Watch where you step, Mick...something stinks

For the first time, Churchill Downs was rocked by something other than thundering hooves and rowdy fans sipping mint juleps in the stands and moonshine in the infield. Mick Jagger and the rest of the Stones entourage held a concert last night at the historic venue. Tickets were $300 a pop (via legal sales...much higher, I'm sure, through scalpers).

Just a day earlier, flood victims in Lexington were evicted from their hotel rooms at the modest La Quinta because the Red Cross ran out of funds after just a few days.

Not a sermon, just a thought...

Friday funny: You can take it with you in Kentucky

A report out today says that more than 7,400 people continued to receive welfare benefits in Kentucky after kicking the bucket. So I guess you can take it with you after all? I'm reminded of the case of the fellow in our fair Commonwealth whose father inconvenienced his sponging ways by dying, so he put dear old dad in the freezer and continued to collect his Social Security and welfare checks. Lovely.

In equally uplifting news, police discovered holes in the women's restroom ceiling and hidden cameras at a Mexican restaurant not far from my hometown in the southeastern part of the state. Not to make light of it, and normally I really hate potty humor, but in this case, I hope those women ate a lot of beans. Yech.

And on a personal note, I got laughed out of the freezer section of the local grocery store last night. Apparently a middle-school girl was very amused by my loafers. And I thought they were cute--backless loafers I got at the Bass outlet. Is that so bad?

A Jesus carousel?

(Note: I took a photo with my camera phone, but the bluetooth connection is down. Until then, a description will have to suffice.)

Holidays seem to bring out the worst in lawn art tastelessness. Of all the excuses for tacky displays, Christmas is the most abused of those holidays. This year, Wal-Mart is making it possible to put the Grizwalds to shame.

I saw it balanced precariously atop a lawn-and-garden shelf. How they got it there, and how it stayed, I'm not sure, since the thing was huge: A life-sized, inflated, animated carousel with Santa, Rudolph, and Frosty riding round and round. I think it was the sheer size of the thing that gave me pause. I pulled out my cell phone and was just getting ready to take a grainy photo when I noticed a woman trying to get through the aisle I had blocked with the shopping cart I abandoned in a moment of shock and awe. I cleared the woman's path and apologized. "It's just that I was distracted by this THING," I explained, pointing at the thing perched above us.

She shook her head as if she shared my pain. "I know. Isn't it just awful what they do to Christmas? Why, they'd NEVER make something like that for Jesus!"

I froze mid-nod at that last observation. A vision of a carousel-riding Jesus, maybe with Mary and Joseph and the stable animals, flashed before me.

Eat your hearts out, Grizwalds.

As the rain came, unrelenting, I found myself staring out the window, somewhere between fear and awe. When it was finally done, I thought of how untouchable we often feel, nestled here in the Commonwealth. Often, we're asked to give to relief efforts and mission funds, and when we respond--if we do--it is with detached sympathy for the plight of others in some far-off place. But as we turn on the national evening news and see stories about ourselves--our dead, our flooded churches, our homes ravaged and memories buried in mud, it is a startling reminder that those who suffer aren't just fellow humans, or figurative neighbors, or even brothers and sisters. It is us. This time, next time, every time.

'You give me fever'

There's a commercial on The Learning Channel that says one of life's lessons is that "merlot and email don't mix." I'll add that a fever and all forms of communication are an equally bad recipe.

I like to think that I'm resilient, but in the last couple of days, a nasty bug called streptococcus moved into my throat and gave me a fever and the sensation of swallowing glass whenever I tried to eat or sip water.

Sometime in the middle of the night, while my fever climbed, I got up as usual to feed the baby and then stayed awake, so miserable I couldn't sleep. That's when I noticed it on the counter: the postcard from a local politician. At the bottom, it included a questionaire and some blank lines asking me to list my concerns for our town. There also was a note at the bottom promising a phone call and a personal visit if I'd include my name and address.

So, in a fit of delirium, I filled the thing out. I told him exactly what I thought was wrong with the world. I won't elaborate here--one form of humiliation is quite enough. Then I included my name, address and email for good measure.

Fortunately, the thing didn't include pre-paid postage, something I apparently overlooked. Unstamped, it didn't make it to its intended destination. I found it this afternoon, safe and unsound.

I went to the doctor today and got a hefty dose of antibiotics, so there isn't much chance of repeating last night's blunder. Now, to check the "sent" folder in my email...

...And the Light was changed...

Getting up in the middle of the night with a baby, when the only sounds in the house are the antique mantle clock marking time and the hum of the refrigerator, affords plenty of opportunities to reflect.

One thing about life: it's full of changes. Some unexpected, some planned, some that bring joy, some that carry sorrow. It's just part of the ebb and flow of humanity. And yet, through the changes, there are constants.

A young minister I know used to say whenever she would extinguish a candle: "And the light was changed, to continue in another place and time." Her message was that the true Light is never gone from our presence, even when we cannot see it.

Love is like that. It may be changed, as all things eventually are, but it also is constant, remaining with us, part of us. My little girl asked yesterday, after watching The Fox and the Hound, what it means when we say someone is with us in our heart. I gave her my best answer: that the love we have for one another stays with us, no matter where we go or how far apart we may be. And so, those we love are part of the fabric of who we are. That's nice to remember in the wee small hours of the morning.

Happy birthday--Sept. 11, 2001

Today candles will be lit in remembrance of one of the darkest--some would argue THE darkest of days in our history.

But one particular face was lit by candlelight for a different reason as a household on a quiet, tree-lined street in Lexington, Kentucky, remembered and celebrated Sept. 11, 2001.

After more than a dozen years of marriage and no children, they had nearly given up their dream of filling their house with the laughter of a child. Then, soon after New Year 2001, they learned their prayer had been answered. She was pregnant.

On their way to the hospital one morning, they heard the news that would write a new history and forge a new future for the world. By that afternoon, their own personal history and future had been forever altered.

On a day of such mourning, their joy was immeasurable. Their baby girl was perfect.

On her first birthday, her father lit firecrackers in celebration. A few days later, the local paper included a letter to the editor criticizing the neighbors who had the nerve to celebrate Sept. 11. As I mentioned to a friend earlier, the author had apparently overlooked the possiblity of joy coming from that day, so dark was the grief that held so many.

Yesterday, one of the ministers at our church commented that on that day, and in the years sense, there were birthdays, anniversaries, graduations--celebrations of life and love. Out of the darkness, light.

Today, the little girl blew out her candle, but the light was not gone. It was there in her face and in the faces of those of us celebrating with her--life, love...God still with us.

Why you shouldn't go walking on garbage day

The Bluegrass region has a love affair with the sun. Compared to the mountains and high hills of the eastern part of the state, where I've spent most of my life, this flatter area sees more lingering, lovely sunrises and sunsets, casting a golden glow over the rolling fields lined with Civil War-era stone walls and new, crisp white fences. The middle of the day is a little harder to appreciate, however; the same low hills that allow for picturesque beginnings and endings to the day also fail to provide much shade as the morning fades to noon and noon to afternoon. On late summer days, the heat can be unrelenting.

It was just shaping into such a day today when I decided I couldn't wait any longer to go outside. Yesterday, the doctor pronounced me sufficiently progressing in my recovery since having a human being surgically extracted from my body three weeks ago--I mean since joyously having a Cesarean section--to allow me to start walking for exercise. After a few weeks of bedrest, a weeklong hospital stay and three weeks of living like a mole, I didn't care if it was already 80 degrees; I was more than ready to put on my sneakers and get moving. So, around 11 a.m., I performed the acrobatics necessary to get a newborn into a stroller:

• Step one: take her to the car and strap her in her car seat. This means balancing her on one arm, with keys, phone, bottle and pacifier in the other hand, while opening the car door, inserting the baby into the appropriate position, all without dropping anything--most importantly, the baby.
• Step two: get the stroller out of the trunk and wrestle with the "easy open" latch (which is NOT easy to open).
• Step three: then perform the great fete of popping the car seat out of its base and into the stroller in a single motion without waking the peaceful baby within.
• Take care not to curse in the garage, since voices echo in there.

I was feeling pretty good by the time I hit the sidewalk. Then I noticed something: Garbage day. Plastic cans and plastic bags lined both sides of the street. Not such a big deal, I thought, and sucked in my abs and put those Nikes to the street. By the time I got to the end of the block, I noticed something foul following me: the ghost of the garbage. I noticed the baby squirming and making an equally foul face, so I closed up the stroller cover and kept walking. Unfortunately, the garbage truck had not made it to the neighborhood yet. So, every hundred feet or so, there was the suffocating stench.

The further I went, the higher the sun rose in the sky. The baking garbage became increasingly rank. I tried holding my breath, but soon found that walking is not an anaerobic activity. Just when it seems my lungs would burst, I had to give in and take a deep breath. I'm not sure my head was spinning from asphyxia or the garbage. Then, just as I rounded a corner, I heard the glorious sounds of the garbage truck about two blocks away. I walked faster, trying to catch up with it and follow its path. I never thought I'd be eager to follow a garbage truck, but being a safe distance behind would mean that the offensive garbage would be on the truck, not on the sidewalk. I hurried along, but unfortunately, the streets between me and the truck had not been serviced yet. I walked faster. The smell was worse and worse. And then I lost sight of the garbage truck.

Oh, no! I pushed the stroller as quickly as I could. By this time, I was drenched, and I was worried that the interior of the stroller was becoming a mini sauna. Distracted with that thought, I stopped in my tracks and put one hand inside the stroller. Satisfied that the baby was not melting, I started again. As I walked, I noticed something soft underfoot. To my horror, I looked down to see a feminine product stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

Now, that's not something you just pull off. I raked my foot along the sidewalk, hoping to dislodge it, but it was stuck firmly. I hoped no one would happen to look outside to see me with this, of all things, on my shoe, doing a weird little dance as I alternately dragged and shook my foot. Just as I thought maybe I was going to have to sacrifice a Nike, it relaxed its grip on my pride and my shoe. When I last saw the offending article, it was lying in all its glory in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere on a nice street lined with stately brick houses and boxwood shrubs.

For the record, following a garbage truck is NOT a good idea. I found that if you are within sight of the truck at noon in Kentucky in early September, there is no safe distance. It stinks.

At least I got in my first day of exercise. I hope to do a little every day. Well, maybe not on Fridays.

Crikey, he's gone!

This is very off-topic, as it has nothing to do with the Bluegrass, but I wanted to acknowledge the passing of a cultural icon: Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter. On second thought, I guess there is a tie to home: several years ago, my husband and I went to a Halloween party dressed as Irwin and his wife. I got a fake ponytail, wore a campshirt and hiking shorts and boots, and he parted his hair down the middle and dressed accordingly. He didn't look much like Irwin, but he nailed the accent and wrestled a fake snake wrapped around his neck. He got big laughs out of the WSAZ cohort (he was a reporter at the NBC affiliate at the time).

Giggles aside, it's quite interesting that the untimely but not unexpected passing of this over-the-top showman became a point of focus for the Australian parliament, and that there has been talk of honoring him with a state funeral--a rite normally reserved for heads of state. Outlandish as he seemed--and that's why we watched--the Aussie certainly brought new attention to the adventurous spirit of his homeland.

I think we can at least take one lesson from Irwin: life's an adventure. That means taking risks sometimes. I still don't like spiders, and I'm not ready to make friends with alligators anytime soon, but it's a nice to think about embracing life with similar gusto.

Now...where did I put those hiking boots?

Take that, Nutrisystem girl

Well, it happened: the first official lewd howl since having the baby. Apparently one does not need to waste away to size 2 on Nutrisystem in order to attract the unwanted attention of men in utility vans.

I don't know what's more troubling: that it happened at my daughter's school; or that it happened to me so soon after giving birth, leaving me with a shape that's more Frosty the Snowman than Marilyn Monroe; or that it happened while I was staggering like a drunk woman through the parking lot after pulling all-night baby duty solo (my husband is TKO by a sinus infection). I'm afraid it had more to do with the latter condition than any feminine charms I may have been eluting. In fact, I was in such a fog I didn't realize there was a person in the van, nor that the "hey, little MAM-MA, whew, you are NI-I-I-I-ICE," was directed toward me. Then two truths became clear: yes, there was a scruffy little man in the front seat of the van, and there was no one else outside. The sidewalk was deserted except for me, since we had gotten to school three minutes late and had to do the walk of shame into the principal's office to get a tardy note. Only one other kid arrived late, and his father had parked right by the front door, so he was no where in sight as I made my way back to the SUV.

I was too tired to heave one of my brown leather mules at my undesirable admirer's head through the open window. Besides, I like those shoes, and I had only recently been able to get my swollen feet into them again. So, I stumbled down the sidewalk and made my way to the Pacifica (yes, that's what I meant by SUV--Crysler classifies it as such, and it is NOT a van on steroids as certain persons have suggested). I have to admit I smiled a little as I started the engine. As noted in previous posts, I am annoyed by howls and whistles directed at random pedestrians by people in big vehicles, but in my bedraggled state--stained shirt, barely brushed hair, glasses and round tummy, it was nice to know there's still a girl under there--even if it probably was noted only because the beholder thought the bleary-eyed woman making her way past his van was too impaired to be offended. If only he'd known that mothers are like medical residents in their ability to function on .03 hours of sleep.

But don't get any ideas, little van man. Next time, I'm wearing my old clunky tennis shoes, and those I don't care to lose.

Neighbors on patrol

It started with a handmade flier taped to a road sign at the entrance of the subdivision: "Neighborhood watch meeting Tuesday 6:30 p.m." and the address.

That's all it took.

Already suspicious of a particular fellow on our street, some of our neighbors were eager to go. We were expecting guests, so we bowed out. I was curious, though. I wondered if there would be fiery torches.

Less than 24 hours later, I got the news. Apparently we were all committing a litany of sins against the Neighborhood Rules. Someone was parking his truck on the street. Two other neighbors have dogs that occasionally make an escape into the public domain, frightening the innocent, God-fearing people who just want to check the mail without losing an appendage. Someone else has an outbuilding with roof tiles that don't match those on his house. A retired couple has a driveway in the wrong place. And, worst of all, the fences are all wrong--too close to the property lines.

Yes, this is going to be a safer world now that the neighborhood watch has been implemented.

Now, I'm all for protecting our kids and elderly and the rest of us from ne'er-do-wells. And if I've learned anything from watching satellite TV in the middle of the night while feeding my baby, it's that we are not safe in suburbia. We live with the threat of everything from serial killers to flesh-eating bacteria. In Bluegrass territory, there's an added threat--mosquitos that carry diseases hefty enough to kill a horse.

Seriously, I'm as protective of my babies as the next person, and I can be just as paranoid of strange cars and strange people on our cul-de-sac. There are other things that make me take a second look and pull my eldest daughter closer to me...and wonder where I can get one of those big plastic bubbles to put her in. But the guy with the blue shingles doesn't keep me awake at night.

A year ago, I signed up for the Kentucky State Police Sex Offender Notification Network. The calls come at around 7 a.m.--just in time to wake the baby. When I first started getting the calls alerting me that a sex offender had moved into my ZIP code, I'd hustle to the computer to look at the list. I found a pretty rotten bunch--photo after photo of people convicted of preying on others. I started looking into security systems and wondered if my one trap-shooting experience would be enough to nail an intruder (I decided it was not, since my aim was rather bad).

I do appreciate well-meaning folks who just want a safe, peaceful neighborhood. I want that, too. I just hope that in this case "neighborhood watch" doesn't turn into "watch thy neighbor and note all his infractions." Somehow, I think we're already headed there.

I guess I'll get invited to one of those meetings soon, unless one of my neighbors sees this--and if they do, I have to say that someone broke into my house and forced me to write this, so stop reading now and call 911!

In the meantime, I think we'd better get our homeowner's insurance up to date and bar the windows. Something tells me there could be a lot of stones flying.

A moment of levity

I HOPE this is a joke. If not, I have to say it would have to say this is something akin to child abuse.
http://www.babytoupee.com/

The big small life

On the same day 49 people died at Bluegrass Airport, there was another loss here. Her passing didn't make the evening news, but in many ways, I think it should have.

Tiffany was 5 years old, just a few days younger than my Meghan. I knew her only briefly; although I suppose at that age, every acquaintance was brief by default. I interviewed her and her father for a story about how families deal with being in the children's hospital over the Christmas holidays. She was afraid of me and my camera at first. She was my very first interview in my new job, and I was a mess of tangled wires, an awkward tripod, and a video camera with a battery that didn't work. I sweated it out as I made calls back to the office for someone to bring a fresh battery. While we waited, Tiffany relaxed and graced me with a big, dimpled smile.

Her eyes, however, were sleepy and red-rimmed. She was just starting another round of chemo. She was 4 then and had lived with leukemia for little more than a year. During that time, she had spent more days in the hospital than at home with her mom, dad and two big brothers. Her parents had worked out a system of switching shifts--her dad with her during the day, mom at night. While I was there in her room, I saw one of the most poignant father-daughter relationships I have ever witnessed. Her father adored her, and her pain-dimmed eyes would light up for a moment whenever she turned them toward her dad, who treated her like the healthy kid he just knew she would be someday. He tickled her and wrestled with her, making her forget that the only Christmas lights she would see that year were the ones strung along her IV pole. Like any other 4-year-old kid, her big concern was whether Santa would know where to deliver her presents. Her dad assured her that he did. She asked to watch an Elmo DVD and told me she loved Disney princesses, just like my daughter. She talked of going home and playing with her brothers. As she talked, she watched me carefully, gauging my reaction. I soon forgot that she was bald and hooked to machines and believed this child was going to make it, that she would go home and be like every other ordinary kid.

But this child was extraordinary.

Her father later emailed me at work and invited me to see the family's web site. There were photos of Tiffany with big, bouncy curls and chubby little hands exploring the cracks of a sidewalk while on vacation with the family, happy and carefree, just weeks before she was diagnosed with the disease that would cut her life short less than two years later. But I also saw message upon message posted by nurses, friends, fellow patients, church members, new acquaintances like me--people who were touched by Tiffany's strong spirit. They wrote about the same things that had impressed me--her smile, her will to live. She was not going to be defined by her illness but rather her vitality. She was going to go home to her pets and her big brothers and get that child's sweaty glow playing in the back yard. She was going to have cake on her birthday and take a vacation with her family and go shopping for school clothes.

As the months passed, her father posted messages about her progress--her last round of chemo, her trip to see Elmo, her first day of kindergarten, her hair growing back. And then suddenly, there was a message about another trip back to the hospital. She had pneumonia. I expected to see another message a few days later about how she was back to school. Instead, the news was progressively worse. She was not responding to treatment. She needed a ventillator. Then she was gone. How could that be? With all our modern medicine, how was it possible that a child die?

The news tonight was full of updates about funeral arrangements for victims of the plane crash. I held my newborn and thought of another funeral taking place today as another family buried their child. I pray I never know that kind of heartache. My hope is that time will dull the sting of their loss but that, at the same time, the rest of us don't forget that it happened and that every day, there are losses all too similar, here in the Bluegrass and around the world. Try as we might, we are not invincible. We can't always protect our children. But we can love them, unreservedly, whole-heartedly. That's the big lesson from a little life.