I always know it is truly spring when the California poppies bloom

The California poppy is a wildflower that is also the California state flower. I remember first becoming aware of its significance when I was six years old. When I first discovered them, I wanted to pick the flowers so badly. But my mom warned me that it was a special flower that shouldn't be picked if it's within a certain distance from the roadside, because it is the symbol of the state of California. She also wisely explained to me that after I picked one, the flower wouldn't last long and it was better to leave it growing where it was. It was one of the first of many flowers I learned how to enjoy without picking it and taking it home with me.

Now, with my digital camera (or camera-phone) I can "pick" flowers in a different way. I can take the image of a flower home with me and leave the lovely flower behind growing where I found it. This is particularly important when it comes to delicate wildflowers like the California poppy.

Ashley at ProFlowers.com reached out to me and

gave me a heads-up that there's a new post on their blog

giving great tips on how to photograph flowers with your mobile phone 

Click here to head on over there and read more

Why it's best not to be heavy-handed when it comes to digitally cropping photos

In the last year or so, I've taken on several different projects involving the scanning and digital restoration of family photos for others. Lately, I've been spending my efforts on our own family photos that my mom brought to be in neatly organized albums.

As I've completed small batches of photos, I've been uploading them to a common viewing area ("photostream" in the world of Apple) and all family members have been able to look at them on their iPhones and iPads as well as make comments. I've spent a few evenings this past couple of weeks laughing so hard I couldn't breathe because of the comments flying back and forth over select photos.

The above photo seems innocuous enough right? It's me on my 12th birthday right after the candles have been blown out. I'm guessing the bouquet of zinnias and bachelor buttons were freshly cut from a garden that I remember was burgeoning that year. It seems like just a typical birthday shot right before the cake is cut.

Don't be deceived.

The uncropped version of the photo looks like this...

That "monster" on the right is my four year old brother, photobombing the shot before "photobombing" was even a word.

As everyone in the family exchanged comments back and forth, my brother's comment on this photo was the best by far:

"I look shockingly like Lou Ferrigno in the Incredible Hulk, except I'm not green, have no muscles, and am slightly shorter than him in this pic... but other than that... dead on."

Let's see...

You know... he's right!!!

The moral of the story (there is one believe it or not)
In this world of easy digital editing...

Just in case you can't see the above photo... don’t be too quick to crop a photo. You could inadvertently be cropping out some of the best memories.

Memories of Jessica McClintock Gunne Sax dresses and a nosegay

I am a word nerd. I think many bloggers are (whether they know it or are willing to admit it).

Back many moons ago, in my junior high school at the end of every year the 8th grade students participated in "Eighth Grade Graduation". It was a big deal. The school band played "Pomp and Circumstance" while the entire 8th grade class walked in a procession decked out in the finest dress.

Back then Jessica McClintock's Gunne Sax dresses were all the rage so there was a sea of 8th grade girls wearing long calico dresses with lace-up bodices and fancy cuffs on long puffed sleeves. The graduation ceremony happened on the afternoon of the last day of school day, so all the 8th graders showed up wearing this formal attire at the beginning of the school day. The first half of the day everyone went to their regular classes. Those of us girls in 7th grade got to watch the 8th graders gliding across campus from morning class to morning class in their beautiful dresses while we dreamed of the next year when we could do the same.

The year I was one of those starry-eyed 7th graders, one particularly stylish and gregarious 8th grade girl we all loved and admired wore a beautiful Gunne Sax dress while carrying in her hand what appeared to be a miniature wedding bouquet. I was enthralled by flowers even back then, and I thought it was beyond sophisticated and charming that she got to carry around this darling bouquet of fresh flowers. I was transfixed. I heard her mention again and again that this "nosegay" was from her mother.

"Nosegay"... it sounded to enchanting and alluring.

It was a word I'd never heard before.

My flower-loving-word-nerd heart was hooked.

I never forgot that day... that moment... that space in time... when I was introduced to the concept of a "nosegay".

According to Merriam-Webster:

"Nosegay" is a homegrown word -- that is, it originated in English. Fifteenth-century Middle English speakers joined "nose" (which meant then what it does today) with "gay" (which at the time meant "ornament"). That makes "nosegay" an appropriate term for a bunch of flowers, which is indeed an ornament that appeals to the nose.

Is it just the 7th grader coming out in me, or doesn't that still sound so enchanting and alluring?

Dreaming of carousel horses and the wind in my hair

An excited kid sitting atop a carousel horse

With the wind in my hair...

It was my steed

And we were racing bravely 

Through the wild fields

Of places far away

Snip and snails and... dragonfly tails. That's what little boys are made of (and some girls too)

I was sitting on my brother's couch when my 11-year-old nephew sidled up beside me. Calmly he said, "I found something really cool floating in the swimming pool... but you may not think it's cool..." his voice trailed off a bit.

"Really?" I asked with all sincerity. He had my full attention. Rarely does he deem anything as "cool" let alone "really cool", and I know if he does, it almost always involves some sort of wildlife (a boy after my own heart).

"What is it?" I asked inquisitively.

"I found a dragonfly floating in the deep end of the pool. It's this big," he indicated with his fingers a large find.

"Is it still alive?" I asked.

"Maybe... I don't know... probably not..." he replied.

"What color is it?" I was thoroughly intrigued both in the dragonfly he had found and the fact that this normally unassuming, quiet, and cerebral boy had initiated the conversation with me instead of the other way around.

"He's kinda brown," his eyes twinkled with the delight of a boy who has found someone who loves bugs as much as he does.

"Where is it? Your dragonfly is going to be the first thing I photography with something new I got!" I was already headed to my tote bag in the hall and talking over my shoulder.

It was he who was intrigued now. He followed me to my bag as I extracted my latest fun acquisition still in the unopened package. I had thrown it in "just in case" and, at this moment, I was so glad I did.

I showed him as I unpackaged it (dropping my iPhone in the process--good thing it was in a case) and explained, "This is an Olloclip. It clips onto my iPhone so I can take close-up macro photos of things that are small. I want to try it out on the dragonfly you found!"

I clipped the lens onto the corner of my iPhone over the top of the built-in lens, and he led me to the dragonfly that had been carefully and lovingly laid out on a paper towel by his mom (my sister) in a shoebox to make a safe journey home with them later in the day.

He stood and watched as I gingerly dragged the paper towel to get the perfect indirect light from the kitchen window and began shooting. I was amazed at the details I was catching--details my eyes couldn't see. We both ooo'ed and aah'ed with each capture. Pretty soon we had an audience as other family members wanted to know what all the excitement by the kitchen sink was about.

After I felt like I'd captured every angle, the dragonfly was placed reverently back into its shoebox. Neither he nor I were happy about the dragonfly's demise. We never said it, but we both knew the other was thinking it. Also unspoken, was the sentiment that somehow by appreciating the beauty of this fascinating creature and honoring it through careful study, it's untimely death wouldn't have been in vain.

We stood afterwards and carefully reviewed on the iPhone what the macro lens had seen that we could not--the tiny perfect serration on each wing-edge and the luminescent panes of gossamer film. It is moments like this that remind me to strive to always see the world the way a child sees it.

I am not affiliated with the company that produces the Olloclip or Apple that produces the iPhone. 
I was not compensated for anything written in this post in products, services or monetary funds.
I simply wrote about them because they are cool.

The lilacs are blooming...

The lilacs are blooming... the air is heavy with their heady perfume. 

The cherry tree is blooming... the song of the house finches floats through its branches on the spring breeze.

The violet is blooming... tender little violets with a fragrance so graceful and sweet.

All are reminders of precious people and places... bookmarks in my heart leading to pages holding the highlighted passages of my life's story.

Reminiscing as I walk through the garden between rainstorms

Morro blood orange blossom

Our little Bay Area micro-climate just got soaked with 2.65 inches of rain yesterday. For those not living here that may not seem like a lot, but for us in the Bay Area it's a big deal since it always seems like we're on the verge of a drought. Hubby's rain gauge was quite full this morning and I was pleased.

Strawberries in bloom

The rain started early yesterday morning and continued into the evening as Hubby and I huddled under a large golf umbrella to get to the car on our way out to dinner. As he deposited me in the passenger seat and ran around to his side of the car, I remembered that on the same date 14 years ago it was pouring rain. I wore white and the same golf umbrella was used to shield me from the rain as I walked next to my groom to have our first photos taken as a married couple among the spring blooms in the gardens of the Oakland California Temple where we had just been married. The rain stopped for a brief 40 minutes or so, giving us enough time to take photos and then it started pouring rain again.

Narcissus

I guess depending on the culture, rain on one's wedding day can be a good thing or a bad thing. We've found our marriage to be a very rewarding and happy union so in our case the rain wasn't a bad thing. As it says in an Irish wedding blessing "Happy is the bride that rain falls upon." That was definitely true in our case.

Lilacs

As I walked in our gardens today, I found little vignettes that reminded me of the gardens we found when we honeymooned in Victoria, British Columbia. Our lilacs along the southern fence have blooms that are like little cups filled with rain water. Very few things can rival the smell of rainwater-filled lilacs except maybe hyacinths after a rain shower (which we discovered at Butchart Gardens on our honeymoon).

Bay laurel blossoms

(this is where bay leaves come from)

Interestingly, while it continued to rain here in the Bay Area for the 10 days we were gone on our honeymoon, it was beautifully sunny in Victoria. I think it's usually the opposite with Victoria getting the rain while we stay dry. Funny, isn't it?

Native Pacific coast iris

When the weather forecasters here in the Bay Area begin to marvel at why we're getting so much rain in March, I remember that it really isn't that odd after all. As the late March rainstorms wash over us I remember that it seems to happen every other year or so (like the year we were married). But somehow people forget.

Ornamental kale in bloom

I can see how people forget though. The older I get the more one year seems to meld into another. Was it really 14 years ago that we started our lives together? It often seems like it was just yesterday.

Fresh hot buttered popcorn

We have our favorite old movie theatre here in our area that has all the original elaborate architectural details of times gone by. I remember the first time I visited a similar movie theatre when I was a kid. I was enthralled with the ornate beauty and was a bit disappointed when the lights had to go down for the movie to start. I still have similar feelings when Hubby and I visit the vintage theatre we love.

When I was working on the above piece, I wanted to capture all those feelings somehow--the feelings of sitting and eating something fresh like the hot buttered popcorn while admiring the ambiance of the beautifully aged vintage theatre that surrounds us. It's a happy kind of paradox of emotions, and I think I captured a bit of it.

You can send this as a free customizable e-card or e-invite from pingg.com by clicking here

Preserves

Some things are just meant to be preserved
Luscious juicy berries picked right out of the garden

Recipes on yellowed paper written in fountain pen
Memories of the women who wrote them

Smelling, hearing, tasting and seeing Christmas

1. Santa always left oranges, 2. Before the fudge..., 3. A child's Christmas wishes..., 4. Technicolor Red

I've waxed nostalgic this week thinking about all the memories of Christmases past. As I've reflected, I've found it interesting how many of the memories are sensory memories--smells, sounds, tastes and colors.

I keep all our Christmas decorations in plastic storage boxes in our walk-in attic. When it's time to decorate the house I go "shopping" in the attic and hand-pick the decorations I feel like featuring that year. I don't ever put out all the decorations at once. It would be exhaustive and way too cluttered. Instead, I like to "shop" for things I've forgotten we have or special items that I always remember when I think of decorating for Christmas.

A few years ago, my mother sat down with me and my brother and sister and we divided up all the Christmas decorations we had known as children. Each of us got to keep the things that mattered most to us while divesting my mother of the burden of storing so much.

This year, as I dug through one of the boxes of Christmas decorations I came across the jingle bell door hangers that my mom made about 40 years ago. The bells ring with a deep rich tone just as I have always thought the jingle bells on Santa's reindeer should sound. As my hands pawed through the box, the sound of the bells resonated up through the decorations. To me, that is the sound of Christmas.

Both Hubby and I are big fans of old classic movies, particularly old Christmas classics. One of our favorites is White Christmas. We popped it into the DVD player earlier this week to watch the digitally remastered and restored version we have in our cherished holiday collection. As I watched the brilliant dance numbers in glorious technicolor I found myself drawn to the reds over and over again. To me, that is the color of Christmas.

As I chatted with my mother on the phone this week, we reflected on the homemade Christmas treats that we considered to be the quintessential treat that always meant it was Christmas. Interestingly, it is different for the both of us. For my mom, it is the special butter cookies colored with green food coloring and sprinkled with colored sugar that her mother made every year. And although my mom continued that tradition for us, the Christmas treat I always associate with Christmas is my mom's homemade fudge. The creamy chocolate goodness melting in my mouth and sliding down my throat is what I remember. To me, that is the taste of Christmas.

Every year for as long as I can remember, an orange was left in the toe of my Christmas stocking. After digging my way through the contents of my bulging stocking, the last prize was always a perfect orange (usually a naval orange). During the childhood years we lived in snowy Colorado, that orange was a particular treat.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, we got a scratch-and-sniff children's book entitled The Sweet Smell of Christmas about a little bear that went through his house smelling all the smells of Christmas. He, too, got an orange in the toe of his stocking and my favorite page of the book was that one where I could scratch and sniff the pungent aroma of orange.

Now that I have a home of my own, I grow a number of varieties of citrus in my garden. When I harvest the fruit, the bright smell of orange oil on my fingertips brings back memories of when everything seemed magical on Christmas morning. To me, that is the smell of Christmas.

What is the smell, taste, color, or sound of Christmas to you?

Chap 1: The fastest 35 miles I've ever driven

The first installment in the story of how Rosehaven Cottage came to be 9 years ago (click here for the "Introduction")


"How quickly can you drive up here?" I heard Hubby say excitedly when I picked up the telephone. His giddiness was evident.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm standing in front of a house that Joan called me about. We didn't go in yet. But I'm peeking through the window of the living room. It has high ceilings, Honey! And hardwood floors! And there's already a white picket fence!"

I immediately went into action getting shoes on and grabbing my purse. I had a 35 mile drive to make on a weekday evening. And I had to make it as quickly as possible without getting pulled over by the highway patrol or getting into an accident. This would be tricky considering the time of day and rush-hour traffic. But I had to get there. Hubby was certain this was finally "our house".

We had been looking for a place to buy for almost six months. One of the first houses we looked at when we started our quest had been a listing we called on ourselves. The normal listing agent was on vacation, so the agent that would be showing us the property was filling in for him. That's when we met Joan. She was a first-time home buyers' dream. No nonsense, down-to-earth, and full of practicality, Joan helped us write an offer on that first home she showed us. The deal didn't fly. And for the next almost 6 months, Joan was our dutiful home-seeking agent. We wrote offer after offer in a market that was so hot it wasn't uncommon to have 5-10 competing offers going against us. Each time, our deals went sour. And because the market was so hot, we had no hope of getting into anything other than a townhome or condo without a yard. It was a sacrifice we were willing to make.

We had only been married two years. Shortly into our marriage, I started having severe health problems (to be diagnosed 7 years later as endometriosis). I had to stop working full-time which made Hubby the sole breadwinner in our home. My physical health problems began to be compounded by terrifying flashbacks I started having of childhood abuse I had experienced when I was so young that I had been able to block it out for decades. We were living in the town where I had been born and where the abuse had started. Despite a very supportive mother and siblings that lived close by, I was headed into the dark downward spiral caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. After much prayer, we had determined that we needed to move. We needed to go somewhere else within driving distance of Hubby's job that would be free of all triggers for me. And despite it being the worst time to try to buy, it was necessary.

And so the hunt for a new home, a new town, and a new life began.

Our agent, Joan, was privy to why our search was so important. And she took her role very seriously. That's why on that Thursday in late June 2000, I was driving like mad to get to a house that could potentially be "the one". Joan had been hunting the newly released listings that afternoon and saw a listing go up for a house that was in our price range. It wasn't a condo or a townhome. It was a house--with a yard. That was a miracle in and of itself. She had immediately called Hubby at work and because he was only 15 miles away, he went to see it first before calling me into action. That's why I was getting the giddy phone call as he peered into the living room window.

I drove that 35 miles in less than 25 minutes. It was as if all normal rush-hour traffic had been removed just for me. I hit every green light. I didn't have to speed... much.

When I pulled up in front of the little house, I knew why Hubby had made the call. It was truly our house. Yes, the sun-baked clay soil was covered with dry sunburned weeds. But it had the white picket fence I had always dreamed of having. And it had a yard! I peeked in the living room to see what Hubby had described. Yes. He had been right. It was just what we had been looking for.

Joan managed to get the key and let us in so we could look around inside. The poor little house was in such a state of disrepair and neglect. The hardwood floors had dry crumbling patches old urine-soaked carpet-padding sticking to it. The tub in the bathroom was so nightmarish I wouldn't have set one bare toe in it. Someone had taken a circular saw to the hardwood floors in the hallway to remove water damage and had replaced it with triangles of particle board but hadn't fixed the pipe that was leaking. So the particle board was water damaged. And the dark cave of a kitchen had a sink that couldn't drain. The bedrooms were dingy and appeared to have cracking plaster on the walls. One had 1960s era acoustic tiles stuck to the ceiling. A dark room off the eat-in kitchen was paneled floor to ceiling in fake wood paneling. Even the stairway was encased in the fake paneling.



A clean-up crew had been sent through the house to remove all the rubbish and debris from the former resident. Even with that, there were still vestiges of dirt and nastiness throughout the whole house.

And yet, Hubby and I were beaming from ear-to-ear. Through the dirt, grime, and rust we could hear the house calling to us ever-so-quietly that it was meant to be loved, and we were meant to love it. It sounds horribly corny to say that, but it's true. An inner voice kept telling us individually that we were walking through our future home.

Without hesitation, we went from the house to Joan's office to write an offer. We offered over asking price to ensure we would beat out other offers. We knew of at least one competing offer even though it had only been listed for a few short hours. We didn't know if there would be others that would come in as well. It was around 9 pm when we submitted the offer by fax. We would have to wait it out overnight to hear back from the seller's agent in the morning.

That night, we slept restlessly. We hoped and hoped that the seller would be drawn to our offer beyond any others. We knew we had to have that house.

The following morning a couple of hours before noon, we got the call from Joan. Our offer had been accepted over the other offer! We were officially in escrow! We would have our little house!

And that's when the adventure began.

Rhapsody in Blue

Lilacs on our warm climate "Lavender Lady" lilac bushes

It seems that everything is blooming in blues and purples right now in the Rosehaven Cottage gardens. It is a wonderfully serene yet vibrant show that's going on. Blue and purple flowers always amaze and entrance me.

Dutch Iris

I've been reading the book "Flower Confidential" by Amy Stewart. One of the fascinating things in the book is the discussion of how the color of a flower is determined by its internal chemical makeup at a cellular level. There's a lot of science behind it (I won't bore you with the details), but it is a fact that some flowers cannot be blue unless genetically altered. Because of this, no one has yet been able to breed a true "blue" rose.

Dover Beach Bearded Iris

The last I heard, no one has been able to breed a truly "scarlet red" bearded iris for the same scientific reasons why no one can breed a "blue" rose. Frankly, I'm happy with the fact that in order to have blue AND red flowers in my garden I have to have both iris and roses.

"Blue Ribbon" Rose

And even though it isn't really "blue", I think that the "Blue Ribbon" rose is absolutely beautiful. With its dusky scent it smells like the old rose perfumes from decades ago. When I smell it, I am transported back to standing at my Grammy's dressing table when I was 6 years old sniffing all the lovely potions and lotions.

If I really stop to think about it, each one of the flowers pictured here reminds me of my Grammy and her garden. Even the subtle scent of the bearded iris has that connection for me. Isn't it interesting how scents and smells from positive early childhood experiences continue to attract us, particularly women?

What color and scent are the blooms that remind you of happy and content times in your life?

Plums blossoms with puffy white clouds to match

When I was a little girl, my siblings and I played a lot of make-believe. A favorite make-believe game I liked to play was "Candyland" where my siblings and I would pretend we had entered an all-candy world where everything was edible. We would have our adventures out in the garden. The redwood bark was really chocolate. The clouds were cotton candy. And there was always some drama with a make-believe villain we had to fight to protect our "Candyland".

To this day, when I see puffy white clouds against a blue sky I still think of "Candyland".

The Love Runs Deep (200th post)

I had already planned to write about these two photos today before I realized it would mark the milestone of being the 200th post. Now the post seems even more appropriate for the occasion.

The two photos I'm sharing in today's post are of my great-grandparents, El and Bill Munce. I am very fortunate to have hundreds of candid photos like this of them, their families, their outings, their lives, and their silliness.

These two particular photos are part of the early part of an antique album that is in the loving care of my aunt. The album spans the entire 16 years of their marriage (their marriage ended prematurely due to El's tragic death after the birth of their youngest son).

The photos were taken around 1910 here on the rolling hillsides of the San Francisco Bay Area with my great-grandparents' simple little portable camera of the time (hence the slight blur in the photo of El). If the photos were in color, the hills would probably be a lovely green because that's when the wildflowers that Bill and El were out hunting and picking would have been in bloom--probably sometime around March.

Bill was a lover of gardening, grafting, planting, growing, and roses. I love this photo of him with an armload of wildflowers. This is my kind of man. The photo of El with the armful of flowers seems expected, but not the one of Bill. It's literally a snapshot in time--a special moment between two young honeymooners captured in perpetuity. I can imagine them out as a couple traipsing these hills I love so much. I can imagine their excitement at taking the snapshots and then their anxious anticipation for when they would get the photos developed so they could relive the moment.

I'm glad they captured this moment. Somehow it gives me a sense of who I am. I feel a connection to them, to these hills, to the flowers. It all helps me feel grounded, rooted. My heart swells with a gratitude for the legacy they have left--a legacy of loving nature and gardens that has been passed down through their daughter to her daughter to me.

I garden in almost the same climate as my great-grandfather gardened in only a half-hour drive away from where he gardened. When I am out in my garden tending my fruit trees, pruning my roses, or tying up my climbing vegetables, I feel him near. I've seen so many photos of his garden, I know it is much like my own.

Thank you, Grandad, for being the man that you were. Thank you for loving all the things that I love, especially the roses. Thank you, Grandma El, for loving the flowers and for loving nature so much that you hiked the hills and valleys in those dresses you had to wear. And thank you, both, for loving each other as deeply as you did.

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Remembering...

On Monday morning my mom, Hubby, Chica, and I piled into my mom's Jeep to make the 3 1/2 hour trek north into the northern forests of California. There in a small tranquil valley named Indian Valley is the small town of Greenville. It's the town where my mom and her sisters grew up (the youngest was born there). It's the town where they all graduated from high school. It's the town where my Grammy served as a postal carrier for Indian Valley. And it's the town where my Grammy and Grampy's mortal coils are buried in Greenville Cemetery.

Why were we making this weekday trek to Greenville?

Both my mother and I are avid family history researchers, and in my mother's latest online research at USGenWeb she discovered that no one had transcribed the headstones and monuments of Greenville Cemetery although a lot of the other cemeteries in Plumas County have transcriptions available online. After contacting the USGenWeb coordinator for the county, my mother volunteered to take on the task. Hubby and I were her recruits to assist her in the task of writing down all the vital information on every headstone and grave in the cemetery. The three of us systematically spread out over the cemetery, and after a day and a half, we had completed the job.

The work of transcription in this cemetery was quiet work filled with the beauties of nature. The cemetery is spread across a hill under the sheltering limbs of beautiful evergreens and large decidous trees. The sun filters through the branches onto the cool green grass that surrounds the dignified headstones and monuments while summer bugs flit about on the cool mountain breezes. Robins, jays, juncos and other birds summering over in the mountains hunt for insects in the grass after it has been watered. Grey squirrels chase each other up and down the massive trunks that stand as pillars over the hill. One would not expect to find such beauty in a cemetery.

During our time there, I took the time to shoot some photographs to capture the essence of the tranquility and natural beauty that exist there. It is a very fitting setting for so many loved ones that are now at rest--many loved ones whom we knew and loved personally.

The older stone edifaces had such wonderful texture. The craftsmanship that went into decorating each monument was evident. Many over a hundred years old, were aged with moss. I couldn't help but see the beauty.

Fresh flowers, many probably cut from the town gardens in the valley below, graced numerous graves. Most of the cut lilac blooms had long since wilted, but the stalwart bearded iris blossoms continued to show their beauty. So many fresh flowers baskets and vases were throughout the cemetery, even on the oldest graves. Someone remembers them. And hopefully, after our transcriptions are added to the USGenWeb databases, many more will remember them again.

Valentines for the New Girl

Life has a way of repeating themes and coming around full circle on itself. This Valentine's week has been full of that phenomenon for me.

I've watched with curious fascination as Dexter, our big 17 lb. mancat, has patiently welcomed little Lucy since she arrived in our home back in December. Unlike the other cats, who were wary of her, he wanted to get to know her even when she was confined to her habitat cage while she got well from a near-fatal respiratory infection. Once she was past being contagious, I opened the door to my studio so he could come in and check her out. He would sit outside her cage and patiently let her maul his flipping tail without one hiss. Dexter is still just as benevolent with Lucy's rampunctious kitten energy. As evidenced by the photo at left, she appreciates him and his sweet disposition. She takes advantage of cuddle opportunities any chance she can get. Why not? He's this big furry heater just perfect for curling up against. Dexter has made Lucy feel welcome in what could have been a very scary and hostile environment for vulnerable little Lucy. I don't think she'll ever forget that.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago I, like Lucy, had the experience of being a newcomer when my family moved back to the San Francisco Bay Area in California after spending 7+ years in Colorado. I had been in Colorado since I was 2 years old. I had spent kindergarten through part of 4th grade there with a few moves mixed in so moving was not anything new. Still, moving is never easy on a child. But my mom always spoke of moving with such enthusiasm that I would be more excited than scared--except when the first day in a new school rolled around. That was scary.

Just like Lucy, I walked into a new California school that could have been hostile and unwelcoming. I happened to walk into that new classroom on Valentine's Day 1977.

As happens when a new student arrives in the middle of the year, there's a lot of first-day paperwork to be done in the office before the student can be shuttled away to their classroom. By the time I was led into my new class, the day was underway and the teacher was in the middle of instruction. When I was escorted into the quiet learning environment, all eyes watched me as I was led up to the front to the teacher. I could feel all the 4th graders' eyes watching me. I had on my "brave face" and smiled when introduced to the teacher and then by the teacher to the rest of the class. Events were a blur as I was found a desk that I could settle into.

When I finally got settled, I started looking around me to get my bearings. It was a nice open learning environment shared by three 4th grade classes only separated by low shelves and partitions (remember, it was the 70's with a lot of new thinking and ideas about education). Each class was a pie shaped area that spoked off a main hub and the students faced the outside of the pie shape toward their respective teacher. After starting out in "home room", students moved between the three 4th grade instructors throughout the day depending on their respective level of learning for different subjects, dividing the entire 4th grade into 3 separate levels for different levels of competence.

Once I figured out what that was all about, I started looking around at the finer details. I noticed that since it was Valentine's Day, there was a line of hand-decorated brown paper bags hanging midway up one wall in my new homeroom. There was one bag for each student with each student's name on the top edge an individual bag. I surmised that throughout the previous few days, students had brought valentines for their friends and hand-delivered them into each bag. The valentines had been given probably a week or so to accumulate. Later in the afternoon, time had been set aside for all the students to have a valentine party where the valentines from each bag would be opened as everyone had refreshments brought in my homeroom moms.

"Oh well," I thought to myself, "Since today is my first day, I can't expect to get any valentines. Just keep a brave face and enjoy the party."

There were still a couple of recesses left in the day before the party. I went out with the rest of the class. I had expected to just hang back and blend into the "woodwork" silently. That was the safest approach to a first day, particularly one in a new state where student culture could be very different. However, I was pleasantly surprised as I was welcomed by smiling and curious students. How friendly everyone was! I didn't feel ostracized at all. My fellow classmates got me talking by asking me lots of questions that they genuinely wanted answered. I was toured around the playground that first day (as well as other days in the first week). I remember vividly who the girls were that welcomed me. We didn't necessarily continue to be good friends over the successive months, but that didn't matter. They were kind to me. That's what mattered more than anything.

Later that first afternoon, when it came time for the class valentine party with the opening of valentines, I was even more pleasantly surprised. Unbeknownst to me, the teacher had assigned some of my classmates to hand-decorate a valentine bag for me! Not only that, but my new classmates had quietly and secretly handmade valentines for me so my bag would be just as full as everyone else's! I was so touched. The valentines I received that day were full of handwritten sentiments of like "I'm glad you're in our class now" and "I'm so happy to meet you". You cannot imagine how much that meant to my little 4th grade heart.

Up to that point, Valentine's Day had always been one of the days I looked forward to the most during school. I had been prepared to dread this one. But instead, my thoughtful teacher and classmates made it the most special Valentine's Day of my entire school experience thus far and for the rest of my student career even through high school. Their thoughtful, kind, and loving acts had a great impact on me. I have never forgotten those gestures from that Valentine's Day 31 years ago.

Interestingly, the story doesn't end there, as there is a very special serendipitous postlogue.

I've been reflecting on the above event the past week because this year's weather is so much like the weather was that year--warm and very full of the nuances of Spring. I alluded to it in a previous post. Shortly after writing that post, I received an unexpected email. The sender was one of those 4th grade girls that had welcomed me so sweetly all those years ago!

Now a mom, this old friend still lives in the same town where we went to school. My younger sister does as well. They became acquainted through their children and through casual conversations the connection with me was discovered. Although we hadn't been close friends, we had gone to school together until we graduated the same year from high school. I have not seen her since.

After this discovery, my sister gave her my blog address in case she wanted to see what I was up to. After reading through my blog and becoming "reacquainted", this friend from my past decided to send me an email just to let me know. The email arrived only a couple of days before the 31st anniversary of when she first met and welcomed me on that Valentine's Day in 4th grade. Once again, I felt her kindness after so many years.

See what I mean about life coming about full circle? How's that for serendipity?!?!