I’ve been thinking a lot about adding posts, but haven’t set down to do it.  It’s not that I don’t have something to say, it’s just that I forget what I was going to say between the time I get up and the time I start the computer.

This being December, Christmas is at the top of the list.  I can’t help but reflect on the past years.  As kids, we used to wrap up some really silly thing and make the recipient guess what the package was.  It could get quite creative and all most as fun as the getting the other gifts. I actually got a gift from “the milk wave Lilt” one year.  That’s another story.  Mom also made sure that she did the shopping for the animals.  The horses and dogs had good taste.  This was something I continued after marriage.  My husband wasn’t too sure about the practice, but I persevered.

As I think back to specific years, a pink dyed to match was a high priority in high school.  I was almost as obsessive about that as Ralphie in The Christmas Story about his Beebe gun.  I don’t know where mom found it, but it was under the tree.  I think I wore that outfit until the skirt got slick on the seat. (That’s what happened to wool skirts when wore a lot.)  I thought I was really cool and one of the included with my pink outfit.

A lot has changed since the boys are out on their own.  Of course, that’s what’s supposed to happen —- right?  Well, I’m so thankful that over the years we didn’t succumb to all the pressure of the perfect this or that.  Nothing is perfect but our Lord Jesus Christ.  All the pressure and media hype to spend time and money doing this or that is hard to ignore.

If you want to do something, do it on your own terms.  Be comfortable with your decision.  For years, I didn’t send out Christmas cards.  I didn’t feel like it.  There was no pleasure in it.  The boys were out of the house, John and I were both working lots of hours and arguing a lot.  The pressures were hitting from all sides.   I won’t go into the details other than the fact that I stopped sending cards.  Relief —- that’s all I can say.  I let myself off the hook.  It’s hard to do.

Within the last 3 or so years, I’ve started sending some cards again.  Just cards, no letter whipped out about the years activities.  Now, it’s fun again.  I limit the list to those that I want to send a card.  The card is an original watercolor that I like and want to share.  There you are!  Isn’t that what Christmas is all about — sharing?

This year, we have been traveling almost every weekend to watch our grandson play football.  I have been reflecting on the differences between my high school football memories and grandparent football.  Our grandson will graduate 2013, the 50 year anniversary of our graduation.

The backwards glance is of  a pep club and marching band.

Pep Club was group of selected girls wearing matching letter sweaters and felt beanies over black sweaters and skirts.  Saddle oxfords and white stroller socks completed the ensemble.  This group knew all the cheers and sat together at all the home games.  By the time I got to high school, if you could buy your own sweater and beanie, you were in.  I loved being able to wear that outfit.

I and a lot of my friends were in matching band.  As soon as school started, Mr. Fendorf would have us out marching up and down the street practicing turns and manuevers.  Then we would go to the practice field and follow the maps he had drawn for us to make shapes.  Our uniforms were gray pants with red double-breasted jackets topped off by a hat and plume.   I played snare drum for marching band.

I never learned that much about the game.  The first half of the game the band played little pep songs and we cheered.  We left the stands early to line up for the half time show.  Then we ran to a friends house to change into our pep club clothes and back to the game.  Out of town games met a band bus.  Oh what fun.  That’s all I can say.

2012 football with the grandson is different.  The cheerleaders do all kinds of gymnastic things ——  amazing and dangerous.  There is a small pep band sometimes.  NO marching band.  However, there is no shortage of enthusiasm.  We have cow bells and loud voices.   We are proud of our grandson and his team.  They are in the semifinals for their conference and have grown as a unit.  Good lesson for life.

I know I’ve been talking about football games in my small social media world, but a couple of things happened that caused me to pause.

Last Friday night, we were the visiting team which means we sat in the cheap seats.  We found the school without too much problem.  Our printed directions and the GPS agreed on the route!!!  We brought our seat cushions, rain gear and coats and blankets.  Just like the scouts — be prepared.  As we were getting things organized, the mom of one of the players came and gave us each a cow bell.   She had painted them and put Sumner’s number 76 on them.  We were so pleased and surprised.  One of those random acts of kindness.  I had mentioned that I had a cow bell, but couldn’t find it.  This is so much better.

We got our spot on the bleachers and settled in.  The color guard presented the flag and the pep band played the national anthem.  I has humming along and heard others doing the same.  I smiled to myself and started singing.

This brings me to the title, My Voice.  When is was in early grade school, I loved singing and dancing.  One day I was in the barn performing for Dad while he was milking the cow.  He asked me to stop because the cow wouldn’t give down her milk.  I must have continued because he told me to SHUT UP!!!!!  Never, never had Dad said anything like that before.  I was crushed.

Then there were the duets with my sister.  Mom would dress us up and we would sing at church for different programs.  I remember a Christmas song that I’d learned and wanted to sing by myself.  Mom told me she didn’t think I had a solo voice.  What’s a girl to do?

Answer:  Sing anyway.  Let your voice be heard and not just at football games and not just singing.

I’m sitting here in shorts, sandals and a flannel shirt.  The shirt is new and only been through the wash once.  It’s already become a comfort shirt.  I decided I was tired of pull over tees and wanted button shirts.  It turned out to be a challenge.  Many of the button shirts are fitted and only have buttons up mid way.  I’m tall and have a problem with the sleeves being long enough.  I went thought all the department stores– rack after rack and found nothing.  Finally at a sportman’s store I scored.  I bought one of each shirt on sale.  WOW.

When I was a kid, I wore flannel shirts a lot.  Back then, I think it was a matter of durability.  My brother and I probably shared a few of them since  he is only 18 mos. younger than me.   I’m not sure how mom planned for the shrinkage, most likely not.  We spent lots of hours climbing around in the hay loft full of scratchy alfalfa and climbing trees.  The flannel protected our arms and provided warmth on late fall days.

I bought my boys flannel shirts too.  I too had to learn to deal with the shrinkage and wrinkles, ripped pockets and lost buttons.  They packed their flannels for all their outdoor activities until the elbows and cuffs were worn thin and ragged.

So here I am, enjoying the soft warm comfort of a flannel shirt thinking of days gone by and the fall days ahead.

Not only was “Get A Job” the title of a popular song back when, but it seems to be the topic of current conversations.

Last night while waiting to go back to sleep I had a thought blast from the past.  I had a job while in high school.  I know this sounds kind of stupid to have forgotten, but I had a job at the Dairy Queen.  I honestly don’t remember what prompted this, how long I worked there or how I got there.  Usually Mom had taxi duties or maybe my sister.  We lived three miles west of town.  Ice Cream probably prompted the thought or lack there of.  My sister worked at F.W.Woolworth dime store.  I’m not sure what her job description was.  It could have been scooping candy out of the bins for a customer, stocking shelves or working the lunch counter.

I don’t recall being pressured to get a job.  The money I made didn’t have to go for groceries or support of the family.   I feel fortunate that way now.   My dad and his brothers each had to do everything they could to feed the family.  They worked for food at the neighbors and  hunted when they could afford ammunition.

Would my dad really call those the good ‘ol days?  I never ask him directly.  I do know he didn’t complain.

Today, I updated the watercolor card page.  I’m very pleased with the new cards.

Part of  being an artist, is putting visions on paper with color.  I have had a lot of visions that wouldn’t go on the paper.  Some made it to paper and didn’t make the color test.   That’s why I get such a lift in my spirits when a vision becomes a painting that I can share.  I go to my painting class and see these people that are just whipping out these beautiful things.  They make it look so easy.

Have you ever been asked about what you would do over if you had the chance?  I must admit I have considered this and settled on one thing that would be a good do-over.  My art.  In the seventh grade when I turned in a map made of  colored flour and water paste, I didn’t think Picasso.  I did have another stunner that year when I glued little pearly fish bowl gravel to a picture for a pond effect.

I remember watercolors in a metal tin with Prang or Pang on it and finger paints on shelf paper.   I guess I just had to wait until I could fully appreciate the process, from vision to paper to painting.

Why is it that some days are just fun?  You get up in the morning and you know it’s  going to be a good day.  I lay in bed listening to the early birds waking everyone and knowing that I don’t have to get up yet.  It’s such a luxury.

I remember as a child getting up was a struggle.  It wasn’t the waking up, it was the getting up especially in the winter.  My dad always thought it was funny to come in and bounce the mattress so I felt I was on a trampoline.  That was a jolt.

I don’t have my dad to bounce me anymore, and I still like those early minutes in the morning remembering Dad.

As I’ve been living with this PD for at least 14 years, this weekend I had my first real scare.  I won’t go into a lot of detail, only that when these thing happen it pulls you up short.  Then you have to ask yourself, are you safe? how often will this happen? can I control my body to prevent a reoccurance?

I’m doing more research on the Deep Brain Stimulation surgery.  Scarey to me because I haven’t had any surgeries.  Then there is the fact that I only have one brain and even though  I may be defective, it’s the only

one I have. 

One of the hardest things about PD for me to deal with is the inconsistency from day to day.  Each day is different.  This morning, I didn’t have side effects when I took my meds.  However, yesterday I did and tomorrow, who knows.

I’m going to take advantage this good day and get some paint projects ready to go.  We will be going to our property in Goldendale this week for an extended stay.  I like to have my paints with me plus some reading material.   Calm times are good for the soul and the shakes.  I had to find out the hard day what stress can do to your health.

Se here’ s to a good day full of positive thoughts and deeds.

It’s not trash  day, but here I am again.

John and I took a motorcycle ride last Saturday.  We went to the coast, Ocean Park, WA, to see friends.  The day was sunny and warm and I got all decked out in leathers.   With my helmet in place and fringe flying in the breeze we rode 283 miles.

I found out that besides being fun, it can be exhausting.  My PD flared up and made my feet and legs jerk with the toes curling under.  It was difficult to finish and I was truly happy to be home.  Sitting still in a cramped position can be very challenging.  We stop and stretch which helps.  I suppose that it effects other non PD people  the same way, but the PD throws in a few involuntary jerks that are unexpected.

These are things that I have to consider as I’m researching Deep Brain Stimulation surgery.

I think the procrastination has gone on long enough.  I must get the discipline to write.  I have every excuse in the book and am using them too frequently.  So here goes.  My friend in Florida told me that i should start writing on trash day.  Now, I didn’t take it personally.  She was just trying to give me an example of scheduling time.

I’ll make quick catch up list.

I’m  still over 65

I’m still married

Still have Parkinsons

Rhea and Betty Lou are still healthy

We are finally having a full week of sunny weather.

There is also the look forward to list.  This is probably one of the more important lists.  I wouldn’t call it my bucket list.  This is more short term stuff.  My doctor had the nerve to retire this year.  I thought I had picked one young enough so I could avoid having to choose another.  What a pain.

We will be going to Goldendale for a few days next week.  This is a very good thing.  We will have sunshine and a lot of walking  time.    I’m anxious to see what the winter uncovered.   It’s truly amazing how the rocks seem to pop up through the dirt, overnight sometimes.  Someday I hope to get a polisher.  I have so many beautiful rocks and have put a lot of rocks in my flower pots.

Well, I’ve done it.  Here we are,  the first trash day post.