On The Wings Of Prayer

And he hears every prayer and answers each one,

When we pray in His name, ‘Thy will be done.’

The burdens that seemed too heavy to bear,

Are lifted away on the wings of a prayer!

~ Helen Steiner Rice

The ending words of this famous poem entitled, “On the Wings of a Prayer,” by Helen Steiner Rice, remind me of the summer I spent working in Bear Lake, Utah, where I experienced my own little miracle on the wings of my mother’s prayer.

The two summers following my 16th birthday were spent working at “Ideal Beach Family Resort,” in Bear Lake, Utah, where my family owned a nearby summer cabin. The first summer I worked at the penny candy and ice cream counter, occasionally filling in at the reservation desk. It was a dream job for a penny candy lover and ice cream fan. I really enjoyed talking to the beach vacationers, especially the young guys who would flock to the lodge lounge to hang out. I quickly became an expert at soft twist ice-cream cones, a combination of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. I could make a perfect swirl!

The second summer I worked in Bear Lake, however, marks a space and time I will never forget. It was the summer of my prayer miracle! I was working in the resort’s cafe as a waitress, wearing a red and white, tightly waisted candy stripper uniform, which I loved. Every morning I’d ride our family’s 15-mile-per-hour motor scooter three miles to the small Laketown, Utah gas station. What a thrill for a girl without personal wheels of her own! (In reality I could have run the distance faster if I’d wanted to arrive smelling like sweat.)

After my morning excursion I would park my little scooter at the local gas station and catch a ride to the other side of the lake with the cafe cook, an older woman that lived in Laketown. I loved working with Elma, who was hardworking, witty and efficient. She said I was a good worker and her kind words gave me confidence in my ability.

The cafe was located on the beach, with large picture windows overlooking the crystal blue Bear Lake water. Often when we’d arrive for work there would be couples sleeping together on the beach in the same sleeping bag. Fingers pointed and eyebrows raised at that shocking display in the very conservative, highly religious town. It was disgraceful behavior in that corner of the planet, even for the 60s!

That summer turned out to be a nightmare for my mother, as she was torn between wanting to be in Bear Lake with me and her responsibilities in Salt Lake City, Utah, where we lived during the school year. I was often at the cabin with just my dad, an 18-hour a day, hardworking wintertime father, who made donuts for the school snack bars during the school year. His school teacher’s hours allowed us to spend summers at the cabin, where he enjoyed fishing nearly every day. Fishing took him from the far corners of Bear Lake’s deep waters to Wyoming's finest fishing holes. So occasionally I found myself alone at our cabin, although I don’t remember feeling scared or apprehensive at our quiet lake-shore home. The lake wasn’t crowded in those days and there was a kind, old couple that lived next door in a pink house. Unlike the summer vacationers, they lived there all year long, keeping a beautiful garden, an unusual addition in the middle of summer cabins and trailer homes.

Previously to that particular summer I’d had bouts of childhood asthma, usually triggered by pollen from outdoor bushes and weeds. I’d also survived the typical childhood diseases of the day, such as, chicken pox, mumps, and two kinds of measles. However those illnesses were nothing in comparison to the terrible pneumonia I got that summer in Bear Lake. I arrived home one night after work to find the cabin locked and my dad still fishing. My mother, who had taken my two younger siblings home with her to Salt Lake, was delayed in getting back to the lake because my baby sister, Loni, was ill. Dad had forgotten to leave me a key before he’d left that morning and the cabin’s metal doors and strong windows were locked up tight. I waited for my fathers return on the outdoor patio furniture. Unfortunately, soon I was waiting in a thunder and rainstorm, chilled and freezing by the time Dad arrived.

The next day at work I began to feel lightheaded and shaky, as my chest began to tighten, making it difficult to breath. The cafe was never very crowded on weekdays, so I was the only waitress working that day. I remember grabbing the coffee pot to pour a 10¢ cup of coffee for my one and only gentleman customer. Suddenly I began shaking so intensely that I dropped the entire pot as I pulled it from the coffee machine! Hot coffee and broken glass went everywhere, but somehow missed my startled customer. (Later, after I’d recovered and returned to work, I discovered he’d left me a dollar sympathy tip for a 10¢ cup of coffee! It was a large tip for the times and unheard of at the beach!)

After dropping the coffee pot, I remember nothing but calling my mother from the front desk. She could tell by my voice that something was wrong. She said, “Linda? You are sick!” I was really ill and I started to cry. Mom told me to get Grandpa Pulsipher, the resort owner’s father, to give me a ride to our cabin. She instructed me to get into bed and she’d find some way of getting me home.

At the time my Aunt Claudia and her young family were living with us in Salt Lake City, while they were building a new home. My mom had returned home after hosting a Bear Lake party for their Salt Lake neighbors. The weather in Bear Lake was somewhat unpredictable and it had suddenly turned cold while my younger siblings were still in bathing suits. Loni, showed early signs of pneumonia and my mother wanted to get her home to our family doctor. The only medical facility close to Bear Lake was in Logan, where there was a very small hospital. I needed to stay and work, so mom had left my dad to handle everything in Bear Lake. Although my father was an early bird riser, to insure the best catch of the day, he was usually home early in the evening. However, fishing was as unpredictable as the weather, depending on how the fish were biting, and Dad could never be reached. How my mother would have cherished the cell phones we have available to us today!

My mother didn’t know what to do, as she had no way to contact my dad, who was oblivious to her predicament. My mother has always been a very prayerful person and so she quickly said a prayer under her breath, enlisting the Lord for help and inspiration. Suddenly she remembered that my Uncle Burns, her sister Maurine’s husband, had been taking flying lessons and Maurine had mentioned that he’d just received his pilot’s license! Mom called Uncle Burns, asking him to fly her to Bear Lake to get me. Uncle Burns had very little solo flying experience and the airplanes he flew were very small, but reluctantly he agreed to do it. Mom arranged to meet him at the airport. Mother’s other problem was leaving my little sister, who was also very ill. My Aunt Claudia was frightened about being left with a child that was so sick, but my mother assured her she’d be back before her baby aspirin wore off, secretly hoping for a miracle that would let her reach me and bring me home in time.

Mom met Uncle Burns at the airport and the adventure began. It is important to note that there were three distinct miracles that occurred from this point on. The first miracle occurred after they’d been flying for a while. They had difficulty reading the map and discovered they were lost. Suddenly the gas needle began acting strangely and Uncle Burns couldn’t contact the airport on the radio. Afraid he might not have enough gas to reach Bear Lake and get back home again, Uncle Burns considered turning back. My mother knew nothing about airplanes or even how to read maps, but she refused to give up. She was determined to get to me. She said, “Burns, please say a prayer and bless the needle!”

Uncle Burns looked at Mom a little strangely, but he could see she was desperate so he said a prayer and blessed the needle. As mom bowed her head, she noticed the map he’d been looking at was on the floor in front of her. She picked it up and observed that one area of the plot said “static” and she asked Uncle Burns what it meant. Suddenly comprehending the undetected information staring him in the face, he said it meant that if they were over that area there could be problems with the needle! He started working with the radio again and miraculously began to pick up reception from another station. Just then my mother looked out the window and recognized Bear River. “Look Burns, there’s Bear River and you can follow it,” she said. They followed the river and soon recognized the highway that would take them right to our cabin.

At this point in time, they knew they would have to land in the empty field at the end of the lake and without a car they would have to walk all the way to the cabin, at least three miles. Time was running short. My mother needed to get back home before my little sister woke up again, so walking was a concern. Here is where miracle number two occurred. Just as they landed and got out of the plane, a car came along the normally lonely, untraveled road. It was one of my parent’s neighbors from Salt Lake! He stopped for Mom and Uncle Burns and gave them a ride to our cabin. Mom invited the neighbor in for watermelon, leftover from their previous party and he offered to wait and give them a ride back to the airplane.

I was unaware of any of these advents or even that my mom was coming in an airplane. Here is where miracle number three took place. Mom walked into the cabin and called out to me. Aroused from my sick and dreamlike state, I said, “Oh Mom! I had a dream! I dreamed you got Uncle Burns to fly you here and get me!”

We had never talked about Uncle Burns learning to fly or getting his pilot's license, so there was no way I could have known about that remote possibility. I had never even been in an airplane. Many times in my life, since that day, I have been blessed with dreams that can only be explained as visionary. Now I know that heaven’s angelic messengers have chosen this way to communicate with me and ease my fears. I am a visual person, so perhaps this is how I understand best.

My mother, who lost her own mother early in her young married life, learned to rely on the Lord. Her undying faith and a gentle prayer sent heavenly messengers to help us when all hope was wavering. I know the power of prayer and the miracles that occurred that day on the wings of my mother’s prayer. My angels continue to watch over me today, sending reassurance when comfort is needed.

Grandparents and Grandchildren

My friend, Colleen, and her husband were going through his mother's things after moving her into assisted living. She found lots of loose recipes in a drawer and put them in a bag to take home. In sorting through them she discovered these priceless, funny little snippets about grandparents and grandchildren. Thanks for sharing Colleen! I can relate! Hope these makes you giggle too!

“It’s amazing how grandparents seem so young once you become one.” ~ Author Unknown

1. She was in the bathroom, putting on her makeup, under the watchful eyes of her young granddaughter, as she'd done many times before. After she applied her lipstick and started to leave, the little one said, “But Gramma, you forgot to kiss the toilet paper goodbye!”

2. My young grandson called the other day to wish me Happy Birthday. He asked me how old I was, and I told him, “62.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, “Did you start at 1?”

3. After putting her grandchildren to bed, a grandmother changed into old slacks and a droopy blouse and proceeded to wash her hair. As she heard the children getting more and more rambunctious, her patience grew thin. Finally, she threw a towel around her head and stormed into their room, putting them back to bed with stern warnings. As she left the room, she heard the three-year-old say with a trembling voice, “Who was THAT?”

4. A grandmother was telling her little granddaughter what her own childhood was like: “We used to skate outside on a pond. I had a swing made from a tire; it hung from a tree in our front yard. We rode our pony. We picked wild raspberries in the woods.” The little girl was wide-eyed, taking this all in. At last she said, “I sure wish I'd gotten to know you sooner!”

5. My grandson was visiting one day when he asked, “Grandma, do you know how you and God are alike?” I mentally polished my halo while I asked, “No, how are we alike?” “You're both old,” he replied.

6. A little girl was diligently pounding away on her grandfather's word processor. She told him she was writing a story. “What's it about?” he asked. “I don't know,” she replied. “I can't read.”

7. I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun for me, so I continued. At last she headed for the door, saying sagely, “Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these yourself!”

8. When my grandson, Billy, and I entered our vacation cabin, we kept the lights off until we were inside to keep from attracting pesky insects. Still, a few fireflies followed us in. Noticing them before I did, Billy whispered, “It's no use, Grandpa. The mosquitoes are coming after us with flashlights.”

9. When my grandson asked me how old I was, I teasingly replied, “I'm not sure.” “Look in your underwear, Grandpa,” he advised. “Mine says I'm four to six.”

10. A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, “Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today.” The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool. “That's interesting,” she said, “how do you make babies?” “It's simple,” replied the girl. “You just change 'y' to 'i' and add 'es'.”

11. Children's logic: “Give me a sentence about a public servant,” said a teacher. The small boy wrote: “The fireman came down the ladder pregnant.” The teacher took the lad aside to correct him. “Don't you know what pregnant means?” she asked. “Sure,” said the young boy confidently. “It means carrying a child.”

12. A nursery school teacher was delivering a station wagon full of kids home one day when a fire truck zoomed past. Sitting in the front seat of the truck was a Dalmatian dog. The children started discussing the dog's duties. “They use him to keep crowds back,” said one child. “No,” said another, “he's just for good luck.” A third child brought the argument to a close. “They use the dogs,” she said firmly, “to find the fire hydrants!”

“An hour with your grandchildren can make you feel young again. Anything longer than that, and you start to age quickly!” ~ Gene Perret

My Flower Child

I was a teenager in the 1960s, a space and time that evokes images of long-haired, radical-looking young people who seemed to want a society based on freedom, love and peace. It was a turbulent time in history filled with racial prejudices, warfare and political tension. It was the era of the “flower children.” By definition, a flower child was a hippie, one advocating universal peace and love as an antidote to social or political problems. Flower children typically wore flowers in their hair and distributed flowers or floral decorations to symbolize altruistic ideals of universal brotherhood. The hippie culture also provided many young people a way to reject conformity, escaping from what they considered the ills of our society and government. Flower children smiled, danced and seemingly loved everyone. They were high on “Mother Nature” and often high on mind altering psychedelic drugs, promoting free love as a lifestyle.

I was NOT a typical flower child as defined, only guilty of living in an era that has now become personified by it’s flower power! Flower power dictated the fashion of my teenage years. My little crowd of friends DIDN’T wear flowers in their hair, as the 1967 song, “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair),” by the Mama and the Papas suggested. We also didn't dress in secondhand clothing, purchased from thrift and army surplus stores. We DID however, wear ponchos, bell bottoms (sometimes decorated with patches and embroidery), tie-dyed shirts, leather sandals, and brightly colored fabrics with intricate patterns. I even had one of the controversial “grannie gowns,” long dresses made of small flowered print. School officials banned theses dresses along with the other extreme of very short mini skirts, citing unnecessary attention taken away from our academic education! Humorously my friends and I also spoke with an occasional hippie phrase such as, “Groovy man,” “Cool it,” or “Right on,” which meant, “I like it,” “Calm down,” and “I agree,” respectively. Today all three of these expressions can be conveyed by the phrase, “Shut-up,” a word formerly used to mean “Be quiet!” Delivery of meaning depends on the tone of voice used and the emphasis placed on the individual syllables.

The word hippie is derived from the word “hipster,” meaning one who is hip or keenly aware of the latest trends or developments. In this sense, today’s modern generation could also be termed “hippies,” as they are technologically advanced and extremely conscious of todays new scientific equipment. It was only recently that I discovered I had given birth to my own little 90s flower child, three decades after the original flower child generation!

My youngest daughter, Kenzi, is literally a flower child. She is not a 60s, pill popping, radical extremist. She is a 90s child of love who has a connection with the beauty of nature and a particular love of God’s graceful flowers. I love this about her.

A little over a week ago our daughters, Aleesha and Kenzi, took a road trip together to see an outdoor production of “Footloose” at Tuacahn in St. George, Utah. They also saw several fun plays at the Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City, Utah. Their grandparents and aunt and uncle live in St. George, so it was a chance to visit relatives as well. The girls had a great time. Our techie, camera carrying, Kenzi, came home with a ton of pictures! She proudly displayed the contents of her trip on the television screen for all to see. There were close-up pictures of various colors and varieties of flowers, large sprawling palm trees, trees adorned with paper lanterns, trees adorned with lights that projected on the outdoor stage, very “hot” actors on the outdoor stage (and I don’t mean sweaty), and more flowers. Did I mention flowers? There were tons of pictures of flowers, close up and personal!

My Kenzi is an artist, artistically minded and has a love affair with nature. She is our own beautiful little flower child! I teased her that if it hadn’t been for the pictures taken of her jumping into her Aunt Vicki’s swimming pool and the picture of her kissing the statue of Shakespeare, there would have been no pictures documenting that she had been an actual participant on her summer vacation! No pictures of grandma and grandpa! Nothing of Aunt Vicki! Lot’s and lots, and LOT’S of flowers though! In this she takes after her parents, as we have become famous for our people lacking vacation photos of sunsets and waterfalls!

When questioned about her lack of “people” pics? Humorously, Kenzi said, “Oh, I wouldn't have thought of it!” I can “dig it man!”

I’ve Done That Already!

It has been said by both critics and newpaper columists that America's Queen of Opera, Beverly Sills, who enjoyed success in the 60’s and 70’s, could “light up the stage!” She was an ambitious star with the gift of self-mockery and a soprano voice of sparkle, charm and brilliance. She retired while her voice was still in top performance quality on October 27, 1980. On that auspicious occasion her husband, Peter Greenough, gave her a ring with the inscription, “I’ve done that already!” It was a sentiment meant to pay tribute to the opera star and a statement about moving forward in life, not living in the past.

Sometimes people ask me if I could go back in time, would I want to? As far as I’m concerned Beverly Sills said it all! “I’ve done that already!” Oh, I’d love to have the young, energetic body that could work endlessly and leap two stairs at a time, but I wouldn’t want to give up all the knowledge I’ve gained, lessons learned, or the relationships acquired. I have enjoyed all the different stages of each chapter of my life, but when all is said and done, I want to keep moving forward, experiencing new things. I don’t want to go back and live it all again.

In April of 2004, nine years after becoming ill, I had a memorable dream. In the dream I was talking with a woman who’d had many trials. I woke up with her words ringing through my head, “It is through our trials that we discover who we are!” For me that knowledge has become a treasured gift.

As I began my still unidentified Lyme journey in 1995, I searched for answers, becoming susceptible to any, and all possible cures. The initial medical help I’d sought (blog post, “No Man is an Island”) resulted in unnecessary foot surgery that failed to cure me. My blood tests showed no infection whatsoever, anywhere in my body! To the naked eye I appeared healthy. Several professionals suggested that I might consider psychiatry, implying that my pain, though real to me, was perhaps psychological and a desperate need for attention to get out of my household and motherhood duties. I seriously began to wonder if I WAS crazy! Perhaps I had some deep seeded emotional trauma I was unaware of. However, inside I was in terrible pain, so exhausted I could barely function.

Towards the end of my mysterious summer of painful frustration, I woke up one morning unable to move my right arm without intense pain. I was also having difficulty breathing, feeling like there was a huge file cabinet sitting on my chest. My husband began calling the list of various types of alternative doctors I had been seeing after my medical attempt failed to help. It was a Saturday and their offices were closed. Finally we reached a new chiropractor in town that had dropped by his office to fix his air-conditioner. Although his office was closed he allowed my husband and I to come in. He greeted us cheerfully and after his initial examination he convinced me that I had a pinched nerve. In my painful desperation, I eagerly accepted his diagnosis and proposed treatment. I began triweekly sessions of physical therapy, liberally dousing myself in anti-inflammatory creams and lotions.

Oddly, I’d been experiencing strange, seemingly unrelated symptoms for over five months and no one had ever prescribed an antibiotic, as my blood tests could not verify any type of actual infection. (It is imperative that the correct antibiotic be given within three days to three weeks of any suspected Lyme disease symptoms.) I was completely naive of all things medical. I had rarely even taken an aspirin prior to that summer! My list of mysterious symptoms began to grow. I had aches and pains that moved around my body, and a sore throat that burned like fire. My feet burned, making it difficult to stand still without walking. My hands burned periodically too, as if caught in a hot flame. My glands were swollen and my knees began to swell, making it difficult for me to get off furniture without rocking back and forth, catapulting my way upward, hoping I wouldn’t loose my balance and fall. My jaws, also in pain, suddenly didn’t fit together, making it impossible to eat. I began losing weight rapidly. However, I had no exhilaration over my new emerging skinny figure. I was too sick to shop for new clothes and enjoy it.

As my strange symptoms continued and the prescribed pain pills and anti-inflammatory pills no longer helped my intense pain, I sought new medical advice. A new physician finally diagnosed me with what he suspected was rheumatoid arthritis, although my “Sed Rate” (a word new to me), was four times higher than anyone he’d ever treated. I had an aunt with rheumatoid arthritis, so surely I had inherited it. Never mind that it took my Aunt Maurine 40 years to become as crippled in pain as I was becoming in a few short months! [Since then I have discovered that Lyme disease can awaken formerly dormant conditions in the body, which is why the disease mimics so many other diseases and becomes difficult to diagnose and treat.] Long story short, the new treatment failed to eliminate my pain as promised. My pain and mysterious burning symptoms stubbornly persisted.

Finally, on the advice of an another aunt, in December of 1995 (a week before Christmas), we traveled to a clinic in Nevada to seek unconventional medical treatment from a medical doctor practicing there. For the first time since my peculiar symptoms appeared, someone finally listened to me for more than a 15 minute office visit, recording and writing detailed notes about everywhere I’d been and everything I’d done in the last year. I remember that the weather was warm and sunny on that Nevada day, yet I felt dark and gloomy inside. My energy was so low, that as I looked outside the clinic’s window at the birds sitting in the trees, I presumed they were all dead. I wondered why they didn’t fall from their perched positions.

I spent three days coming and going to the clinic, being poked and prodded, tested and retested. I was the last patient to leave before the holidays. Finally, I was clinically diagnosed with Lyme disease, having 49 out of the top 50 symptoms! My husband and I cried when we finally had confirmation that there was something actually wrong, not imagined or faked. The doctor ordered additional diagnostic tests, but all I knew was that I had a diagnosis and I could get better! Little did I realize that my journey had only begun.

I returned home to Utah with a box full of homeopathic medicine, still feeling like I needed a doctor who would give me “real” medicine, yet following the new prescribed program, certain I’d be able to find a specialist that believed in and treated Lyme disease. Surely I’d be back to driving carpools in a few weeks!

A week later I found myself arguing with an “Ask a Nurse” hotline as I sought a Lyme disease specialist in Utah. “We don’t have Lyme disease in Utah,” I was told. “Well, I live in Utah and I have Lyme disease. I need a doctor,” I said. Once again she repeated, “We don’t have Lyme disease in Utah, and if you’ve really got it you didn’t get it here!”

At the time I was unaware where I had picked it up as I had also been to girl’s camp in the mountains that summer and our Bear Lake cabin as well. Never-mind that we are an international traveling people, we apparently didn’t have Lyme disease in Utah! I began to doubt my diagnosis and the expensive treatment I’d received. I mistrusted the kind doctor who’d tried to help me. Maybe I WAS crazy and in denial of what really was just arthritis. To top off my fear and confusion, my Lyme test came back negative.

Since that warm Nevada day in December I have traveled near and far seeking medical advice and a miracle doctor that would not only believe in the possibility of my Lyme disease, but additionally have the knowledge and skills needed to treat it. I began chasing symptoms. Each doctor had a specialty linked to something I was experiencing, each with a hopeful cure. After traveling not only to Nevada but also to a Chinese Lyme specialist in California and to a renowned German Lyme doctor in Seattle, I finally got an actual “positive” test for Lyme disease, seven years later. The doctor referred to it as a “gooey” case, with multiple pathogens.

Today I am fairly crippled physically, but my immune system seems to be improving. I can breathe freely and have my singing voice back, although my high soprano voice is still missing. My journey has helped me realize there is no “one” magical cure or treatment for Lyme disease, as there are for some other diseases. Everyone responds differently according to their body’s design. For me I have come to have an open mind, which has ultimately become one of life’s great gifs. I gobble up knowledge, new ideas and innovative thinking, knowing there is advanced knowledge, experiences, and cutting-edge ideas to be discovered. Gratefully, I have a husband who is open-mined, supportive, and willingly takes over our formerly shared household responsibilities.

I can’t go back to where I was before. I needed that pain, my own little “ring of burning fire,” to get where I am today. Like Beverly Sills ring said, “I’ve done that already!”

NOTE: Lyme Disease is a clinical diagnosis. The disease is caused by a spiral-shaped bacteria (spirochete) also known as Borrelia burgorferi. The spiral shape to the bacteria enables the Lyme disease to burrow into your body and attack any organ it wishes. The bacteria also has a cloaking device, a little like Star Wars, which allows the bacteria to get into your cells and disguise itself as healthy cells, attacking further. (www.lymewalk.org)



To Prevent Lyme Disease (avoid ticks): 


1. Avoid areas with lots of ticks. Ticks like wooded, bushy areas with high grass and lots of leaf litter.


2. Use insect repellent with 20%-30% DEET on adult skin and clothing to prevent tick bites.


3. Wear long pants, long sleeves, and long socks to keep ticks off your skin.


4. Check your skin and clothes for ticks every day. Remove ticks before going indoors.


5. In areas where ticks are found, walk in the center of trails to avoid contact with overgrown grass, brush, and leaf litter.


6. Since deer can carry ticks that transmit Lyme disease, discourage deer from entering your yard.


7. Take extra precautions in May, June, and July, when ticks that transmit Lyme disease are most active.


8. If you find a tick on you, remove by swabbing with high grade therapeutic peppermint essential oil. Save the tick in a container in case you develop flu-like symptoms, mysterious aches and pains or sudden extreme exhaustion. Ticks can be tested easier than human beings for Lyme.


* Learn more and become informed by checking out the movie in select theaters now called, “Under Our Skin.” www.underourskin.com

The Invisible Wall

“When is this world going to grow up? When are people going to learn that we’re all alike and nobody’s any better or worse than anybody else? How many wars do we have to fight, and how many more millions have to be slaughtered before the world gets any sense in its fat head?” I love this quote from the book I just finished reading entitled, “The Invisible Wall: A Love Story That Broke Barriers,” by Harry Bernstein. From the very first chapter I was “hooked,” reading it every moment I could. I was completely captivated by this little book depicting the barriers between Christians and Jews and the love story within the story that broke down those invisible walls. I had no idea the extent of bigotry and anti-Semitism that existed before the war and still exists to some extent today!



Harry Bernstein grew up in a small world of poverty with an abusive, distant father. In the Lancashire mill town of his English childhood, during prewar and wartime of the early last century, the poverty stricken Jews clustered along one side of their neighborhood street and the Christians lived on the other side, separated by a few feet that might as well have been hundreds of miles. “The Invisible Wall,” is a heart-wrenching memoir, describing two cultures cohabiting uneasily, prey to misunderstandings that distort lives on both sides. It is a world of pain and prejudice, a story that brilliantly illuminates a time, a place and a family struggling valiantly to beat impossible odds.



The book was suggested to me by my neighborhood book club. At first I was only interested in it because of the author, Harry Bernstein’s amazing accomplishment of publishing his memoir at the age of 93. That is a story in itself, an inspiration to anyone who thinks it’s too late. However, as I read this engaging story I quickly fell in love with the book and it's poignant message. Here are some thoughts in Harry's own words from an interview he gave after making the New York Times best sellers list.

“If I had not lived until I was 90, I would not have been able to write this book,” he said. “It just could not have been done even when I was 10 years younger. I wasn't ready.” And he suggested that he might not be an anomaly: “God knows what other potentials lurk in other people, if we could only keep them alive well into their 90s!”

The interview went on to say that the catalyst for “The Invisible Wall” was the death, nearly five years earlier, of Ruby, his wife of 67 years, who had leukemia. “It was a terrible thing for me because it never occurred to either one of us that it would not last forever,” he said. “There was so much emptiness, especially at nighttime, and you had to find something to fill in that gap. I was looking for a home.”

He found it, he said, in his childhood memories, and then in writing about them. “I realized then why I had failed in writing novels,” he said. “Because I turned away from personal experience and depended on imagination.” Harry Bernstein is now 99 years old and has published a second book depicting his life after immigrating to America, called, “The Dream.” I can't wait to read it!



“People get smarter. The human brain has a potential for development. Someday it will grow big enough so that everybody will see and understand the truth, and then we won’t act like a bunch of sheep, and then that wall that separates the two sides of our street will crumble, just like the Wall of Jericho . . . We’re going to have a better world. Things won’t always be the way they are now. I promise you, there’ll be a better world than the one we’re living in today.” ~ Quotation from “The Invisible Wall”


A Tale of Three Birds

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” proclaim the opening lines of Charles Dickens most famous work of fiction. The 1859 novel, “A Tale of Two Cities,” is a tragic tale that concludes with a guillotining and the prophetic final thoughts of the victim.

Last Saturday we played out the final curtain call to our own little sad story that I have now entitled, “A Tale of Three Birds.” It began as a somewhat humorous, yet annoying situation, the best of times. Unfortunately, like Dickens novel it has ended in tragedy, a somewhat disturbingly saga I won’t soon forget. The worst of times.

On Saturday, June 18, 2009, three lifeless, feathered bodies were discovered on our front porch by our 11-year-old grandson, Cayden. I learned of the demise while my son, Cord, was helping me solve my computer back-up problem. Cayden came strolling in the room and asked if we had any ant spray. I assumed he'd seen an ant or two on the kitchen floor and remarked, “No we just use peppermint essential oil,” as a quick explanation of why we don't own a simple can of ant spray. In reality, having been introduced recently to the wonderful new world of doTerra essential oils, I know that peppermint in the point of entry is supposed to get rid of ants. However, although we've intended to try it if needed, we have never actually used it. Cayden just sat there silently and suddenly it occurred to me that there was probably a good reason why he'd asked. So I questioned, “Why? Do we have ants?”

It was then he told us about the three dead birds on our front porch, where apparently the ants were now gathering for a feast. Since my husband was not home, my son rushed outside to check out the grizzly scene and dispose of the poor unfortunate souls. As Cord came back into the house he expressed concern as to why his son was more distressed over the ants than the dead birds. I thought perhaps Cayden figured he couldn't do anything for the birds, but he could do something about the ants. Then again, knowing his loving attitude towards me, perhaps Cayden just wanted to spare me the sad news.

Now I must divert to the beginning of summer where this sad tale began. Two birds decided to begin a family by building their nest in the top pillar of our front porch covering. We were blissfully unaware, as my husband and teenage daughter, Kenzi, who is our last remaining child at home, enter in and out of the garage door where their cars are parked. We became aware of the nest after the eggs were already laid, as the new parents went into protection mode, swarming over the heads of those trying to enter our sanctuary.

Much to my dismay, our front porch was a mess with bird droppings and nesting material. There was also a reoccurring message playing in my head about how bird nests and bird feeders attract ticks! Our girls, coming and going, complained about the birds overhead and I mentally pictured the birds pecking their heads much as the birds did in the horrific old 1963 Alfred Hitchcock movie, “The Birds.” I was suddenly aghast, going into mother bear mode, protecting her cubs. Much to my own shock and amazement I heard myself telling my husband he needed to shoot the birds or at least knock down their nest with a broom and bash their little heads in! My husband's kind eyes widened at my shocking words, as we both realized my father's practical animal killing ways had rubbed off me more than I'd previously realized. My girls were somewhat horrified at my words as well, scared of the attacking birds, yet still sympathetic to their parental needs. My youngest grandson, Isaac, who is three, apparently a silent observer to this conversation, told his dad later in the day that he needed to get his gun and shoot grandma's birds! My hero! Unfortunately I've probably scarred him for life! Ah! Another good one to complain to Oprah about when he’s grown!

Continuing with my little tale of woe, I was finally convinced of the practical, more charitable need of allowing the eggs to be hatched before the nest was cleared away. I resigned myself to the little germ ridden mess greeting our visitors. Did I mention I once read an article about bird feeders and birds attracting ticks? Deer apparently attract them too. So while I might have formerly had a soft spot in my heart for these beautiful scenes of nature, it has vanished with my visions of their potential germ carrying diseases. I do love and enjoy nature where it was intended to be . . . in trees, meadows, forests, mountains, or on YouTube where they belong . . . not invading my personal space!

Alas, our “Tale of Three Birds” had a very unpredictable ending. While the eggs finally hatched and three little baby bird heads appeared over the top of the nest, they were doomed, eventually falling to their death on the cold hard cement below! I find I have new completely unexplained anger now for the bird parents, a mixture of sympathy and I told you so. Stupid birds! They should know better than to build their nests over cement. It’s true that we only have one small tree in our yard, but the neighbors have trees a plenty! Next year we WILL knock down any potential nests before they begin, saving unknown lives and emotional suffering! Just like in the final sentence of A Tale of Two Cities, “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done!”

I’m a Breck Girl!

I’m a product of the 1950’s, a member of the “Baby Boomer” generation, babies born during the decade following World War II. As children of that generation we were more privileged than our parents before, having home encyclopedias and opportunities for education and higher learning. It was the beginning of the era of technology, leading to the great information highway we have today.

That period in time began before commercial jets, color television, cordless phones, computers, TV dinners, garbage disposers, air conditioning, or shopping malls. It was an era of innocence, unmarked by tales of terror and child kidnappings. We played all day in the sun, “digging to China” in the back yard, or “flying to the moon” on our swing sets. On our bicycles we explored unknown neighborhoods, carefree and unafraid. We ran through lawn sprinkled rainbows to beat the heat and jumped with joy in the rare, cool sweetness of a midsummer shower. The sound of the ice-cream truck’s music filling our neighborhood, sent kids scampering for coins to buy cherry, grape and banana Popsicles, crunchy Drumsticks, or Eskimo Pies.



Our lifestyles in the 50’s were full of the simplicity, so evident at that time. We spent time searching on hands and knees in the grass for cherished four-leaf clovers, hoping to carry good luck throughout the day. The television shows depicted the morals and values of our society. We watched, The Mickey Mouse Club with Annette and the Mouseketeers, The Lone Ranger, Zorro, The Andy Griffith Show, Leave it to Beaver, and Donna Reed. The westerns on the television series were about the “good guys” always winning! 



There were Sunday-best clothes and ice-cream Sunday’s, slip-on penny loafers adorned with shiny pennies and saddle shoes tied with laces. We wore bobbie socks and bobbie pins. Families spent Friday nights at the drive-in movie theater watching movies and eating snacks from the back of their station wagons, positioned to face the movie screen. Movies were in black and white or the newly advanced technicolor, with black and white newsreels, previews and cartoons before the featured presentation.



During my teenage years in the 60’s, much of today’s modern technology was non existent as well. There were no hand-held blow dryers for styling our hair. We rolled our wet hair in brush rollers, air drying overnight or sitting beneath slow hair dryers for hours. If we were in a hurry we used the end of the hair dryer hose.

I was a “Breck” cream rinse girl back then, carefully measuring out a couple of tablespoons of the milky white substance into a mason jar filled with warm water and lemon juice to rinse my freshly shampooed “Prell” hair. According to the television commercials, Prell (a green gel like shampoo) made my hair “clean and smelling pretty.” But it was the Breck cream rinse that made my hair “soft and silky, my comb simply floating through my hair!” I, too, could be the “girl with the hair,” as promised!

The lemon juice was my own idea, as I visualized the beautiful blond highlights that I hoped would streak through my ordinary light brown hair. Later I added in a product called “Sun In,” a conditioner-like product one put in her hair to accent the natural highlights and make it shine! I knew this because on my radio, Donny and Marie sound-a-likes sang, “Sun In and sunlight, and you'll be glowing tonight!” Much later, I resorted to cotton ball streaks of pure, drugstore peroxide, sure to increase my real “natural” highlights. Our hairstyling options were aerosol hairsprays, designed to give your “beehive hairdo” holding power and gel which was pretty much those jars of “Dippity-Do,” which you scooped out with your fingers and slopped onto your damp hair. My children think it odd that I still refer to my conditioner as cream rinse. However, you had to have been a true “Breck Girl” to know what that meant!

There has never been a decade quite like the 60’s with it’s diversity, conflicts, hope, anger, and of course, the music! I grew up when transistor radios were cool, as we twisted and rocked to the new era of “Rock and Roll” music. The Beetles, Elvis Presley, The Beach Boys, Mama’s and the Papa’s, and The Kingston Trio were classics on the radio, instead of oldies. It was a time of fun and innocence that was reflected in the music and lyrics such as, “All you need is love . . . love is all you need,” sung by The Beetles in their 1967 hit song, “All You Need is Love.” The dance crazes characterized that decade. It was a time of individual self expression, as displayed during the largest outdoor rock concert ever performed, now known as “Woodstock,” an event I was unaware of at the time, living in my own little naive world.

The 60’s were also a generation devoted to changing the world. There were changes not only evident in music, but also in fashion, world events, automobiles, toys and technology. Our simple technology became the forerunner of today’s innovative modern computer world. During my senior year in high school, we had to turn in a ten-page research paper for English. I had to carefully type each page out on my trusty non-electric typewriter, shaking in fear of making a mistake and having to retype. There was no grammar or spell check and there couldn’t be any “Wite-Out” on the pages, covering up errors. If I mistyped, I had to start my page completely over!



Gas stations had full-service pumps and it came with a smile. When you pulled into one an attendant quickly ran out to find out how much of what kind of gas you wanted, and then while it was pumping, he checked your car’s oil and washed the windows!

There were four basic food groups back then: Meat and Beans, Milk and Cheese, Fruits and Vegetables, and Breads and Cereals. A healthy meal had one serving from each. We never used the words “protein, carbs, or fats.”

I remember Maybelline Dial-A-Lash mascara and the Cover Girl eye shadow kits with the four shades of blue. The diagram on the back showed you how to apply all four shades at once, which I did.



Everyone I knew kept a tall can of Aqua-Net hairspray in their school locker. You could smell it on the girls in my school like it was perfume, now awkwardly reminiscent of the iconic movie, “Hairspray,” which was exactly the way we looked!

We wore “Charlie” perfume and “Jean Nate” (Pronounced Nah-TAY) lemon body splash. That commercial showed a woman getting out of the bathtub, pouring Jean Nate into her hand, splashing it onto her bare leg! Then the commercial showed her dressed as a jockey, riding a horse off into the sunset. Because nothing enhances the horse-riding experience like smelling like lemons!

We wore “Bonne Bell Lip Smackers” until Maybelline came out with “Kissing Potion,” a liquid lip-gloss in a tube with a roller ball. Mine was Strawberry.

Dressed up in nylons and heals, we did our shopping in downtown department stores like Auerbachs and Sears, where attendants operated elevators to the upper floors, announcing each stop: “Second Floor: housewares, dry goods, notions,” and you said, “Out, please.”



It has been said that by the sheer force of its numbers, the baby boomers were a demographic bulge, which remodeled society as they passed through it. Me? I’m just a simple “Breck” girl, living life in a world full of modern technology!