My Daughter Marcy-My Teacher and Friend

Dear Marcy Lou, 

Today I laugh at your feisty spirit. You start at the bottom of any job and end up on top. You learn every position in most companies and accomplish insurmountable problems. You are unbelievable in what you tackle.

Not just wife and motherhood.

Remember the days of pulling lumber in a mill, your skinny frame right alongside a bunch of burly men? Then you took on the management of a custom framing shop before you knew how to measure the dimensions of a frame. 
You are a wallpaper hanger and a magician with a paint roller. You have tucked old brick, laid new brick, and even installed carpet.

Age when you beat up the bully 

Our first glimpse of your courageous nature came when your sister, sixteen months your senior, struck up a problem with a neighbor kid.  tt didn’t matter that you were only three at the time. You went to her defense and hiked the kid out of our yard.

But one of the best examples of your determined nature happened when a junior high algebra teacher said, “Any student not understanding these problems stop by my room before class tomorrow morning.”

Age 11 with Grandpa Orin 

You said you didn’t understand algebra. You had asked to stay in a lower math class. Only one of the teachers thought you a genius and encouraged you to take on the higher level Algebra class.

“I’m leaving for class early.” You said one morning to your dad and me.

We were very surprised when you returned mid-day in tears and angry. 

Do you remember the incident?

You were the only one that showed up before class. The teacher didn’t expect any students and arrived late. 

When we asked what happened you said the teacher said, “Are you the only stupid one in the class?”

Ready to jump to your defense, your dad and I both offered to talk to the teacher—we were ready to call a counselor and the principal if necessary.

“I’ll handle this myself,” you said. And you did, extracting a profuse apology from that teacher who maintained he didn’t mean the words to come out the way they

Marcy and Hubby Don 

did.  

The algebra teacher affirmed you and said you showed the greatest wisdom. You were smart enough to admit you didn’t understand and asked how to conquer the problem.

Your plucky nature helped you then and now.

Your family appreciates your strength.

Your employers marvel at your coping abilities.

Your Grandpa Orin and Grandma June sang your praises.

Your dad rode a bike to Louisville to see you

Your dad loved spending time with you, buying you cream soda and having lunch with you.  

After your family moved to Omaha, you become my mentor—my teacher. I learned to stand up for what is right, tackle problems head on, call till I find answers, and search every avenue until I figure out how to make something work on the computer.

And when I’ve accomplished a task, I tell my co-workers or friends, “My daughter Marcy taught me to do this.”

Your tenacity is a God-given gift.

Your willingness to use that gift is a blessing to me and others around you.

Thank you Sweetie for being the beautiful woman you are.

Love you, from Mom, the now 

Marcy and Me w/cheesecake May 2013

Lionhearted Kat
For my readers: I wrote this in 2002, but it is still true today. Marcy continues to teach me. She's amazing. If her Dad were here he'd say, "Of course she's amazing. She's my daughter."

Bonnie Allen Crawford My Sister in Love

The first of seven sisters-in-law to live close to me

Yvonne (Bonnie) Allen Crawford

Born Humboldt, Nebraska 1924

Buried Camas, Washington 1986

Dear Bonnie,

 

Our second child, Marcy (age 16) with her Aunt Bonnie

If you were here today we’d laugh up a storm at some of our shenanigans.  The day we married Max attended our wedding. Your youngest David, sick with a cold kept you home a hundred miles away.

My new husband and I spent our honeymoon night on your “click-clack” davenport in Camas, Washington. The next day Max took Husband to Crown Zellerbach Mill to apply for a job.

That fall after our first child, Kathy Ann was born, we moved to our cracker box apartment on Hill Street less than a block away from you. We were so young. I was so lost and lonely.

With Husband working long shifts, a brand new baby, no phone, no car, no friends, and my first move away from my family, I was one scared eighteen year old.

I needed guidance and friendship.  You gave me both. 

“Why did you keep feeding us when I didn’t even volunteer to bring food to your house?” I asked about ten years later. You smiled in your quiet way and shrugged like you didn’t even remember those meals. But believe me, I did.

For three years, at least till after Marcy’s birth, we ate many meals at your cramped table in your tiny kitchen. Food a plenty served with laughter. Those were the days when I barely knew how to open a can, much less complete a recipe. 

Yes, you taught me to cook. 

Far left Warren, Gary, Max and Quin (David, Max's son in front)

About then your Max helped us buy the white house where the garage touched the corner of your backyard. Our girls loved to visit you. They’d squeeze between the garages and play in your fenced backyard. Many summer days Max lit the bar-b-que.  The brother’s and your boys played horse shoes or badminton.

Public Domain Photo

That’s when you showed me how to hang a neat line of clothes, taught me how to keep the diapers white, and tried to teach me to clean house.

One day you said to me, “I may not dust, but if I make the bed first thing in the morning, I feel good all day.”

I put that housekeeping tidbit into practice.

 If you were here Bonnie, I’d squeeze you close and tell you I’ve survived the mother-in-law hurts that you and I shared. You helped me through emotional trauma that, looking back, is of no consequence at all.

“In ten years it won’t matter,” you said.

You were so right on many things.

I did learn to hang a nice looking line of clothes, but my clothesline technique never equaled yours. Can you imagine my thrill when Husband bought me a washer and dryer?

I did manage to become a right smart cook. 

Oh yes and I taught our children to make their beds first thing in the morning. You’d be proud.  

Public Domain Photo

You were a special lady in my world. I’m blessed for having you as my sister-in-law—my sister-in-love.

Affectionately, one of your many sisters-in-law,

Kat

Marcy, Bonnie, Kathy Ann, James and Max about 1977

For my readers: Unfortunately we didn’t take a lot of photos when we first married. When I looked for a picture of Bonnie, I couldn’t find one with her alone. You notice Marcy standing close to her Aunt Bonnie. The two of them were very close from the time she could walk until Bonnie died. 

My Father Believed in Keeping Family Together

My father

For: Orin Stauff Demarest

May 21, 1917-June 14,1996

First written February 22, 2002

Dad about 1993

Dear Dad,

During this last Christmas season I missed you more than ever.  Your name came up often as we reminisced about Christmas past—especially when I expressed to others your dedication to keep our family together through the holidays. (I can’t say as a child that I always appreciated the hundred mile drive to Grandma’s house--at least until we arrived.)

These days I realize how difficult it was for you. Regardless of how old our vehicle, you packed the family of six into the car. There were no seat belts back then. We started out with all four kids in the back seat. Like normal kids, we scrunched one in the middle of the seat on those rattle snake

Lloyd The Void Photo 

corners. Pretty soon one or more of us whined, complained, or cried. That’s when Karla, the youngest climbed over the seat to sit middle front. Those were the good old days, Dad.

There is no way we can count how many times our car broke down miles from home.  You were a wonderful mechanic by trade. You spent so much time working to make a family income, your own vehicle suffered. There you were, under the car in a good Oregon rainstorm—or maybe even snow. You banged away and tinkered while we whined and fussed. In spite of those obstacles, you drove us from Eugene to the families in North Bend.

Always we celebrated Christmas Eve at your sister Pat’s home with her family, your brother, Uncle Vic and family, and your mother, Grandma Dee. We shared gifts, news, played games together, and enjoyed the love of family. Then Christmas day there was another large family gathering at Grandma and Grandpa Leatons.  That’s where I made a close bond to my cousins. So close, the two girls my age, Mary and Gladys, felt like sisters rather than cousins.

Gary, Kat, Karla Mom, Dad, Karl, Jack, Karen 

At the close of the Christmas day our family drove the many miles home for you to work early the next morning. The other relatives that attended either party lived close by—they didn’t struggle with the long trip.

Dad, there isn’t any way to express my thanks for keeping us connected with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, especially since you aren’t with us now. The one thing I can do is try to keep our children and grandchildren in touch with each other.

 Times are different in that none of them live in the same community. We live thousands of miles away and don’t have the opportunity to climb into a vehicle to gather the family all together. That means I must be more creative in keeping in touch. I’ll try to do as well as you did Dad.  You were a devoted son, a loving brother, and I’m glad God gave you to me as a Dad. Your love of family is appreciated.

From your oldest daughter,

Kat

For my readers: Those that knew my father are aware of his gift of gab. He knew something about everything—he didn’t just think he knew the info, he truly did. He didn’t know a stranger and he could curse cars until the air turned black. But in 1985, almost 69, my father asked the Lord to forgive him.

Last photo of my Father 

He dedicated his life to being a Jesus follower. What a change. In the last ten years of his life my father wrote letters and talked to everyone about Jesus.

In 1996 Dad and Mom drove from Oregon to Omaha to visit us for five weeks. Dad talked often about "Orin Junction." He wanted a photo taken in a place named after him.

The next day in Ruppert, Idaho my father was killed in a car accident. He told me several times during our last visit, "Honey, I pray when it's my time, the Good Lord will take me quickly." And the Good Lord did. Often after his death husband would say, "Your father always said..." or "I sure wish your Dad were here now to help me."

My Mom Gave With No Strings Attached

Dear Mom,

Mom Early Morning Giggles 

I’ve written to you many times over the years to thank you for your continual support. Your no nonsense approach has kept me afloat more times than I can count. Those times when I thought I’d cave under the pressure—facing surgery or a family problem that I couldn’t handle alone.

I’ll never forget when I called you long distance to say I faced a hysterectomy. Your first quesion, “Do you have insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get paid while you are off work?”

“Yes.”

“Well then?”you said. “What are you worried about—it’s a common surgery.” You listed off the Aunt’s and friends that survived the ordeal. I have used that example with many ladies over the years.

“Why fear? Others have handled this, you will too.”

The awesome reality about your initial phone conversation is that you hung up and said to Dad, “Kathy needs me.” Then you climbed aboard a Greyhound to ride forty-four hours to care for my family and me.

I’m not the only one that received your ‘nursing’ care. When Aunt Theresa died you helped Uncle Larry; You lived with Aunt Elnora and Uncle Tommy when he arrived home from the hospital after a logging accident—and you’ve gone back to help since then.

You’re the daughter that cares for a ninety-eight year old mother. You’re the mother that that took care of both my ailing sisters in this past year. You’re the friend that drives a cancer patient to a doctor. You’re the sister that cares for siblings …and the list goes on.

I’m sure I’ve said thank you in ten thousand different ways over the years, but I don’t think it’s enough.

Your "No Strings Attached" approach to life gave me a foundation to share with others willingly. I remember you sharing a loaf of your hot homemade bread with Mrs. McCoy, the elderly neighbor across the fields south of your home. When our girls visited you in the summer time, you sent them up the gravel road to the egg lady, Mrs. Branch. Most of the time, you shared a plate of food or vegetables from your garden with her when she didn’t feel well.

Of course, there were those second hand store shopping sprees, too. You usually purchased a little bauble for one your friends. “You know the lady that cuts my hair? She collects these blue bottles,” you said. Or, “You know the lady down the way she helped me with the upholstery … “If you were not buying for a friend, it was one of your grandchildren. You never came home without some little treasure to give away.

Even today you still give and give and give.

Thank you, Mom for your common sense approach to life and for unconditionally giving of yourself. None of us can repay you for your generous acts of kindness and help.

I love you Mom, you are a wonderful example for today’s world.

Your oldest daughter,

Kathy

I shared this letter with Mom before Gary was diagnosed with Psuedomyxoma Peritonei (PMP)—a rare cancer with a prognosis of only days to live. Mom flew from Oregon to Omaha to live with us and help me.

When Grandma fell and broke her hip, Mom flew back to Oregon to care for Grandma.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer Gary took care of me, but when he died suddenly of a heart attack, my 86 year old mother flew from Oregon to Omaha and became my caregiver.

My mother’s caring spirit touched many more than she ever thought possible. 

Grandma Leaton-Her Rocker and Pockets of Fun

About my precious Grandma, Inez (Bobbie) Leaton

(I wrote this in 2002 and did send her a copy—now I’m sharing it with the world.)

Grandma Leaton at a Leaton Family Reunion 

You blessed me with a precious security from the time I can remember. As a youngster I sat on your lap in your big old rocking chair for comfort, safety and hugs. When my siblings and cousins fought over your lap, you laughed and invited us all into the chair with you.  (How did you do that?)

Years later when we drove to Oregon from Colorado, I could hardly stand it till I saw my grandma. The second we arrived you snuggled my whole family right into your rocker, even though your lap had shrunk. It made me sad to see how the many surgeries had robbed you of strength and weight, but I felt thrilled to know your arms and voice never changed.

Over the years we made the trips to see you as often as we could. When we started your direction, Gary and the kids talked about your yummy cookies.

Looks so much like Grandma's Rocker 

Me, I wanted you to rock me right on your lap like a little kid. And you did rock me until your frail frame said, “no more.”

That’s when you coined a new phrase, “Oh honey, it’s so good to see you,” you’d say, “I just wish I could tuck you in my apron pocket then we could have long chats in the dark lonely hours.”

One of our last visits, we drove from Nebraska to Oregon often I said to Gary, “You wait, Hon. My Grandma can’t rock me in her lap anymore, but she’ll want to tuck me in her pocket.”

Sure enough, while we sat side by side, you took my hand in both of yours and pulled it into your lap. You leaned close like you might tell me a secret. The others in the room were so busy chatting they didn’t hear you, but I did. You whispered, “Oh honey, it’s so good to see you. I wish I could just tuck you in my pocket. We could have a party in the lonely hours of the night.”

Husband Said Grandma wanted him in her pocket. 

Grandma, your constant love and the invitation for my family to visit anytime gave me a deep satisfied peace. I loved hearing all the stories of your childhood and the family I didn’t live around. Because of you I’ve learned the value of sharing family stories with others.  

It’s impossible for me to measure up to you Grandma, but it’s my desire to be a story telling, hugging, loving Grandma like you.

With my love, Kat (the one you always called Kathy.)

A few years before Grandma died, I wrote this poem for her.

POCKETS OF FUN

“Climb into my pocket.” Grandma whispered in my ear.

We’ll talk the night away when no one else can hear.

Now Grandma’s apron pocket is far too small for me,

Still and all, my heart is warmed by her desire, you see.

Grandma’s hugs and kisses never disappear

I’ve carried them near my heart over all my sixty years.

At ninety-seven I don’t think Grandma knows my name.

Yet I still love to hear her pocket phrase just the same.

As a child she rocked me and taught me not to fear.

And when I cried she wiped away my tears.

Dear Lord, my Grandma lies alone tonight, many miles away,

Please climb into her pocket and comfort her, I pray.

       

Rocker photo from Antique Chairs (1900-1950)                                         

Giggles and Smiles on a Come n Go Snow Day

My newspaper box in winter 2010--one of the worst snowy winters in Omaha. 

Yesterday I drove to work at 6:30 a.m. to work on a project requiring numbers.

Dark morning.

Dry streets.

No problems.

About 8 ish someone walked in the door. 

“Wow, is that a crazy snow.”

Snow?

 I don’t drive in snow.

Well rarely do I drive in snow.

But already hard at work and with an appointment for a haircut 

after work, I stayed put.

Later, when I parked my car in front of Hair Masters a guy yelled at me. 

Scared me, he did.

I looked up—I’m sure my startled look screamed “fear.”

“Isn’t it great,” he said.

“What?”

“The snow.” He pointed at the slush I stood in. “It came and went. I love it.” His grin brought a smile to my face. 

Yes, I like snow that comes and goes. We need moisture, and the slush of the afternoon meant no problems getting around.

Funny how a man’s voice in a parking lot could bring an instant uneasiness, but then in today’s world, one never knows what might happen in a parking lot.

I like the Come n Go Snow, smiles and giggles idea better than being mugged, don’t you?

Today is sunny and I’m definitely looking forward to spring and the beauty and the smell of flowers. Umhum.

Flowers in downtown Eugene, OR mall 

Kat, Still Lionhearted 

IN MY OPINION

Paul and his wife arrived at my house early on a Saturday morning prepared to repair the barrel paper box, the front deck and a couple birdhouses. 

House 2008. Deck holds old fashioned pump fountain and birdhouses. Barrel Paper box to the right of the gate.

After we walked around viewing the needed repairs, Julie said, “In my opinion….”

Not everyone is comfortable voicing their opinion to others—especially when it involves tearing down instead of repairing. But Julie’s opinion carried weight—lots of weight. I walked to the paper box—a cute little barrel with a roof husband put together years ago.

  

“You know I don’t use this anymore.” I pushed on the cute paper box and the whole thing fell over. The base had rotted—yes, the rest is good, but the roof needed repairs. Why not demolish.

It didn’t take long to remove the Old Fashioned Pump. Years before my mom bought it for husband’s birthday. The pump has Beatrice NE printed on it. Husband was born there so of course he wanted the pump. He thought himself super funny when he said, “I just love old things, that’s why Mook is still with me.”

Yes, he tagged me Mook years before. We grew old together like the aged pump out front. When I suffered with vision problems and needed to rest my eyes, husband turned the red pump into a fountain. Soothing sounds to my weary soul—but a few years back something happened to the electrical mechanism and now the once beautiful red treasure just sits peeling paint. 

The deck came down faster than removing the pump. Paul used a sledge hammer, Julie and I packed pieces to the pile out front.  The more Paul took apart, the more I could see we made the right decision. 

 Now what will happen to what once served as a cute deck that held a wonderful old-fashioned pump husband turned into a fountain? I put a FREE sign on the wood, some of it is quite usable—but no takers yet.

Today's photo, Oct 2013, shows the naked house.

No deck.

No birdhouses.

No old fashioned pump.

But then none of it was here when we bought the house nineteen years ago.

And God says to all downsizers:

Don’t panic. I’m with you. 

    There’s no need to fear for I’m your God.
I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you.
    I’ll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you.  

Isaiah 41:10 (msg)

Let Go of the Cards

The weird Phyllis Diller type woman on the front of the card yelled, “I’m having a personal crisis.” It looked like something I might purchase to give to husband. After all, menopause flips women end over end.

But no, the card is from husband to me. Bless his heart.

“Dear Mook,” he wrote. “I understand your chemical struggles creates an imbalance….” He added a lot more and then wrote, “I didn’t mean to cause you any stress this morning. I love you. Just look forward to coming home. Don’t overwork.”

He closed with, “Remember, we will forget what is past and press on to this one thing…to be like Jesus.”

He signed the card, Luke.

Why did I keep it? I don’t remember the situation—but the card is silly-ridiculous and the sentiment he wrote so very sweet. It is amazing we both lived through my menopause.

It’s a good thing husband isn’t here now. The follow up treatment for breast cancer is Tamoxifen. The number one side effect of the drug is hot flashes…worse than I ever had while menopausal. Since I don’t live with anyone and my medical oncologist is wise, she found me medication to tone down the sweats—and I’ve learned that yelling at anyone doesn’t help at all. 

Phyllis didn't always look weird, but neither do I. It's only those moments in time--thankfully, I husband understood--most of the time. 

Phyllis Diller Photo From

Husband's Best Fish Story Ever

With Husband’s terminal diagnosis of Psuedomyxoma Peritonei hanging around us like a death angel waiting to take him away, we decided to fly to Oregon and spend time with family. 

My sister’s husband, Jack, and Husband had been friends since they were about nine years old. What do guys do when life hangs heavy? They have fun.

Husband wanted to teach my Aunt Millie with the best fish story ever. “We can take a photo and I can add the fish,” Jack said.

Jack took several shots to capture the right facial grimace. I caught one of Jack taking the best of the best.

The biggest catch of all time, Husband’s record catch, brought lots of fun to an otherwise mentally and physical taxing time for him.

He gave away laughter then and through the next two years while he struggled with PMP. His laughter helped me through breast cancer, too. 

 Still Lionhearted, Kat 

Another Fish Story

Last week Ken Coreson from Creating Memories 4 DisabledChildren told me about a mentally challenged woman who wanted to fish. Her fishing coach sat at the edge of a lake with her. He explained how to put bait on the hook and then cast the line into the water.

The coach and all who watched hoped for the best—a good day of memories and smiles.

The woman cast her line into the water and sat waiting. I’m not sure if the coach didn’t expect her to catch anything, but he failed to explain how to reel in a fish. When the fisherwoman realized she had a fish, the coach said, “Reel him in.” The woman jumped up with the fishing pole and line trailing over her shoulder and ran away from the lake toward the woods.

All those sitting around the water’s edge felt certain when the fish hit the dock it would get away, but it didn’t.

“Some of the disabled take their catch home to eat,” Ken said. “But not this woman, she took it home and froze it. It doesn’t matter who you are or how many times you stop by her place of residence, she brings out her frozen fish for everyone to admire.” 

This catch was better than a photo and the memories live on.

Again I’m reminded of the fishermen in John 21. They were fishing for food, but think of the memories attached to the day they caught 153 fish and the net didn’t break.

Still Lionhearted, Kat 

A Great Fish Story

For the last six weeks I’ve been building a blog/website for CreatingMemories for Disabled Children Foundation (CM4DCF). 

The photos are my favorites. They tell the stories of the excitement of both disabled children and adults. It doesn’t take a professional photographer to help these people keep their memories alive year after year.

Ken Coreson is the President of the CM4DCFI. He and his wife Patty are my friends from our years of ministry in Enterprise, Oregon. Ken pastored the Nazarene church in Enterprise for several years after we moved to Omaha. It’s a privilege to help them with their new endeavor to help those less fortunate be able to experience hunting and fishing for themselves.

One day Patty fished with a group of the disabled adults from the area. Two men in wheel chairs were wheeled onto the boat. “It is so much fun to watch these guys catch even one small fish," she said. "They get so excited.”   

The men took home a string of fish by the time they finished. When Ken took the fish to the cook, the cook said, “You help them catch them, I’ll clean and cook em.”

My favorite Bible fish story is John 21:10-11

Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish you have just caught.”

Simon Peter climbed aboard and dragged the net ashore. It was full of large fish, 153, but even with so many the net was not torn.

Every time I read the story I think about Peter. Jesus is waiting for him and yet he counted the fish. Peter truly was a real fisherman.

Still Lionhearted, Kat 

Clean for Guests

A clean house for guests is important to me. When I’m hosting a party, I clean. Why I clean cupboards and drawers, I don’t know. But quite often I even dust in places my guests will never see.

This last week I drove my granddaughter crazy with my need to scrub the kitchen floor. First my Swiffer wouldn’t work, I texted her. She wrote, “Grandma, I’ll come early on Thursday.” But in my mind, Thursday being the day of the party was too late.

I bought a new Swiffer thinking I’d get the floor done sooner. The new Swiffer wouldn’t work. I texted and called and left a message for Savannah. She called, “Grandma, if neither of them work, I have a feeling it isn’t the Swiffer, it’s the operator.”

When I complained to my daughter she said, “Did you change the batteries?” 

Batteries? Who knew a Swiffer used batteries. I looked all over the new one and didn’t see anywhere it explained the use of batteries or how to install them. Irritated I couldn’t figure this out for myself and husband is having fun in heaven, I texted Savannah again. She didn’t budge on coming sooner. I sighed. Complained and finally my son-in-law arrived to fix the Swiffer.

I scrubbed the floor, almost embarrassed about my obsessing over such a little thing. The day of the party arrived, I relaxed. Then only minutes before guests were to arrive, the sweet hounds living with me, Snookie (Savannah’s dog) and Paddy, ran outside and back inside. The slight mist helped them leave a trail of the greatest footprints ever across my kitchen floor.

If anyone noticed besides me, they didn’t say a thing. We had a great party, muddy footprints and all.

                                           Still Lionhearted, Kat

Fun Title—Joyful Widow

I’ve learned over the past three years, every smile I give away is a gift to me. If I can find laughter in anything, I’m healthier. A few days ago I talked with my sister. Again she told me her internet doesn’t work.

“You need to get that fixed, Karla. I have a new website titled: “From the Eyes of a Joyful Widow.”

“Are you glad Gary’s gone or what?” She giggled like a little kid.

“Smarty. No, I’m not glad Husband is gone. I’m happier in life than in the past three years. I’ve come to a place of accepting singlehood.”

We talked for awhile about life and death. After I hung up I too giggled at her reaction to my clever title. I don’t take credit for the new name. When Lee Warren helped me understand more about blogging he suggested the title. Granddaughter Savannah helped with the banner. 

It doesn’t matter where the name originated, I like it. I hope my everyday presence at work, home and in the grocery store says “Joyful Widow.”

Years ago I wrote a newspaper column called “Sunshine and Smiles,” it’s still my desire to bring more smiles to everyday life.

A chuckle here. A Chuckle there.

Still Lionhearted, Kat

Ever Lose or Misplace Precious Items

I’ve lost so many things lately. On my way to the eye doctor I stopped at Bed Bath and Beyond—I wanted a small timer to help remind me to use eye drops. Found the cute timer, purchased two and then couldn’t find my keys.

After checking the car (no keys in ignition), I asked at customer service (no keys there), I walked my path through the store (no keys found) made my way to the front. A young lady hung my bright red lanyard in the air. “Are these yours?”

“Yes.”

I’m not so fortunate with my camera 

and debit card—both used on November 25^th—they haven’t reappeared. I’ve checked pockets, been on my knees, used a flashlight under seats in the car—nothing.

 Every day I checked to make sure no one used my card—finally gave up and cancelled it. My frustration—I’m not sure what I have that card attached to—maybe my Amazon account or pay pal.

I do have another camera, but I liked my compact blue baby. Besides the photos from the “Hanging of the Greens” service are on there.

In the scheme of life these are truly not problems. I’m alive, well, and the bank cancelled the one card and issued another. The minor irritants aren’t worth losing sleep over. I think my greatest concern is I don’t want anyone to think I’m old and forgetful.

The benefit of misplacing anything is how much straightening, rearranging, purse cleaning, desk organizing and all the cleansing that goes along with the proverbial hunt. Do you agree?

Still Lionhearted