Happy birthday to my favorite sister who turned 16 x 3 on Friday. Originally written for her 40th birthday, this is just as fitting today as it was all those years ago.
You all know Julie in one capacity or another: family member, long-time friend or the picture on the post office wall. Most of you know her as she sits before you now, but I would like to share a few memories of her from my own growing-up period.
The year was 1963. On television, people watched Huntley and Brinkley for the news; The Andy Griffith Show was the highest rated comedy; The Andy Williams Show was the best variety show (how many of you even remember what a variety show is?). On the radio, The Beatles scored their first of many #1 hits in the US with "I Want to Hold Your Hand". The Los Angeles Dodgers, who had bailed out on Brooklyn a mere four years before, shock the New York Yankees in the World Series by beating them in 4 straight games. The Washington-to-Moscow "hot line" communications link opens, designed to reduce the risk of accidental war. Julia Child, “The French Chef”, debuts on educational television.Julie Ann was born to Jim a
nd JoAnne Tabacchi on March 25 of that year. Her proud parents were positive that this bouncy little girl was the most beautiful baby ever, outside of her older brother, of course. I was equally impressed that something so small and noisy and smelly could cause such a great stir. “Jewey”, as I lovingly called her, moved in and, well, life was never quite the same after that. I was the perfect child, just ask anyone who was around back then. My sister, on the other hand, was the devil herself in human form.
In those days, car seats were for the weak. We had fun climbing front-to-back-to-front-to-back-to-front-to-back in the car, a Ford Country Squire station wagon, complete with the fake wood paneling on the sides. I was content to sit and read or just look out the window at the scenery, but my sister, on the other hand, wasn’t satisfied with peace and quiet. No, she would agitate and aggravate and torment me to no end, until all that poking and prodding resulted in her having an imprint of my hand somewhere on her body, which would then result in me getting yelled at from the front seat by our parents, leaving a smirk on the face of Little Miss Innocent that required removal with another well-placed hand imprint and the cycle would replay itself over and over.
I’m sure my father still wonders how both Julie and I survived each other. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you. Somehow we managed to co-exist throughout school without much damage. When I went away to college we actually missed one another (but would only admit it to our mother, never to each other). I think it was then that I realized she was not only my sister but one of my friends as well.
So, after 40 48 years, what have I gotten from my dear sister? A few headaches, advice (solicited or otherwise), a brother-in-law, a sense of humor, hand gestures, a shared interest of poking fun of our relatives, and unconditional love. Happy Birthday, Julie. We love you. Fred, Cindy and Laura.
Stars shined through the scattered clouds. It was still dark this morning when I arose, a slight chill in the air. Mostly what I noticed was the silence. No cars driving by, no birds chirping, no breeze through the trees, no rain upon the window.
Consider the power of silence: listening to your heart, thinking clearly, readying the soul to converse with God. We search for silence in quiet places such as forests, the sea, places of worship, libraries, our homes. There are no distractions in silence; it is in silence that we can find what is truly important in our lives. Thoughts that occupy our minds tend to vanish when we sit in the silence. Silence gives our minds an opportunity to sort out our thoughts, tossing aside the unnecessary while allowing the important enough time to form and crystallize.
As I finish writing this morning, the silence has been replaced by the sounds of birds, the clucking of chickens, the scampering feet of cats, cars passing by, an airplane lifting off from the airport. The remnants of the morning silence will remain with me throughout the day, reminding me to take a moment and just be.
The sound of shattering glass is one of the most piercing, frightening and recognizable sounds on earth. Every piece of glass has a natural resonant frequency, which is the speed at which it will vibrate if bumped or otherwise disturbed by some stimulus, such as a sound wave.
Glass wine goblets are especially resonant because of their hollow tubular shape, which is why they make a pleasant ringing sound when clinked. If a person sings the same tone as that ringing note, the sound of their voice will vibrate the air molecules around the glass at its resonant frequency, causing the glass to start vibrating as well. And, if that tone is sung loudly enough, the glass will vibrate itself to smithereens.
Can't hit that note? Alternately, a strong gust of wind can lift the glass top from a patio table up, off the frame and across the yard, dashing it on the edge of the deck, breaking it into a gazillion pieces.
Yes, I speak from experience.
Our glass-topped patio table looked as light and airy as a summer day. It made it intact through three different moves with nary a scratch. Many a meal was eaten upon it, many a friendly gathering around it. A burst of wind changed all that, creating the opportunity to remember just how strong nature can be, returning the table top to smaller pieces, similar to the grains of sand from whence it came.
Fortunately the damage was limited to the table top. No people, cats or chickens were injured during this event. Tempered glass is a wonderful thing.
In the parable of the broken window, one side of the story is that "everybody must live, and what would become of the glaziers if panes of glass were never broken?". The light and airy summer days will be here soon enough; the table will be replaced, the manufacturer will be paid and life will go on.
I was still sleepy. My allergies were acting up. I was distracted by, um, something shiny. Take your pick or make up another reason, it is immaterial. What does matter is instead of letting the chickens out of the hen house and into the run, I managed to let them out into the yard. The chickens are free-ranging today.
Ah yes, poultry in motion.
As urban chickens, our flock enjoys all the benefits of cosmopolitan Northwest living without having to worry about the high cost of housing. As a general rule, poultry don't invest much thought in the vagaries of the real-estate market, or so I've been told.
As opposed to the chickens in Chicken Run, the hens in our flock are homebodies who do not want complete freedom but do enjoy a good walk around the yard. They will return to the safety and warmth of the coop when the time is appropriate. They do not plot and scheme endlessly to contrive by any means necessary to get under, over, or around their chicken-wire prison wall. They will, to no surprise, take advantage of my slow reflexes and spend time in the yard, as opposed to the run. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, so to speak.
For today, in addition to providing fresh, nutritious eggs and quality nitrogen-rich fertilizer, we'll have nontoxic pest and weed control. At dusk they will put themselves back in the coop and roost for the night, returning tomorrow to the confines of the run, waiting for the next opportunity to make a break for it.
nd JoAnne Tabacchi on March 25 of that year. Her proud parents were positive that this bouncy little girl was the most beautiful baby ever, outside of her older brother, of course. I was equally impressed that something so small and noisy and smelly could cause such a great stir. “Jewey”, as I lovingly called her, moved in and, well, life was never quite the same after that. I was the perfect child, just ask anyone who was around back then. My sister, on the other hand, was the devil herself in human form.
