweets, are left on the stove as an offering to the Kitchen God who lives behind the stove. He is the recorder of family deeds and it is traditional to try and bribe him so that he will g</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJ_x_TnMvnVwwbJzA1p2HR2sEeUI-dO5p_s7uy3NIjkOFo0qourbsoetSFBt0DFQSr1vDqnlRZ8Y4fHdcp1aUFoRhXNKUa74FaiboC1Jfg5xiesH7tnUh9YY2S1oNHizLCsLINg/s1600-h/3245691254_abf249290c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJ_x_TnMvnVwwbJzA1p2HR2sEeUI-dO5p_s7uy3NIjkOFo0qourbsoetSFBt0DFQSr1vDqnlRZ8Y4fHdcp1aUFoRhXNKUa74FaiboC1Jfg5xiesH7tnUh9YY2S1oNHizLCsLINg/s320/3245691254_abf249290c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298383360305977186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">ive a good report of family members to the Jade Emperor.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Red clothing is usually worn because it is thought to scare away evil spirits and bad luck. And new clothes are worn to symbolize a new beginning. The biggest part of the new year celebrations is the dinner every family will eat. A dish consisting of fish is mandatory since the word fo</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r fish – yu - in Chineses sounds like the word for </span><span style="font-size:100%;">“surpluses”. Dumplings, cakes, greens and sweet rice cakes also grace tables. Noodles, the longer the better, represent longevity and long life. Oranges are popular as their name is a homophone of “golden luck”. Seeds, such as lotus, sunflower and pumpkin symbolize birth and renewal.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The first day of the new year is for visiting the most senior members of one’s fa</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2PFvRz2uXcK0fb44dA0gfLnPWOycGNz7NDdYvg0_4gBlq13yjaTys-mPJ-rmfPwd-9NjvXetmWefU2I5xWPIjqc8tgb7OlwDycnIRfbfjK1VY4JVu5TSq44izD7TiXNi8ZiWYw/s1600-h/3245678036_86313b5cf6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2PFvRz2uXcK0fb44dA0gfLnPWOycGNz7NDdYvg0_4gBlq13yjaTys-mPJ-rmfPwd-9NjvXetmWefU2I5xWPIjqc8tgb7OlwDycnIRfbfjK1VY4JVu5TSq44izD7TiXNi8ZiWYw/s320/3245678036_86313b5cf6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298383135855267218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">mily; parents and grandparents. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The second day is for married daughters to visit their parents and honoring one’s ancestors. Graves are tended and incense burned. People are also extra kind to dogs on this day as it is believed that the second day is the birthday of all dogs.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The third and fourth days of the New Year are for visiting with other relatives and friends.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Fifth day is for eating dumplings in honor of the Chinese god of wealth, sinc</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e dumplings look like little purses filled with money.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The seventh day is everyone’s birt</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hday! Generally, birthdays are not celebrated separately in China, everyone grows a year ol</span><span style="font-size:100%;">der at t</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DbaV0XcaVs25AejIMe3rdc19gT6l4IPV8sgEyY3DMhmIPRHp9uO-jB1anDR1ca08kfVdQaVSIUzxd0NA3DngwYYndxCijobVp9MxcckHZYRl5iWq8-YKecD6qV0k8igHixNlOw/s1600-h/3245698310_316355a773.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DbaV0XcaVs25AejIMe3rdc19gT6l4IPV8sgEyY3DMhmIPRHp9uO-jB1anDR1ca08kfVdQaVSIUzxd0NA3DngwYYndxCijobVp9MxcckHZYRl5iWq8-YKecD6qV0k8igHixNlOw/s320/3245698310_316355a773.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298382749230418546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">he new year together.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The ninth day is the birthday of th</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> Jade</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> Emperor of Heaven and prayers are sent his way. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The fifteenth day of the New Year </span><span style="font-size:100%;">is the last and is celebrated as the Lantern Festival. Rice dumplings stewed in a soup is eaten on this day. Candles are lit outside homes to guide lost spirits home. Families walk through the</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> stre</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ets carrying lighted lanterns bringing the festivities to a close. So next full moon be looking for our red lanterns as we parade around the back yard and </span><span style="font-size:100%;">finish up the </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Moon Cakes!</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26950015.post-42346552069655644362009-01-30T21:41:00.019-05:002009-02-02T21:41:03.089-05:00WHAT DOES A TECHNICAL ILLUSTRATOR DO EXACTLY?<div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >Being that I was tied up quite a bit around the holidays with a freelance project that I needed to finish before the end of the year, I have had quite a few questions lately from friends and family as to what exactly I do when I say I am a technical</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" > illustrator of artifacts, so I thought that I would try and explain it.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I have a Fine Arts degree from Kent State University with a concentration in metal smithing, so you can imagine that such a degr</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ee didn’t exactly prepare me to jump out in</span><span style="font-size:100%;">to the wide world with a great understanding of what I was suppose t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">o do in order to make a living. I was warned by multiple family members that I would never be able t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">o survive as an</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> artist, but since my graduation I have always made either all or p</span><span style="font-size:100%;">art of my salary working as an artist. So a great big “HA!” to all the naysayers. (Oh, that felt good! Thirty years of pent up <i>‘I’ll show you!’</i> released at last). It hasn’t always been very lucrative or easy, none the less I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else. And it helped that the internet came along in the 1990s allowing flounde</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ring artists a chance to tout their talents as web designers, which I also do, but I want to talk here about m</span><span style="font-size:100%;">y hand drawn illustration work.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p face="arial" style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3zqeFlLVpEmz-w0nOfiEnQzABnT3cTzgj5owiXG-9tmU8C0pp3rESpMFOgg8W55gd5iC4ruuHH18LHnmxnJG9s19LEObaC8b5nTcLpcBE3nVzx-9ijSrD4-MH3cibsG1iehQdw/s1600-h/SmithyKim3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3zqeFlLVpEmz-w0nOfiEnQzABnT3cTzgj5owiXG-9tmU8C0pp3rESpMFOgg8W55gd5iC4ruuHH18LHnmxnJG9s19LEObaC8b5nTcLpcBE3nVzx-9ijSrD4-MH3cibsG1iehQdw/s320/SmithyKim3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297285770438497282" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Much to everyone’s surprise, as well as mine, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >my first position out of college was as an actual silversmith with The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation which then led a year later to a career with the museu</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >m as a technical illustrator in the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >archaeology department. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >(An</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >d to those wondering, yes, I did wear a costume to do my silver smithing in – see photo as evidence. T</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >he lace on the sleeves of my dresses caught fire quite a lot).</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was famed archaeologist an</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d author Iv</span><span style="font-size:100%;">or Noel Hume who gave me “my big break” as an illustrator. He is an extremely interesting and prolific writer, and for those unfamilia</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r with his books, I would highly recommend you give him a read if you have any interest in history or archaeology, you</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> won’t be disappointed. He, together with his now departed wife Audrey, headed up the Department of Archa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">eological Interpretation at CWF and I was hired to illustrate the seventeenth century artifacts</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> discovered at Martin’s Hundred on the James River. A subsidiary colony of the Virginia Company and neighbor to Jame</span><span style="font-size:100%;">stown, Martin's Hundred was effectively destroyed by an attack by the Powhatan tribe in March of 1622, leaving it a virtual time capsule as the result of having been abandoned not long after that. Its dead and much of their material culture lay forgotten beneath the fields of Carter’s Grove Plantation until 1976 when archa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">eologists dis</span><span style="font-size:100%;">covered it once more. By the time I joined the department the digging at the site had been</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> com</span><span style="font-size:100%;">pleted and the artifacts were waiting to be drawn; an entire room of them. I spent nearly three years at the task and learn</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ed so much from the Noel Humes of value that I count it among one of the greatest highlights of my career.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >After finishing up the Martin’s Hundred artifacts, I spent a year working at NASA learning how to use the revolutionar</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiTN1j9YqC8BuD9CJDN462o_8e0NxE5_mij0nLfkAaQdhfkivI6uIFeAQUrX_w-DFCCVziw9PKb07a9RvpQENDxdh5WQ5HsLsswoD8KMNMp0hy8wojdEYO9mwy-sIIBXjDmTT2g/s1600-h/Bowl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiTN1j9YqC8BuD9CJDN462o_8e0NxE5_mij0nLfkAaQdhfkivI6uIFeAQUrX_w-DFCCVziw9PKb07a9RvpQENDxdh5WQ5HsLsswoD8KMNMp0hy8wojdEYO9mwy-sIIBXjDmTT2g/s320/Bowl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297292931912658002" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >y new machine called the Personal Computer. There they sat in a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" > room all by themselves with the only two guys willing to give them a try and me. It turns out that learning to use a computer was far easier than I would have imagined, even though it was during a time when Windows yet hadn’t been invented and each command was typed out in dos. (I am <b>so</b> ancient!) For a year I created schematic CA</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >DD drawi</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >ngs of the space shuttle. Cool, huh? Plus, I now had a skill set that few at the time possessed, computer literacy. Okay, all you young things probably cannot remember a world without computers, but I assure you, it existed and there was resistance in some quarters to the change brought about in the office</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> environment, so anyone willing to learn was of great value at the time. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >An opening for an illustrator in a different p</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >art of the archaeology department at Colonial Williamsburg open</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >ed up a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >nd back I gladly went from space shuttle to the 17<sup>th</sup> and 18<sup>th</sup> cen</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >turies again where I worked happily for nearly ten years illustrating artifacts and mapping dig sites. In the mid 90s </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >budgets at the museum were cut and so was I, but I have worked for contract archaeologists and museums on a full-time or freelance basis ever since, the</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" > longest running being with The Corning Museum of Glass in New York. I have worked with the curatorial department there for about ten years and have completed the illustration of literally thousands of complete a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >rtifacts and fragments of artifacts, most dating from the first, second and third centuries. These illustrations have bee</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >n published in books by David Whitehouse, curator of the Corning Museum of Glass. To those in</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >terested, links to</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" > these publications can be found <a href="http://glassmarket.cmog.org/browse.cfm/2,97.html">here</a></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">So what does i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t take to illustrate an artifact? Well, fir</span><span style="font-size:100%;">st is the ability to be able to properly handle an irreplaceable and delicate object. As has been mentioned in several previous blog entries, I am a total klutz, B</span><span style="font-size:100%;">UT am still able to be trusted with a two thousand year old fragile, paper-thin, piece of glass. This is because, number one, I wa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s taught by the best; Ivor Noel Hume and the curatorial staff at </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, and two, because whe</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n I am handling an object that is ALL I am </span><span style="font-size:100%;">concentrating on, I am fortunately <i>not</i> distracted by small children, beasties or what ever else usually causes me to miss </span><span style="font-size:100%;">a step. I remember when interviewing with David for the first time he asked me if I was comfortable handling the glass. I told him that “Yes, I am confident doing so and that though I am extremely careful in my handling of artifacts of any kind, it does not make me nervous to do so.” He later told me that if I had said that it did make me nervous that he would not have hired me. </span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">By remembering a few simple rules one can, in most cases, keep precious objects safe. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Tables where artifacts are handled are padded and sometimes have little walls along the edges to prevent things rolling off. Wh</span><span style="font-size:100%;">en moving an object, it is kept as close to the table as possible so that shoul</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d it fall, the distance would be short. Elongated bean bags are used to help prop up and cushion objects. In the case of metal artifacts, cottons gloves are worn so as not to deposit oils from the hands which </span><span style="font-size:100%;">can </span><span style="font-size:100%;">be corrosive to metal. Most importantly, objects should be handled as little as possible, the less you touch it, the less opportunity for accidents.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I live in Virginia, The Corning Museum of Glass is in central New York state, artifacts of c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ourse do not come to me,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> I must go to them. So, for the last ten years I have traveled to Corning to visit my friends at the museum and draw until my fingers are numb...literally.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jill Thomas-Clark has been working with me for these many years and has become a good friend. Working with Jill is a true pleasure and I very much enjoy my trips to the north cou</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ntry. She gathers the objects to be drawn and pulls them from the collections. She assists me with interpretations of what I think I am seeing in a sometimes very worn or weath</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ered object; she</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> keeps track of the thousands upon thousands of objects, their numbers and where and when they were </span><span style="font-size:100%;">drawn. And generally coordinates all aspects of my trip, from the objects I will be drawing to my plane reservations. She is a wonder.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >Once I arrive, I am shown to my little storage room where the glass awaits me in a very cold, climate controlled environment and I don my sweater and pair of magnifying glasses. Each object is divided into two halves in a drawing, on the left, in most cases will be a profile. This will show what the object’s thickness is as well as give clues as to how it was f</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >ormed. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >The glass from this period is blown and to make a rim or foot it might have been fo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >lded back on itself several times, a profile wil</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >l show this. It will show where the object is solid or whether </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >there is space between its walls.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF3wwXL3i8CTQ-nLprh3wkCz6zTnInXtCRke4YXmVD5x-VnfjWVk6ImTuQyvgTf-w_IWqe4sNW2u5ToovMX7vS4sR8F7A7aW5TBbhRH0xHUh_q7eFT8mVq_YbZTMfBQpicuac_w/s1600-h/HorseManPlate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF3wwXL3i8CTQ-nLprh3wkCz6zTnInXtCRke4YXmVD5x-VnfjWVk6ImTuQyvgTf-w_IWqe4sNW2u5ToovMX7vS4sR8F7A7aW5TBbhRH0xHUh_q7eFT8mVq_YbZTMfBQpicuac_w/s320/HorseManPlate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297288935783785922" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">On the right</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> side of th</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e drawing will usually be the object as it appears </span><span style="font-size:100%;">o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n the outside. It will show its decoration should there be any. Some early Roman glass was decorated by molded, cut, scratched or applied means. The early Islamic glass that I am working on now is</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> highly decorated, so in order to show a full view of an objects pattern a “rollout” is done. This is a three dimensional object’s decoratio</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n made flat (s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ee</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> drawing at right which shows the decoration on a large shallow bowl. Click on any drawing to see detail). </span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >Each drawing is d</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >one to scale, which m</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >eans, actual size. I have drawn large vessels that s</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >tand two foot high; th</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ey</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsota5p9jhT4KFRS3uEntVInNivU8FWZaog9NWfEH9xD7I-_LqYKeJz_KJGhwuAgvXexg287iiy4ydi-93CVwgrg04UHWJBNzVO455mXN4n38t3sdfGlj1XRp292SZLuV_3kANQ/s1600-h/SmallBottle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsota5p9jhT4KFRS3uEntVInNivU8FWZaog9NWfEH9xD7I-_LqYKeJz_KJGhwuAgvXexg287iiy4ydi-93CVwgrg04UHWJBNzVO455mXN4n38t3sdfGlj1XRp292SZLuV_3kANQ/s320/SmallBottle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297293217745520738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"> are drawn two foot high, as well as very small objects; at left is a wee </span><span style="font-size:100%;">bottle that stands only a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">bout an inch tall. (Is it not amazing how some</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >thing so tiny and fragile has existed unbroken for two thousand years?). The finished drawing may be red</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >uced for publication, but is shown with a scale so that those doing research can see </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >what the objects actual size is. All measurement</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >s are as exact is as possible. If I can measure it, it is on the drawing. If, f</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >or instance, I have an intact bottle w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >ith a narrow neck and I can </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >only really measure the top part where the bottle has its opening, then that is all that I can with confidence put on my drawing. I can make an educated guess, but I dash the line in to ind</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >icate that I am guessing.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >I</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlxQQElZ_KYgGie0wFtzR24hmJdmPRrgYgCe_Rkdpe1POqEO0Xmxx6CxHSiVKr_XdwtnAD7K7Zb-g2j6goketMhtmUgRxUPkBfhDJGKNK2aNDG6Kw7_BteQW8R_vJ9yTr-y_D3g/s1600-h/BottleSideBySide.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlxQQElZ_KYgGie0wFtzR24hmJdmPRrgYgCe_Rkdpe1POqEO0Xmxx6CxHSiVKr_XdwtnAD7K7Zb-g2j6goketMhtmUgRxUPkBfhDJGKNK2aNDG6Kw7_BteQW8R_vJ9yTr-y_D3g/s320/BottleSideBySide.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297290356544626354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"> first make a detailed and measured pencil drawing with all the views that I </span><span style="font-size:100%;">plan on showing. This I do at the museum with the object in front of me. I also take several digital photos of each piece in case I need to reference it later, but I try to make my pencil </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >“sketch” with as much information as I w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >ill need in order to complete a finished inked drawing. I will also have David Whitehouse’s excellent written description of each piece to reference as well. </span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >I draw as many objects as I can in the time that I am at the </span><span style="font-size:100%;">museum, as well as talking with David and Jill if there are any questions about how something is formed and what needs to be conveyed visually. I then take my pencil drawings back home with me and do the final ink drawing on mylar film to be used in publication. The drawing technique I u</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96Q6oAHXvTwicIZSGRLjkKDG20GLdwzud7NE21DwQGi2MeO4lZue85YIiZQOdxnozvo9fyUnExlvGOphsmnSnXWou5UrG45RosMNpXGs90eaBx52s4MmRmsRwPf97fxp8RqbpIA/s1600-h/Shard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96Q6oAHXvTwicIZSGRLjkKDG20GLdwzud7NE21DwQGi2MeO4lZue85YIiZQOdxnozvo9fyUnExlvGOphsmnSnXWou5UrG45RosMNpXGs90eaBx52s4MmRmsRwPf97fxp8RqbpIA/s320/Shard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297290669668381426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">se for the final inked drawing is called “stippling”, which means that I use thousands upon thousands of tiny ink dots to simulate the varying degrees of shading in the object. Above you can see an example of a bottle with my pencil sketch on the left and the finished ink drawing of the same bottle on the right.</span></p><div style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Many times there is only a small fragment of an object left in existence, this makes it no less valuable from a research point of view however, and these shards are also worth illustrating. At right is one exam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-YX4BR5xXeLe_MiMQVwXntSIKgJdfoB555DRhsmpzY9ZytYcYz-y0H1Crfe8xwkiBhpSoOvOlr-IIEjHl085WJl0iudmOMg1kZUrbwp11ZbqNf454obL7i0jN2ErGynHcGoVw/s1600-h/MeltedBowl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-YX4BR5xXeLe_MiMQVwXntSIKgJdfoB555DRhsmpzY9ZytYcYz-y0H1Crfe8xwkiBhpSoOvOlr-IIEjHl085WJl0iudmOMg1kZUrbwp11ZbqNf454obL7i0jN2ErGynHcGoVw/s320/MeltedBowl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297289195589601170" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" >ple of a piece of decorated glass.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Oftentimes I a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m ask</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ed what the purpose of drawing these objects is when they can simply be photographed</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. Well, they <i>are</i> photographed, and beautifully so by Corning’s photographer. Bu</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t a drawing can s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">how parts of an object that cannot be seen in a photograph, such as its profile, insides, complete decoration, wear pattern or in some cases how it originally appeared. A good example of this is the bowl pictured at left. At some time in its history this glass bowl was in a fire hot enough to melt and change its form. The top drawing shows what the object currently looks like, the dra</span><span style="font-size:100%;">wing below it shows an illustrated reconstruction of what the bowl looked like previous to the fire that altered it. And in the case of the rock artifacts below, the carving done by Native Americans can only be seen clearly in a drawing.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">So that, in a nutshell, is what I do. I am so very grateful for the work I have had to date, it is always exciting and fascinating employment. I am thankful too for the many interesting and wonderful people I have gotten to work with and for the excellent experiences my chosen profession has allowed me. I have been privileged to learn from many of the finest minds in archaeology today and hope to continue for many years to come to do so. I have been honored to handle and draw such objects as first century depictions of saints Peter and Paul, possibly made during their lifetimes. Masterworks made by both famous and anonomous artisans. Personal objects used by both the wealthy politian and the humble slave. Bullets and </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdKhs4V7bK25ZqjdFOxYucvIW-ktGQOWHdLtSOnLRo-kwIpSm6T5K_L5mp2Otmj6lw0iyOZjeUcq_9CgUUGGFNxgYd2oLIquNs2bHyJ0kQR2xC6kAFV3xVn-ODJl_pUNlZ-cf-w/s1600-h/Illustration1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdKhs4V7bK25ZqjdFOxYucvIW-ktGQOWHdLtSOnLRo-kwIpSm6T5K_L5mp2Otmj6lw0iyOZjeUcq_9CgUUGGFNxgYd2oLIquNs2bHyJ0kQR2xC6kAFV3xVn-ODJl_pUNlZ-cf-w/s320/Illustration1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297289838677624466" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">weapons that have passed through living bodies and ended lives. I’ve drawn giant pieces of ancient machinery and tiny brass straight pins; animal bones and the bones of humans; pieces of history several millennium old as well as soda bottles from the twentieth century. I have even drawn Thomas Jefferson’s toothbrush! And though I have drawn many thousands of objects, I can still tell you, in most cases, where and when it was done and the objects purpose and place in history. It causes me pause quite often, to think when I am using an everyday item such as a cup to wonder: ‘Wow, in a thousand years will there be some archaeologist digging this thing up and trying to piece together the ways in which it was used?’ Or in the case of a particularly complex piece of equipment: ‘Man, I would hate to be the illustrator trying to figure out how to show this on paper.” I hope that this read hasn’t bored you and that you might look upon your humble belongings in a new light; every bit of material we live with and use is a piece of history and art in its own way, no matter how humble. Think of that the next time you brush your teeth!</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">©KKW 2009</span></p>Kim Kelley-Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04551461673310420408noreply@blogger.com3