Pass the cake, please

Barby Hardy passed away last week. She was 62. I knew Barby for many years through her job with Fayette County Schools. She loved books and had a passion for reaching children through the school library system. She was very much loved and will be greatly missed.

One of my friends, who knew Barby much better and much longer than I did, was reminiscing about her yesterday. She shared something interesting with me.

It seems that Barby had a fondness for (in addition to books and children) birthday cakes. My friend said that it wasn't unheard of for Barby to purchase a birthday cake anytime of the year, just to eat and enjoy.

What a great story! I think I'll take it to heart.

I've never been one to avoid birthdays. I love them. On my birthday people give me cards that tell me (a) I'm wonderful or (b) if I were a chicken I'd be a nugget by now. Either way, bring on the cards.

On my birthday I get a lot of attention from my friends. My children come home. My husband takes us all out. I eat birthday cake. The next day I eat leftover birthday cake.

Start skipping birthdays because I'm getting older? Never!

I've had 55 birthdays so far. I figure the odds are against me having 55 more. So maybe I'd better start upping the cake quota. Having it every 3 or 4 months instead of once a year. Or maybe just when ever I feel like it.

Vanilla cake with buttercream icing and raspberry filling. Or chocolate cake piled high with chocolate shavings. Strawberry cake with real strawberries. Angel food cake with whipped cream. Baskin Robbins cake with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

The choices are endless.

Life is to be celebrated. Every day. Join me for cake?

Let's hear it for the girls!

I read with interest the article in Monday's Herald-Leader regarding the 100th anniversary of the statue of John Hunt Morgan.

Just a few weeks ago, Steve and I found ourselves spending the night at the General Morgan Inn in Greeneville, Tennessee. In the lobby there was table top statue of Morgan on his horse.

While we in Lexington claim Morgan because he spent much of his life here and is buried here, folks in Greeneville claim him because he died there by the hands of the Union army.

I noticed this horse was a mare while the large horse in Lexington was so obviously a stallion. (A fact that has been highlighted through the years by UK undergrads who paint the testicles blue and white). I wondered why.


Surely no one thought the patrons of this upscale historical inn were going to slip down to the lobby in the dead of night with tiny pots of paint and vandalize the horse.

At my next opportunity I googled “John Hunt Morgan statue horse penis”. (Not something I had ever foreseen doing). I learned what most people probably already knew. General Morgan's horse was a mare. Black Bess. The sculptor of the original statue thought it inappropriate that "a hero" should ride a mare. Hmmm.

I thought of the little statue again a week or so later when my minister made the comment in his sermon that "history is written by the winners". I guess that means the strong ones. The golden-haired ones. The ones that bask in sunshine.

It made me think how sometimes appearances are misleading. A strong heart can beat in the chest of an awfully small person. Great minds can be housed in the weakest of bodies (think Stephen Hawking). The tiniest bird in the world (the hummingbird) is the only one that can fly both forward and backwards.

So hurray for those of us that will never have a statue in our honor. Hurray for the kind-hearted teachers I work with. For the aides that empty bedpans. For the barista that always has a smile for me. For those of us that sing off-key.

Let's hear it for Black Bess. Let's hear it for the girls!

Happy birthday to my son

Three years and six days after our daughter was born, our son, Andy, entered our lives.

Even though this was my second child, I was almost as nervous this time around. Steve and I knew we were having a boy. I had just figured out the whole baby girl thing. Now I had to rethink it all to consider that this child would be of the male persuasion. Don't misunderstand. I was thrilled. Just a little nervous.

Not only did I know nothing about little boys, but people were quick to assure me that my son would most likely be a little terror. “Just wait!” they'd say with a malicious gleam in their eyes. “Boys are not like girls. He'll be a handful.”

It was true in a way. He was an armful, entering the world at 9 pounds 8 ounces. He didn't seem quite as fragile as my daughter had been. But then, maybe I was more sure of myself. Andy was a happy baby who quickly became a happy toddler, who became a trickster with a wicked sense of humor.

In spite of the numerous warnings related to baby boys, my son has always been a joy. Without him, I never would have made pinewood derby cars, attended Cub Scout jamborees, been a rock band mom, or become a King of the Hill fan. I probably wouldn't even know what a Pokemon is.

Shakespeare claimed that all the world is a stage, a concept few people have grasped as fully as Andy. He managed to steal the show on numerous occasions during church and school programs. He loved (make that loves) costumes and has plenty to choose from in his closet.


Andy is a musician (got that from Dad)

and an artist (which I like to think comes at least partly from me).

In fact, I think Andy is like me in a lot of respects. We are the dreamers of the family. The ones that hear a different drummer. I kind of like that about us.


In a previous post I mentioned that we have a picture of Mindy at church with Easter lilies on the day of her baptism. We also have one of Andy with poinsettias when he was baptised on Christmas day. To me it is the most important milestone in a life of many delightful milestones. And that's just so far.

Happy Birthday, Andy!

Road trip!

I recently took a road trip with my friend, Iva. Of all my friends, Iva is the most adventuresome. Which is another way of saying that we always end up places I probably would not go on my own and doing things I wouldn't normally do. I'm almost always glad afterward. She helps me stretch myself.

When I travel with most people, we roll the windows up and stick to the plan. But with Iva, we crank the windows down and sail down the road with our hair flying around our faces. Like Thelma and Louise (if Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis had been middle-aged and going shopping instead of gorgeous young things on the lam).

This year we returned to Nashville, Indiana, the shopping mecca of artists and artists wannabes.

I have lost count of the number of times we have been to Nashville, but it's a nostalgic journey. 25 or 30 years ago we went annually with a group of friends who were all struggling young adults. We stayed in the cheapest accommodations we could find, 4 or 5 of us to a room, and ate fast food because we couldn't afford the nice restaurants. We always had a great time.

This year, Iva and I stayed at a B&B, in the heart of town (more about that later). We ate in “real” restaurants, and spent real money. When I got tired, I found a little wine bar and read The Jefferson Key on my Android (my cheap answer to a Kindle. It's a little like chopping a paperback book in two crossway and reading a half a page at at time).

Incidentally, this is a glass of "Slender Wine". It has no carbs and no food calories. It was pretty good, but I can't tell that it made me slender. Maybe I didn't drink enough :)

Iva and I still have adventures. Driving through the country in the early evening, we found a covered bridge in neighboring Bean Blossom which was beautiful in the fading light. Graffiti love notes, like cave drawings, were etched into the wood, and beer bottles were stuck in the crevices of the interior walls. The stories that bridge could tell!

Also in Bean Blossom (and don't you love that name?) we found a gem of a farmhouse/flower garden/restaurant. The Farmhouse Cafe and Tea Room. My friend is a avid gardener and always on the lookout for plants. We spent an hour or so wandering through the garden with large cups of iced strawberry tea and returned for lunch the next day.

Since Iva is a lover of all things green, we couldn't help but notice when we saw small signs perched along the road announcing “Hosta Hill”. Hostas! Even I can keep a hosta alive.

We followed the signs and found ourselves on a narrow dirt road leading to...who knows where? I prayed we wouldn't have to pass a truck, but soon realized this was not a problem. We weren't passing anyone or anything. Where were those hostas anyway? Was it all just a ruse to lure people off the highway and into the cover of the woods?

Eventually, we heard barking and saw signs of human habitation. We pulled into a short gravel drive in front of a small home and one of the sweetest dogs I have ever met came to meet us.

We soon heard more barking from inside. A woman emerged from the home, shutting the door quickly behind her (supposedly to contain the yapping devil dogs inside).

I was still a little nervous. We seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere after all. Then I saw a few pots scattered here and there holding hosta plants at various stages of growth. Little did I know they were the tip of the iceberg. The woman's name was Krista and believe me, she knew her hostas.

Krista led us down a path to her nursery, where the hostas abounded in earnest. She and Iva began to talk plants. I lost interest and went back to petting the dog, whose name, I'd learned, was Patsy.

I perked up when she showed us a hosta variety called “Skywalker”. Part of the Stars Wars family of hostas (????). I took its picture because back in the day, I was a Mark Hamill fan. The other girls could have Hans Solo. I loved Luke.

In case you're wondering, this is what Skywalker looks like.

Iva's new plants getting ready for their ride to Lexington. We never come home empty handed! We always return with treasures and treasured memories!

Happy birthday to my daughter

One of the fun things about having children is that now you have a chance for a mega do-over. You get to re-live your life through a whole new person. One that will not make your mistakes (Sun-in does not make your hair blond, people. It makes it orange.), or your unfortunate choices (I can walk on this ice. It's probably not even slippery). The slate is clean. The future is bright.

Well, this is partly true. The slate IS clean. The future IS bright. And it is full of exhilarating possibilities.

As I held my firstborn, I knew that she would make her own mistakes and her own poor choices. We all do. One doesn't learn to walk without falling. And falling again. And again.

Who would she be, this tiny person that was both Steve and me and all her own self? I thought of the years unfurling before us like bright ribbons.



Who could anticipate a blond tornado toddler that filled our home with purple dinosaurs and Fisher Price cooking utensils? Or a second grader who sang “Let There Be Peace On Earth” at the Martin Luther King breakfast before 300 people. Or the pre-teen who volunteered hours walking the dogs at PetsMart, dragging me and little brother along.

Who knew a karate class the summer of her 12th year would result in a passion that sustained her until young adulthood. Other mothers and daughters enjoyed weekend shopping trips. We traveled to other states to kick butt. My little girl became state Taekwondo Champ two years running.

Naturally we had our share of bumps. Perfect hearing only came after seven ear surgeries, the last of which knocked her out of her first and only ballet class. Some auditions weren't won. Many tournaments (especially the first years) were disappointing. And (don't tell PetsMart), but at least one dog broke free from us in the parking lot, leading us on a merry chase.

That's life. Those are the things that make a resilient, strong, intelligent young woman.

We have a picture on our piano of Mindy in a purple dress, damp hair in a long braid, sitting on the chancel steps at church following her baptism. It was Easter Sunday and there are lilies in the background. I love that picture.

I also love these pictures, taken so many years apart. So many memories and such joy in the years between.

Happy Birthday, Mindy!

What's next? I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Talent and whimsy abound at the Francisco's Farm Arts Festival, in Midway, Kentucky.

A walk in the park

My long awaited first day off work for the summer finally arrived.

I slept through my early morning yoga class, breaking my vacation resolution less than 24 hours into it. No worries. I decided to head to the Arboretum and do the two mile trek. I hadn't visited the park since last summer. I grabbed my camera and my ever present coffee thermos.

On my way to the Arboretum the sky clouded over so much that I considered heading back home. I persevered and was so glad I did. The rain held off and it was an absolutely wonderful day.


The parking lot was busy. I pulled into a spot and decided to listen to the very last of my audio CD before hitting the path. If you've read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, you might have been as dumbfounded as I was at the ending. But that's a post for another day.

Still thinking about the book, I left the car and started walking.

Once on the trail I retrieved my phone to check for messages. I could see that an incoming message had been rejected. My phone storage was full. That's what the phone said - I didn't believe it. It tells me that every now and then and I'm still convinced it is lying to me.

I removed the sim card from the phone, blew on it and put it back. (I'm technologically savvy that way). Still nothing. Trying to remember what the man at the Verizon store told me to do when this happens, I started pushing buttons, accidentally deleting my entire contact list. Bummer.

Maybe there is a lesson here, I thought. Enough with the multi-tasking. I put my phone away.

I passed a woman with three identical dogs trotting along in perfect harmony. I was pretty impressed. (Put a leash on my dog and she becomes a 13 pound mule in a white fur coat, her feet braced in front and her rear digging into the ground).

People were enjoying their morning walking with friends or pushing strollers. Many people, like me, were strolling alone. I saw one man with a couple of kids. He was texting on his phone. I wanted to warn him that he might lose his memory, but managed to restrain myself.

The variety of flowers was amazing and the sun slanted through the trees onto the path. I stopped thinking about the phone and just enjoyed the morning. The park is truly a treasure and I am thankful for it.

I am also thankful for the young man at the Verizon store who was able to retrieve my contact list later that day!