My computer crashed!

No way to connect to my documents. My games could not be played. My music was silent. My dear Facebook friends and my E-mails were uncommunicative. Couldn’t Google. (What kind of name is Google anyway?)

My schedule was askew:

  • Wake
  • Pee, take meds, make Coffee
  • Check Facebook to see who was awake, what was cooking literally and figuratively
  • Check e-mails
  • Check Hay Day and play Phase 10
  • Eat breakfast  at some point in the above
  • Attend to the necessities of the day  – or not
  • Check Hay Day and play Canasta
  • Write in Word for either blog or documents
  • Play Phase 10 – if I won I had to do housework, if I lost I had to play til I won
  • Eat lunch
  • Hurry to  attend activities of the day at the Club House – or if it was bad weather Hay Day or Phase 10
  • Prepare supper
  • Supper/ nightly news/Hay Day/Phase 10 or whatever.


And God said: Let the screen be broken.


  • I’m reading a book or two or three, depending what room I am in
  • I am throwing out stuff, uncluttering, re-organizing my office space and clothes closet
  • I am paying attention to the kitten attacking the cat
  • I would be going outside, or taking a road trip , or having lunch with friends or whatever else might be interesting but its 6 degrees out – snow, ice, wind. Just might take a nap.
  • Working on my genealogy and memoirs

I was held hostage by a laptop that thought it was a terrorist!

But then freedom came in the form of a new laptop.

But I have learned my lesson well – at least for the next few days.Unless I am writing my blog or memoirs or genealogy stuff, I will designate only certain parts of the day for social media, emailing or gaming.

I will not use the computer while I am eating, before sleeping nor will I take it with me to the bathroom to finish a game.

Oh what the heck, life is too short. Phase 10 here I come.



Its funny how a random experience morphs into a blog or a story or a whatever—–.

I was going into Price Chopper the other day walking with my cane. A gentleman was coming out with his walker. We both were almost run over by  a man on his scooter!

We all need insistence. No, that word was intentional. One day my youngest granddaughter and I were watching a program on training dogs for those with special needs.

“Grandma, you need to get one of those.’

“No Hanna, they are only for people who need some kind of help”

Well, Grandma, YOU need insistence!”

To admit that need, to not deny it, is one of the most difficult lessons we must learn. It reeks of dependency, whether we be 38, 78, or 98. Our ego says ‘NO’. We fight it. But it’s there.

I just read a quote which says:
“Let’s face it. In most of life we really are interdependent. We need each other. Staunch independence is an illusion., but dependency isn’t healthy either. The only position of long term strength is interdependence: win/win.                Greg Anderson

I have come to the conclusion that the only way to deal with the dependency issue is to put a spin on it. To be thankful for these aids! To be thankful for those around us who do so many things to make our lives easier. Inspite of our  need for insistence! But Lordy, it is hard!




I have learned that birth and death are both journeys into the quiet unknown.

I have learned that my family is the mortar and building blocks which hold me together.

I have learned that love and faith are the cornerstones of a life well-lived.

I have learned that friendship can be fleeting or everlasting.

I have learned that both unspeakable sadness and unbounding joy are transient.

I have learned that happiness is taking the day off, canceling appointments, locking the door, not answering the phone, vegging out, being good to yourself.

I have learned that a burst of energy can lead to all kinds of good things.

I have learned that love comes in many forms, many faces.

I have learned that music soothes my soul, makes my heart sing.

I have learned that cries of anguish, of joy, of despair can bring healing.

I have learned that sun and snow and rain and thunder each have their own beauty.

I have learned that clouds transcend the believable, become magical.

I have learned that my journey is mine alone; that it is a work in progress, that learning continues.

I have learned that birth and death are both journeys into the quiet unknown.



The River

the-riverPeace I ask of thee, O River

Peace, Peace, Peace

When I learn to live serenely

Cares will cease.

From the hills I gather courage

Vision of the day to be.

Strength to lead and faith to follow.

All are given unto me.

Peace, I ask of thee, O River.

Peace, Peace, Peace


This day Mullet Bay is placid, the glassy ripples mesmerizing as we drink our coffee by the shore.

Another day the white caps will be churning. Boats will be bobbing. Storm will be brewing.

Each day a mystery on The River.

The big ships come up and down the channel. The flags – of the United States, Canada, countries from afar – unfurling from their masts, evoking thoughts of adventure and exotic places.

Boats and canoes and kayaks stream in front of us. Some to go fishing, some to pull water skiers, some to paddle peacefully along the shore dreaming, meditating – all to revel in the beauty of The River.

Swimmers at the beach. All shapes and sizes, out for a good time. Some floating on rafts, some dog-paddling, some serious stroking. Children venturing out too far. Squeals of laughter, admonitions from Moms and Lifeguards. Sandcastles and tunnels to China created in the sand. Imprints of little feet as they go to fill their pails.

Sunset comes. Kaleidoscopes of colors as they break through the sky. Awesomeness that takes one’s breath away from the beauty of the heavens.

Nighttime comes. Black and deep. Sounds of the crickets, sounds of the big ships sending their messages up or down, sounds of the lapping waters. Sounds of silence.

The River. The River. The River.






An Early Religious Experience


The little church nestle in a cul de sac in the lower village of the hamlet of Taberg, New York. It was brand new because the old one had burned to the ground in the most spectacular fire the town had ever seen, so they say.

I remember as one entered there was a combination of smells: flowers, polished wood, always some kind of a good odor coming from the church kitchen.

The sanctuary perhaps could seat a hundred people. Daddy and the other young men from the village had gone to war. Now the congregation was mostly old men and old women, young wives and young women waiting for their men to come home, some teenagers, very few children. I think I still remember some of their names: Sheila, Clarence, Phil, Audrey. I vaguely remember my uncle home on furlough at one  point, resplendent in his Navy blues, sitting in the pew with us.

I would sit between my mother, who I just knew was the prettiest woman there, and the bulky softness of Grandma, my pillow when I would get sleepy during the long sermon. Momma would always have a notebook with her to  entertain her restless daughter if the need arose. I thought she was a most wonderful artist – of trees and clouds and cows and birds and ——.

A lady named Opal played the organ. How I remember that I do not know. In my mind’s eye I cannot see the organ but I can hear it! I don’t remember a choir but I do remember a tall, skinny lady who sang solos a lot- off key but with fervor. Momma said I shouldn’t giggle when she sang, but I did!

The hymns,, oh the hymns. The best part of going to church. The Old Rugged Cross. The Church in the Wildwood, Onward Christian Soldiers. So many more. But the latter so poignant as sons, brothers, husbands, lovers were fighting far away in places unknown.

The pews  were of hard wood. No cushions. There was a rack in front where the hymnals and bibles were placed, but I would take them out to make a bed for my doll or for my coloring book and crayons.

The pulpit stood high behind the altar with its gold candlesticks, offering plates and the beautiful cross in its center.

But, behind it was a heavy, dark velvet, maroon wall hanging, the length of the wall, falling in folds to the floor. It didn’t seem to have a purpose. I knew, however, that God was behind that hanging. I knew God was spying on us, judging us, checking us all out, one by one.

As I remember there was usually a pot luck dinner after church. (In our little town this day was a social event.)

One Sunday morning I slipped away from the dining room, quietly making my way into the sanctuary, to the altar and then to the maroon wall hanging. My heart was beating. I knew God was going to get me. I knew God was not going to like it if I discovered his secret. I drew back a corner of the soft velvety covering.

It was only a bare wall!


Momma found me dejectedly sitting in the first pew to the left. Sadness written all over my face. When she heard my story I recall her saying: “Gail, God is everywhere”.

Thus my religious training began.












Straight up, straight up, turn.

Bitty houses or schools or factories.
“Little boxes, little boxes.
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky.
And they all look the same.”

Slivers of highways or dirt roads or rivers.

Patchwork of crazy quilts of brown, greens, rust.
Squares and rectangles and circles of what?
Farmlands, forests, barren land waiting to be
desecrated by man or bulldozer?

Puffs of cauliflower clouds on a bed of darkening
cerulean blue.

Sudden shards of rain as they pellet the window of this
monstrosity that shouldn’t be able to soar so high.

Sparks of firelight in the distance.

Bump, shudder, rock ——-descent to safe haven.

Then – home.