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

Where is Your Neighbor?

Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody,

I think that is a much greater hunger,

a much greater poverty than a person who has nothing to eat.

~Mother Teresa

Police in Worcester, Massachusetts, made a gruesome discover in October, 1993: They found a woman dead on her kitchen floor. What made the discovery horrific was the fact that she had been lying there for four years. Transactions on her bank account had ended in 1989. Police speculated that she died in 1989 of natural causes. She would have been 73 years old at that time.*

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   

Gladys Merek My Special Neighbor

Great Neighbor Gladys Merek and Me

We moved into our home on a rainy November day. In only a few weeks we were mired in snow. Husband and I weren’t used to the early wet, heavy snowfall. It looked like winter might go on forever.

On one of those nasty, knee-deep snowy days, we met Bob—about 82 at the time. We later learned he’d survived a bout with cancer and a heart attack, but still he shoveled snow up the alley between our houses. Husband and I grabbed shovels and started helping and later, Gladys called us all in for coffee. 

When I realized Gladys suffered from the winter ‘blahs’ I wrote funny poems for her. She enjoyed them and they brought a smile to Bob’s face, too. Somehow their smiles warmed my mired-in-winter- feeling-gloomy heart.

Both Gladys and Bob are gone now, but recently I read those old poems and today I found one of my last photos of Gladys. Her daughter surprised her with a visit to one of my book signings at Barnes and Noble—she was near 90 at the time. What a delightful surprise for both of us.   

There are new people living in Gladys and Bob’s home now, they are nice and have four children. But my memories of Gladys are special. No one can fill that ‘Gladys’ spot in my heart. 

Still Lionhearted, Kat 

Most Easterly Neighbor

Ethel, My most Easterly Neighbor

Neighbors are a gift to unwrap 
if we have the courage to knock on the door.

When we moved into our home eighteen years ago, a young couple with three kids lived next door. We soon learned the parents didn’t want new friendships—they were rude, turning away when either of us tried to speak to them. But the children seemed starved for friendships.

Over the four years they lived next door, the kids were in our house many times. The father had problems. The police were at the house too often for comfort. Then one night the family moved out.  

Husband and I prayed for our new neighbor. Then Ethel moved in.

A week later I took her a welcome gift. She didn’t invite me in. She didn’t seem friendly, but Husband encouraged me to visit again. And I did.

At Christmas I took her fruit and a Bible. She apologized for being rude, said she had never had a neighborly neighbor before. I told her she reminded us of my mother in Oregon. We exchanged emails that day.

Not to be nosy, but to make sure she didn’t have problems, I emailed her daily. Her replies let me know she was fine. On one of her emails she signed it, “Your Most Easterly Neighbor.” I replied with a picture of bucking horses signed, “From Kat in the West.”

When Ethel died, I realized how her independence, her humor, and her friendship enriched my life. I always thought I helped her—it turned out the other way around. 

For the whole law can be summed up in this one command:

“Love your neighbor as yourself.” Galatians 5:14 (nlt)

Still Lionhearted, Kat

Where Do We Learn the Art of Caregiving?

Mom, age 86, my caregiver through
breast cancer. Loving her rootbeer
and being able to hear TV clearly. 2010

Grudge no expense—

yield to no opposition—

forget fatigue—

till, by the strength of prayer and sacrifice,

the spirit of love shall have overcome.

~Marie Weston Chapman

Thousands of people attend college to become a caregiver. Not me, I learned the “art of caregiving” from my mom.

When my Uncle Larry’s wife died in a car accident, she left behind 5 children under the age of five. Mom left Dad and me in charge of my younger siblings and she drove a hundred miles south to stay with my uncle and help with his kids.

When a limb fell from a tree and hit my Uncle Tommy in the head no one expected him to live, but he did. He suffered massive brain damage. Mom volunteered to stay with Aunt Elnora and help Uncle Tommy recover—a real challenge for both my aunt and my mom. I remember Mom talking about how she helped teach him to count again—she played cards with him for hours.

When my grandfather struggled with emphysema, Mom often drove the hundred miles south and stayed with Grandma and Grandpa. My grandmother didn’t drive.  Mom helped with grocery shopping and doctors visits—she also became good company for both of them.

When mom didn’t have a relative to take care of, she often visited the shut-in up the road or sent plates of food and homemade bread to those who were too sick to take care of the family.  

And Dad, well that’s another story.

Still Lionhearted, Kat