Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 7
August 23, 2024
Me and You
Sometimes, though, magic happens and it did on August 16, 2024 when I came across this beautiful poem written by a former classmate of mine.
Thank you Judi Kipner-Wolf for allowing me to share your lovely words with my readers.
RAMBLINGS OF ME AND YOU
She was young and strong and beautiful
She was idealistic too
She didn’t need a lot of makeup
She was me and she was you
She wore her heart upon her sleeve
Determined in all she would do
She still had years to accomplish her goals
She was me and she was you
She quietly wished for freedoms
Or she loudly made them come true
She tip toed behind or led the crowd
She was me and she was you
She didn’t realize at the time
That youth was on her side
She took it for granted and watched it go by
She took it all in stride
She watched and time was fleeting
The busy years ensue
She forgot to stop and take it all in
She was me and she was you
She made her way through this crazy world
She laughed, she cried and she knew
That she was the one that carried the load
She was me and she was you
Now when she looks in the mirror
The years show on her face
An older version of herself
Somehow has taken place
But close your eyes and look inside
She’s still a part of you
She’s in there….young and beautiful
She is me and she is you
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Friends Don’t Let Friends Miss Out
Only a few short days until
we tackle the complexities and chaos of female friendships in leading to ACTIONABLE SUGGESTIONS.
Register below:
https://www.jewishtampa.com/bloom
August 16, 2024
A Startling Revelation
Advertised as “A one-of-a-kind experience in a candlelit setting,” a four-string quartet from the symphony would be playing a combination of Bach compositions and the Beatles’ top hits.
I immediately bought two tickets for my husband and me.
The evening arrived. In a heightened state of excitement, we took our seats. I was delighted to see a couple I knew seated directly in front of us – as hyped up for the upcoming performance as we were. I continued glancing around, drinking in the magic of the 1000’s of flickering lights and the ornate details of the auditorium.
To my left was another couple – about my age, but clearly not quite as bubbly as the four of us. I glanced down at the woman’s legs as the quartet warmed up: stiff as boards. I noticed her hands: clenched together tightly in her lap. Her perfectly sculptured profile remained stoic and unsmiling.
In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to her body language and maybe not quite as much to the music. That was my first miscalculation.
The quartet began to perform and within minutes the portion dedicated to Johann Sebastian Bach was over and it was time for the Beatles’ greatest hits!
Immediately upon hearing the first strains of “I Want to Hold your Hand,” I could feel my body gearing up – responding to the familiar notes – I was kinda swishing back and forth with my shoulders to the beat – utterly enjoying myself.
Enraptured by “Strawberry Fields Forever,” I barely noticed the very stoic lady beside me moving a seat away from me some time mid-concert. I assumed “Mrs. Wooden” felt her new seat provided better visibility.
Hee hee.
That was my second miscalculation.
When the concert ended, the audience rose reluctantly – whispers of awe and wonder floating around us.
“It was simply wonderful!” I gushed to my husband.
At that moment, I heard a loud, male voice on the other side of me. I turned – directly facing the man who had accompanied the “wooden lady.”
“It WOULD have been very enjoyable if you hadn’t been humming the entire time,” he barked at me.
Shocked and speechless, my first reaction was to profusely apologize – to explain that I didn’t even realize I was humming.
Instead, either I repeated what Mrs. Wooden Lady’s companion said to my husband or my husband had heard it himself.
In any case, my husband immediately transformed into ALPHA MALE MODE. “I’m going to beat the crap out of him,” he swore loudly.
“Are you crazy? I retorted. “You will do no such thing. Calm the hell down. You are 76 years old not 26 years old – you have a totally fused back, in case you have momentarily forgotten. And two aging dudes fighting will make quite a very ugly scene.”
Thankfully, by this time, the wooden lady and her mate had slipped away into the crowd. And I was sure my husband’s wrath would be dissipated by the time we reached home.
That was my third miscalculation. It wasn’t. He continued to rant – saying I was “taking his manhood away” by preventing him from defending my honor.
Seriously?
Are we in the Middle Ages?
All I could do was laugh.
I knew that in his prime he could bench press gillions of pounds.
I knew that in his prime he had won body building contests.
But that boat had sailed.
HOWEVER, as the days passed, I began to think differently.
Facing the reality of no longer being in the “bloom” of youth is tough. Yet, there is something very endearing that, even after many years of matrimony, my husband is still anxious to defend me.
We celebrated our 48th anniversary yesterday. Knowing the above? It was the best present ever.
Keep Preserving (what’s left of) Your Bloom,
Don’t miss out.
The Art of Female Friendship – the Complexities and the Chaos
August 28
Register today!
https://www.jewishtampa.com/bloom
August 9, 2024
The Danger of Faulty Assumptions
Now I DO have assumptions about grand-parenting that have proven to be very true: Regularly doling out unsolicited advice to your adult children on rearing their children is probably not a great idea. Ditto for hovering like a helicopter.
Another assumption: The only way to truly have fun and get super close to your grandchildren is to stay at their house when visiting from out of town.
So when my son first suggested my husband and I would be more comfy at the bed and breakfast down the street, I balked – not to him, but silently.
“Geez,” I later confessed to my husband, “our grandchildren will get up in the morning and we won’t be there, so no climbing in bed with us. And I bet they will be so disappointed.”
Wrong.
The first night we stayed in the bed and breakfast, we literally fled there after reading three books to each of our three young grandchildren, unpacked and hit the bed by 8 pm – where we slept soundly and without interruption. Soundly and without interruption would not have happened at my son’s house for sure.
We got up the next morning without anyone jumping in our beds – heedless of our aches and pains – long before sunrise. In fact, we got up leisurely, admired the beautiful autumn leaves out our large bedroom windows and then proceeded to the dining room where we were served a scrumptious breakfast.
Our grandkids seemed to have survived without seeing us first thing in the morning when we were in town – and when we picked up the 3 year-old at pre-school, her hug was intense and her face lit up with joy. And all she wanted to know was if we had the entire afternoon to play with her, which we did.
By nightfall, we couldn’t wait to high tail it back to our bed and breakfast.
I was wondering what other faulty assumptions I have been lugging around.
On another trip to the New York area, we visited our sons and daughters-in-law who have kids in middle school, junior high and high school. I assumed they’d be preoccupied with their friends and embroiled in the incessant drama of adolescence and teen-age hood.
Wrong again.
To my delighted surprise, they were intensely curious to know tidbits of family history and what my husband and I thought about what was going on worldwide. They asked about their great grandfathers’ serving in World War 2, what our opinions were we about the conflict between Russia and the Ukraine and which Arab countries did we think posed the most danger to the existence of Israel.
My most recent faulty assumption concerns my birthday.
When raising our kids, I was always the one, not my husband, who organized and followed through with gift giving for our parents.
Fast forward to the present: my sons organize the gift giving for my husband and me. One daughter-in-law always sends an additional gift from her nuclear family, but my other two daughters-in-law send short birthday wishes by text.
I am NOT proud of what I am about to disclose: I took my daughters-in-law’s succinct texts in a negative way – like they didn’t care. It never dawned on me that the dynamic in their families for gift giving was different than the dynamic in my family. It never dawned on me that their not personally picking out a gift, but leaving it up to my sons, was NOT a reflection of their lack of affection for me.
Now I’m wondering: What else in my personal life is due to faulty assumptions and not reality?
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Don’t miss out.
The Art of Female Friendship – the Complexities and the Chaos
August 28
Register today!
https://www.jewishtampa.com/bloom
August 2, 2024
It Was a Bad Week
Massive infection
Fractured tooth needing to be extracted in pieces (OUCH!)
A complicated root canal procedure
And lots of ice packs
I was away from my husband.
I was bouncing between two of my adult kids’ houses.
I was in a lot of unremitting physical pain.
I was slurping down pints of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream at 1170 calories a pint like it was breast milk and I was a newborn.
My face was swelling from the bombardment of both the drilling and the pulling at about the same rate as my hips were spreading from the ice cream. I was sorely in need of solace, diversion and inspiration on any topic.
I unexpectedly found some from the Internet – Instagram to be more specific.On the topic of HEALING:
Healing can be challenging because different parts of you want different things.
Your inner child craves love and validation.
Your teenage self might seek revenge for past hurts.
Your adult self desires peace and resolution.
Balancing these conflicting needs makes the healing process complex.
On the topic of motherhood:
My favorite thing about being a mom is constantly being told I’m wrong by someone who arrived on Planet Earth via the portal between my legs.
On the topic of marriage:
For couples who don’t want to grow apart, don’t start talking to others about your relationship challenges rather than to each other.
On the topic of parenting or grandparenting a “difficult” child or grandchild:
Some of us are raising the wild ones, the room-wreckers and the reality-checkers, the fire-tongued and fierce leaders – the wild-hearted and world-changers.
These kids can argue like a prosecutor when you just wish they’d say “Yes, Mummy” and move on.
But one day, they will use those skills to stand up for themselves, for the people they love and for perfect strangers because injustice doesn’t live in their world.
And impacted by the vast volume of ideas on Instagram, I came up with a plan to celebrate my husband and my 48th wedding anniversary coming up very soon.
I asked my husband to find a restaurant for us to have a leisurely rendezvous. And I emphasized the eatery must have the following three things:
Quiet
Ambience
And a bar
THIS IS MY PLAN
I’m going to wear an entirely inappropriate, cleavage-plunging red satin blouse, slip on ridiculously high stilettos and set out clinging to his forearm so I don’t break an ankle.
When we arrive at our destination, I’m going to gracefully (hopefully) slide onto a bar stool and provocatively beckon him close.
And here are the questions I intend to ask him:
What is your favorite memory of us?
What do you love most about us?
What do I do that makes you feel loved?
What is something you’d love to do together that we haven’t done yet?
What is your ideal date night?
How do you like to be comforted when you’re upset?
It’s been a long time since I’ve asked those kinds of questions.
Most of the time, I’m anxiously probing and pestering him with the following:
Are you okay?
Did you take your meds?
Are you sure you aren’t too tired to drive?
Did the doctor call back yet?
I’m going to put away my phone.
I’m going to focus solely on him.
And I’m going to stifle my normal impatience if he takes more time to answer a question I pose than I prefer.
And next year, I am going to answer the same ones back to him.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
PS:
Register now for PYB’s second friendship event 5:30 to 7:30pm on August 28. Don’t miss out. Space is limited and is expected to fill up fast. Click on this link for more information and to register https://www.jewishtampa.com/bloom
July 26, 2024
Change: Illusive or Real?
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but
shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints; we spend more,
but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less
time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less
judgment; more experts, but less solutions; more medicine, but less wellness.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too
much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life; we’ve added years to life, not life to years.
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing
the street to meet the new neighbor. We’ve conquered outer space, but not
inner space; we’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we’ve split the
atom, but not our prejudice.
We have higher incomes, but lower morals; we’ve become long on quantity,
but short on quality.
These are the times of tall men and short character, steep profits and
shallow relationships. These are the times of world peace, but domestic
warfare; more leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but
broken homes. It is a time when there is much in the show window and
nothing in the stockroom – a time when technology can bring this letter to you and a time when you can choose either to forward this message and make a
difference…or just hit delete.
The above was written by Allan N. Levine on October 11, 2000 and sent out to various people via e mail. Someone forwarded it to me. I googled Mr. Levine (No relation to me even though my maiden name is Levine.)
All I could find was the following of Allan N. Levine’s life captured by the 1940 U.S. Census:
Allan N. Levine was born about 1932, the son of Sally and Joe. In 1940, he was 8 years old and lived in Portland, Maine, with his father, mother, brother, and 3 sisters. I’m not even sure if he is the same person who sent this e mail.
To put the above in further context here are some headlines from Wednesday, October 11, 2000:
Supreme Court: Justices to Hear Cases of Deportable Inmates With Nowhere To Be Deported To
In the Mideast: Time for a Recess; Palestinian Rights
Gay Marriage and the Campaign
US Warning China on Trade Pledges
Steroid Suspicions Abound in Major League Dugouts
Here are some events that actually occurred on October 11, 2000:
It leads me to believe more fully that the more things change, the more they also stay the same.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less
time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less
judgment; more experts, but less solutions; more medicine, but less wellness.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too
much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life; we’ve added years to life, not life to years.
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing
the street to meet the new neighbor. We’ve conquered outer space, but not
inner space; we’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we’ve split the
atom, but not our prejudice.
We have higher incomes, but lower morals; we’ve become long on quantity,
but short on quality.
These are the times of tall men and short character, steep profits and
shallow relationships. These are the times of world peace, but domestic
warfare; more leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but
broken homes. It is a time when there is much in the show window and
nothing in the stockroom – a time when technology can bring this letter to you and a time when you can choose either to forward this message and make a
difference…or just hit delete.
The above was written by Allan N. Levine on October 11, 2000 and sent out to various people via e mail. Someone forwarded it to me. I googled Mr. Levine (No relation to me even though my maiden name is Levine.)
All I could find was the following of Allan N. Levine’s life captured by the 1940 U.S. Census:
Allan N. Levine was born about 1932, the son of Sally and Joe. In 1940, he was 8 years old and lived in Portland, Maine, with his father, mother, brother, and 3 sisters. I’m not even sure if he is the same person who sent this e mail.
To put the above in further context here are some headlines from Wednesday, October 11, 2000:
Supreme Court: Justices to Hear Cases of Deportable Inmates With Nowhere To Be Deported To
In the Mideast: Time for a Recess; Palestinian Rights
Gay Marriage and the Campaign
US Warning China on Trade Pledges
Steroid Suspicions Abound in Major League Dugouts
Here are some events that actually occurred on October 11, 2000:
It leads me to believe more fully that the more things change, the more they also stay the same.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
July 19, 2024
Acts of Charity Add Sparkle to the World
Her name is Nicole, she is 40 years-old and I met her at a Dress for Success luncheon where my son Sam was getting an award. In between food courses and short speeches, we chatted.
Nicole was an “army brat” whose father was in the military. The family moved constantly until Nicole was a sophomore in high school. Total moves: 17 times.
“It was not conducive to making or keeping friends,” Nicole laments.
After a stint in college, Nicole married and gave birth to two sons, who are now 13 and 7. She also has a son who is 18 years old in college in Tallahassee. In their 12thyear of matrimony, two pivotal events occurred:
Nicole’s husband had an affair
Nicole started drinking
Lucky for her, she was able to obtain help from River Oaks Treatment Center.
“It changed my life,” Nicole notes. “I got an amazing therapist that did EMDR therapy to effectively help me with my childhood and adult trauma. And I still work with the same therapist.”
She and her husband split up, agreeing to joint custody of their sons. Nicole then worked two jobs, went back to school and learned to live on her own. Shortly thereafter, she met up with an old boyfriend and they moved in together. Financially, it was a sound choice. Practically, it was not. Her old boyfriend started drinking and the domestic situation turned volatile. Nicole left quickly, only taking what she could pack in her car.
I asked about family. No local ties. Her dad has passed away and her mother takes care of her own mother. Two brothers reside in Tennessee along with the other family members, but her shared custody arrangement mandates she stay in Hillsborough County while her children are in school.
While staying with a series of friends, she fervently searched for affordable housing for herself and her two sons. She fell between the cracks. Her income as an office manager for a medical office that deals with addiction and mental health issues is too much for subsidized housing but too little for her to comfortably afford the high Tampa Bay rents.
Finally a friend came to her aid, offering her a three bedroom, two bath house at a discounted price.
She is moving in August 1.
However, at this point, she has very few possessions. No beds. No table and chairs. No couch. No bedding. No pots and pans.
Nicole does have a place to store things until she moves. And, FYI, she loves a neutral color palate: blue, purple, gray – which she refers to as “calming colors.”
So here is my ask: if you have any miscellaneous household items cluttering up your home or going unused, please consider donating them to Nicole. Please call me at 813-501-7538 or e mail me at preservingyourbloom47@gmail.com and we will arrange for pick-up.
“Many things can be a waste of your effort, but a helping hand is not.”Unknown
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
July 12, 2024
Joy in the Morning
It was the first thing I saw when I walked into my kitchen early that morning.
Alone on the kitchen counter, a notebook-sized piece of paper caught my eye. It was an informal, hastily drawn chart I had made for myself the evening before so I could remember to take my newly prescribed meds for a killer sinus infection I was experiencing.
And strangely enough, the sight of it provoked unbridled joy.
“Why?” I wondered. “Makes no sense.”
And then I remembered fully and clearly: whenever I got sick, my mother would whip out a Bic ball point pen and a scribble pad and make a list of the meds our pediatrician had prescribed and what time I needed to take them. Her handwriting was beautiful, adorned with exquisite flourishes.
I got histoplasmosis when I was seven years of age. Most people have no idea what that disease is, but if you live in the Ohio River Valley, you are probably familiar with it. Quite simply, it’s a fungal infection that can invade the lungs and cause long term weakened immune systems. If left untreated, it can be fatal.
I’m sure my parents were totally freaked at my diagnosis.
I don’t remember much about it except that my chest hurt a lot from my incessant coughing, my throat was excruciatingly sore and a hospital truck came three times weekly to deliver a variety of meds and treatments – including detailed directives for administration.
My mom, to ease her own anxiety and to be sure I received maximum good care, listened intently to the instructions. She then did what she always did when my brother and I were sick: she put together an organized chart detailing which meds should be taken when. And posted it on the refrigerator. She was very predictable when it came to eliminating her children’s nasty ailments.
And I knew then, that in spite of my feeling miserable, my mom would take care of me. My mom would make it all go away so I could attend my Brownie troop’s cook-out and a play date with my friend Faye.
Did I I attend the cook-out and gorge on s’mores? Did I keep my play date with Faye? I don’t remember. But I do remember vividly the diligence my mother displayed when following my charted med routine.
I’m soon turning seventy-seven and my mom has been gone many years. But in that quiet early morning moment, just a few days ago, when I gazed intently at my medicine chart, I felt her still hovering close by and taking care of me.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
July 5, 2024
Please Weigh In Because I know This Has Happened To You…
If you’re like every other female past the age of four on this planet, you’ve run into a friendship dilemma or two in your life. It happens to all of us because female friendship can be fraught with twists and turns that can be very tricky to navigate!
Although we’ve all had to face friendship dilemmas, we don’t always know how to deal with them. And while I could share a few of my own personal gal pal predicaments, there’s nothing more powerful than being able to tap into the collective wisdom and experience of lots of women to help each other be the best versions of ourselves! That’s why I’m asking you, my readers, to weigh in with a story or anecdote about one of your biggest friendship challenges, and how it got, or perhaps didn’t get, resolved.
I want to hit the bull’s eye on this one.
We have all grappled with what the definition of true friendship is.
Is it about being perfectly aligned? Is it about always being available at a moment’s notice? Texting or calling back ASAP? Giving without any thought of receiving? Embracing the mindset that “real” friends don’t keep track, don’t stand on ceremony and always have your back?I’m not so sure.
Here’s what I think:
I know that true friends can lose touch, grow in different directions, have opposing world views and get frustrated with one another once in a while. But what happens when “once in a while” turns into way too many times to ignore any longer? How do you right your “friend” ship when it starts to sail off course?” Do you abandon ship altogether?
I’ll compile your submissions into one of my future columns so we can all take a deep sigh, share a laugh, shed a tear and, hopefully, learn a little something that can help us do a better job of dealing with our own friendship issues in the future.
What do YOU think?
Either reply to this email or click
here
to submit your story. Feel free to remain anonymous
and/or
change the names
of those involved.
And if you live close to the Tampa Bay area, join us:
Wed., August 28 | 5:30 – 7:30 PM
$36 – Enjoy heavy hors d’oeuvres, a decadent dessert bar,
wine and other beverages.
At the Shanna & Bryan Glazer JCC
Tampa, FloridaWe will be navigating the complexities and chaos of female friendship:
Please register early. Space is limited for this exclusive event.
https://www.Jewishtampa.com/Bloom
It’s all about Preserving Our Blooms,
June 28, 2024
My Husband’s Short-Lived Baseball Career
I know there are certain things I’m not rational about and one of them is my husband playing baseball.
It all started when we were dating. He was playing baseball after work. I was spending quality time with my two young sons after work. I never got to see him play baseball.
After we got married, summers were filled with three more babies and a time-consuming and demanding job for Steven. I had to content myself with being regaled with Steven’s baseball stories from high school and college, watching him wistfully oil his mitt, and nostalgically show me pictures of a very macho and focused young man involved in the great American pastime of baseball.
Two months before our 45th birthdays, 17 years after we met, my husband bounced into the kitchen one day and proudly announced he was going back to baseball. He had joined an “Over Age 30 League” and his first practice was in two days. I don’t know who was more excited – he or I.
I hovered nervously at the door as he drove off to his first practice with the team. I paced the floors until I heard his car pulling back into the garage two hours later.
He said that practice was great – the guys friendly – the atmosphere loose – but my husband’s knee was acting up and he reluctantly (and maturely) decided to sit out the first game. My frustration was building. I felt like I’d never get to see him play baseball.
The knee slowly mended. The second game was upon us.
I rushed down to the field. I got there just as he was getting ready to bat. He swung anxiously at the first pitch, popped it in the direction of 3rd base. His knee partially buckled and he practically fell flat on his face. So much for my macho man!
His fielding at second base got off to a much smoother start. He caught a hard hit fly and threw a runner out at first. He also made a well-executed play at 2nd to end the inning.
I relecutantly left the game to pick up one of my sons from his baseball practice. I had finally seen my husband play a little baseball and the season was just beginning. I was euphoric.
My euphoria didn’t last long. When I got home, I found a blood soaked tissue on the kitchen counter. I quickly followed the trail of blood to the half bath, where I saw a pale, middle-aged man holding a bloody finger under the water faucet.
“What happened?” I asked dully. Visions of dusty batting mounds, cold cokes while sitting on hot bleachers, madly cheering a handsome hunk in a royal blue baseball cap flashed through my mind. Once again, I knew I‘d never get to see him play baseball. I flung my purse across the room in utter frustration and ran upstairs.
“I cut my damn finger while I was slicing a bagel,” he hollered after me. “I’m going to the hospital for stitches.”
“And,” he continued, now worked up to a frenzy, “I’ll be okay next Monday night even if I break my leg and have to drag it after me as I run to 1st base!”
I smiled.
My husband:
My rookie of the year.
My most valuable player.
My 22 year-old 45 year-old.
It’s now many years later. And I don’t even recall if he actually did play in the next game. Or even in the one after that.
Soon, my husband and I will both turn 77.
His baseball playing days are long over.
It’s now our grandchildren who bat and get on base, with both of us in the stands.
But our love for the game of baseball continues, as does the love for our hometown team, the Cincinnati Reds.
Some things never change.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
June 21, 2024
Are You A Risk Taker?
Are you a risk taker?
A risk taker is defined as someone who is bold, decisive, confident, courageous, creative, innovative and comfortable with uncertainty.
I don’t know if I am a risk taker. I think I am more likely to be defined as someone who doesn’t think things through thoroughly, leaps before she ponders and does what she wants in the present without contemplating the outcome.
What would that be called? Stupid perhaps? Foolish? Illogical?
Perhaps all three.
Anyway, it’s all a moot point. I decided when my husband and I were going to be visiting our hometown for over two weeks that we would change-up our routine and stay in a rental. So I started to look on Vrbo and Airbnb.
Cincinnati, Ohio – a city which I love dearly – is our hometown. But let’s face it: it is NOT a big tourist attraction – therefore there are not a lot of short term rentals around in the parts of the city we wanted to stay in.
One, however, caught my eye. I am always a sucker for old houses built around the early part of the 20th Century. And this one looked perfect, billed as “historic charm meets city living in this adorable cottage”.
I was immediately captivated by the old fashioned front porch with two rocking chairs – adjacent to the huge shade tree.
I already was picturing myself sipping my morning coffee in such a tranquil setting as this:
Three bedrooms, two bathrooms and an updated kitchen sealed the deal and I submitted my credit card immediately.
When I showed my husband the pictures of the interior and exterior front of the house, he too was quite impressed with my find. He did happen to point out that there appeared to be this big gray wall right outside one of the downstairs windows, but I paid little attention to his offhand remark.
A few days before occupancy, we were given the actual address and immediatley I zoomed in on the house and neighborhood. I was in for a surprise.
Sure the shade tree was there.
Sure the front porch with the rockers were there.
BUT, to the immediate left of the house beyond the gray wall was a small strip center and to the right, directly outside the kitchen window, was an auto parts store. And beyond the shade tree, directly across the street were not one, but two, auto dealerships. 
Okay, so it wasn’t perfect.
Did I mention that the two bathrooms were really 1.5 bathrooms and there was no vent in the master bedroom so we turned the air conditioning downstairs to 64 degrees in order to cool off the upstairs? And we kept the ceiling fan in our bedroom running non-stop.
Did it matter? Not really. I still loved sitting out on the front porch each morning sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, reading a really terrific book (The Goddess of Warsaw) and waving to the continual stream of pedestrians walking on the sidewalk in front of my rental, headed to the gourmet coffee shop just a block away.
So the closets didn’t have lights.
And the other bedrooms had no dressers.
And the kitchen lacked measuring cups and spoons for my made-from-scratch smoothies.
And I couldn’t watch the 77th Tony Awards last Sunday night because I couldn’t find the directions to the cable TV.
And there was no toaster oven.
Most importantly, though, my husband and I tried something new. We got out of our comfort zone and took a risk.
Let me know what kind of a risk you have taken lately and how it turned out.
And if you haven’t taken one lately, maybe it’s time to expand your little corner of the world and do so.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
