Uncategorized – Page 4 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

More Cat Chat

I just returned from another trip to Pennsylvania. This time, since I did not stay in my cousin’s house, as it is now empty (of inanimate objects and CATS!) Instead, I stayed with some friends of hers, Cathy and Jim. Cathy and Jim have been wonderful in supporting me through this grief and administrative process. I call them my “guardian angels on the ground,” because they have done so much that can only be done actually on site. I can never thank them enough. Having to make a second trip in less than two months, on top of the expenses associated with the cremation and funeral, was more of a financial stretch than was completely comfortable for me. It was a relief not to have to pay for a hotel. Besides, they were great, comforting company.

They also have cats. I went from living in a house with three cats to living in a house with five cats. It was much easier in my new friends’ house than in my cousin’s house, despite the increase in feline population. For one thing, there was more space so the cat per square foot ratio was probably lower. Besides, one of the cats lived solely in the garage. Also, my friends’ house was considerably better maintained to ensure a more equitable balance between human and cat comfort. My cousin’s house was all about the cats. Still, my new found cat allergy raised its furry little head. My sinuses were raging at me and are still not too happy. Despite my level of physical discomfort, I do have to say I enjoyed these cats. I still don’t want a cat, but I better understand the appeal.

The cats are called Abigail Cynthia Louise (Cathy takes naming her cats very seriously), Harmony Grace, Jackson Bean, Jerry, and Joey. They each have their own personality .I did not get to know Joey too well, as he is the one that lives in the garage. I only saw him once during my stay, although I was aware of his presence every time I stepped out into the garage to go to the refrigerator. I will let you guess which of my senses revealed his existence to me. I’ll just say he is a litter box free spirit.

I saw Jerry frequently. It would have been hard not to see him, as he takes up a fair amount of real estate wherever he is. He is solidly built, plus covered in long hair which increases his bulk. I have never seen a completely black cat as fluffy as Jerry. Cathy and Jim call him Jer-Bear, which is fitting. I am sure there are black bear cubs not quite as large as he is. Jerry is a hand-me-down cat from Cathy and Jim’s daughter. I cannot say a word. I did the same thing to my parents. I kept a cat named Macavity for over a year in my first apartment. The problem was that the apartment complex did not permit pets. When I got busted, Macavity went to live with my parents and their two basset hounds in a 27-foot travel trailer. Macavity was not best pleased. In fact, he pretty much lived on my mother’s bed. The basset hounds were either too short or too stupid to get to him there, Maybe both. So I get how Cathy and Jim became Jerry’s foster parents, despite already being beset with many cats of their own. Jerry is a catish cat. He tolerated me and would even deign to allow me to pet him, but he wasn’t making any overtures on his own.

I only saw Abigail Cynthia Louise once or twice. She lives in Cathy and Jim’s bedroom, as she is not really able to fend for herself or hold her own with the other cats. Poor Abby is a geriatric cat, which kind of makes her my soul mate in an uncomfortable sort of way. She is visibly more worn and ricketier than the other cats. The vet says that Abby suffers from feline senility. She has an active internal world, to which she reacts randomly, frequently, and loudly. There is very little that is as unsettling as Abby’s strange, pitiful yowling when she cries out in reaction to something we cannot see or hear. It is kind of heartbreaking. I guess it can also be sleep depriving. I did not hear her at night, but Cathy says she will often begin to cry for no apparent reason in the wee hours. It is a sound that cannot be ignored; it demands response. It can also be disturbing when it happens during the day. Jim works from home. He works from the bedroom. His coworkers know Abby’s voice. It is a good thing Abby has people who love her and take care of her so well. I hope, in my uncomfortable soul mate sort of way, that I have someone who takes such good care of me when I reach Abby’s stage of life.

Harmony Grace and I got along just fine, since I am over the age of reason. Apparently, Harmony is not a fan of children and gets a kick out of terrorizing Cathy and Jim’s grandkids. This is clearly a problem, since there are a number of young grandchildren frequenting the home. “Harmony Grace” is a bit of a misnomer in that sense. Her relationship with children is neither harmonious nor graceful. She is a sweet-looking, petite, perfectly formed, beautiful cat. Looks, as well as names, can be deceiving. However, as I said, since I am well past the childhood phase, Harmony Grace was fine with me. She was sociable and curious enough to investigate me when I arrived. Later, while she did not rush to my side, she was more than happy to permit me to sit beside her and pet her when I plopped myself onto her sofa to watch television.

Yes, I could see the appeal of all these cats. However, it was Jackson Bean who won the feline space in my heart. Jack was a dogish kind of cat. He immediately fell in love with me with the devotion of a Labrador retriever. He ran to the front door to greet me whenever I arrived at the house. He faithfully followed me around from room to room. He sidled up to me any time I was in the house, aggressively butting his head under my hand to insist that I pet him. He jumped onto a dining chair next to me each morning to watch companionably while I ate breakfast. He enjoyed lying beside me on the couch while I stroked him. The last night I was there, I sat on the sofa rubbing his neck and shoulders. After leaning into the massage for a while, he twisted his body over and inched his way closer to me, exposing his underside. I have never met a cat who enjoyed a belly rub, so I did not take his maneuver as an invitation. However, Jackson then butted my hand with his head and pushed my fingers towards his chest with a soft furry paw. I began rubbing him around the neck and chest area. The animal went into a pleasure coma. He went completely limp except for his two front legs, which were jutting off the edge of the sofa. As he continued to enjoy the experience, those two legs tightened until they were so rigid, they did not even look like they were part of the same cat body. He curled his paws into a hook-like shape. Those two appendages looked like furry crochet needles. I went to bed thinking that Jackson was a very weird, but very satisfying feline. The experience even made me wonder if I should try for a second career as a lion tamer.

I really do not know why I just wrote 1300 words about cats. Maybe I am becoming a cat lady. Or… in the midst of all the chaos, conflict, and grief that accompanied my two trips to Pennsylvania, maybe it just feels safer to talk about cats than anything else.

So, what do you think? Am I becoming a cat lady? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Meow!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Cat-astrophe Averted!

I mentioned that I recently had to take an unplanned, emergency trip to Pennsylvania. I am getting ready to return to the Keystone State in a few days. I did not speak to the reason for these trips. In April, I planned a trip to visit my cousin Ann in Pennsylvania this month. Unfortunately, I received a call at the end of May that Ann experienced several critical medical events, so I booked a flight and headed north. She passed away on June 1. I spent ten days in Pennsylvania saying good-bye, collaborating with medical staff and her local friends to enable her to pass peacefully into God’s kingdom, planning for her cremation and funeral, and starting the process of managing her home and finances. I am the executrix of the will.

Ann was a very special cousin to me. I was born when she was eight or nine years old, and we lived in the same small town until I was five. I was Ann’s live baby doll throughout my toddler years. Even when my family moved across the country, we stayed closely connected to Ann and her family. Her mother was my mother’s only sibling. There were visits back and forth and regular, consistent communication. Even as adults, Ann and I were tied together in a special way. We were very different, and we were both keenly aware of those differences, but we respected and admired a lot about each other. The bottom line is that we understood and empathized with each other, even if we did not always agree with each other’s choices. Also, she was my last connection to my mother’s family.

Although we were close and did communicate, I had not seen Ann in six years or so. Her health made it difficult for her to travel. I planned the trip to Pennsylvania because I felt it had been way too long since we had seen each other. Her health and emotional state were rocky. She was declining significantly. She said something when I called to suggest I visit which probably echoed a sad, lonely thought swimming around in my mind that I didn’t want to catch. She said that it would be very nice to see me because she would really like to see at least one of her cousins before she died. Her parents and her brother were dead. My parents and brother have passed. I know she has cousins on her father’s side, but I don’t know them, and I don’t know what relationships she had with them. In short, except for friends and me, I think she was pretty much alone.

There is a lot more I could say about Ann, the family history, our relationship, her end-of-life journey, the challenges I faced in Pennsylvania, and any number of lessons I learned because of this experience. I am not going to say much, though. First, it feels wrong to tell Ann’s story because she was very private and internal. Nobody, including me, truly knows that story. Mostly, though, I do not feel rooted and stable enough in my feelings to share them. Also, I do not think my writing skills are adequate to explain the complicated nature of the situation, personalities, and challenges tied up in this ordinary disaster. Honestly, I am not sure William Shakespeare’s writing skills would be adequate to explain this set of circumstances.

There is one aspect of this experience that I do feel comfortable sharing. The cat-astrophe.

Ann was a super independent person, even when her health declined to the point that she needed help to manage her activities of daily living. As I mentioned, she was rather alone in the world. In some ways, she preferred being alone in the world. She lived on her own. She made her own choices. She kept her internal world private.

On the other hand, she was not quite alone. At various points in the past seven years, she adopted three cats. Although I am relatively certain the cats are not on the deed to the house, they did own the house. It was a lot of cat for a one thousand square foot house. There was no room, piece of furniture, or surface that Ann had not adapted to accommodate the cats’ every whim. They were her heart.

The cats’ names are Ginger, Princess, and Velcro… because, well, they are. Ginger is the color of gingerbread made with light molasses. Princess is one and behaves like one. Velcro never lets you get further away than she can touch with one soft, furry outstretched paw when you are in the house. They are good kitties… sweet and affectionate. Unfortunately, the world has a surplus of good, sweet, affectionate kitties. Finding new homes for these lonely, traumatized cats was never an easy task.

I am more of a dog person than a cat person, but I have nothing against cats. In fact, I like them. However, I had no interest in transporting three cats from Pennsylvania to Florida. Also, I never suspected I was allergic to cats, but, after living with three of them for ten days, it was clear that my respiratory system does not take kindly to felines. Besides, I am sure Max would have apoplexy if I had come home with cats. He worries about a dog scratching up the television set. I dismiss this concern, but I have to say I would bet money that the television would not last a single day with three cats climbing all over the place.

Still, these are sweet cats. My gut collapsed at the idea of taking them to a shelter. As Ann’s cousin, I could not imagine a scenario in which I did not provide a good home for “the girls.” Several of Ann’s friends, all of whom had multiple animals of their own, were searching for new homes. More than once, we thought the cats were settled, only to be disappointed. Finally, a friend of Ann’s found a home for Ginger. We tried to entice her new Dad to take at least one more, but he stayed firm. That left Princess and Velcro cowering in the corners of the ever-emptying house. Eventually, all that was left in the house was the cats, two cat towers twice my size, a couple of cat beds, and the table and chairs that constituted the “cat buffet” where Princess and Velcro noshed all day. More than a month after Ann died, one of Ann’s friends who has been my “on the ground guardian angel” and I decided that it was time to make a decision. We had both been looking into cat rescue organizations and the friend found one that would take the two remaining cats. It was a solution that was leaving both of us in tears, but I also knew something had to give. The cats were becoming increasingly stressed as their home dismantled before their eyes. I was becoming increasingly stressed because I had no idea what to do or when to do it, since the house needs to be sold. My guardian angel was ready to bring the cats to the rescue on 7/3.

The night before, said guardian angel got a call. She needed to be at Ann’s house in ten minutes because the friend who had been feeding the cats had found someone who wanted to meet them with the intent of adopting them. Guardian angel gave her wings a shake and VAROOMED over to meet the potential new cat parents. The couple spent about an hour with the kitties and the guardian angel, and everyone was happy for the cats to go to a new, loving home. They all agreed that the couple would go home and arrange the house to accommodate their new furbabies and would come back the next afternoon to get the girls.

I heard about this the next day. I was excited, but not too excited. I had heard the “we have a home for the cats” story before and did not want my hopes dashed once more. Blessedly, however, the couple came for the cats, the cat trees, and all the cat-related accoutrements as scheduled. Princess and Velcro are now living happily in a home as part of a herd of cats. Not my idea of a good time, but apparently it is theirs. And my idea of a good time ABSOLUTELY includes the happiness of all three cats.

God is good. The cat-astrophe was averted!

Do you have pets? What are your biggest concerns about them? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a purr-fect day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Icky Sticky

Once more, I am proud of my restraint. I have waited until it is actually summer before posting my annual Florida horrible summer weather rant. Yes, it is indeed after June 21, and I am having a meltdown- emotional as well as physical. Is it possible for skin and internal organs to melt into a pool of goo when both the temperature and humidity factors exceed 90? I am not sure, but I do know that exposure to these conditions cannot be good.

I recently returned from an emergency trip to Pennsylvania. It was not a fun, easy trip. The circumstances that prompted that trip and another planned one are sad and hurtful. Still, when I returned to Florida, Max pointed out three things that I learned during that trip. One of those fundamental truths was that I made the right choice when we decided to move to Florida instead of Pennsylvania. Our first thought was to move to Pennsylvania because we would be closer to family. Eventually, we changed our minds. There were two factors that weighed heavily in favor of Florida. For one, there is the whole “Disney in my DNA” thing. Pennsylvania is a long way from Orlando or Anaheim. The more practical thing, however, was the weather. I lived in California my entire adult life. In fact, we moved to California from New York before I really had any true awareness of weather. I decided that, since I had never had to learn to navigate ice and snow, my golden years were not the time to start. However, I did have cause to question my decision after a couple of weeks back home in the Land of Summer Despair.

Upon returning home, summer hit and hit hard in central Florida. After being outside for less than ten minutes, the sun feels like it could burn through my clothes, skin, and kidneys. I sometimes forget whether I have my sunglasses even on because the glare is so bright there is almost no difference between the clear glasses and the colored ones. My retinas are fried. In addition, the humidity climbs steadily throughout the day. When I first walk outside in the morning, it takes everything I have to proceed forward, as the blanket of humidity covers my nose and mouth. I breathe water, not air. However, God did not provide me with gills. By evening, as the sun goes down (like at 8:00pm), the temperature gets slightly cooler, but the humidity gets worse. Thus, the “feels like” temperature at 8:00pm can be as high or higher as what weather.com reports at noon. My brain is programmed that the weather should be more comfortable in the evening. I tell myself that all the time. However, it does not help to “should” all over myself. It does not get more comfortable in the evening.

In addition to this disturbing Florida habit of becoming even less comfortable as the day wanes, the evening brings another form of torture. Mosquitos. Most people know that mosquitos breed near standing water. Since the entire atmosphere is pretty much standing water by 5pm, it is hard to avoid these beasts. I seem to be a particular delicacy to the winged demons. If I am outside at night for even 10 minutes, it is likely I will come in with at least 20 mosquito bites. I like to think it is because I am so sweet. Unfortunately, I suspect it has more to do with the vast quantities of salt I secrete through the four-month sweatfest that the calendar calls summer in Florida.

People in some places joke about being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk on a hot summer day. I saw a meme yesterday that showed a tray of cookies baking on the dashboard of a car in Arizona. I think we could probably poach an egg by just leaving it outside in the humidity in Florida. And as for the climate cooking things like an oven, Florida’s climate is more like a crockpot. Instead of cooking our bodies to a crisp, light, sweet consistency, Florida stews our bodies in our own disgusting juices. And who eats crockpot meals in the summer, anyway? Beef stew and spaghetti sauce seem way too heavy to feed into my sluggish metabolism when the weather is this warm. Come to think of it, even baked cookies seems a bit much. Ice cream, anyone?

What is your least favorite thing about summer? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a COOL day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Denial

A few weeks ago, I had my retreat day with the dolphins. Some of you who have been following along with my adventures for a few years know of my experiences at Discovery Cove, a limited entry day resort in Orlando. The admission price includes zillions of amenities- food, drink, dolphin-friendly sunscreen, nice showers with toiletries, snorkeling with sting rays, floating on a lazy river, random animal encounters, lounging on luxurious beaches, wading past otters and monkeys, and swimming with dolphins. They sell no more than 1400 tickets a day, so the park never feels crowded and you always feel like a special guest. After much debating with myself, I finally decided to go as a “once in a lifetime” experience several years ago. The thing is that I am absolutely terrible at “once in a lifetime” experiences. Typically, I enjoy them beyond even my unrealistically high expectations. Experiences that I deem “once in a lifetime” never disappoint me. I usually end up making “once in a lifetime” a “regular thing.” In the case of Discovery Cove, I quickly upgraded my “once in a lifetime” to “annually.” I shelled out the rather massive bankroll necessary to gain admittance for several years running. Besides being ridiculously fun and relaxing, I found that my dolphin day each year actually helped me grow spiritually. I am not kidding when I use the term “retreat day with the dolphins.” I go alone and leave the outside world outside the parking lot. I spend a substantial portion of these retreat days soul-searching, praying, strategizing with myself, and planning what spiritual improvement actions I will implement.

Although I always wrestle with myself when booking my dolphin retreat because of the price tag, I have NEVER been disappointed in my day at Discovery Cove. I am rarely so contented, relaxed, and hopeful as I am while I am floating along the river, reaching out to touch a sting ray while I snorkel, and giggling when my own personal outboard dolphin engine propels me towards the shore. Each time I go, I leave absolutely convinced that it was worth every dime. Last year, however, the price of admission went up substantially. It stuck in my throat, and I could not gulp it down. I kept telling myself that it was not like I had never experienced the park. I had experienced everything multiple times- even in the midst of the pandemic. How could I justify paying so much for the experience? For the first time in six years, I did not go. And I grieved. I really, really hated not going. Luckily, last November, the park had a Black Friday special which discounted the tickets to approximately the same (high) cost as I had paid in prior years. I jumped all over that deal. I booked my May dolphin retreat day in November.

As soon as I got to the park, the euphoric feeling I remember feeling every other time I’d been there flooded over my psyche. Everything was the same, but different. Every experience is actually a “once in a lifetime” experience because no two experiences are ever exactly the same. The fact that I’d been to Discovery Cove numerous times before did nothing to diminish my joy in my 2023 experience. Also, what if it was the same experience? What would make me want to deny myself the pleasure that I had every reason to expect the day would bring me? Yes, it is expensive, but all I have to do is clean out my closet to see that I frequently spend money frivolously on stuff that brings me way less satisfaction than a day with the dolphins does. I could create a rather mountainous pile of clothes that never really fit right or that don’t reflect my current taste or have no purpose in my wardrobe given that I am a retired woman living in Florida. What I spent on that pile of clothes would far exceed the price of a day with the dolphins.

Why do we do this to ourselves? I do not think it is just me. I balk at spending money or taking time or exerting energy on things that have the power to energize and enrich me. I tell myself I “should” not spend the money or that I “should” stop wasting time or that I “should” invest my energy on more profitable pursuits. A friend of mine once told me that I needed to stop “shoulding” all over myself. All of us have to live within some level of parameter, of course. We all have limited resources. The truth is, though, that there are likely many more possibilities than we believe we have. We probably needlessly deny ourselves much more than is good for us. We make choices about how to spend those limited resources. Would I rather buy 14 items of clothing that will never quite make me feel beautiful or spend a day feeling beautifully peaceful at Discovery Cove? Would I rather clean the kitchen for the second time this week or would I rather dance to upbeat music videos for 20 minutes? Would I rather get a part-time job making a few hundred dollars a month or would I rather write a blog that makes no money but gives me no end of satisfaction? I think these “would I rather” questions are much more productive than the “should” questions.

Most of the time, when people talk about living in “denial,” it means that they are hiding from the crueler realities of life. For my purposes in this blog post, I think of people living in “denial” refers to people who are needlessly denying the pleasure they could get from life if they could just open their eyes to what the potential positive realities are.

I always learn something from a day at Discovery Cove. This trip was no different.

What is something that you are denying yourself that you could make happen? What keeps you from pursuing it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have an abundant day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Girl Dads

I, of course, have never been a father. I have, however, been the daughter of a father. I have also observed a wide variety of fathers interacting with their daughters over my 63 years of life. In honor of Father’s Day last Sunday, I wanted to share a few life hacks I have observed for being an effective girl dad.

Loving the mother of your girl child:

The first male/female relationship your daughter will observe will be the relationship between you and her mother. Make sure you are modeling how you hope a partner will one day treat your girl child. Don’t let her see you do things that you would never, ever want a man to do to her. Be affectionate and tender. Be thoughtful and respectful towards your daughter’s mom. When you disagree or argue, do so productively and fairly. Try not to burden your daughter with your relationship problems. If you and Mom are having a serious issue that may be triggering, find a place and time to do it that will not involve your daughter. It is okay for your daughter to see disagreements. In fact, it is good for her to learn that disagreements do not equal catastrophe. It is not okay for her to see you devalue or harm her mother physically or emotionally.

Complimenting your girl child:

I once read that a father should praise his daughter for getting an A on a math test AND for looking pretty in her prom dress. I understand and appreciate the idea behind this advice, but I would tweak it a little bit. I think a father should acknowledge and validate a daughter for achieving academically and looking beautiful. Achieving academically may not look like an A on a math test. It may look like working hard on a project and learning new skills. It may look like finding a lifelong passion. It may look like missing the mark, but learning valuable lessons. Looking beautiful may not mean rocking a fluffy pink prom dress. It may mean a bright, happy smile. It may mean looking healthy and strong. It may mean that Daddy sees in his daughter a unique beauty that is tangled and encased in a soul that is fraught with anxiety and self-doubt. I also think that a father should praise his daughter for being kind to others AND for standing up for her own needs. A girl who understands that her father truly believes she is intelligent, beautiful, kind, and valuable in her own right is likely to expect other men to see the same qualities in her. She will be far more likely to seek out a man who truly loves and respects her as a partner.

Communicating with your girl child:

I don’t know if it is true, but I have often heard men say that women are complicated. These men assert that males are easy- what you see is what you get- but, with women, you need a secret decoder ring. The same is true of little girls. There is often much more going on in their minds than you might think. It may take some mining to figure out what they really want, believe, and fear. Look for the question behind her questions. Try different strategies. She wants to tell you. She really does. She just doesn’t always know how. She just isn’t always sure you’ll still love her if she does because what is in her mind can be scary. And, as for teasing her… don’t. You may know you are teasing. She may even know you are teasing, but some part of her may always wonder if what you said in jest was your truth.

Sharing activities with your girl child:

It is important for a father to share in his daughter’s activities, even the girly ones. Some girls will enjoy activities that are traditionally more popular with men. Some will tolerate and try to embrace such activities simply for the opportunity to share time with their daddies. There is nothing wrong with that. In any healthy relationship, the people involved try to find common ground. That includes compromising on ways to spend enjoyable time together. However, it should be a two-way street. If a daughter tries fishing so that she can spend a few hours bonding with her father, it is only fair that the father joins her in playing an interminable game of Candyland. Sharing time and attention should be a mutual goal. A little girl may not be able to articulate that, even if she hates fishing and thinks worms are icky, she is delighted with the idea of spending time with her father. Still, that is what she is doing. In the same vein, a father may think playing Candyland is an activity designed to push a grown man over the boredom edge but will be delighted to do it because he gets time and attention with his little girl. Oh, and, Dads, dance with your daughters! It makes them feel cherished and beautiful and precious. You absolutely want your daughter to feel cherished and beautiful and precious… because she is.

Protecting your girl child:

There is a fine line between protecting your girl child and limiting her. You are the dad. Your job is to protect her. Don’t abdicate that role. A little girl who does not feel protected is a little girl who will grow up into a woman who is afraid she is not worth protecting. Ensure that you can financially support your girl child. Make sure she has a safe place to live and food in her belly. Anticipate possible physical and emotional dangers. Mitigate the damage. However, figure out a way of letting your daughter stretch beyond her comfortable cocoon when she is ready. Help her to be ready by talking about the kinds of things you consider when making decisions. Help her to realize that failure is not an option because nothing that helps her learn is a failure. Help her to be ready by standing by her side when she tries new things. I remember going on the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland when I was a little girl. It was one of those things I did because I wanted the opportunity to have individual time with my father, not because I really wanted to do it. My mother and brother were not fans of thrill rides, but my father enjoyed them. I would agree to go on the ride with Daddy so he would have company. As we waited in line, my anxiety and nerves would get worse and worse. Sometimes, I ended up bailing before it was our turn. Most of the time, however, I ended up riding the toboggan because Daddy encouraged me. I have a friend who is a girl dad. He set up a back-up system for his daughters as they started to have lives outside the family. When his girls were going out with friends or to another family’s house, he told them to always call him and ask if their laundry was done if they felt uncomfortable with any situation they encountered. He would know that would be his cue that there was something going awry, and he needed to come extract that daughter right away. It also meant that he should feign getting angry and “making” the daughter come home, so there would be less social pressure for the daughter to navigate. I think that is so smart and so LOVE-ly.

No girl dad is perfect. No girl dad- NOBODY- will be able to hit the bullseye all the time. In fact, just about everyone has arrows flying around willy nilly at some point in their lives. That doesn’t mean you are not a wonderful girl dad. You probably are, simply because you want to be. Every dad is going to be different, and every girl is going to be different. The only hack that is absolutely mandatory is to be there and to do your best. And any girl dad who loves is doing his best!

Happy Father’s Day! What are some of your best memories of your girl dads? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri/Dorry 😊

Two Steps Forward And 114 Steps Back

Sometimes, life is so joyful. I feel strong, accomplished, and self-actualized. Even when the circumstances around me are less than ideal, I sometimes feel the growth and power that comes from accepting myself and my value. When I am hovering in that mental atmosphere, I feel like I can handle anything life throws at me.

Then, life throws something at me. And hits me with it. Life does not miss. All the finessing and dodging and feinting right or left that I attempt is useless. Life definitely lands a solid punch that leaves me on the canvas. Sometimes, it is simply for a standing eight count, and I stagger back onto my feet to continue the fight. Other times, as I lay on the floor, I feel like I won’t be able to get up again and life is going to win by knock-out.

Recently, I’ve encountered a whole series of events that have served as a huge blow to my glass chin. A family emergency resulted in me taking an unplanned trip to Pennsylvania, traversing strange roads in a rental car, meeting and dealing with a whole group of strangers that have very different world views from mine, mediate squabbles between said strangers, live for ten long days in an inhospitable environment, grapple with at least four profound ethical dilemmas, face a huge helping of personal grief, confront the heartbreaking reality that the sad life of someone very dear to me was even sadder than I had known, and struggle with financial and administrative issues. And those are the biggies that I can articulate just off the cuff. For a while, I was doing great. I was so proud of myself. I was being strong, brave, gentle, creative, and, in general, the person that I have been working very hard to become over the last two years. Despite the circumstances, I was wandering around in a bit of a euphoria because I couldn’t believe what I was able to do. I wasn’t afraid. I thought through multiple possible solutions for problems and came up with a compromise plan that I thought met the interests of all involved. I grieved appropriately but remained functional. I was kind and generous. I did not shy away from difficult conversations. I did not dismiss my own point of view the moment I was faced with opposition. I was freaking amazing.

Then, the situation started to decay. A few things happened that took me to a deeper, darker, uglier, more isolated place than I have been in a long time. I remembered what it felt like to experience these painful feelings nearly all the time. Life landed a dangerous blow. I did not like living in my own body, heart, and mind anymore. I still am lying on that canvas trying to figure out if I can stand up or whether to just let the referee call it a loss by knock-out.

As I have alluded to in prior posts, I’ve been dealing with some pretty big emotional and mental health issues since January. You may recall my Lenten miracle (A Lenten Miracle – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement). This year, I have been able to resolve and heal some horrible events in my past. The tragedy is that it took me 40 years to let go of those particular demons. The good news is that I’m a completely different person in many ways. I have been released from the pain, fear, and self-devaluation that I have spent most of my life trying to contain. I have been able to see the difference and I often cannot believe who I have become. One example of that joyful amazement was the first half of the trip to Pennsylvania. Even in the midst of my grief, I found myself musing, “Who am I? How am I doing this?”

However, once the considerable strain and pressure I was withstanding hit a point where my life’s very state of matter was changing, I could no longer find that remarkable woman anymore. She was completely gone. It is a demoralizing feeling. It was as if my considerable progress over the past five months meant nothing, and I was down for the count.

I remembered something that I learned in the Alpha course I help orchestrate for my church. The course is intended to help guide people who are grappling with the big questions of life- purpose, evil, faith, God, etc. One of the things that the presenter mentions is that, often, when a person finds a new place in his or her relationship with God, there is a counterintuitive effect. When someone first comes to Christ or reaches some sort of new level in their spiritual walk, there is usually an overwhelming experience of triumph, joy, satisfaction, peace, or some other positive feeling. However, it is not uncommon in the days after such an epiphany, for that person to experience some internal strife. It is as if evil has found that person in their new state of spirituality and is doing its best to kick the legs out from under this new, beautiful understanding and joy in God. Evil, darkness, Satan- whatever you want to name it- does not want us to experience that joy and peace that passes all understanding and will fight your spirit to retake control.

I understood this in terms of spiritual development. Now, I’m thinking that maybe it applies to emotional development as well. Maybe, when a person like me who has fought the emotional demons all her life, gets a taste of what it feels like to live without that pain, the emotional demons don’t go down without a fight. Maybe that is what is happening as I lie here on the canvas for the eight count. The me who has finally found her way out of the dark is still vulnerable to attacks of emotional evil and destruction. They are putting up one last stand to retake their mental territory.

This past week and a half have made me feel like I took two steps forward and 114 steps back. I am struggling to see it as 114 steps forward and two steps back. As I write this, I am beginning to feel, for the first time since 6/3, like I may regain consciousness. What do you think? Can I get back on my feet before the eight count is over?

Anybody have any encouraging words? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com

Have a better day than I have been having lately!

Terri/Dorry

The Episcopalian Card

I just wanted to make sure I left no misunderstandings in my last post, A Few More Drops In The Bucket. In the post, I discussed my various connections with Williamsburg and my quest to attend a worship service at Bruton Parish Church. I mentioned that I missed my first opportunity several years back because I had not yet converted to the Episcopal Church and did not have an Episcopalian card.

There is no Episcopalian card.

My hesitation during that trip was a me thing, not an Episcopalian thing. When I saw the closed door and noticed a sign proclaiming that a service was in process, my own shyness, insecurities, and unworthiness came barreling down, steamrolling my rational judgment. I self-edited. It was not that the Episcopalians did not want me at the service. I told myself I was not welcome there. In fact, later in the day, when we toured the church and I told the tour guide about my experience, she seemed genuinely distressed that I had not come in and joined them in worship. She engaged me in conversation and encouraged me to feel free to attend future services. She was honestly, genuinely welcoming.

So were the other Episcopalians when I did eventually start exploring changing my Roman Catholic affiliation. The rector at my local Episcopal parish spent a whole morning with me, patiently answering my questions. His perspectives were tactful and respectful. I believed he was giving me clear, direct information. He did not pussyfoot around issues and possible points of controversy. He had no wish or wash in his assertions. On the other hand, he had no problem admitting that there are some questions for which we do not have answers and that there can be a great deal of difference between competing viewpoints. Reasonable, prayerful people could and did disagree on matters of theology with no one’s Christianity being put into question.

When I first started attending services, I wanted to be somewhat anonymous. In the five days between the day I spoke with the rector and the day I attended my first Sunday service, my mother had a massive stroke and I was living a nightmare. For the next 13 months, my life and energy revolved around my mother. I did not have the wherewithal to make new connections or involve myself in parish life. I wanted to feel welcome and I wanted to be surrounded by warmth, but I did not want to engage. I came to the service, sat next to a couple who were, in time, to become my very great friends. After the dismissal, I made a beeline for the parking lot and went to see my mother. I did not pass Go. I did not collect my $200. I certainly did not hang out at the coffee hour. Once in awhile, someone suggested that I stay for some refreshment. I found the whole idea of socializing completely beyond my emotional pall. Still, as I worshipped and observed the congregation from a metaphorical distance, I could see genuine openness and warmth. I have never been to a church before where the “sign of peace” involved getting out of your pew and passing goodwill to people all around the church. I panicked the first time and pretended to drop my bulletin so I could fish around for it on the floor, which allowed me to sink out of everyone’s line of sight. Quite soon, though, I noticed that the people were honest, genuine, empathetic, and respectful. I felt welcome, included, but not invaded. This was a congregation that let me grow towards them at my own pace.

When I ultimately decided to convert to the Episcopal Church, I went to Orlando to be received into the church by the bishop. That day truly was one of the most wonderful days in my life. From the moment I entered the building, people greeted me and smiled at me and told me how happy they were that I was there. You can read about that experience in the blog post I wrote at the time, Grace On Robinson Street (Grace On Robinson Street – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement). It might have been overwhelming. It might have crippled me with shyness. It might have landed as artificial. However, to me, it felt like I truly was someone that they had been waiting for and were very glad to see. I put that down to the genuinely welcoming hearts of the people involved- and the Holy Spirit.

In my church today, we are working with a ministry called Invite, Welcome, Connect. This ministry was developed by Mary Parmer. Mary worked with our parish and conducted a workshop that served to energize the project. We want to grow our church in numbers and vibrancy. We want other people to have the experience that I had. We want other people to find a home where they can be closer to God and closer to His Church. Numerous task groups are working on projects and programs to share what we have. These projects and programs will launch more effective ways to invite guests to our church. They will make it easier for our guests and parishioners to feel genuinely welcome and accepted into our church. They also foster a richer sense of belonging and ownership by helping connect parishioners with ministries and programs within the church.

It is not all peaches and cream. Growing a church and replicating the feeling of authentic generosity, warmth, and community has challenges. We have been working on some stage of this process or another for a little over a year. Now that we are getting to the “nuts and bolts” of implementing new actions, we are starting to feel a few growing pains. We are also already starting to reap some rewards, which is wonderful… but also challenging in that some things get harder as you go along. For instance, the attendance at our 10:15am Sunday service was usually small enough for me to see and identify everyone who came in, if I paid attention. It was easy to spot a new face and introduce myself. Lately, the congregation has swelled and I love it. It is not so easy to see a new face, though. It takes more intentionality. Also, as we make decisions about what programs to put in place, how to spend money, and who will take responsibility for specific tasks, there are more differences of opinion. The good news is that I believe we all have the same goals in mind- to become more Christlike in worship, outreach, and discipleship. We all, I believe, believe that God calls us to share His message and welcome His people into our hearts, as He has welcomed all of us into His. The only issue is how to best do that with our combined resources and gifts. Growth does mean working through disagreements and becoming stronger through those discussions. As we grow our own hearts, we will be even better equipped to grow the Church with new members.

And we won’t ever be asking anyone for their Episcopalian card!

If you would like more information about Invite, Welcome, Connect, you can find out more at Invite Welcome Connect. If you have any questions about my church, St. James Episcopal at 204 N. Lee Street in Leesburg, Fl, you can reach out to me on email at terriretirement@gmail.com. You can also visit our website at St James Episcopal Church (stjames-leesburg.org)

Have a blessed day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

This blog is brought to you today in celebration of Father Tom Trees’ 20th ordination anniversary. Thank you for being such a faithful servant of God.

Another Few Drops In The Bucket

Recently, Max and I went to Williamsburg, Virginia on vacation. This was our fifth trip together and my seventh trip. Some people might suggest that this is a bit extreme. Yes, Williamsburg is a lovely place but seven times? With all the other wonderful places there are to visit in the world?

These questions have merit. I have some special connections with Williamsburg, though, that seem to compel and propel me there rather frequently.

First, my parents honeymooned in Williamsburg. They took a road trip from New York City through the Shenandoah Mountains. They visited Jamestown and Williamsburg. I attribute my fascination with Williamsburg at least in part to my pre-conception nostalgia. There was actually a world before me… an intimate, personal world that would evolve to include me. Williamsburg was part of that life. There is almost an element of heredity embedded in Williamsburg for me. Both nature AND nurture connect me to Williamsburg. My father bought my mother a hand-blown green glass vase on their honeymoon. They watched the artisans create that vase at the glassworks in Jamestown. There was no part of my childhood that did not include memories of that vase. Ultimately, the vase broke. I replaced it for my mother on one of my trips to the Historic Triangle as an adult. When my mother died, the replacement vase passed to me. On this most recent trip, I purchased a matching creamer to keep the vase company. I also remember my mother talking about the delicious gingerbread cakes they made and sold in the colonial Williamsburg Revolutionary City. Anyone will tell you that, throughout my life, gingerbread has been my jam. I never met a gingerbread that I didn’t like.

I made my first visit to Williamsburg with my parents and brother when I was almost twelve. Our family drove across the country from California to New York to attend the wedding of one of my cousins. On the return trip, we turned the journey into a sightseeing tour. We made several stops at historic and natural points of interest. It was quite the summer of discovery. I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time. I proudly claimed the city of the American people, Washington DC. And we went to Williamsburg.

When I was a young adult, I had this fantasy that I would go away to college. Nearly all the books I read as a pre-teen and teenager involved fresh-faced young women heading off to college in a post-war modern Utopia. These sweet young co-eds lived in dorms or sorority houses. They led madcap, fun lives and developed lifelong relationships. They wore sweaters and plaid skirts when the nip of fall was in the air. They walked through the snow caroling during pre-holiday revels. They attended a flurry of parties and formal dances throughout the spring. They looked forward to a happy summer by the sea as the term ended. Most of them ended up graduating with a MRS degree. I was never sure exactly where these mythical campuses were, but they were always historic and glistening with the patina of tradition.

On that first trip I took to Williamsburg, I think I figured out where that mythical campus was- I am sure it was the College of William and Mary.

My world was not within the pages of a 1950s teenage novel. My parents were middle class- not affluent enough to pay for me to go away to school and too affluent to qualify for any means-based scholarship money. Plus, I was raised in an absurdly practical family. Why would anyone pay a bunch of money for a private college and for a second household at said college when there was a perfectly good commuter college down the road? I spent two years at a local junior college and went on to attend a State University about 10 miles from home. My entire college education probably cost less than $1000, including books.

I absolutely understood and bought into this position, but the dream never dissipated. As I progressed through life, I always regretted not going away to school. I am sure the true experience would not have matched my fantasy, but I think I would have grown in significantly different directions had I attended the College of William and Mary away from home and family. I would have learned to live on my own. I would have learned to communicate and forge relationships in a grown-up world. I would have learned to face my fears of new people and new experiences. I would have learned what it was like to live somewhere very different from the environment in which I was raised. I think I would have grown into more of a risk-taker. I think it is even fair to say that I might have avoided the tragedy of my marriage.

During the early days of the pandemic, I had time to examine my thoughts, feelings, and regrets about missing out on a William and Mary education. I went trawling around on the internet, just to see what it would cost to spend some time in those hallowed halls. I even fantasized about someday renting a place in Williamsburg for a couple of months and enrolling for a semester. When I realized what that would cost, I realized why it was a fantasy. However, my research did reveal an alternative. The College of William and Mary has something called an Osher Institute. This program is intended to offer short-term, non-college credit courses for enrichment. The main target for the program is senior citizens, but it is open to people of all ages. Pre-pandemic, these were on-campus classes. Because of the pandemic, however, the Osher Institute offered virtual classes through Zoom. The cost for the classes was absurdly low. I participated in several terms, taking one or two classes per term. It was great. I was enriched. Besides the interesting and diverse knowledge that I gained from the classes, I met my life coach. He was teaching one of the classes in which I enrolled. All in all, it was a very positive experience. The next time Max and I went to Williamsburg after I took the classes, he bought me a teddy bear from the college bookstore. The teddy bear, who I named WilMa, is wearing a W&M cap and gown. I may be stretching the truth a little bit with the suggestion that I actually graduated from the college. However, I really did feel a little bit like I’d accomplished a dream.

There is a specific factor that motivated our last three trips to Williamsburg. Max and I visited the Bruton Parish Church on each trip. On one trip, before I converted to the Episcopal Church, I thought it would be nice to attend a service at Bruton Parish. The idea of praising God in the same church that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and other luminaries worshipped was very appealing. However, I got shy about entering the church for a service- since I didn’t have an Episcopalian card. I missed the opportunity on that trip.

I resolved to remedy that omission on our next trip. I had recently become an Episcopalian, so I was no longer afraid of being run out of church on a rail. However, we were also scheduled to go to Busch Gardens on that next trip. Unfortunately, when I set up our itinerary, it never entered my head that theme parks in some parts of the country are not open all week. Living in California and Florida, I thought amusement parks were open 365 days a year. Wrong. In climates that are less temperate, the thrills and chills are rationed by the weather. When we went to Williamsburg in the early spring, I found that the park was only open on weekends. Since I had already paid for the tickets, we went to Busch Gardens instead of the worship service.

Fast forward to a couple of years later… after watching me angst over missing the worship service and throw myself into my virtual College of William and Mary classes, Max thought we needed to go back to rectify my problem. We started planning another trip, believing that surely the pandemic would be over by April of 2021.

It was not. We did make the trip and had a good time, but Bruton Parish was not holding in person services.

This year, we were on a mission. Our whole trip was built around the service at Bruton Parish. Even up to Sunday morning, I was sure something was going to happen to thwart us in our endeavor. When I parked in the lot a block away from the church, I was about 80% convinced that we were going to find the church locked when we got there. Fortunately, as advertised, the church was open, and we worshipped together with the other parishioners. My butt might have been sitting in the same place George Washington sat. Score!

It was very nice. The space, of course, was ornate and lovely. The choir sang beautifully. I enjoyed the sermon. We went to communion and found that the process at Bruton Parish was different from our parish. As the pandemic ebbed, our parish began offering communion with wine as well as the bread, but we were only permitted to receive the wine by intinction- in other words, by receiving the wafer and then dipping it carefully into a chalice when the priest or deacon came to you. The thought was that this was more sanitary than sipping from a communal cup. Just for general principles, we never received the wafer on our tongues, as we sometimes did when I was a Catholic. The idea of a priest puttimg his fingers into the mouths of a whole bunch of people was fairly repugnant in my church. At Bruton parish, the priest only provided for receiving the wafer on the tongue and then sipping from the communal chalice. That seemed like quite an odd practice for a church in a state that carried on full COVID-cautious measures long after Florida was back operating at full speed.

All in all, I am very glad I spent that Sunday morning worshipping with my fellow Episcopalians in such a historic, tradition-laden environment. I enjoyed it very much. However, I did leave with a very happy thought running through my mind. I like my parish even better. Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg, Virginia might have been part of my fantasy, but St. James Episcopal in Leesburg, Florida is my home. If I had to choose one church and one community in which to worship every week, I do not even have to think about it. It would be St. James.

I am glad that I got my opportunity to fill in this gap in my life. I am happy I have been able to reimagine that college experience I wish I had had. I am definitely at peace about so many trips to Williamsburg. As bucket lists go, mine is not very exciting. I have no intention or even any inkling of desire to do something like skydive or climb Mount Everest. That does not mean that my bucket list is not worth filling. And Williamsburg has been able to add a few drops to that bucket.

What’s on your bucket list? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a satisfying day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Life Snarls

I feel like I’ve been a bit of a slacker lately when it comes to the blog. I took a break earlier this year to concentrate on dealing with some personal issues. When I came out of that period of brokenness and rebirth, I happily engaged with you all again on the blog. The last few weeks, though, I have been missing in action again. I apologize.

It isn’t that I am running out of things to say. I have not ventured into an idea desert. Themes and phraseologies and metaphors continue to spring from my brain like a fountain. I have no less than five blog posts currently in some phase of development. An idea will occur to me, and I’ll begin writing. The words will flow from my fingers. Then, before I can complete a finished product that pleases me, another idea or turn of phrase will conflate into my mind. I sort that muddle and write a few notes to remind me where I want to go with another blog piece. This process seems to be on an unending loop.

And then, life snarls.

“Snarls” is an interesting word. It can mean tangled up and knotted. My life certainly has snarled in that way over the past few months. In the past month, there has been such uncontrolled forward momentum (in other words, “avalanche”) of activity, the threads could not help but get snarled. People think I am an organized person, but it is a façade. An organized person has systems that make sure her life moves smoothly and effectively even when she isn’t watching it. I do quite well with the smoothly and effectively when I am able to keep my eyes peeled on everything that needs doing all at once. When I run my fingers through all the threads I am holding, I’m good. When I have so many things going that I run out of slots between my fingers, those threads snarl. Once they snarl, I have to invest substantial time and energy untangling the mess I’ve made. I sometimes lose motivation. I will say, though, that it is incredibly satisfying when I do spend the time and energy untangling the knots.

“Snarls” can also mean the sound an animal makes when it is threatened or threatening. Life can snarl like that, too. When life snarls, sometimes you just have to abandon the momentum of what you are doing and pay attention. That kind of life snarl can absolutely torpedo an overpacked schedule. I don’t think I’m alone when I say that, sometimes, I look at what I’ve planned for a day or a week and realize that I have just enough time to handle everything I need to do if everything goes just exactly perfectly and I catch all the green lights. When life snarls, things do not go perfectly, and I do not catch all the green lights. Life snarls are where partially written blog posts go to die. I think I can finish them. I plan to finish them. Then some threatening life snarl happens, and I retreat. Really, life has not been snarling at me like that since a couple of weeks before Easter. Life is good. God is great. I heart writing my blog. Still, the life snarls of the first couple of months of 2023 have left my mind limping a little bit.

I have always believed that it is important that a blogger adds new content regularly and reliably. I think posting new material at the same time each week, every week keeps readers interested and looking forward to my blog. I ask your forgiveness for letting you down. It isn’t me being flighty. It is life snarling.

Do you ever find life snarls getting in the way of your productivity? How do you deal with it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a snarl-less day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Colts

They say that, in the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Well, this slightly not young woman’s fancy may also turn to love, but it also turns to something else. Baby Sandhill cranes.

I live in central Florida where Sandhill cranes are practically the official mascot of our region. Ball teams have cheerleaders that dress in feathers and make deep yodeling trumpet noises to encourage their players. Actual real-live Sandhill cranes are quite content to hang out anywhere reasonably close to water. They seem to have no hesitation about people or other interlopers. Since I live in Lake County, it comes as no surprise that we have quite the Sandhill crane population. In my community, we have lots of feathered Sandhill neighbors. In fact, you have probably seen bumper stickers that admonish “Share the Road With Motorcycles” or “Share the Road With Bicycles.” Instead, we share the road with Sandhill cranes. They are remarkably assertive creatures. They are perfectly peaceful and non-combative, but do not surrender their space easily. If they are standing in the road, they will likely keep standing there, even when approached by a two-ton vehicle. Once you have lived in central Florida for even a short time, you learn to just wait your turn. Those cranes will eventually move out of the way, but it will be in their own sweet time.

The Sandhill crane traffic issues may sound like a hassle, but, in reality, those of us who live with them don’t mind too much. These birds truly are beautiful, peaceful, and graceful. They glide across the sky with wings that span in excess of six feet. Their calls, something between a yodel and a dirge, are distinctively heart-warming. Sandhill cranes, like many birds, mate for life. I get worried when I see one on its own. There is something anthropomorphic about them. I have never been a huge bird person, but I find Sandhill cranes so relatable. Maybe I am more of a birdbrain that I ever thought.

Sandhill crane couples usually have 1-3 babies each year in the spring. Both parents care for the children. Kids stay with their parents for about nine or ten months. In fact, it is a bit traumatic for me to watch the crane families in December. This is about the time that the juveniles are being “encouraged” to leave the nest so that there is space in the family for a new set of hatchlings. The “encouragement” can look a little harsh. Still, there is that circle of life thing and I am hoping that all that “encouragement” will motivate our juvenile cranes to find happiness on their own.

Starting towards the end of February every year, I start scanning the roads, greenbelts, and ponds in my community for signs of the newest Sandhill crane generation. It is a day for celebrating when I see my first Sandhill crane babies of the season. I am not the only person anticipating this annual event. There is a regular traffic sign a couple of miles away from my house that says “Caution: Baby Sandhill crane crossing.” So weird, but so nice.

The other day, the annual miraculous moment happened. I saw the Sandhill crane babies for the first time of the season. We were driving out of our development to visit some friends when we passed a small feathery family of four loping cautiously across the green space along our community exit. I squealed involuntarily and barely refrained from slamming on the brakes. Max would have been alarmed by my reaction, except that he also saw the babies… and knew what to expect of me. I cried out in reverence, “Oh look, BABIES!” My heart jumped around inside my chest for the rest of the day, celebrating this momentous occasion.

I recently learned that Sandhill crane babies are not called “chicks” or “cranelings” or any other birdlike monikers. They are called “colts.” Now, I have always thought of “colts” as baby horses. It would seem to me that there is nothing further from a horse than a Sandhill crane. Despite being called a “crane,” I’m not thinking that the Sandhills can do any heavy construction work. Cinderella never had Sandhill cranes pull her pumpkin carriage, even with a generous helping of enchantment. You can’t ride them. I don’t think there is a Sandhill crane racing off-track betting location anywhere nearby. Then, I realized the nexus. Baby Sandhill cranes basically look like ducklings stapled to the top of two spindly pencils, where the erasers would normally be. Their legs must be about five times the length of their bodies. When novelists write about leggy young girls who seem to not completely know what to do with their limbs, they often use the term “coltish.” I always thought those novelists were making the comparison to baby horses. Maybe, all this time, those novelists really meant baby Sandhill cranes!

What animals herald the onset of Spring where you live? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a flighty day!

Terri/Dorry 😊