Unexpected

I'm choosing today.

A flight home only to turn and travel cross-country to be with my family as we mourn the death of my Grandfather.

My choice to wait on going to begin with, hoping he would remain with us a few more days, left me empty handed at the opportunity to tell him once again, "I love you."

Time is short.
Family is precious.
Choose well.

Blockade!

It was nothing short of a homestyle blend of Hawaii 5-o meets CHIPS with a little CSI tossed in for good measure.



Seems I couldn't return home yesterday evening. Police were crawling all over the apartment complex . . .no, let's restate that more precisely: all over *my* apartment bulding.

Well, no . . .let's not exaggerate now . . .the apartment building right next to mine.

It's true.

I counted no less than 12 police cruisers, and spoke directly with two police officers, one of whom was only willing to allow me to return to my apartment, and not leave again.

Well . . .

"Officer, I'm on a time constraint window. If I do not do 'abc', then 'xyz' will be an impossiblity. May I go in, and leave again, please? Five minutes?"


Permission miraculously granted.


I missed all the fun of weapons and tear gas and "Put 'em up!"


But somehow, I don't mind.

Chalk up another inner city moment to The Adventure.

Back By Popular Demand

The telltale signs that the holidays are approaching have encroached upon Americans everywhere. Yet I daresay none of those holiday fanfares will compare to the holiday that *we* are about to embark upon!

Yes, Choosers, we are about to relish a Holiday Hollywood Hiatus!

We'll be turning in our casting calls and scrolled through scripts for some warm, yummy, flavorful family meals coupled with laughter and largeness of heart.

The Cement Jungle will be replaced with gravel roads and easy driving.

Dell the newly minted CityDog will once again roam the road that encircles the lake, and dive into the tall grass with fevor. The nearby grove of wooded glen will encompass his stubby wagging tail will invite him for a sniff-fest stroll.

I suppose nothing - NOTHING - will compare to this:

Or moments like this:

Or even this:

I can feel the newest episodes of Konversation Korner brewing from afar.

I can hear my KeetBeet giggle and laugh; his Momma talking to him in that 'baby voice' that only she can.

I can smooth my daughter's hair and tell her all is well.

I can ride Zeke once again, sharing quiet moments with my oldest daughter.

I can make Gil get up with Keller, thereby freeing myself to sleep in for the first time in months!

Ah yes . . .soon our world will expand.

Or, would that be contract?

I think I hear the heartbeat of family ~ just around the corner.

He's Not Heavy ~

He's my brother.

Don't Skip A Beat

One would think that one would be able to take a day of leisure after exerting so much mental and physical strength whislt fiming over the weekend. Alas, it is not to be.

Up!

Run!

Go!

Do!

Finish!

At least he'll have fond memories of the adorable make-up-artist-babe to fuel him into the next task.

Whew! Will somebody please pour me a coffee!?!

It Very Well May Be . . .

. . .that I'm finally getting the hang of this paparazzi technique.

I submit for your critique this morning the Perfect Paparazzi Star Shot:

Would you not agree??

Star Powder

One of the downsides to all this acting stuff - according to my son, the actor, at fourteen years of age - is all the fuss over appearance. 'I mean really,' he'd state, 'is all this necessary?'

Why, yes, yes it is, son. The bright lights wash one out, whether on stage or in front of a camera. Every good actor submits himself to this process without nary a complaint.

Besides. It's a great way to solicit a hearty fawning over by all the cute make-up artist babes.

Ready? Set . . .

Action!

My son, the actor. On location today.

Fall

Taking it all in, fully cognizant, for the very first time:

Almost (continued, part 3)

I stood motionless for a moment. The dismissal had been abrupt, and I was now left with only one option: time to go. Taking my first step forward I was surprised when, grasping the lead with me was a small hand. Childlike trust had prompted the boy who originally taunted my pup to quietly and confidently join me in walking the dog back to the car. I caught his eye. His eyes danced with delight that I had not pushed him away.

We walked.

The woman-mother approached us, speaking to the boy. Now the beauty of her features were unsequestered by bulky frames shielding the bright. A light smattering of auburn freckles danced playfully across high, delicate cheekbones. This served as a backdrop bringing pronunciation to the glittering green emerald eyes, set in gaunt hollows, surrounded by strawberry red hair.

Those eyes.

Smiling they were, content.

"Shall we go see the chickens now?" she asked her son, a gentle nod towards leaving.

The door sprung open before me, unexpectedly ~ and I seized the moment.

"Chickens? We are about to add chickens to our family!" I was thrilled to find a common denominator with her. Instead of continuing conversation about chickens, though, she motioned to the jogging stroller. "Aren't those wonderful?"

It was brief, the conversation, and not particularly poignant in the way of words.

Yet the unspoken weighed heavy in the air: I could see that from somewhere deep within this beautiful woman ~ this woman with seven sons, three of which were special needs boys; this woman who had, at some point chosen Judaism as her faith and her way of life; this woman whose culture determined her companionship . . .

somewhere within herself she remembered.

Stirred within her were recollections of days gone by, of a life left behind.

I stood as the agent of memories.

She allowed them to dance across her minds' eye. Green eyes laughing, loving the moment; yet guarded - so as to not long for a return.

********
I drove past the tattered van slowly, taking one last long look. Her thin frame, weighed with a black short-waisted jacket and long black skirt stood stark against the rock. Her strawberry red hair and laughing, glittering green emerald eyes watched; her bird-like hand raised in an unexpectedly exuberant wave of goodbye from an old friend.

I almost obtained a photograph of my heart's long-held desire, produced by seeing and watching the Jewish community here in LA.

I almost knew her, the woman who lived behind those eyes that remembered.

A sadness enveloped me as dust kicked up behind my car.

Almost. I thought.

Almost (continued . . .)

From the oldest to the youngest, including the baby, all seven boys wore a yamika upon their head. The father was nearby, wresting one of the boys out of his seat belt in the somewhat tattered van. My fascination was growing by leaps and bounds. How amazingly stark a contrast their traditional attire against the backdrop of a windblown wilderness rock! Ever more apparent was the truth that the stately woman, still hidden behind the dark frames of her sunglasses was not ethnically Jewish. Her features only served to further the awkwardness of the visual before me. I wondered if I were dreaming.

No. Dell was pulling on the leash, as he dodged the boys again. His activity startled me back to the reason why I was here. He had to get in a good run tonight, if I wished to enjoy his company in calm fashion tomorrow. But I wanted to talk to her ~ if only I could extract more than a monosyllabic response to my questions, I thought.

She seemed interested enough in a conversation with me, lingering beside me, a smile playing on the corners of her lips ever so slightly. A low whine-growl came from deep within Dell's throat. I would have to go.

Turning to head the opposite direction, I felt conflicted. I would have to let my curiosity remain a curiosity.

We hiked.

*************

I could scarcely believe my eyes! A multiplication had occurred in the forty-five minutes I'd been gone. I had been certain that they would be gone upon my return. Instead, two additional families, in various stages of traditional dress were gathered for a family portrait.

Oh, how I wanted to take photographs! One boy from the new family became the object of my lens in my minds' eye. He was the one fully dressed in long black jacket and hat. I determined to ask permission.

I stood quietly behind my acquaintance as she snapped the final shots of the family with a camera. Upon my lips were the words with which I would respectfully make my request. The entire clan, perhaps fifteen people strong, was keenly aware of my presence. I wondered to myself what type of thoughts they must be having about me. I stood, completely engrossed and participating with their family frivolity and joy, yet an outsider, peeking through a window, uninvited.

I was given no opportunity. Immediately the patriarch of the family gave directives to load the car to go. I stood as a fixed marker of sorts, while people scattered round about me, like a group of marbles that had been hit by an Aggie.

Perhaps I can gain his eye, I thought as I followed the patriarch with my gaze. He did not return my nonverbal cue.

Resignation echoed within me. I paused briefly within myself, recounting again the numerous poses I had conjured up, and, with a sigh, released them. It was just as well, I supposed. Such a request would surely seem too intrusive.

____________________

to be continued . . .

photograph courtesy of Arnold Zigman circa 2005

Almost

Dell lunged at the leash, perpendicular to my frame, abruptly forcing me away from the subject matter of my camera lens.

Startled and annoyed, I was now face to face with a young boy, perhaps 8 or 9, I supposed, who was taunting my dog with pebbles, kicking up dust, and . . . barking at my dog. Dell was returning the challenge. Now kneeling on the dusty canyon floor, it was all I could do to contain my dogs' quivering frame.

*********************
"This afternoon I'll find the pass." I confidently informed myself as we set out on the second consecutive day of a hiking adventure. Taking the route by memory, I found myself driving in the opposite direction of yesterday's trek. Consternation was beginning to build, as, after an hour, I still had not recovered the elbow in the road running beneath the mountain that would lead me to a pristine nook that called my name, tucked away from civilization.

I finally decided to turn down a clearly marked canyon road - even though it would surely not take me to my destination. It was becoming more important to allow the dog and the baby a leg stretch than it was to discover my heart's content.

Winding down, down, down . . . my expectation rose and fell as I rounded yet another curve, only to find the highway ramp. Disappointed, I decided to head home.

But what is this? My eyes stared in unbelief. "How can it be? I"ve driven in the opposite direction!" Incredulously, I took the next exit which would lead me to the very same place I had been the night before.



*************************
The boy was not responding to me in the least. Rather, his efforts at challenging the canine were ramped up a notch as, just behind him, a second boy, obviously an older brother, joined in the fray. Neither boy responded to my corrective instruction. I was coming to a point of loss of what to do.

That is the moment when the small framed woman, overdressed in a black short-waisted jacket, a long black skirt, and big black sunglasses stepped into my line of sight. Curious she was, in her garb, but her face - what I could see of it - was pleasant. She made no move to physically restrain the boys, but she spoke in a gentle firmness to them that identified her as their mother. They continued in their behaviors. The small framed woman stepped between me, the dog, and them, completely blocking their attempts. This distraction was enough. Their bony frames went limp, and their attention was drawn elsewhere for a moment.

I apologized for my dog's behavior, explaining the unique circumstances. She nodded, and stood nearby as I offered the boys, now docile, a second chance to pet the dog. It had been what they wanted all along ~ to pet the dog. My suspicions were now verified: these two boys were special needs children.

Compassion was now coupled with curiosity.
_________
To be continued . . .

Toe Time

Nothing like a wilderness hike on a Saturday afternoon . . .



to reconnect with the important things in life:

*This moment of refreshing brought to you by the Creator of All.

I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well. Psalm 139:14

The Bully

At the time, we didn't know he was a replacement. Not that it mattered much on the front end ~ we were too busy trying to find the nonexistent building that was clearly marked as the address on the audition sheet. Thankfully, I had built in a time cushion that served us well.

The building loomed tall on the hustling street. Sunglasses, skirts, tiny dogs on leashes; a business suit or two, and a cigarette out on the veranda were our visual markers of destination.

Entering the building, and taking our seats, Keller suddenly became quite a handful. Very unusual for this young lad, who loves to take in his surroundings in quiet fashion. I utilized every momma trick in the book to keep him content.

The hallway was a busy one. Boys, moms, even a grandma; students and a docent. Offices with tall skinny windows gave evidence of life on the other side of each wall.

One by one, the boys were called into the room. One by one each boy exited the room, gathered his parent, and walked toward the elevator. Finally, Israel's turn.


He had been quietly intent on the script before him, studious, and prepared. I whisked Keller away, on yet another attempt to keep him satisfied for just a few more minutes.

Around the corner, Israel came. I locked eyes with him, surprised. He knew the question without me verbally recounting it.

"They gave me the wrong script."

My face flushed white, and my eyes widened. This was a first.

The actor was lost in readjustment.

*********

The casting director reread her list, detailing those who were to be in attendance. The young man before her had no place among the names. She made a decision to keep her mouth shut, and see what he could do.

***********
The freeway was bumper to bumper, but moving. Finding a steady position, I dialed Israel's manager. An incorrect address was one thing. But two incorrect pieces of information in one communication? At the very least, the company needed to know. Detailing our difficulty, our conversation was cut off.

"There is a call coming in. I've got to take it. I'll call you back." she said.

**********
The phone rang. "Angi, that was casting. If you only knew what a miracle this whole audition has been. On your side, the wrong address, the wrong script; on my side - I had sent Israel in as a replacement, and was only able to leave a voicemail. The casting director took him in as a wild card ~ all of that . . .and Israel has BOOKED IT!"

*******
Just a day ago, a major television project had slipped through Israel's fingers, all while receiving glowing reviews. As disappointing as it had been, he gave God the glory, win or lose.

The Lord saw fit to honor his upright heart attitude, and grant my son, the actor, placement in a short film.

His role? A lead part: The Bully.

Next weekend? On location.

Celebrate with us!

John answered and said, A man can receive nothing, except it be given him from heaven. John 3:27

Have I Mentioned The Chickens?

The last time I remember an all-out preparation phase of intense research, and internet oogling was when I found myself challenged with finding the perfect dog.

I succeeded in my mission. (Although my husband will vehemently disagree with me -smile-)

The DellDog is a swell companion, in my book. He's the perfect blend of loveable/snuggable coupled with independence. Loyal to family, guarding his territory, but friendly. Playful, yet sedate. Perfect. I love my Dell.

[ahem. where was I?] Oh yeah. The chickens.

The whole topic came up on yet another long-distance phone call one day. A casual mention of the word 'chickens' opened up an entire discourse between us ~ and the discovery that we were both thinking the same thing at the same time. "We should get some chickens!"

Since that time, there has been a flurry of back and forth research links; discussions among our peers; and a narrowing down of our chicken choices.

Chicken choices?

Yes. Chicken choices.

I thought you might like to come along on this adventure, Choosers. Since many of you live vicariously through me [us] anyway, why not? :D

Here's where we currently stand: I want this chicken coop:

It is otherwise known as a Chicken Tractor ~ but you and I both know there ain't nothin' tractor-like about the aforementioned device! Some might even call it a Chicken Ark . . .but, well, I'll just leave that one alone. I'm not certain how well it would float.

Gil, my handiman extraordinaire, aka: McGilver has a completely different type of contraption in mind.

This could get scary, folks.

However, rest assured that no matter what form of housing our soon-to-be-adopted-chickens find themselves in, it will be well-built by one of the best hobby carpenters in the south.

Stay tuned. I'm sure this ride's gonna be a fun one.

:D

The County Fair

There is a moment each year at the County Fair: when the judges have moved through the host of entries; and logged their votes; and placed the ribbons; and the row upon row of tables finally stand silent.

Where have the participants gone? Who is left to view their wares?

Nearby, in the show ring, the Best of Show stands at attention, bearing proudly the ribbon upon the halter, while the owner, beaming, holds the trophy.

Here is where the crowd has gathered. Cheering and clapping wildly, some rising to their feet, others giving nod of acknowledgment.

Winners, in their various places.

Yet winners just the same.

Israel has officially received a Blue Ribbon. High marks. Judges fave.

The trophy, however, goes to the Best of Show in the arena.

In this case, experience has given way to the offer of a wild card in an industry where the stakes are high.

We give God the glory.

Congratulations to the Best of Show.

Hugs of

"I'm proud of you, son!"

and the momentary nod to disappointment, all while holding that Blue Ribbon high.

What an honor.

What an honor indeed.

Anticipation

The clock ticks
The shadows move across the wall
The day has sprung anew

Waiting.

Cookies, Callbacks, and Curious Facts

The chocolate chip cookies were a means to an end.

Keeping myself focused and my children content has been Priority Number One.


Seems a unique turn of events has my son, the actor, re-upping for a role he very much want[ed, s] to have.

I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't have researched who, exactly, had been cast in the starring roles.

Here's to a day of seeking the Lord's will in the matter.

Hopefully, it won't require that I make a second batch of cookies.

:D

Prairie Fire

I'm a bit torn this morning, as to the content of today's post. You see, I failed to take my camera with me (or - "carry my camera with me" as they say in Deep South) last night when we headed into North Hollywood for our regularly scheduled tasks. My dismay at this realization hit me full force when, completely out of context, a tree had toppled over in the parking lot of a Target store.

Quizzically, I peered at it ~ and then I realized: the Santa Ana winds had knocked it over! HA! So much for not living in Hurricane Alley. Trees were dispensible, no matter the locale.

Nothing prepared me, however, for the return trip home. Not the smoke that plumed into the sky at dusk,

not the interstate closures just. over. the. mountain. from me. No, it was the brilliant orange atop the mountains,

with the little freeway that runs between the two that I was driving on that stopped me short. Up until that sight, I was blissfully ignorant as to how close the fires were to us.

Lamenting my lack of photographs was short-lived, once I opened my email inbox, though! There, in the brilliant hot heat of my heart in love, were pictures of my oldest daughter, visiting Gram on the Nebraska prairie.

My mom had captured a moment, etching it in time and continuium ~ and straight into the recesses of the panging part of my heart that misses home, my husband, my children, and my crock pot. Oh. And the bread machine.

What do I do? What shall I share?

Suddenly, the two juxtaposed possibilities were melded into one big conglomeration of smoke, flames, and prairie grass.

The fires that almost leveled Chadron came to my mind ~ the perfect pivot point to cleverly connect two seemingly opposite ideas.

I've just one important thing to say, then: "Hey Bethany ~ don't play with matches."

"D

____________

*LA fire photos courtesy of the Los Angeles Times

High Alert

We had just returned from a late night romp at the local "Central Bark" - a puppy playground sans leash for those of the canine persuasion. Nightfall had arrived, creeping in through the windows, staring at us blankly. Slipping off my jacket, the lights began to flicker.

"That's strange." I thought to myself. It was the first time since arriving in the Golden State that any electrical event had happened in our little apartment.

Soon forgotten, a load of laundry later, and just before Keller's bedtime, Israel begged that we go to the hot tub. Compliant, we all changed into our swimming suits, and stepped out into the frigid night air. The breeze tickled our faces, as we hurried to the warmth of the heated water. The moon was brilliant above, beaming down on us, cold and silver in the sky. Framing its' glory, and closer in proximity, the treetops danced, taken by the upper level winds that sprayed their leafy fingers out like a gnarled hand, grasping for that which is just out of reach.

Without warning, the pool area was suddenly black, the lampposts no longer giving light nor direction. Outside of the fenced area, however, we could see a host of light, coming from different apartments, dotting the horizon. Curious, we thought, affected by the eerie feel the darkness produced.

The lamps returned to their former brilliance. Three times in the course of 20 minutes, the lamps would fail to give their light. Finally, sufficiently heated through, and snuggled into towels, we returned home.

"Mom, I have a funny feeling about tonight." Israel offered.

"Yeah?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know . . .I just feel like something is going to happen. Something not good."

*****
The children had inexplicably gone to bed, and were actually sleeping when I made my way back to the bedroom to call it a day myself.

I settled in under the covers, still feeling the chill that had begun my day, and curled myself up, hoping to generate enough body heat to hold me without another blanket.

Dell's head popped up in the darkness, silhouetted against the window frame, with a start, ears on high alert, and my heart pounded with the same quickness and agility he had displayed when we heard the noise, simultaneously.

What was that? It was eerie, and came from above us - no, from outside the sliding glass door - no! It came from the north side of the building . . . no ~

It was everywhere, an unidentifiable sound that gripped me in the dark. Almost immediately, the "thwap, thwap, thwap" of helicopter blades filled the air. Sirens sounded in the distance. The roar of a large vehicle engine, like a dump truck, or - an army vehicle drove past my window. And another. And another.

Silence.

I chided myself. My imagination was working overtime, it was evident. I lifted up a prayer in the night, and drifted fitfully off to sleep.

******
Morning dawned, and the light celebrated its' arrival by stirring me awake. "So, all is well." I thought to myself.

Sitting at my computer console, I turned to the news.

"HIGH ALERT!" The headline read. "For [my zip code], HIGH WIND WARNING throughout today and into tomorrow."

Hmph. Wind.

Is that all it is? This *unpredictable* California weather??

Spooked by our first encounter with the Santa Ana Winds.
______________________________________________
*Further headlines detail the initiation of a deadly fire just north of us. Prayers for those in the path of the blaze, and those attempting to squelch it.

Determined.

The chill in the air is distinct this morning.

As I realized I'd have to exit from beneath the covers against my will, I made mental note of where my jacket was, since I'd surely be needing it!

The smell of warm apples greeted me when I stepped into the kitchen, creating a warm homey feel amidst all the temporary chaos that surrounds me: I've a kitchen in disarray after a cooking frenzy yesterday; boxes half packed with finished school books. Laundry in various stages of cleanliness; the usual Keller clutter; my desk - brimming high with piles of nondescript items awaiting my attention . . .and this:

The staging area of the newly minted Geek squad (that would be me.) ~ again.

I had turned my back for one. moment. while stirring cookie dough yesterday morning. My child (who shall remain anonymous) took a turn on the computer. When we switched places, I was greeted by flying banner ads, each opening furiously in an explorer window of their own.

My day took an immediate shift from the planned hike to emergency crisis mode. I'll spare you the play by play action. Suffice it to say, I *think* this mornings' scan will result in a successful eradication of all things virus-y.

Meanwhile, I feel very in tune with my Dad, Country Music's Computer Guru this morning. I can see him in my mind's eye, on those cold Nebraska mornings, coffee cup in hand.

I can see him, sitting in front of [yet another] mechanical and/or electronic device, making reparations as necessary. I can hear his voice over the telephone, verbally instructing me on the next step.

Perhaps the only imagery missing from my nostalgic view would be this:

The DellDog, just as determined to stay warm this morning as I.

Perhaps A Hike

To work out the kinks I'm experiencing. After last nights' delicious endeavors, it's probably just as well!

Stardom et al

Burbank is a sleepy little town, nestled into the crook of LA's sprawling body. If, of course, any part of LA could be considered to be a sleepy little town.

Burbank was always the address given on those old TV game shows when I was growing up: " . . .send to: 123 xyz street, Burbank, CA 12345"

Burbank rustles up imagery of Ed McMahon and Estelle Getty and Ronald Reagan -not necessarily in that order - but a refuge, just the same, for a retirement community that houses the elderly once-upon-a-time burgeoning stars of televisions' heyday. A little city that still allows horses to be boarded in alcoves hidden by tall hedges and ridden on the paved streets, as if out on the range for a weekend trail ride.

Burbank, I have discovered, isn't too far off from the pictures I painted in my mind. A quaint, friendly place nestled among, and even giving refuge to, some of the entertainment industries heaviest hitters.

Burbank speaks of old school, as did the Taco Bell I wandered into last night, as we awaited class to finish for the olders. The aged frame of the building betrayed just how long this establishment had been in business. As I took a seat against the far wall with Keller, my eyes travelled to the wooden beams above us, littered with crooked and dusty hanging black frames, filled with pictures of child-star icons from {cough} my generation of television. Every one of the twenty or so photographs were immortalized in black and white, giving away the once-upon-a-time-owners' intent interrupted to cover the wall legend style.

Soon, a passel of folk arrived for an evening meal, and the tiny little joint began to hustle and bustle. To my amazed amusement, two aged, retired gentlemen walked up to us, reaffirming my stereotype of Burbank, and began chatting comfortably, as though we were regulars in a diner for coffee each morning. The Barney Fife-slender policeman that walked up behind them also gave us a nod. His presence further confirmed my rose-colored perception of sleepy little town.

Another police officer. A twenty-something cutie. A flirtatious couple. An older couple. A kid, with his buddy outside guarding the bikes . . .a revolving door of humanity, each one entering our little corner and greeting my son: engaging him; making exclamation of his size/ability/cuteness/you-name-the-characteristic-that-catches-your-fancy.

I sat, as Mary of old, pondering these things in my heart . . .when all of a sudden, a crowning moment!

"Ma'am? May I take a picture of your baby?" the Hispanic cashier, the same one who had taken my order about fifteen minutes earlier, was at our side, paparazzi fashion, eagerly anticipating my affirmative response. I did not disappoint him, and even helped Keller pose a bit.

Exiting the building, I shook my head. Keller had become an instant sensation in Hollywood - no - BURBANK, CA!

The only component missing was his face in a frame on the wall . . .

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

I suppose you-all think I just sit around all day, eating bon-bons and sipping coffee, don't'cha? Well, I've got photographic proof that it *just.ain't.so!*

Why don't you fasten your seat belt, while we take a little ride? A typical day in the life.

Sparing you the gory details of a normal morning filled with school books, showers, and sibling gnashing of teeth, our work day can begin anywhere from noon on. Once out the door, it's anybody's guess what time we might be able to say, "It's a wrap!"

On this particular day, three appointments were in store for us. Three different 'cities' of the greater LA area. First stop? A theatrical audition at a major network's administrative offices.

Please note my need in this instance to self-entertain. A portrait of the fam, perhaps? Note the long, dismal hallway and the wall-side seating. Can you spot the tiny sign in table?


Wait a minute! My Kids! What ARE they doing? The living comedy machine of Aubrey and Israel appears to be in full swing. Egads:

Finishing up there (and not quickly enough, thanks to the comedians, if I might add!), we are now scheduled to be about 20 miles away ~ in two hours. Not enough time to go home (because of traffic), but too much time to just drive there and wait in the car. What's a gal to do? Treat the kids. Lunch out.

This particular day, we walked from the aforementioned studios to the local burger joint. The day was beautiful, and the traffic heavy. We have become stellar students of pushing the "walk" button at pedestrian intersections. Please drink in the beauty of the palm trees.

You are welcome.

Please note the teenaged use of the cell phone.

After lingering over [a misnomer, I assure you] a fast food meal, we drive toward our destination. Consider it a Sunday drive, as we've still a large amount of time to whittle away. A VERY unusual occurrence transpires: I spy a Starbucks. In a dramatic flair for the unheard of, I pull over on a side street, and allow the children to imbibe a caffeinated concoction.

Of course, it wasn't *all* about the Starbucks. I stealthily parked beside a city park. After purchase, we took a stroll past the numerous sleeping homeless folk, and followed the footpath to the pond, where:

My country-raised children immediately took to the grasp of nature, even in a contrived setting. We spent quite a bit of time here . . .the only disagreement between siblings was the sharing of corn puffs to feed the ducks!

Even Keller was content to enjoy the out-of-doors.

Please note the teen-aged use of the cell phone.

Soon, we are off again ~ our destination? A commercial audition. These typically go quickly, in an in-and-out sort of fashion. But one never knows if the office is on time, or running behind. Today, we hope they are on time, as yet another appointment is in store for us.

Sure enough, quick as quick can, we are in and out without a difficulty. Next!! This one is practically just around the corner. Upon completion, the day could be considered done.

Uh, but no.

It is rush hour in the big city, folks. And we are woefully situated next to three major intersecting arteries. That means . . .yup. You guessed it. Either join the rat race and sit for hours . . .or, kill time on the promenade.

We choose the latter. It is an enjoyable stroll while we people watch. We make the most of it.

Invariably, no matter how long we wait when we go *here* we still encounter that rush hour snarl. This particular day, we returned to our car at 6:35 pm. Rush hour should have settled down, right? Um, no. Snaking our way through the cluttered streets, we opened the door of our home at 8:15 pm.

Grand total: 8 hours out and about in the big city, not counting the regular necessary deeds of the day.

Whew!

Now! If you don't mind, I'm going to open a box of bon-bons . . .

Well Travelled

Keller, intent on making it as far down the hallway as he could in the fastest possible time, prompted me to grab my camera out of the diaper bag seated next to Israel in the small lobby of the office. The floors were an ornate blend of marble and delicate tapestry. Perhaps the lighting would grant me a suitable photograph of my growing boy in unique surroundings.

I knelt, photographer fashion and poised with my steady lens. Suddenly, and unmistakably, I was awash with a series of emotions, all surrounding the last six months of not only my family's, but also, and in particular, Keller's life.

Tallying up quickly in my mind, I counted.

CBS
NBC
ABC
Universal
Paramount
Fox
Warner Bros
Disney . . .

and the list continued. In my little boys' [thus far] short life, he has crawled many a hallway or office floor of the big leauge motion picture and/or television giants. He's captured the heart of countless hundreds of folks, in his typical Character -Study-Followed-By-[if you pass the test]-Big-Grin way.

Yes, my entire family has been graced with this self-same type of honor . . .but my infant son? My infant son??

He'll no doubt not recall a single instance of any of these encounters. Furthermore, as life speeds at breakneck pace forward, it may very well be that these fleeting vestiges of heavy hitters in the entertainment industry may be as naught by the time he arrives at adult status. Similar to the generations before saying, "Charlie Chaplin who?" and "Greta Garbo? Who is that?" and, much more recently, "Who is Shaun Cassidy, Mom?" Those who will have taken center stage years from now will most certainly have evolved into another brand name of stardom and success.

What, then, the impact - not outwardly - but inwardly on my little boy? L'il Man, as he is so called by the numerous nameless faces that have interacted with him?

That remains to be seen.

Yet the wonder of it - the knowledge of just where his tiny knees have trod - is worthy of a moment of meditative contemplation today.

The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings' palaces. Proverbs 20:8

I'm Up Already!

I have been awake since 3:49 am.

It's anybody's guess how today will play out as a result.

May the Lord have mercy. The schedule is full.

Saddle Up!

It's Monday!

Get in gear! There's things to do!

Hurry up! I'm loading the car!

* * * * * *

And they're off!

Joni

I stood in the center of the courtyard, on the inner footpath that connected the various buildings of the campus. I was a bit surprised that the actual facility presented itself in such minature fashion, since the surrounding parking lots, filled to the brim with vehicles, sprawled across the urban landscape with a hunger to overtake.

I contemplated the series of events that had led me to be where I stood. There was no doubt that the Lord had orchestrated the whole plan. I had simply followed His lead. His lead would do nothing short of bring me immense joy, and I felt grateful.

Aubrey was fussing and fuming. Her demeanor and her words indicated she had no interest in spending her Saturday this way, but I held firm. Our little party of four found its' way into the sanctuary, and was seated.

Once settled, I looked up, surveying the landscape before me. So, this was one of the largest churches in America?? Another note of surprise struck a chord within me ~ but the note was overwritten by the back of her head.

There was no mistaking the back of her head. There she was ~ before the conference was to begin, chatting gaily with a few gals that had surrounded her. I wasted no time.

I grabbed my camera. I headed down the aisle.

There have been a handful of literary books from my childhood, outside of the Bible, that have impacted me on a core level. The series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (no explanation necessary); a book about the Trail of Tears called Yellow Leaf; and an autobiography titled: Joni.

While I have been unable to articulate what it was about Joni's journey, exactly, that made it's mark on me, there has been little doubt that her tragedy-turned-triumph-in-the-hand-of-the-Lord significantly shaped and molded my ability to handle adverse circumstance.

I placed my hand on her shoulder, indicating my presence, and leaned in to say hello. At the very moment I did so, someone from the platform began to speak. Drat! I'd have to articulate quickly.

Articulate? Who could articulate as her eyes locked onto mine with a fierce brightness that betrayed the joy of the Lord, and her voice lilted in an exuberant greeting of "Well, hello there!"?

I hoped my smile in return said the same.

The instructions from the platform tumbled and tossed over my head. I'd have to make this brief. A simple thank-you-for-making-a-positive-impact-on-my-life was all I had time for. No fun me-n-Joni self-portraiture.

But those eyes. Her eyes held nary an ounce of thought for herself in the thank you I expressed. No. The credit was His. That was evident.

I returned to my seat. As Joni shared in the first session of the day, her ability to weave words together to create imagery that pierces the soul produced unhindered tears - profuse in the making - not only in me, but others as well. And those words? They all pointed to Him.

How glorious the day.

************

My camera was not bereft of function. Here, a mini photo journal of the day I met Joni Eareckson Tada. Oh, and Aubrey? Consider her heart won over.