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Tuesday, January 14, 2014

What's Worth Writing About?

To an inveterate writer almost anything is worth writing about. Here’s a sample:
When I lifted the tiny silverfish I found in the bathroom sink onto a piece of paper and took him (her?) out the front door this morning I stopped a minute to wish the little creature a happy life and a good day. To me, that's worth writing about.Then I noticed again that something was notably different here. What was it? The sounds. At Quail Creek the little waterfalls that gurgle and shout dominate the audible surroundings. Here there’s a hush that accentuates the skitter of leaves on the sidewalks and streets when a breeze blows by. And I can hear the wild birds. I, obviously, have thought it worth writing about.

I like differences. I like changes too. Changes are worth writing about. They freshen the senses and lead you on to new chapters in life. I suppose I’m more aware of this now because of the many changes I’m experiencing in my everyday rounds. I had my hair washed last Friday in the little beauty shop that’s been here since forever. Thuviet (sp?) still manages it as she did when I worked here as the receptionist twenty some years ago. She remembered me, as do most of the workers here, and made me feel right at home although I haven’t patronized a beauty shop for a hair-do for something like fifty years. Hair is easy to let grow, cut the edges, keep clean and rolled up. If I counted all the money I’ve saved by doing it myself I’d not feel guilty about splurging on a huge featherbed and down pillows as I did the other night by calling in to Macy’s last day of the sale. 

Well, now I’ve decided to let Thuviet wash my hair every other week. With Robin’s agreement to have time with me at least once a week to drive me shopping or whatever, I can take other outings on the buses the Willows provide. I call it a luxury to give up driving myself. Today will be one of our days together. Time with my dear daughter is a precious luxury.

Wally K, my elder son, has become my accountant and watches over the payment of bills, the bank balance, and other business affairs. That, too, is a luxury! David still works full time in Simi Valley, but he would come at the drop of a hat if I needed him. So, children are my greatest luxury, and that's worth writing about!

Have I mentioned that I’ve been having housekeeping service once a week here? It is a perk for visitors but I’ll be a paying patron and Maria says she will come and clean for me as often as I need her (maybe every other week) when I move into my own place. I learned yesterday that there will be special help provided at moving time too. What a luxury is that!

Naturally a writer writes about whatever he or she wishes. Sometimes I’ve wondered if the title to my blog isn’t a bit deceiving. Some writers might think it more honest to elaborate on the trials, the ooches and owies of old age. It's not that I don't experience these at times but when I get through them I say to myself, “Why would you want to write about that? Look at all you have to be grateful for! Sister, you’re advancing years are the frosting on the cake! Good company, helping hands, intellectual stimuli, spiritual growth, little luxuries, family, and sunshine in the seventies in January!” What is this writer going to do about all that? Write about it, of course! 

Goodbye, little silverfish, wherever you are now. I'm glad I didn't squish you just because I'm bigger than you. After all, there's some question as to whose territory is being invaded here. When Abraham Lincoln was walking with a friend one day he saw a snake on the path. "Kill it!" said his companion. Lincoln replied, "Naw, his life is as precious to him as mine is to me." That, too, I think, is worth writing about.


  1. I am sooooo grateful that you taught me how to appreciate the 'little things ' in life Mom! To cultivate the art of compassion for others and for one's self is perhaps our main reason for being here. That IS worth writing about!! Thanks Mom!!!

  2. Last Wednesday before the testimony meeting there was a commotion in the pews and I was called. A little "stink-bug" had somehow found his way into the church. I would have let him stay, but he said he didn't want to give a I coaxed him onto the edge of the Quarterly and walked him to the bushes just outside the front door. He gave thanks for that by not stinking the place up as he would have if I had squeezed the life out of him. I gave thanks for not giving in to that primal urge.