<![CDATA[Rachel S. Roberts' Writings - Blog]]>Mon, 08 Jun 2026 06:49:26 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Ribbons]]>Mon, 08 Jun 2026 12:42:37 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/ribbons     For several months, my husband was in a nursing home facility. He had suffered a stroke some years before, but as time passed, he needed more care than I could manage. I selected a facility where I could spend time with him on a regular basis. It took only five minutes for me to drive there if there was traffic, but only four minutes if there was none. I often went in the morning and was with him during his waking and breakfast time. I stayed until mid-morning during his therapy, and then scooted home so I could go to the local YMCA and swim a few laps.  I then would return to be with him for his lunch hour. In the middle of the afternoon, I did my home chores, returning to be with him in the evening. I tell you this because while at the facility, I became acquainted with other residents. Some could speak; some couldn’t. I greeted them as I passed them in the corridor, most of whom were in wheelchairs. I looked forward to seeing them, and they seemed to like seeing me.

     One day one man rolled down the corridor and stopped at my husband’s door. Peering in, he saw me and asked, “Do you have any ribbons?”  I said I had some at home, and I asked why he wanted to know. He told me he fashioned little baskets from ribbons, and that he was out of ribbons. If I had any, could I bring him some? Of course I would. He seemed delighted and rolled back to his room. The next day, while I was with my husband, he rolled to our room and asked if I had brought the ribbons.  I hadn’t. I gulped and told him I had them in the car and would surely bring them the next time.  He gave me a grateful smile and rolled back to his room.  When I went home, I went to the basement and searched for ribbons. I found some green, some orange, some yellow, and several white ribbons. I decided to add some wide red Christmas type ribbons as well as some thin blue ones. When I had a tangle of color, I put them in a pretty bag. I couldn’t wait to give them to the man.

     The next day, I looked for the gentleman, and found him snoozing in his room. He was in his wheelchair. He woke up and I gave him the bag of ribbons. He was delighted. We chatted a bit, and I went back to see my husband. I envisioned him braiding, weaving, and arranging the ribbons into a pretty little basket, and it made me happy to know he was occupied doing something creative.  Later that afternoon, a staff nurse came to our room and said, “Brian wants you to have this. He made it for you.”  She handed me Brian’s basket. I took it and asked her to thank him.

     His basket was the bottom of a Kleenex box, on the sides of which he had glued or taped a strip of paper colored with green crayon. Across the top of the box at an angle was a single ribbon, attached at each end to the sides of the Kleenex box with a dab of scotch tape.  Inside on the bottom of the box, he had written his name with a brown crayon. It read, “Brian.” That was all.  It took me a while before I could collect myself and go find Bryan and thank him for my beautiful basket.  

     I cannot recall receiving a more wonderful gift.  Brian’s gift came from his heart, fashioned the best way he could. I treasure it-- a simple cardboard box, a bit of ribbon, some tape, and his name.  I don’t know where he is now, or anything about him, but I love his “basket,” and I cannot bear to throw it away. 
]]><![CDATA[Cats]]>Sun, 03 May 2026 12:15:43 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/may-03rd-20264465841            My parents had barn cats.  They were never named.  My husband’s parents had two Siamese cats.  Thaili and Ping.  Thaili adored my husband’s  father, a retired Navy Commander who once oversaw 7000 men in Tunisia during WWII.  Thaili sat in his lap and purred happily. When it was time for my husband to cat-sit, Thaili would spit, growl and claw with fierce animosity.  I never got near Thaili. My husband resorted to using a baseball mitt when he had to coax her from her preferred spot.
              Years passed. Both the Commander and Thaili died.  I always liked having cats around, although I was allergic to cats. Shortly after we were married when my husband decided we needed a cat, I took shots for months so as to reside at the same address. And so it went. We have always had a cat. Some adopted us. Some we acquired. Most nobly was our cat Homer who lived a long and distinguished life. When we had our first child, Homer had to adapt and he did so with grace. He adopted our baby girl and for years thereafter enjoyed playing with our other children.  He was a most wonderful cat.  After his passing, I thought I could not bear to own another cat. But there came several. Oreo, Alice, Harry-O, Gratz, Paxton, and so on.
                Currently we have a cat named Sheba. She came to us from the woods behind our house. She is round, portly, and close to the ground. Her legs are so short, she is always “low to the ground.”  A year or so ago my daughter, who lives nine hours away from us, acquired a cat for my granddaughter’s birthday. They named him Rudy.  For months Rudy ruled their home and enjoyed being an indoor-outdoor cat.
                However, a nearby old lady got cranky because in the night Rudy would wander over to her house and peer in her patio door at her “4 boys” (her four INDOOR cats, one of which is a Main Coon cat she calls her “Baby”).  It seems her “4 boys” would get excited about seeing Rudy, and it triggered the woman’s ire to such an extent, she threatened to “trap Rudy and throw him in a field.”  She ordered traps from Amazon. To make a long story short, the local sheriff was called. 
                After a number of back and forth appeals, she had the county rules before her, which stated  any dog or cat that causes a public or personal nuisance can be confiscated.  So, it was decided Rudy would take an extended vacation.  And so he came, cat food, cat litter, cat toys, and all. Rudy is lean and long and as narrow as a fence rail. He is a sweetheart. He and Sheba touch noses and play and have a great time. He spends most of his days outside but comes in at night to sleep. Sheba resides in the garage at night.
                Rudy is adapting to his Indiana environment. He has explored the neighborhood and gotten acquainted with the other cats that wander here and there. On my deck the other day sat six cats:  Sheba, Rudy, “Mop-Flop,”  a black cat that looks like Sheba’s clone, another larger black cat my daughter calls  “the Black Panther,”  and yet another  neighborhood cat that sports a red collar, so we call him/her “Red Collar.” We assume all are spayed and neutered. They tolerate each other, stare at me, then go on they way. 
                Did  T.S. Elliott have cats that inspired his book which in turn led Andrew Lloyd Weber to write his musical “Cats?”  I bet he did.  Those cats have wonderful names.
 
]]><![CDATA[Cats]]>Sun, 03 May 2026 12:06:20 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/may-03rd-2026​           My parents had barn cats.  They were never named.  My husband’s parents had two Siamese cats.  Thaili and Ping.  Thaili adored my husband’s  father, a retired Navy Commander who once oversaw 7000 men in Tunisia during WWII.  Thaili sat in his lap and purred happily. When it was time for my husband to cat-sit, Thaili would spit, growl and claw with fierce animosity.  I never got near Thaili. My husband resorted to using a baseball mitt when he had to coax her from her preferred spot.
                Years passed. Both the Commander and Thaili died.  I always liked having cats around, although I was allergic to cats. Shortly after we were married when my husband decided we needed a cat, I took shots for months so as to reside at the same address. And so it went. We have always had a cat. Some adopted us. Some we acquired. Most nobly was our cat Homer who lived a long and distinguished life. When we had our first child, Homer had to adapt and he did so with grace. He adopted our baby girl and for years thereafter enjoyed playing with our other children.  He was a most wonderful cat.  After his passing, I thought I could not bear to own another cat. But there came several. Oreo, Alice, Harry-O, Gratz, Paxton, and so on.
                Currently we have a cat named Sheba. She came to us from the woods behind our house. She is round, portly, and close to the ground. Her legs are so short, she is always “low to the ground.”  A year or so ago my daughter, who lives nine hours away from us, acquired a cat for my granddaughter’s birthday. They named him Rudy.  For months Rudy ruled their home and enjoyed being an indoor-outdoor cat.
                However, a nearby old lady got cranky because in the night Rudy would wander over to her house and peer in her patio door at her “4 boys” (her four INDOOR cats, one of which is a Main Coon cat she calls her “Baby”).  It seems her “4 boys” would get excited about seeing Rudy, and it triggered the woman’s ire to such an extent, she threatened to “trap Rudy and throw him in a field.”  She ordered traps from Amazon. To make a long story short, the local sheriff was called. 
                After a number of back and forth appeals, she had the county rules before her, which stated  any dog or cat that causes a public or personal nuisance can be confiscated.  So, it was decided Rudy would take an extended vacation.  And so he came, cat food, cat litter, cat toys, and all. Rudy is lean and long and as narrow as a fence rail. He is a sweetheart. He and Sheba touch noses and play and have a great time. He spends most of his days outside but comes in at night to sleep. Sheba resides in the garage at night.
                Rudy is adapting to his Indiana environment. He has explored the neighborhood and gotten acquainted with the other cats that wander here and there. On my deck the other day sat six cats:  Sheba, Rudy, “Mop-Flop,”  a black cat that looks like Sheba’s clone, another larger black cat my daughter calls  “the Black Panther,”  and yet another  neighborhood cat that sports a red collar, so we call him/her “Red Collar.” We assume all are spayed and neutered. They tolerate each other, stare at me, then go on they way. 
                Did  T.S. Elliott have cats that inspired his book which in turn led Andrew Lloyd Weber to write his musical “Cats?”  I bet he did.  Those cats have wonderful names. 
]]><![CDATA[Appreciation]]>Thu, 26 Mar 2026 12:14:10 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/appreciation3484232     I took time from writing a blog to handle some family matters. During that time, I lost several friends. One was a fine writer who headed up the Summit City Scribes. She was the author of a number of books and a wonderful adjudicator. Another was a lovely talented neighbor, whose death at the age of 61 was shock. She was a Spanish teacher at Trine University, and ASTSP National Language Teacher of the Year in 2019.  Another was a gentleman, a quiet fellow who always sat two pews in front of me at church.   There was a businessman, who bravely fought cancer, the husband of a friend. He always thought “large,” and the American flag in his back yard will attest to his success and vision.  There have been others, including a genealogist and librarian, and another, who suffered from Alzheimer for years; I remember her looking sharp as a French model .  

     I also have had to deal with my own family, a matter that led me to tour many nursing facilities. And, oh how I have learned about nursing homes, insurances, and long term care matters!  And, oh how I also have learned how kind and caring some people are.  My world has changed.  The world also has changed. The only thing that doesn’t is change. Like a river flows, life and conditions ebb and tide. Football seasons, March Madness, summer outdoor concerts, commitments, and the IRS require attention, as do holidays, birthdays, and elections. But, through it all, my reality is that spring has sprung and buzzards are circling high above the oak tree on their way to wherever they go.  The grass is turning green. There is a sense of newness and a knowing that garden beds need to be cleaned and flowers planted.  

     My awareness is heightened that there are people who do incredible jobs of responding to disasters, people who take care of people in hospitals and nursing facilities, and people who cook, clean, paint, shovel snow, clean up downed trees and work in ice storms to repair and mend. I have a deep appreciation for them, especially those who do it and still smile and say hello and ask if I’m having a good day. 
  
     Recently I have had a chance to read a bit for pleasure. One is a little book written by Larry Koralewski titled CHICKEN STORIES, What The Hens Do When Nobody is Around. I read it and wrote a review of it, and I predict his little book may become a classic. (It’s on Amazon.) It was published earlier this year. I also am reading several short stories written by Latin American writers  published way back in 1977. Good literature never gets old.   
​
     Incidentally, March 27th is deemed Theater Day throughout America.  (April is Poetry Month).  As a theater aficionado,  I love and appreciate the statement made by choreographer and dancer Martha Graham :  “Theater is a verb before it is a noun, an act before it is a place.”  Reflect on her statement, and you will understand what Maxwell Schaeffer wrote in “Spotlight Magazine”   He writes, “Theater at its core, isn’t just something you watch. It’s something you do. It is motion. It is energy. It is action. … And the act of making theater begins long before the first actor sets foot on stage.”  Each one of us is on our own stage.  Sometimes we stumble and mumble and lose our place, but there are times when things come together. 
]]><![CDATA[Elements for a Good Story]]>Fri, 15 Aug 2025 13:10:09 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/elements-for-a-good-story
           In the 1990s, I taught a college course focused on the elements of a good story or book. Naturally, in addition to material read and discussed, some elements had to do with theme, structure, figurative language, and basics such as grammar, punctuation, and spelling. Most of this was taught repeatedly in grades 7-12, if not earlier. Anyway, the course served its purpose for students who needed reminders about the basics of writing for profit or for pleasure.
             One element I had to stress was that when writing fiction, dialogue is important, telling my students that people don’t speak in complete sentences. This always posed a problem for strict grammarians. Now with texting, most elements we focused upon in the 1990s are largely ignored. Texting is convenient, and I like it, but I also delight in reading a sentence that has been beautifully constructed. Generally it is concise, precise, and not wordy. Probably in the future we won’t even text but will communicate by impulses flashed from somewhere in our brains to another person’s brain.  Will there be any need for speech?  Will one person’s brain chip communicate to a large group?  What about church services? Will they be totally quiet?  What about theaters?  How will the actors communicate their lines to an audience? What about songs that need to be sung?  There will always be music but will it be heard in our brains?  Oh the mysteries of one’s imagination?
                I digress. I will stop long enough to let you know I’ve been writing a monthly blog since 2013-- August to be exact.  Prior to that, I wrote a weekly personal opinion column for a 4-county newspaper, and many times, I had feature articles in magazines or op-eds in large newspapers. Now -a -days, the newspaper has become almost obsolete. It gets thinner and thinner, yet I subscribe to them. I don’t even know how many magazines are still published, but I know almost everything is “on line.” I do not know how much longer I will continue this sort of writing, but if I miss a month or so as I did in June and July, be patient. The process of writing is addictive to a writer. I can barely “think” unless I have pencil and paper in hand.   I make lists. I write letters and notes. I can’t think of not putting down words to express my thoughts.
                People adapt.  We get accustomed to new ways of doing things. And we will continue to do so. As my life changes, new ways are demanded.  Many of my dearest friends have left this world.  I miss them.  I remember their quirks, personalities, laughter, accomplishments, recipes, visits, music, and works of art.  I hope to see them again “someday.”  A friend recently commented that her world has become “smaller, narrower,” and I concur.  But, “there is no frigate like a book,” to quote Emily Dickinson.   I am happy to have had opportunities to travel, meet new people, and experience a number of cultures.
           Life is good. Life is difficult. Life is frustrating, especially after a person listens to the news and learns about man’s inhumanity to man.  I tell my family what we see on the news is but a miniscule of all the goodness “out there.”  News and headlines focus on the negative, the bad, the tragic, but ninety-five percent of all population is wholesome, helpful, and peace loving. I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately and I know what a good plot requires—tension and conflict.  But there can be peace, and let us hope soon there will be peace.  Enough of these thoughts.    In a book or story, however, there must be tension and conflict and memorable dialogue.
]]><![CDATA[My Italian Putti Cherubs]]>Thu, 15 May 2025 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/my-italian-putti-cherubs      I’ve owned them since the early 1960s when my husband’s aunt gave them to me--- two Italian putti cherubs. I didn’t know what to do with them then, and I still don’t know what to do with them now.  They have spent more than fifty years on the top shelf of my linen closet. Recently, a friend who deals with sales over eBay visited, and somehow the subject was broached. Did I have anything I might want to sell?  I gave it some thought, and the two Italian putti cherubs came to mind. They are heavy, probably made of some sort of plaster or bisque.  They are smiling gold angel art objects, which, after I researched the subject, the internet showed pages of other putti cherubs.
       Some were porcelain, others gold, others bronze, some concrete, some made of paper mache; some are sculptured pieces, some designed into elaborate fountains, some were tiny shaped earrings, some are statues, and more.  I often had thought of hanging my putti angels over the some doorway, but I never did.  I couldn’t get high enough to put in picture hooks sturdy enough to hang them, even though each has two rings on the back for hooks.  They are cute, happy-looking gold cherubs, and I never knew they were called “putti.”   I will now share from the internet the following information.
      “Putto (plural, putti) is winged infants who either play the role of angelic spirits in religious works, or act as instruments of profane love. They are often shown as associates of Cupid. In art history, a putto is a chubby, often naked, male child figure, typically with wings, frequently appearing in art, particularly during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. The word ‘putto’ comes from the Latin ‘putus,’ meaning ‘boy.’  Putti can represent a range of concepts, including innocence, love, and divine influence, and they often appear in scenes with mythological figures like Venus and Cupid." Cupids are putti with arrows and mischievous eyes. Cherubs are putti often found flying around the edges of religion scenes, bearing witness to the Virgin Mary.
      Now we know more than I ever knew about the two putti I own. We put the smiling cherubs on eBay, and priced them.  We got no takers. We lowered the price. Still no buyers, although we got some hits.  It seems that not many people today are collecting putti.  But, there are hundreds of people selling their putti.  I believe there will come a time, when a putto will be a sought after item, so I’ll donate my two putti to my daughters or granddaughters.  Surely they will find a place for them, or perhaps put them on the top shelf of their linen closets. In all seriousness, these are quite interesting. Each baby face with wings is smiling, happy-looking, and deserves to be enjoyed.
     These also are lacquered gold or gold plated, and I’ve no idea where my husband’s aunt found them. I guess she probably picked them up in Florence or Rome and hauled them back to America. She was a fashion and hat designer and in the 1920s had her own hat shop on Fifth Avenue in New York. She probably placed them there. Who knows? It was all long ago.  
 ]]><![CDATA[Surreal and Not so Surreal]]>Thu, 17 Apr 2025 19:49:07 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/surreal-and-not-so-surreal
     April is a surreal and surprising time for me. I was married on April Fool's day, and whether or not marriage for me was to be, it now has lasted almost 60 years, -- happy years, I should add.  April is that time of year here in the Midwest when forsythia and tulips bloom and grass and fields begin to green. Cats wander about, coming in from the woods, moaning and mewing, and so do other creatures. I find groundhogs in the yard, and they brazenly look at me as if to say, "What are you going to do about me?" When I shoo or clap my hands, they run, their bushy tails disappearing behind tree stumps or under my deck.
 
     But enough of how surreal April is because we do get sunshine and lots of rain, sometimes snow and sometimes even fog or hail.  Flooding in certain parts of the country make nightly news. It's a mixed up month, or so it seems.  Moreover, April is that time of when people open their checkbooks and the IRS gets its check. Surreal. 

     Here in our town, building permits get approved, and the history and face of the town begin to change. We're a small town about twenty miles from a metropolitan area. Between these two places, farm land mingles with new housing developments, making people worry about preserving their heritage and farms.   Here we worry and care about our neighbors. Barry Lopez, essayist, nature and fiction writer and author of Winter Count writes, "Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories, and compassion."  I copied that statement down and I read it from time to time. But, I add, as surreal as it may be to some people, Easter is what holds us together. It's a wonderful reality of hope and promise.  happy Easter.  Go give someone a hug. 

     As "The Family Circus" cartoonists Bil and Jeff Keane have it," A Hug relieves tension, improves blood flow, reduces stress, is non-polluting, helps self-esteem,  generates good will... and no batteries are requires, absolutely no cost, non-taxable, silent performance, extremely personal, and fully returnable.  It's recommended for ages 1 to 100 and up!" That advice is not surreal. 

Recently while clearing out some bookshelves, I found a printed verse on a tattered and faded piece of paper tucked in an old book I was going to recycle. The verse seems applicable… and there is no author’s name mentioned. 
​
         HUGS
A Hug can cheer you when you’re blue.
A Hug can say, “I Love You So.”
Or “Gee, I hate to see you go.”
A Hug is, “Welcome back again.”
And “Great to see you! Where’ve you been?”
A Hug can soothe a small child’s pain
And bring a rainbow after rain.
The Hug!   There’s just no doubt about it
We scarcely could survive with out it!
A Hug delights and warms and charms.
It must be why GOD gave us arms.
Hugs are great for fathers and mothers,
Sweet for sisters, swell for brothers.
And chances are your favorite aunts
Love them more than potted plants.
Kittens crave them. Puppies love them.
Heads of state are not above them.
A Hug can break the language barrier
And make your travels so much merrier.
No need to fret about your store of ‘em:
The more you give the more there’s more of ‘em.
So stretch arms without delay
AND GIVE SOME ONE A HUG TODAY!!
​
]]><![CDATA[St.  Patrick's Day]]>Mon, 17 Mar 2025 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/st-patricks-day     In church, our organist played Irish music—“Irish Lullaby,” the “Irish Blessing” and other songs that lend themselves to thoughts and deep longings. The minister spoke of fear vs. faith, and there were some new faces in the sanctuary.  Outside it was a dreary rainy day and most of the county was reeling from storms and tornadoes.  What a strange world.  But then, I also think about Louis Armstrong’s song, “What a Wonderful World.”   It makes things better to think about Armstrong’s lyrics than to think about climate. 
     Some people say the month of March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. What shocked me this year was that during the first week of March, I heard the chatter of wrens. I looked, and sure enough there were two wrens searching for a house.  Generally wrens don’t come to our part of the Midwest until the last of April or early May. Oddly enough, though, I saw robins in February. So, I admit weather has changed our good earth, but then it’s been changing for the last millions of years. 
     When I think about the age of our planet and the fact that scientists recently have discovered the flat rocks on Mars have indications of having been formed by water, I long to think we on earth were graced by the Creator with the moon, stars, and planets to bring beauty to our lives and make us think deep thoughts.  How naïve of me.  Maybe Mars, that cold, dry, red planet, and the moon also, were inhabited long before we came along. The thought makes me know in the large scheme of things, I am nothing but a blade of grass.
      Scripture tells us “we are as the grass of the fields that soon withers and dies,” and surely Walt Whitman, when he wrote Leaves of  Grass, which he self-published in 1855, shocked the literary world with his assessment about an individual’s worth.  His collection of poems was banned. But that’s another story.  Fortunately, I was taught, or maybe I learned without knowing I was being taught, that every person’s life is valuable. We are not abandoned willy-nilly in this crazy world.  But such a thought also leads to a whole different subject,-- that of suicide among young people. How can a young person feel so hopeless that he or she feels abandoned and worthless? It’s a question that really makes a person have deep thoughts.
      A lecture I recently heard had to do with how man (mankind) lives in something of a triangle of conditions, overseen by spirituality..  The talk dealt with how a happy life is a balance between The Physical (excercise and relaxation); The Mental (emotional, values, mores, attitudes); and The Chemical (diet, food, drugs) . Even if these three are balanced, life is not satisfying, unless above them all is the awareness of spirituality, --and that does not refer to “preachiness” or ”religiousity.”  One person at the lecture spoke how youngsters have to be taught from childhood to be resilient, thus to learn that not every bump in the road of life is a tragedy. We can’t wave a wand and make society healthy and resilient, but we can teach young people life is worthwhile.
​      Life is full of shocks, large and small, and it sure makes for an interesting world. Whether we’re nothing but blades of grass, “the fields are alive with the sound of music,” and especially this March, we need music that causes us to have deep thoughts and sweet longings. Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 
]]><![CDATA[Farewell to February]]>Sat, 01 Mar 2025 02:29:18 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/farewell-to-february      It's time to say farewell to February. It has been a brutal and unpredictably cold and icy month. For days, we seemed trapped by the weather,  and when the sun finally came shining through the clouds, we cheered.  The temperature  rose to above freezing, whereas the week before, we were below zero.   I mention these facts because it leads me to related how in diaries, people enter details about the weather more than any other  bit of news. 

     Years ago,  I gave some talks about diaries based on the fact that my father and my grandfather both kept diaries, I kept one at the time in a haphazard way, and  I was fascinated by Thomas Mallon's book ,  A Book of One's Own People and Their Diaries.  I had access to the diary of a school teacher in Coldwater, Michigan, during the year 1876.  Believe it or not, that poor teacher recorded in just about every entry of his diary that he trudged through snow from his rooming house to school.  I also own the diary kept by Lillie McTighe, a single woman who lived in Auburn, Indiana,  during the early part of the 20th century with her sister and her brother-in-law.  It seems there was some friction between them because Lillie was  infatuated with a certain man who in the eyes of her brother-in-law was unsuitable.   It occurred to me to at the time to continue my research about diaries, but life got in my way.

     Thomas Mallon's book categorizes writers of diaries as one or the other of the following:  Chroniclers, Travelers, Pilgrims, Creators, Apologists, Confessors, and Prisoners.  If you were to think about each,  you would realize Mallon nailed the categories accurately.  It is hard not to keep a record of one's  travels, restaurants and inns visited because one might  want to experience them again or at the very least read about the trip later. Truth to say, most travelers jot down the facts, and when home, forget the notebook entirely.  My mother-in-law's records of her trip to India and China are in a box in the basement.

     Young people often make confessions in their diaries. It's instinctive.  I kept one when I was  a sophomore in high school, jotting down the amazing fact that a certain guy in the eleventh grade who in my opinion at the time was the most handsome person in the world had actually looked at me and said "hi."  

     No one  can deny that much history written  is based on diaries of  explorers, dignitaries, inventors, and celebrities.  Movies and novels also are stories culled from diaries. Certainly the movie  " Doctor Zhivago"  captures the scenery and beauty of a Russian winter, but  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago tells a totally different winter story.   His eight year imprisonment  and suffered hardships in the labor prisons make a person weep.  (His book is deemed one of the most important of the 20th century.)   In the mid-1660s,Samuel Pepys's diary tells everything, and do mean everything. Mallon writes,  "His diary gurgles like a full stomach and jingles like a full pocket." James Boswell's account of the great Samuel Johnson,  gives readers a view into the 18th century.

     A dairy is a "carrier of the private--the everyday, the intriguing, the sordid, the sublime, the boring--- of everything. "  Whether called a diary or a journal, "both are rooted in the idea of dailiness." So, with this month's daily dose of ice,  snow, and biting wind,  I say farewell to February 2025, hoping for a warm]]><![CDATA[Caring & Sharing]]>Sun, 19 Jan 2025 21:26:45 GMThttps://www.rachelsroberts.com/blog/caring-sharing     Shortly before Christmas a good friend rang our doorbell and handed me an Amaryllis. “I thought you might enjoy watching it grows,” she said.  She knew we weren’t going to have family for Christmas and wanted to make sure we would have something special on that day.  (For the record, family arrived here for festivities the day after Christmas.)  Anyway, I set the Amaryllis on the buffet until I could get it unwrapped. But, as family arrived, the Amaryllis got put aside until after New Years Day.  So, with the house quiet and January hours embracing us, I discovered the Amaryllis.  Finding it, I was delighted and opened it, placed it on our breakfast table and read the directions.
     Once actively growing, I learned I am to water it frequently. I also must turn the plant occasionally to keep it standing tall and not leaning toward the light.  This Amaryllis is gorgeous. Its pinkish-white petals remind me of a spring dawn, and the stems stand erect like stalwart soldiers. 
     The Amaryllis plant has a long history. Back in Greek times, it was termed Amarullis, and the Latin refers to a shepherdess, a lovely thing to consider.  It’s a bulbous plant and native to southern Africa. It has large lily-like reddish or white flowers, and sometimes is called the “belladonna lily.”  My Amaryllis has four stems, and each stem has a flower of five or six lily sections, that remind me of trumpets.  After blooming, the plant can be cultivated as an indoor or outdoor plant and with care, darkness, and time, bloom again. I’ve never been that successful. Generally, I put it in the garden and enjoy it as a green plant. But I digress.  What I am trying to convey is the importance of having a friend who cares, a person who knows what will delight, and who and shares.
     Speaking of sharing, my good nephew and his wife shared with us another Christmas delight—a cranberry cake that featured the taste of citrus.  We enjoyed it so much it lasted two weeks. Each morning during the Christmas season, we ate a sliver with our breakfast coffee. And then there was none, which made me know it was time to tackle making homemade bread, something I haven’t done for quite some time,  mind you not because I didn’t want to, but because the bowl I need for the project was on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, and I simply couldn’t get to it.
     When my friend visited, I asked how tall she was. She was two inches taller than I, so I asked her to reach up and get the bowl down. Mission accomplished, my task on these next frigid arctic blast days while watching the presidential inauguration, is to warm the yeast, measure out flour, read my mother-in–law’s recipe and begin the process.  I cannot think of a more wonderful way to pass the day because the Amaryllis graces my table, the political intrigue of presidential campaigns has been decided, and the temperature outside is below zero. Horrors. Below zero! 
     How I wish I could change things for those in California who have suffered enormous losses due to wildfires; I wish I could change things in Gaza and Israel, Haiti, Russia,  Ukraine;  and oh how I wish I could change the anger that precipitates hatred between nations. Why can’t disputes be settled with a good football game?  I like to watch a good football game. Fortunately, I have that going for me this weekend as well.  
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