My swollen heart

Sunday afternoon as I sat out on the patio listening to the waterfall gurgle and the birds chirp and warble as they flitted from the waterfall to the birdbath to the flower-covered vines decorating our back fence, an overwhelming sense of gratitude came over me.

Out of nowhere, my heart swelled with gratitude for my crazy house and overgrown yard and that, despite a house payment that doubled when we bought this house -- and the stress accompanying it when we both lost our jobs relatively soon after -- this is the place Jim and I plan to call home for the rest of our days. I love my house. I’m so grateful for my house.

Yes, it’s a material thing. But this material thing makes me happy and content … and grateful.

After a week of thinking about, writing about, cussing about all the things I think suck in my life, all the things I worry endlessly about, it was nice to suddenly, inexplicably realize a plethora of things for which I’m grateful. Things I’m blessed with that truly trump all the fears, doubts, worries and complaints I let get in my way each and every day.

I’m grateful my family – immediate and extended – has never suffered a true tragedy. We often succumb to fear and trembling over imagined tragedies when the reality is that we have been tragedy free and have it pretty darn good.

I’m grateful I was laid off and given the opportunity to consider and pursue a career path that matters to me.

I’m grateful for Jim, who supports that career path even though it means far less money than the one I previously fell into. I'm grateful for Jim for countless other reasons, too.

I’m grateful my girls grew into such lovely, amazing, thoughtful, intelligent, empathetic women … something I never thought would happen while in the throes of the teen years.

I’m grateful for Bubby. And that I get to see him more often than some long-distance grandparents get to see their grandchildren. And that Megan and Preston happily share him with me -- a consideration not all grandparents are afforded.

I’m grateful Megan and Preston are doing the right thing by my grandchild -- another thing not afforded all grandparents.

I’m grateful for a twisted childhood because it twisted me into an unusual shape. It may be a weird shape, but it’s different. And different is good.

I’m grateful that Jim and I continue to have the money we need. Plus some. Plus lots, considering what many others have.

I’m grateful for those who read what I write, who act like the gunk and junk that flows from my head to my fingers and onto the page and screen is worth reading.

I’m grateful for the unexpected gratitude that filled me up, made me consider what matters, what’s important and what’s worth being grateful for.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What are you grateful for today?

A dog by any other name

As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?

Too pooped to pop: My mom and music

As part of the From Left to Write book club, I'm currently reading "If You Knew Suzy: A Mother, A Daughter, A Reporter's Notebook" by Katherine Rosman. In it, Rosman, a reporter to her core, documents her "investigation" into the life of her mother in order to pay tribute to Mom upon her death.

In one chapter, Rosman describes her mother's love for dance and music. Rosman's mother danced alone, she danced at parties, she danced in dance classes. And she enjoyed a wide range of music, from Peter, Paul and Mary to disco. The chapter reminded me of my own mother and her love for dance and music. Only my mom -- as always -- was a bit less conventional in her musical tastes and performances.

Of my most vivid memories of my mom and music, none have to do with lullabies or nursery rhymes or the music most might associate with Mom. My very earliest recollection of my mom and music has to do with a record album cover -- an altered album cover.

When I was about five or six years old, I remember thumbing through the stack of records in the living room, albums that must have been purchased to set the ambiance of one of Dad and Mom's parties with friends. The cover was typical of the 60s and early 70s, with a hazy shot in muted colors. It featured a seemingly naked man and woman, face to face in an embrace. The specifics of their bodies aren't clear, literally ... because my mom had used a green color crayon to draw leaves on the semi-nude cover models. Surely thinking the photo was far too risque for public consumption, Mom artfully censored it to seem more like Adam and Eve.

I have no real idea what the record was of -- for some reason, "Hitchin' a Ride" sticks in my mind -- but it had to have been a pretty darn good one for Mom to go so far as to purchase it despite those nearly naked folks on the cover. In retrospect, those carefully colored leaves so perfectly epitomize my mom: She wanted to be hip, cool and part of the in-crowd, but her prude sensibilities prevented her from going all the way.

Another memory that stands out when I think of my mom singing and dancing is the song-and-dance routine she performed when making popcorn. It was back in the day when popcorn was made in a big pot on the stove. As she heated the oil then dropped in a test kernel, Mom would start up with the popcorn song, a song that sticks in my head to this day, a song I think of when I make popcorn. Every. Single. Time. It goes like this (and you gotta do the groovy swaying of the hips and clapping of the hands to get the full effect):

Too pooped to pop, and I ain't lying.

Too pooped to pop, just sitting here frying.

I wanna get to the top,

but I'm ... too pooped to pop!

As most popcorn nowadays is made in the microwave, that song is likely lost on the younger crowd. But even when hitting the "Popcorn" button on the microwave, "Too Pooped To Pop" pops into my head and plays until the ding declaring the popcorn done.

Most of all, though, when it comes to Mom and music, I think of Tevya. Specifically, Topol's portrayal of the poor Jewish peasant in "Fiddler on the Roof." Mom had the most magical way of absolutely and perfectly mimicking Topol's charming -- yet somehow quite sad -- exclamation of how life would be different if only he had money. I have no words to describe it, so here's a short clip of Topol's dance. Ignore the subtitles, insert a petite, red-headed Irish woman and you'll get the picture:

SORRY! THIS VIDEO DISAPPEARED IN BLOG REDESIGN!

That is what I think of most of all when I think of my mom and music. Fortunately my daughters have witnessed Grandma in full Topol mode, too. It's one of their favorite memories of Grandma. One they'll remember long after Grandma becomes too pooped to pop!

UPDATE: After reading this, Megan told me she thought "Too Pooped To Pop" was a made up song. Oh, no, no. It's for real, and here it is:

Today's question:

What do you remember about your mom and music?

One for the record books

John Wooden on his 96th birthday.I'm not much of a basketball fan. In fact, I'm not really a big sports fan at all. I enjoyed watching a variety of sports when the girls were in school: soccer, swimming, track, volleyball, cross country. But if I don't have a child ... or soon, a grandchild ... on a team, it's unlikely you'll find me sitting in the stands.

I have attended a few professional sporting events, thanks mostly to free tickets I used to get from my former employer. And I do enjoy going to baseball games with friends and family now and then. But watching sports is not something I do often, from either the stands or from my couch when there's a game on television.

The sport I'm least likely to watch, other than golf or NASCAR, is basketball. Yes, basketball is exciting and all, but the darn squeaking of the shoes on the court drives me absolutely batty for some reason, and I can concentrate on nothing but that grating noise while watching the game. (Note to Megan and Preston: I promise to overcome such nonsense when Bubby starts playing basketball; I will watch his games any time, anywhere, regardless of how much shoe squeaking goes on!)

But -- and as Pee-Wee Herman once noted, "everyone I know has a big but" -- by not being a basketball fan, I think I've missed out on familiarizing myself with what seems to have been a truly great man.

John Wooden, one of the most successful coaches ever, winning 10 national titles in 12 years for UCLA, died last week at the age of 99. Yeah, I saw the news reports and didn't really think too much about it. He was old, he lived a long life, sounds like he accomplished a lot during his 99 years.

Then yesterday I received my daily Shelf Awareness newsletter about the book industry, and it included a tribute of sorts to Coach Wooden. Seems Wooden not only rallied his teams to success, he was a rather successful writer, having written several books selling millions of copies. And although I don't care a whole heckuva lot about basketball, I do love quotes, and the Shelf Awareness newsletter included some of Wooden's most oft-quoted aphorisms:

"It isn't what you do, but how you do it."

"You can't live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you."

"Be quick but don't hurry."

"Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are."

"Don't measure yourself by what you have accomplished, but by what you should have accomplished with your ability."

"Failure is not fatal, but failure to change might be."

"Listen if you want to be heard."

"If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?"

That is one smart man, one brilliant man, one thoughtful, caring, wise man. And now I regret having never watched such a man in action.

According to Shelf Awareness, a book commemorating Wooden's life was scheduled to publish in October in honor of his 100th birthday. Titled The Wisdom of Wooden: A Century of Family, Faith, and Friends, written with Steve Jamison, Wooden did have the opportunity to proof and approve of the final product. Upon his death, the publication date has been moved up to July.

So in July, despite my general disdain of the squeaky game called basketball, I will be buying a book about a basketball coach, a book about a remarkably wise man.

And starting today, I will try to do something daily for someone who will never be able to repay me.

Today's question:

What's your favorite sport to watch?

My answer: Like I said, I don't watch a lot of sports, but when I do, hockey is my favorite.

Summer reading

My favorite of the bunch.Now that Memorial Day -- meaning summer! -- has arrived, every print and online magazine for women touts summer reading lists. I've never really understood the emphasis on summer reading lists because summer has always been the season I'm least likely to pick up a book, as there's always far too much to do in the yard and lots of outdoor events to attend. But if I had my druthers, I would be whiling away the long summer days in the shade of a leafy tree, with a big ol' pile of books to read and Bubby at my side to share them.

Because many grandparents likely feel the same way about reading with their grandchildren, I've compiled a list of books I recently had the opportunity to review, books I think grandparents -- and parents and aunts and uncles and friends -- would be happy to share with the kids in their lives. Head to the Back Room to read my Book briefs: Summer reading for kids where you're sure to find something sweet, silly, sporty or scary, something for kids of all ages.

Enjoy! And Happy Memorial Day!

Today's question:

What adult fare do you have at the top of your summer reading list?

My answer: I'm currently reading Juliet by Anne Fortier. (I was fortunate to nab an advance copy; the book goes on sale in August.)

Failure analysis

I recently received in the mail an unsolicited copy of "Raising Happiness: 10 Simple Steps For More Joyful Kids And Happier Parents" by Christine Carter, Ph.D. The accompanying form letter was addressed "Dear Blogger." Such letters tucked inside of complimentary copies of books are a subtle request for a review. Which is okay ... but this is not a review.

I will eventually review Ms. Carter's book -- or at least use it for blog fodder and mention it kindly. But I've not yet been able to focus on the book innards because I've been entranced by one of the quotes on the book jacket and can't seem to move my mind and heart forward. Which is weird. And something I can't really explain. So I'm spewing forth here in hopes of expunging whatever it is that has me so emotionally invested in a silly book jacket quote.

Thing is, it's not so silly. Here's the quote, or at least the part that caught my attention: "The learning curve for all parents is in failure analysis -- where and how we went off course -- and how we can do better the next go-round." This said by Michael Riera, Ph.D. and author of "Field Guide to the American Teenager" and "Right from Wrong."

I never knew there was a technical term for figuring out how we screwed up, at least a term used for our parenting screw-ups. But "failure analysis" it must be; I guess I just failed to read the right books that would have provided me that term earlier in the parenting process. Yet I'm having a rough time wrapping my head around that term. It's so cold, so technical, so corporate and so much feels like a term used to describe a failed rocket launching in which everyone aboard perished.

I have to admit that it scares me to look back on my parenting and analyze where I failed. Overall I'm a success -- my girls are grown, living on their own, paying their own bills, and semi-sorta-kinda succeeding in their relationships -- but I know I've failed in many, many ways. I never deluded myself into thinking otherwise. In fact, I've felt like a failure more often than a success. But isn't that how all parents feel: like they certainly could have done better? We give it our all but are pretty darn sure that somewhere, somehow we could have done just a little bit more, been at least a smidgen better.

So I don't know ... I'm hesitant to crack the cover of "Raising Happiness" because it'll likely point out all the ways I really, truly failed to raise happy girls. And it just might be in the areas in which I thought I did okay.

I guess it comes down to this: I'm not ready to perform failure analysis on my parenting skills. My little ones so recently flew the nest that I think I need to take a bit of a break before dissecting and analyzing.

Especially because, despite the second half of that quote, the part about "how we can do better the next go-round," there is no next go-round. I don't get another chance. What's done is done and I definitely will not be throwing out my first set of kids as if they were the cussed up first waffles that didn't form correctly and now I can cook up a batch that comes out better.

Or is that what grandchildren are supposed to be? The second batch?

I guess I should start reading "Raising Happiness" sooner rather than later, just in case. Because Bubby just may be my "next go-round."

And I sure don't want to dread the failure analysis with my grandchildren to the degree that I am with my kids.

*Stay tuned for an eventual review of "Raising Happiness" by Christine Carter.

Today's question:

Forget the "failure analysis," what's one really good/successful thing you've done in your life?

My answer: I've remained an optimist.

Enunciate the love

Bubby has no problem showing his best bud Ro-Ro how much he loves him!I recently read "Just Let Me Lie Down: Necessary Terms For The Half-Insane Working Mom" by Kristin van Ogtrop, which I received free for participation in the SV Moms Group Book Club. (SV Moms Group is the umbrella group under which I write for the Rocky Mountain Moms Group occasionally.)

Kristin van Ogtrop is the editor of Real Simple magazine, which means she's a high-power working gal. In her book, she has lots to say about balancing work and life issues, or at least coming to terms with the fact that balance is an elusive thing for most working mothers. A lot of what she has to say is interesting, most of it's witty, tiny bits of it left me scratching my head.

One tiny bit that stood out as a head-scratcher for me is a comment van Ogtrop made about saying "I love you." The context is that it's a chapter in which she talks about the strangeness of realizing she may possibly love a coworker. Love as in motherly love, friendly love, not some sordid office romance type of love. First she confesses, "I am not a big 'I love you' person," then a few paragraphs later she says this:

"Many people who rise to leadership positions do so in part because they can control their emotions (see Emotional tourniquet, p. 63). Sometimes I think the only reason I have been hired to run a magazine is because I'm able to remember to keep a box of tissues in my office and I can usually remain dry-eyed while others around me burst into tears. I'm sure there are individuals I work with who pity my children, raised as they are by a woman who appears to have no emotions but the occasional flash of anger. To those colleagues: I assure you, I do tell my children and my husband that I love them. At least every once in a while."

It's those last couple sentences that caught my attention. I'm sure van Ogtrop isn't dead serious about the "every once in a while" part, but it made me consider how often the "I love you"s are thrown around in my family.

I come from a family where "I love you" was rarely said; my dad still says it only in third person ("Your dad loves ya"). I wanted things to be different in the family Jim and I created, and it is. We say "I love you" all the time, possibly so often that it has lost its oomph.

It started off when the girls were little that after bedtime prayers there'd be "Goodnight, I love you." Then, when they left the house it'd be "Have fun. Be safe. I love you!" Now it's the last thing we say at the end of telephone calls: "I love you. Bye!"

Even Bubby -- who, as a typical 22-month-old, still has a relatively limited word reportoire -- has learned the phrase. As we wrapped up our most recent Skyping conversation, he said "Bye!" followed by a mumbled "ahwhuhwhoo." Translation from Megan: "That's his 'I love you.'"

"Ahwhuhwhoo"s notwithstanding, most of our family phone calls are now end with what sounds much like "love-ya-bye!" as we all lead busy lives and rush to get off the phone so we can move along to the other dire matters that fill our days.

And I don't like that. Sure, the sentiment is still there, but this is an instance in which it's not just the thought that counts. It's the saying it like you mean it that counts.

So going forward (gotta love that corporate phrase left over from corporate days) I plan to enunciate, to say it like I mean it. Because I do mean it. More than anything else in my life. I love my girls, my husband, my Bubby.

And my readers.

I love you!

Bye!

Extra special bonus because I love you guys: I received two copies of "Just Let Me Lie Down" by Kristin van Ogtrop to give away. Enter to win one in the Back Room.

Today's question:

In an average day, how many times do you say "I love you"?

My answer: Probably five or six times.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs

My little GeminiRaise your hand if you're worried about the astrological sign under which your grandchild was born. Okay, since not everyone who visits Grandma's Briefs is a grandparent, what about those of you with children ... does your child's astrological sign make any difference to you?

By the lack of hands I see waving in the air, I'll have to assume I'm weird. I'm weird because when Megan was pregnant, I did worry about the sign under which Bubby would be born.

Well, I suppose worry isn't the correct word. I wouldn't put it in the category of my worries about his and Megan's health and welfare during and after the pregnancy. It's more like I was concerned ... and a little bummed ... and a little hopeful that Bubby would arrive a few days late just to bump him into the next sign.

Because, you see, Bubby's a Gemini and -- I apologize if this offends anyone -- I've never gotten along well with Geminis. I'm a Cancer, the sign right next door to Gemini, the one I was hoping Bubby would hold out for.

Long, long ago, for my 16th birthday to be exact, my mom bought me Linda Goodman's "Sun Signs." Like most teen girls, I was quite interested in astrological signs and how well my friends, enemies and potential beaus matched up with the traits ascribed to their signs. Most of the time, Ms. Goodman was correct -- and seemingly continues to be correct -- in her assertions. Jim (Pisces), Brianna (Leo), Megan (Sagittarius) and Andrea (Cancer) fit the descriptions to a T.

And I, a Cancer, completely and totally fit the description: I'm quiet, moody, retreat to my shell when I sense danger, artistic (in writing, nothing else really), fiercely dedicated to hearth and home.

Then there's the Geminis, of which I've met plenty: talkative, active, impulsive, fleeting, and -- the one trait I've seen quite often in the Geminis I know -- someone who lies about anything and everything embellishes their tales, usually for no clear reason at all.

Suffice it to say, I didn't want Bubby to be a Gemini. But he is. So I recently reviewed -- in the very same copy my mom gifted me decades ago -- the traits under Ms. Goodman's title "The Gemini Child" and found a few interesting tidbits. Right off the bat was a mention that parents should seriously consider using one of those animal-like harnesses for their Gemini child because he'll be all over the place in public and difficult to keep safe. Funny thing is that when Megan was planning the recent trip she and Bubby made to visit us in the mountains, she actually mentioned considering getting one, just to be safe. She ended up not getting one, mostly because Bubby's quite timid and stays right by her side no matter where they go. (Bonus point for Bubby as that's a Cancer trait.)

Another trait Ms. Goodman mentions is that Geminis often are ambidextrous. This is interesting because Bubby favors using his left hand for nearly everything, always has. But there's no one else in his immediate family that's left-handed. The closest leftie is Nick, my nephew and Megan's cousin (is that Bubby's second cousin?). Get this: Nick is a Gemini! Like Nick, Bubby uses his right hand occasionally, but chooses the left nine times out of 10.

Another trait of the Gemini child is "there's usually a marked ability to mimic others." This I find amusing because for a while there I worried that Bubby would never speak normal words -- only because he was mimicking the gibberish in which his mom and dad spoke to him. For some unknown reason, Megan and Preston related to their little one by making him grin and giggle in response to their wacky sounds (which usually sounded much like the "ca-CAAH" goofiness from the goofy guy in the movie "Evolution"). Bubby loved those silly sounds ... and mimicked them to no end.

What I found most interesting about the Gemini traits Goodman lists, though, is that other than the two above, Bubby fits very few of them. But when I flip forward a few pages and read about "The Cancer Child," he hits quite a few right on the head: "His emotions are rich, colorful and varied." "They're funny little creatures with droll expressions and eyes that almost talk by themselves." "You may wish you could predict when he's going to get ... that faraway look in his eye as he listens to the curious music every Moon child hears." "He can get mighty weepy when he's ignored or treated harshly."

If you ask me, I think the doctor may have been a little off in the due date he gave Megan because it seems more and more that Bubby was destined to be a Cancer, not a Gemini. Which is great! Maybe he can overcome any of the negative Gemini traits he may have inherited due to an early arrival. (Again, my apologies to any Gemini readers -- it's nothing personal!)

Although, as all mothers and grandmothers know, no matter what he is, no matter what traits he possesses, I will truly love him with all my heart, all my soul, always and forever.

But let me just say right now that if Bubby ever grows up to be a big ol' liar/embellisher, this Cancer Grandma will surely be having some mighty serious words with that Gemini child!

Today's question:

What sign are you and do you fit the description?

This post was linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

The Saturday Post

April is National Poetry Month and I've been remiss in mentioning that, posting anything about it. So even though there's less than a week left in National Poetry Month, I want to give you this: an empowering poem for every woman, but one that I think will especially resonate with the older women, the grandmothers, the ones most likely to be considering where their journey has, is and will continue to take them. Let me know what you think.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Today's question:

What is your favorite poem or line from a poem?

Book talk

Bubby packin' books -- a gift he LOVED from my friend Debbie.I love books. My girls love books. Bubby loves books. I know LOTS of people who love books.

But the book industry is flailing. And that worries me. Mostly because I love books, my girls love books, and Bubby loves books.

(Full disclosure: It also worries me because I've got one of my books submitted to a few agents and the industry can't -- simply CAN'T -- wither down to nothing before I get one or two or ten published!)

The impetus for today's worry is information I received in a newsletter I'm subscribed to from a site called Shelf Awareness that focuses on the book industry. Here's the scary news I got yesterday (quoted directly from Shelf Awareness):

Net book sales in 2009 in the U.S. fell 1.8%, to $23.95 billion, according to estimates by the Association of American Publishers based on sales data from 86 publishers as well as on data from the Bureau of the Census. In the last seven years, the book business has had a compound annual growth rate of 1.1%.

Category	Sales	Percent Change
E-books	$313 million	176.6%
Higher ed	$4.3 billion	12.9%
Adult hardcover	$2.6 billion	6.9%
Children's/YA paperback	$1.5 billion	2.2%
Book clubs/mail-order	$588 million	−2%
Mass market paperback	$1 billion	−4%
Children's/YA hardcover	$1.7 billion	−5%
Adult paperback	$2.2 billion	−5.2%
Religious books	$659 million	−9%
Audiobooks	$192 million	−12.9%
El-hi books	$5.2 million	−13.8%

Sure, there are still millions and billions of books still being sold, but the number is decreasing. And at the rate at which it's decreasing, will Bubby have books readily available when he's an adult? Will he be able to pass them down to his grandchildren? Will the ones I've given him -- and will continue to give him -- become relics of days gone by?

That el-hi number? Those are textbooks, the books kids use in school. To think schoolbooks are decreasing at such a crazy rate is absolutely frightening.

And that number for Children's/YA hardcover? Aack! Picture books are my forte; picture books are Bubby's best friend. What's up with that?

People are still reading, obviously. The adult hardcover and higher ed numbers are encouraging. And readers are obviously snagging up those e-books like there's no tomorrow. Now I'm a fan of technology and all, but I'm a bigger fan of books -- real, live, turn the page by hand, fall asleep with it on your lap and worry about scrunching the pages books.

I'm sure books will never completely disappear. There are too many people who believe as I do that books not only fill out one's time and mind marvelously, they also fill out one's room quite nicely. You can't line the walls of the study with Kindles and Nooks.

Well, you could, but how ugly -- and expensive -- would that be?

You might as well just buy books.

Today's question:

If you were to buy any book today, what would it be?

My answer: I'd buy "The Quiet Book" by Deborah Underwood for Bubby and "Divisadero" by Michael Ondaatje for myself.