Flowers say “you’re mine.” . . . . .

rox 008


Just a note this morning:

Remember my recent post wondering about a bicycle I saw in Honolulu that was covered with flowers.  Well, none of my guesses were correct.

A recent article in the Honolulu newspaper showed a picture of the bike with its owner, a young man who said he has several bicycles and he decorates all of them with flowers when he uses them.

Why?  Because, he said, nobody ever steals a bike that’s covered with flowers.

Which made me think of my friend Bill’s little bug covered with a lei.  Bill is a Texan who spends a lot of time in Hawaii, so he keeps this car there.  It’s cute and people turn to look at it when it drives by.  Bill sometimes drives it in one of Waikiki’s frequent parades.  In this picture Bill has paused to take some pictures with the background of Diamondhead.  His pal Roxie poses nicely, to be included.

So the little car with the lei of plumeria is so recognizable one would doubt it will ever be stolen.

Now, one has to wonder.  Do you suppose that is why young men sometimes surround a girl with flowers?



Heavenly gift for Mother . . . . .


You may not believe this, but upon my word, it is true.

A few minutes ago it hailed while the sun was shining.

I was in my kitchen, putting together a rhubarb cobbler.  I had made one a few days ago and put it in the freezer.  This one will go there too, what I don’t give away. There was an abundance of rhubarb because a friend gave it to me, having exhausted their limit of rhubarb sauce, cakes and pies.  Rhubarb comes around just once a year and is such a treat for people who grew up with rhubarb in the garden and a mother who took it in and did something delicious with it.

If you live in another part of the country and have never taken to rhubarb, that’s okay.  You couldn’t possibly understand.  Just like kale, to me, is a foreign imposter and rather strange.

No one is coming today for Sunday dinner, even though it’s Mother’s Day.  I wouldn’t expect them to.  One is in California, one in Honolulu, and one either in Florida or somewhere in the air piloting people to see their mothers.

So I’m just folding the rhubarb into the batter when I hear a sound at the window.  It is the first few little pellets of ice hitting the glass.  I ran to the front door to watch as the hailstones thundered onto the roof, the sidewalk, the bright green grass.  Not large enough, this time, for damage . . and thank heavens, as I’ve just replaced the roof after hail a few months ago . . baseball size.

It had been a lightly gray day, but now with the hail still filling the air, the sun came out.  It continued to hail for a few minutes in full sunshine.  A curious sight and somehow uplifting.

Uplifting?  Yes.  Not only was it a beautiful sight, but I took it as an honor,

the heavens singing

Hail to the Chef.

Happy Mother’s Day!


The bow on the gift of love . . . . .

Dandelions for Mother


they ran about the yard,

gathering beautiful yellow flowers,

then ringing the doorbell,

presenting with hugs

and kisses for Mom,

stepping back then

to see my smile

and know their gift

was the best

I had ever received.

It was.

A morning of warnings . . .


This morning when I was sipping coffee and watching the news, an ad for a new medicine came on and I actually watched and listened to it, all the way through.  What a frightening thing a medicine ad is these days.  It listed everything that could possibly happen to anyone in any situation.  I understand, of course, that the long list gives them protection from lawsuits.  Yet I know, and you know, that if you really need this drug you will go ahead and take it anyway.

It occurred to me that if a young woman was contemplating whether she wanted to become a mother, there should be such a list of warnings.  It might read something like this:

Becoming a mother can cause tremendous swelling in the mid-section which may threaten to return throughout life.  Being a mother can cause you to run your legs off.  It can fill your head with worries about anything that could ever happen.  It can present problems that are hard to stomach and in the early years can cripple your social life and cause loss of sleep.  Motherhood may change the vision you had for your life, and at times cause loss of hearing.  There may be stress in shouldering responsibilities and footing bills.  At times there could be headaches accompanied by an itching to get away, alone.

The list could go on and on, and finally conclude:    Probably the most universal side effect is this . . .  Becoming a mother ties strings to your heart that can never be removed.

Yet I know, and you know, despite any warnings, that young woman will go right ahead and have those kids, if she can..  And she’ll love them forever.  That other stuff . . well, it just doesn’t count.


ComYOUnication . . . . .




I’m not getting as much email as I once did.  Now, either I’m becoming less popular or email is becoming less popular.  It’s probably Facebook and Twitter that’s interfered. But those are group messages.

I like personal messages.  Written just for me.  Friends can write and tell me anything . . an experience, a thought, an opinion. . and it will be worded in terms that are meaningful to me.  They can tell me something funny their dog did, and I will laugh . . because I know that dog.  They can tell me about their kids, their job, their hobby . .and I will be interested because I know them.

I love to read letters that were exchanged between people back in the 1800’s.  In particular, letters from pioneer women to their mothers back in Pennsylvania or Virginia.  I can imagine how excited those women must have been when the pony express brought a letter back to them from their mother.

That may seem an odd example, but I remember in my early years as an adult, when everything was new and strange to me, how exciting it was to receive a letter in the mail.  But then, mail came easily, in daily deliveries to my door.

Communication, in itself, is encouragement.  Just to know that someone thought of me can lift my day.  Even if they wrote to tell me their troubles, it compliments me as a good listener.  If they wrote to tell me good news, that is good news to me as well.

To me, email is such a privilege.  Granted, it’s not free if you consider the cost of the computer, but even so I think it beats the cost of postage stamps. . . that is, if I wrote as many formal letters as I do informal emails.

But perhaps texting is the culprit these days.  I rarely text because I’m not good at texting.  I can’t think in abbreviations, or perhaps I just don’t choose to.  I love words more than wrds.  I love the longer view of life more than the brief glimpse.  I love friends who have time to talk with me.