Superpower Levi

He wasn't just any dog; he had a superpower. I was not an animal lover (my husband is) and I thought I could live the rest of my days without a dog. No dog fur to vacuum, no vet bills, and grocery store trips without having to purchase dog chow suited me. Then along came Levi, a mahogany boxer puppy with white paws who had a penchant for ice cubes. He "sang"—soulful songs—whenever my husband played the harmonica (badly). If anyone peeled an orange, he appeared, begging for a slice. He nuzzled close beside me when I cried over the loss of my brother's dog. He had the ability to look at me with his dark brown eyes as though he could see into my soul.

He discovered what worked and that was to put his head on my lap when the clock chimed 6 PM---—his way of reminding me that it was dinner time. I’d stop what I was doing and fill his bowl as he’d twirl in circles--—his happy dance.

The seizures were the start of his decline; I sat with him on the sofa and doubted I could live without him. He died on a December morning even though I begged him not to leave us.

Levi transformed me into an animal lover; that was his superpower. When I met our new puppy for the first time I was able to embrace her without a moment's hesitation. I scooped her into my arms and held her against my heart.

Levi trained me well.

Make it Come to Life : Prologue to a memoir

A view from a train window can kick start a fascinating story. Look what it did for Walt Disney. On a journey from Manhattan to Hollywood in 1928, Walt looked out his window as large towns gave way to wheat and corn fields. And there, under an apple tree, Mickey Mouse showed up. Perhaps Mickey waved a white-gloved hand, or maybe he just smiled. Walt captured him on a sketch pad and the stories began. Walt’s gone now, but his cartoon mouse has traveled all over the world and lives forever.

Although I grew up on trains in Osaka, Japan, my creations weren’t the kinds you sketch, but printed words. I looked out the windows and instead of a mouse, four teens appeared on a boat. They needed an ocean to take them to a remote tropical island where they would get lost, build campfires at night, eat mangos the size of footballs, and have fascinating adventures with the natives. I put them in a rowboat (at age eleven I was not the smartest seafarer which meant neither were my characters) and let a storm fester with just enough wind for their vessel to wash against the shoreline of the island. I named the island Blue Hama (I suppose I didn’t have the knack for good names at age eleven either).

Later, when I had crushes on boys with names like Ethan and Harold, I looked out the window as trains took me to and from school, and saw handsome boys on bicycles near parks where they met pretty girls named Belinda, Camithia, and Sylviana. I bought spiral notebooks at the local stationer’s near my home in Awaji, knowing that each notebook would be the place where a best seller would be brought to life and I’d be rich and famous before I turned twenty.

Each train ride from Awaji to Karasuma—the station closest to my international school—took forty-seven minutes. That’s a lot of time to peer out of windows. In the afternoons, the train was less-crowded and when I got to sit down, I lured my characters, bringing them from outside where they began along the tracks, to inside the pages of my notebooks. I gave them words, obstacles to conquer, and lots of love in their hearts.

If Walt and I had ever crossed paths, or if we’d been seated on the same train, he might have used his pencil to draw me as a kid. Two blond ponytails sticking out from just below my ears, plaid skirt, red tights that bagged around my ankles by the time school got out, and a pair of black patent-leather shoes that were magnets for doggy poop. In my hand would be a yellow number 2 pencil sans an eraser on the end because erasers never last the lifetime of pencils. The pencil would be scratching out my messy words (I had what was known back then as sloppy penmanship) over the lined notebook’s pages, and my ears, although not as prominent as Mickey’s, would be stretched to listen for the conductor’s announcement of my train station.

I spent my childhood on trains. And when I wasn’t on one, I was running to catch one or if I missed it, waiting for the next one on the platform.

Every parent has some story they repeat and repeat, passing it onto their offspring. That’s how those tales of suffering get handed down like certain unwanted family heirlooms: “I had to walk to school in the snow.” “I had to walk up hill in the snow both ways.” “I had to walk in the snow both ways with no shoes.” Mine is: “I had to ride the train to school every day for forty-seven minutes. And that was just one way!” And like any other parent, I’m always subject to the indifferent attitudes my children display when my story is told.

When the Amtrak thundered over the track that day in 1996, I no longer rode the train to school. I was a grown woman of 35 with three of my own children. My middle child, Daniel, aged three, was by my side as we watched the silver cars streaked with red, white, and blue. One after another, after another, racing along, going somewhere. We stood, silent, as one does during the singing of the national anthem or during a prayer. The track was just beyond the slide and swings and the shade of the massive oak tree where we’d had a picnic lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because those are the easiest for moms to make.

The sound of a train has always tugged at the wild hope chord of my heart. A train symbolizes a way toward a happy destination, but more—the actual journey, looking out the window, passing places you’ve never set foot in, capturing vistas that are quaint, majestic, or even spiritual.

Daniel seemed to understand my need for reverence, he paused from playing with Caleb and tickling his baby brother Ben to be captivated with me.

But once the train was out of sight, he left me for the slide. He climbed up the ladder and at the fourth rung, stopped. “Where is the train going?” he asked.

“To the next station.”

But my reply didn’t seem enough for my son. “Where is the next station?”

I know that Moms are supposed to have all the answers, it comes in a kit they hand you at the hospital after delivery, soon after the umbilical cord is cut. Since the park was just miles from the state capital, I offered a guess and said, “Raleigh.”

“The train’s going to Raleigh?”

Why not? “Yeah.”

“Where’s Raleigh?” Daniel asked.

“Oh, about two miles from here.”

Satisfied with my answer, Daniel continued his climb to the top of the slide. From there he lifted a hand from the railing to wave at me. Just as my motherly instincts kicked in, and with them, the familiar phrase that all moms are taught to say, “Be careful!” Daniel said, “Bye, Mommy! I’m going to Raleigh.” And down he slid, his blond hair flying with the speed of an oncoming train. At the base of the slide sat his friend Caleb, whom Daniel managed to only nick with his shoe. “Sorry, Paleb,” Daniel apologized.

Caleb, unalarmed, continued drawing in the sand with two sticks, one in each hand, swirling them around as though stirring a pot of stew.

It was April, a warm and sunny Southern day. Baby Benny played in his stroller, his chubby hands wrapped around a stuffed blue dog, one that Daniel let him borrow. We often came to the IBM Park on clear days because kids and the outdoors are a freeing combination and moms should get away from houses that need cleaning. Everyone is entitled to some kind of liberation. On days when I babysat Caleb so that his mother, Susan, could work on her music duties at our church, he came with us. Susan packed him lunches in brown paper bags—chocolate pudding cups with peel-away lids, fat ham sandwiches, fruit gummies, and homemade cookies.

“You want that? How about this? Paleb, are you gonna eat this?” Daniel would sort through Caleb’s bag, pulling each item out, shaking it in front of his friend’s face, and asking. That which his friend did not want, Daniel, happily indulged.

They tell you in the Mom’s Kit that your children will always prefer the lunch of another child. Something to do with the grass being greener on the other side of the fence, which boils down to other moms are cooler because they know what kids really like. Sometimes, when I encouraged him, Caleb ate his ham sandwiches. Daniel eyed those sandwiches and every bite Caleb took as he solemnly chewed his own peanut butter and jelly. I eyed those sandwiches, too. Mother and son wishing we had a mom like Susan to make us lunch.

About three weeks later, when a train whistle sounded and a freight train clamored past us in the park—oil cars, refrigerated cars, a car with graffiti—Daniel waited until the caboose was only a dot on the landscape. Then, turning to me where I sat on the grass with Benny who was getting sand in between his bare toes, Daniel said, “The train’s going to Raleigh.”

I smiled. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes. Raleigh is the next station.”

Years later—eighteen to be exact—I was seated in my grandma Stubbs’ mauve recliner, one I had inherited after her death. I looked through old photographs, color prints that mark time. It was a parade of matte and glossy visits—Easters with baskets bigger than my children, the Christmas we got the puppy, birthday cakes decorated with thick butter cream icing, our first night in the new house on Monticello—all made their appearances, chronicling the passage of the years. Rachel, Ben and Liz had all walked in and out and back in the new house many times again and again, even the puppy that grew into a senile beagle, made her way through and out the doggie door. But there would be one person who would never walk through the laundry room door inside or out. No one would ever see his smile or hear his laughter. He was gone, and yet he was everywhere. He was in every story we remembered and told.

The afternoon in my living room of remembering gave into the evening. Through the winter stillness, a train whistle sang—low, mellow, permeating the air. I didn’t stand, but my whole being was attentive until the song turned into only a murmur, as I envisioned its journey down the familiar tracks, tracks I could not see, but knew too well.

“Where is it going?”

Oh, Daniel, you know.

“The train’s going to Raleigh.”

And back again. And even beyond. There is so much to be discovered.

The story was already there, I just had to find the best way to make it come to life.

Reflecting in the Silence

Recently I read two news articles. One was about being busy and the other was about a few moments of silence used to reflect. The busy article spoke on how we equate busy with important. People say they are busy and that makes them feel that their lives are filled and valued. I decided not to call myself busy years ago. I am not important and so I omitted describing myself as busy even at Christmas when our wood-working laser business fulfills hundreds of orders for last minute shoppers.

The other news piece I read had to do with the need for silence. Governor Ron DeSantis asked that in his state of Florida school children be given a few moments of silence at the start of the school day. He feels that kids need some time to reflect in quiet. There are no guidelines for what those moments are to be used for, no mandates of prayer or meditation. (If there had been a time of silence at the beginning of the school day when I was a child, I would have probably used the time to pray for math class to be canceled. Forever.)

Like the Governor I have felt my need for quiet. Away from laptops, cell phones, the TV, and even conversations. Just the solitude for the sake of seeing what it will unveil for me.

These days the cemetery is where I go to experience that much-needed break from the world. I load up the Jeep with pens and notebooks. Sometimes I stop at the gas station along the way and pick up a cup of coffee.

The cemetery, snuggled between Durham and Orange Counties, isn't far from my house. Once I was instantly greeted by a gaggle of Canadian Geese. They walked aimlessly in circles, some cackled by the grave markers, some drifted away from the group. I followed the wayward noisey ones, and took a photo. When I turned my back to head to my Jeep for my notebook and pen, I heard a loud cry. Those discombobulated geese had taken off into the air in a formed V-line. One second they had appeared helpless and confused and then in the next, they lifted wings and soared. They had a purpose. I watched them sail into the autumn sky---making their geese sounds as they flew---until they were out of sight.

After they left, the cemetery was still again. I sat by my son Daniel's grave and stretched my legs. In the silence I thought of how over the years I'd been wandering, uneasy, perhaps making sounds like cackling after Daniel died. But through moments of silence and a desire propelled by his memory, I came to find what I wanted, and what I needed, and that was purpose.

In the early days of monumental grief, I reverted to what I had done as a child----I wrote. I penned poems and articles and how-to grow through grief and loss pieces. I came up with my own psalms of woe. On scraps of paper I wrote book ideas. Some of my work was published. Most of it was too emotional and flawed and didn't need to see the light of day. In the moments of reflection (some silent, many with tears), my spirit called out to God. My wrestling propelled me toward healing.

And none of it could have been done without participating in those bouts of silent contemplation. What is most important to me, especially as I get older, is not filling my days with activities and events, but in making the time for the simplicity of quiet. I need my treks to the cemetery. From these silent experiences, my spirit gains strength and I can hear life calling me to joy.

Cooking With Author Linda Rondeau

Today I welcome author Linda Rondeau to the Patchwork Quilt Blog. Hello, Linda! She has a recipe for us and a book to read. Let's start with the recipe.

MAC SOUP

Linda says: Since childhood, this has been my son’s favorite meal. Though he is now 48, he still asks me to make this for him whenever he visits us or we visit him. I’ve given his wife the recipe, but he still likes me to make it for him. Maybe the aromas send him back to those cold winter days when Mac Soup was a must. No matter how old I get, I’m happy to do these little things for my now mature children. There may come a day, when I won’t remember how or am too feeble to make MAC SOUP. So during these twilight years, I will never refuse for as long as I’m able.

INGREDIENTS

1 lb. ground beef

1 small box elbow macaroni

6-8 cubes beef bouillon (according to taste … may use reduced sodium if needed)

1 large can tomato juice or V8 juice

Suggested seasonings: onion salt or minced onions, seasoned salt, black pepper, red pepper, tabasco sauce (go easy), should have a little “kick” when you take a trial taste

1. Brown ground beef, drain, and set aside.

2. Dissolve bouillon cubes in 1 cup boiling water (you can use instant bouillon if you prefer).

3. Cook elbow macaroni according to directions on the box. Drain. Set aside.

4. Put tomato juice or V8 juice into a large pot. Add ground beef, bouillon, and macaroni.

5. Heat to slow boil.

6. Season to taste, simmer for about five to ten minutes to allow seasoning to blend.

ABOUT WHO PUT THE VINEGAR IN THE SALT?

"Linda has hit a home run once again! Her book, Who Put the Vinegar in the Salt? is filled with wisdom, encouragement, and the power found in God's Word. This book is oh so much more than shaking the salt shaker. It is about being wrapped up, tied up, and tangled up in Jesus. It truly makes the reader evaluate where they are and where they wantto be. Linda shoots straight from the hip to touch our heart!" ~ TammyWhitehurst.com

The world offers much beneficial self-help advice. Shouldn’t the Christian seek to be the best possible version of themselves?

Aren’t we supposed to be good people?

Why not look to the world to solve life’s problems?

Because God has called us to be salt.

While there is much good to be found, like vinegar, the world’s best advice falls short of God’s recipe to live a victorious Christian life.

In a down-home, friendly manner, the author provides analogies, inspirational stories, anecdotes, a wealth of Scripture, and optional study guides for both individuals and groups, inviting the believer to discover God’s desires for his salt.

Buy Linda's newest book here.

ABOUT LINDA WOOD RONDEAU

By the author of I Prayed for Patience, God Gave Me Children.

A veteran social worker, Linda Wood Rondeau’s varied church experience and professional career affords a unique perspective into the Christian life. When not writing or speaking, she enjoys the occasional round of golf, visiting museums, and taking walks with her best friend in life, her husband of over forty years. The couple resides in Hagerstown, Maryland where both are active in their local church. Readers may learn more about the author, read her blog, or sign up for her newsletter by visiting www.lindarondeau.com.

You can connect with Linda on these Social Media Links:

Facebook

Goodreads

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Bookbub

Making Water Delicious!

So . . . we are told to drink water. Now I never had a problem with that. I liked water and preferred it at meals over soda or iced tea. Even when my cousin's wife called it a boring drink, I, as a college sophomore, was not bothered by her words. Drinking water with food made sense to me. I filled my glass in the college cafeteria.

Fast forward to me now. I still like water and order it with food whenever I eat out. But somewhere along the line, I started to drink less of it at home. Was I starting to find it boring?

At the grocery stores I purchased no-calorie sparkling water and loved that it came in a variety of flavors. There are many brands that have this type of drink, and if you are okay with the carbonated-feel to the beverages, lemon and lime Bubly or cranberry La Croix are refreshing and fun, although over-priced (my opinion).

The other night I read two pieces about the value of drinking water. In a book about turning 60 it said to drink according to your body weight. Take you weight and divide it in half. Then drink an ounce for every pound (so half your weight). If you weigh 120 pounds, drink 60 ounces of water per day. Whew! To me that seems like a lot of water. I'm happy if a drink 24 ounces a day.

The U.S. National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine has decided that an adequate daily fluid intake is: About 15.5 cups (3.7 liters) of fluids a day for men. About 11.5 cups (2.7 liters) of fluids a day for women. No mention of your weight there.

June's issue of Better Homes and Gardens has a small piece about drinking water. It includes how to add herbs and fruit to your water glass. Now that piqued my interest because, over the recent years, I have been doing this. I started with slices of lemon and limes. Now I drink more water if the water has a little bit of flavor to it.

Pizzaz added to my glass makes for great sips. Sliced lemons and limes add susbtance as well as flavor. I like ginger hot tea, so I thought I should add some ginger root. I currently have a pitcher I keep in the fridge with not only sliced lemons, but peeled ginger root. I really like the subtle flavor the ginger adds. I have mint in my garden and rosemary. I sometimes add those to my water pitcher. Sliced cucumbers also create a nice flavor. So many possibilities!

So happy water-drinking! Here's to staying hydrated!

The Memories We Cherish

After my son Daniel died at age four, I asked family and friends to send their memories for a memory album I created. Here's one from my Dad sent from Japan where he and Mom were missionaries for 38 years.

It doesn't take long to write a memory of a loved one. Write one to cherish and don't hesitate to ask others to write memories of their own.

Spring From the Eyes and Nose of a Puppy

I turned 60 this January and aside from the few minutes it takes to get out of bed to feel fully functional each morning, I consider myself healthy. However, with the shutdown/lockdown that we continue to face, I find myself feeling a bit less healthy. I want to rip off my mask; I want to jump on the direct flight from Raleigh-Durham to Vegas like Carl and I used to (without masks); I want to go back to church and stand with the congregation and sing----even if my voice is off-key. I want to have friends in my home and make dinners with pasta and lots of cheese.

I stop from my whining because someone is at my knee. It's my seven-month-old puppy, Bella, who has brought a squirrel toy to me and wants me to play. I take the toy and toss it across the hardwood. She chases after it, stops, grabs it with her mouth, and races back to me. We go outside into the sunshine where I toss a tennis ball and she follows its path along the driveway, picks it up, and returns to me. She drops the ball and jumps into a pile of raked leaves we keep for her to play in (yes, it's spring and yes, we still have fallen leaves from the 40+ trees on our property). She looks at me with her beautiful expressive face and then makes a bed inside the pile.

When the first iris bloomed---the first iris Bella had even seen----she introduced herself to it. She was curious and cautious. Her approach to the iris made me think about trying new things, about wonder, about curiosity. I felt that perhaps in a season of dismal (not only the continuing pandemic but the excessive government spending, our southern border crisis, etc. and etc.) it was time to take a break from the daily news and see the world through the eyes of a puppy.

I walk around the yard and take photos of the flowers, and then take a few of one of our neighbor's trees with the large pink blooms. I breathe in the fresh warm air and note the blue in the sky. Bella skips over to me and I watch her nose sniff scents that I cannot smell. "It’s been estimated that dogs can smell anywhere from 1,000 to 10,000 times better than people," writes Lynn Buzhardt, DVM. "Dogs also have a great homing instinct that depends on their ability to smell. Since dogs move their nostrils independently, they can determine the direction of an odor and use their sense of smell like a compass."

I sit on the back stoop with Bella, together--she with her compass-nose twitching in the air, and me with my camera----focused on the magnitude of creation supplied by our Creator. All of this new life for us to take in. Every year I have enjoyed the season through color, touch, smell, and that sense that causes me to say: With so much beauty, how can life not be good?

As Bella snifs my hand and rests against me, my prayer is: Don't let me be so bogged down by the way things are (things that I cannot control) that I miss the wonder and beauty of my 60th spring.