The Kautz Army

I learned today that a group of frogs is called an "army"--so I've got that going for me. Mine is a small army, but none the less lovely, aren't they?

There is a daily frog count at our house, as the mom in me constantly keeps watch on my little friends. I'm not sure where they all came from, as I know that I did not raise this many tadpoles last summer, and after the Frog Disaster '08 in the spring, I think they are just finding our little pond on their own. Maybe they are sending out postcards to distant relatives or something.

The little frog that we released this spring is missing, but he may also be hiding. Frogs can be canabalistic and he was much tinier than this rowdy bunch, so he's either hopped away, died (horrors!) or got eaten by one of the army (double horrors!). I keep watch for him though, just in case he surprises me one day. I hope.

One tadpole remains, and he still has his little pathetic nubby hind legs. No sign of arms yet, but his eyes have moved to the top of his head and his little body is starting to shape more like a frog and less like a tadpole. They get curvier and shaplier as they progress. It will take many more days of sittting in the sun and basking in shallow waters to blossom into the frog he strives to be. I'm thinking around July Junior will be officially sitting on the lily pads and not hiding underneath.

Mine is pathetic life if you count my fascination with the pond, but it makes me happy. It's these simple joys that make life interesting. I lie in bed last night and listened to the waterfall, and beyond the sound of running water I heard the first croaks of a young bullfrog. There is no sweeter sound.

When Mom's Away....................

We've logged a lot of time together lately, my permit-driving son and I. It isn't easy time together, as I am prone to yelling "Brake! Brake!" every couple of seconds and "Hit the gas, Granny!" every so often. Slowly, he is getting more confident as a young man and as a driver, and we actually get a word of conversation in as we are passing the miles.

I'm not sure where we were when it slipped out that there was a Major League Baseball game going on in my bedroom last night. Apparently, as I was off to my therapy/writing group and Emma was off at a friend's house, somebody got the hairbrain idea to play Playstation in my bedroom. I guess the new flatscreen TV was tempting the two boys and they couldn't resist. So the two knuckleheads rigged up the Playstation 2 and moved the chair out of the way (well, maybe they didn't) and set up for a night of fun. Of course, the oldest of my two "children" (Joe) had the thought to protect the new very expensive dresser with a towel, so I couldn't really kill them when I found out. You'd think a grown man would find the bedroom a bit confining or the pillows a little too froo-froo for Major League Baseball, but apparently not.

The Rat (Colin) spilled his guts, unknowingly. He just seemed to blurt it out at some stop light or straightaway and then he slowly realized his error. His face, white with fear, waited for my reaction. Maybe she didn't hear it. Maybe she wouldn't mind --too much. I didn't say anything to him as I know this wasn't his idea. No, instead I waited for Idea Boy when he got home.

Idea Boy was busted. All that I said was "Who got the big blob on the TV screen in my room?". That was enough, he caved. Spilled his guts. Well, as much spilling as he dared--but he was sure to mention the safety towel more than once. He hung his head in faux shame and then declared "But it was the 2005 Yankees against 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers!" --like that explained everything.

I give up. What's next? Wii in the bathroom?

Follow Your Leader

I don't know which one of these frogs came up with the idea, sitting in the potted plant in the pond, but it soon became the "hot" thing to do. The frogs were battling daily, almost hourly, for the sweet spot in the center--where they could be cool in the water, but feel the warmth of the sun on their backs at the same time. There was a lot of manipulating, jumping, and climbing to squeeze into any available spot and they were becoming mean about it. I finally caught them snapping at one another and that was it--no more. I replaced this plant with one that actually looks like it is alive and has branches full of leaves that inhibit "frog beach" from existing. They are not so happy now. There are only a lucky 2 or 3 that squeeze in, and mostly on top of each other now.

This reminds me of Wednesday night therapy/writing group and our discussion of public icons such as Oprah (ick!) and Angelina Jolie (double ick!). There was some discussion on our obsession with celebrity and the masses who strive to emulate. Of course, opinionated me has to jump in and express my disdain for the likes of Oprah and her mindless followers, and I'm sure I once again offended and alienated everyone in the class. Typical me--I never seem to learn to keep the yapper shut. I guess some people actually like Oprah.

That's what got me thinking. Who do you follow? What celebrity do you like and why? Why do you want to emulate them? Is it the legitimacy of your thoughts, actions, and feelings then, if say Angelina does the same thing or reads the same book? Is it acceptance then, if Oprah has the same opinion as you? Why is this so important to us as a society and we are then barraged with updates and news clips of what these people say and do?

So, I poo-poo this concept in class and act like I'm all high and mighty--which really, I'm not. I, too, have my iconic leaders, except they are less mainstream, and a whole lot less pretty. Bizarre or edgy, or downright out of the loop is more my ideal, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. I had to realize this, after class of course, that I have fallen for the hero/leader thing too. See? I'm not so high and mighty after all--just a knucklehead with a big mouth.

A month ago, I experience my own brush-with-greatness. Tim Gunn, fashion stylist for Liz Claiborne and mentor on "Project Runway" came to town and I was downright giddy at the prospect of seeing him. I spent hours trying to figure out what to wear--just in case he looked my way. I would be mortified should he mentally think "That woman is a slob." It was all very exciting just to see him from a distance, not to mention that once I got there, I had the change to MEET him!!

I stood breathlessly in line and tried to figure out something witty or cute to say to Tim. When it was finally my turn, I was positively smitten. I told him my dilemma in finding just the right thing to wear in his presence (He said I looked "lovely".) and how I admired his graciousness ("It comes with age and years of embarrassment."). He was absolutely everything I wanted him to be and I glowed for weeks afterwards. Why was I so affected by this gay middle-aged impeccably dressed man? Why did I care what he thought of me? What did I expect from him? What does he do for me? Why do I love Tim Gunn and hate Oprah so?

Jon Katz is another icon for me. Another middle-aged man, but this time, not so gay or impeccably dressed. He is an author, blogger, and photographer that has touched me and inspired me as a writer. His thoughts on everthing from dandelions, to sheep, to sending signals to the world as a creative person, has changed me this past year. An email from Jon sends my heart racing and his positive words of encouragement sustain my bleakest writing days. What power this faux "celebrity" has over me and my attitude.

These are not typical icons for most--but that doesn't lessen their importance to me. Maybe they aren't mainstream and pretty, but that doesn't matter. I apologize to those that endured my eye-rolling teeth-sucking icon condemnation that night. You will learn I am really full of a lot of hot air and insecurity. I am like the rest of you--just manuevering around in the pot of followers trying to feel the warmth of the sun.

Move over, froggies.

The View From the Cell

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz................As anyone who watched the game on Saturday will attest, it was a snoozer. No hits, no runs, no errors--I don't remember any anyway. The Cell on a spring day is a lovely place to be. The smell of bratwurst cooking and sweet cotton candy being consumed overwhelms us as we emerge from the darkness of the vendor arena into the warm sunshine of the bleachers. Oooh, that grass on the field is so green, so welcoming. Nancy is cranking on the organ, or maybe it was a recording--I don't know as she isn't there so often anymore. Either way, I'm digging the music and the atmosphere. This is my favorite place to be, win or lose. I get goosebumps when they start playing the White Sox video and music from Pirates of the Carribean. I'm psyched when "Thunderstruck" is blared.

The family, and our friend Laura, are decked out in our White Sox gear. This is our new annual Mother's Day celebration, as we have been going on this day for the past 3 years. Laura and I sit like queens in our souvenir caps/crowns while the family is willing to fetch us cold beers. The sun was warm on our faces and the breeze kept us from overheating. It was ideal weather for a game--if only the team co-operated. They tried, but fell short of giving us a win (or a run) guaranteeing us the perfect baseball outing.

I will forgive them, this time, as they have been surprisingly exciting this year. Paulie and Thome have been a huge disappointment, but Quentin has made up for that. I'm glad that we still have Joe (Crede)--he is the quiet force to be reckoned with at third, although he needs a few more hits. Love Pablo, hate Anderson. I like Swish and his let's-have-some-fun attitude. I even liked the blow-up doll episode. Ahhhh, the boys. Love them.

And it isn't a White Sox outing until those memories of games past are tapped, and I fondly recall my wild youth (much to my family's chagrin), and I ask the dreaded question............."Did I ever mention I was at Disco Demolition?" I think I heard a sigh. "Yeah, Mom. Pass the peanuts."

The Dreaded Yip Yap

I love animals. I love frogs, hamsters, cats, chipmunks, cool bugs like praying mantis and grasshoppers, lizards, turtles, dogs, and horses--pretty much everything, although monkeys kind of creep me out after all of those Planet of the Apes movies of my youth. I always wanted to be a veterinarian when I was a child until I realized I would have to take all of those science classes. There usually isn't an animal I don't like--except for Yip Yap. I HATE this dog who lives next door.

Cinder is its real name, although she's too stupid to know what her name is. Like the house she lives in, Cinder is pretty much neglected. Oh, she gets food and water, and sometimes she is sent to the groomer and returns with a sweet pink ribbon around her neck. But for the most part, Cinder is left outdoors to bark for hours on end. She barks at squirrels. She barks at me. She barks at birds. She barks at the dog in the yard behind hers. She barks because she is bored. She barks at the old lady on the other side of the yard. She barks at my kids. She barks at Henry, and she barks at Grace. She barks at the mailman. She barks at the sun and the moon. She barks for The Cure. She barks. A lot. And for hours at a time. Non-stop.

You would think she would grow hoarse, or perhaps bored with all of the barking. You would think the owner would get sick of hearing it too. You would think that this beast would finally just die. But no, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, Yip Yap barks at me like it was the first time she saw me.

Oh, I've tried the air horn, the super-soaker, and dog treats. I greet her sweetly through the fence and pet her nose--she stops barking for a milli-second and then continues louder than before. I've even tried bribing the cement contractor for our addition a few years ago to make some little cement doggy shoes for her, but no luck. Although, I think he wanted to take a shovel to her head after working for a few days to the never-ending yapping.

We've tried everything from calling the police to ignoring it, but alas, Yip Yap is here to stay and she ruins the solitude of my garden and my yard. I count the years in dog years, hoping against hope that this will be the summer she croaks. I wonder if there is a doggy hell.

Did you notice that she isn't barking in the photo?! Go figure.

Field of Dreams

We're off to "the Cell" today--Cellular Field and home to the Chicago White Sox. Nothing says summer to me more than sitting in the sunny outfield, watching the boys, holding a bratwurst in one hand and a cold beer in the other. I've been scarred after all of those little league baseball games of both my brother and my son, and I'm officially hooked. So, we're kicking off the first holiday of summer by going to the game today. Win or lose, it is one of my favorite places on this earth to be on a warm spring day. The crack of the bat, the smell of BBQ, the crunching of peanut shells under your feet, and hopefully, the crowd cheering a homerun--nothing like it.

Sharkbait and Freddy

Sharkbait (black fish) and Freddy (orange/white fish) are the yin and yang of the fish population in our pond. Sharkbait is born of these waters as his parents, Big Fish and Dottie, were the original fish that first inhabited the smaller first pond. His color is a result of a mutation in genes that brought him back to his origins of carp heritage, which is strange considering his parents were as bright orange and white as Freddy. He is definitely their son as he has the swollen bulbous head of an oranda (Mom) and the long gently flowing fins of a fan-tail goldfish (Dad). He loves to swim the deep waters of the pond in summer and he is often found basking in the shallow warmer waters in spring.

Freddy is a store-bought friend of the family. Goldfish prefer to be in other goldfish company, and they can be found nudging and swimming with their finned buddies. Freddy was about 1/2 inch long when he was tossed into the cool waters, and thanks to lots of space and yummy pond algae, he grew into the beast that he is--all 7 or 8 inches of tubbiness. I'm not sure if Freddy is truly a "Freddy" because sexing fish is extremely difficult. There were a few spawnings last year and when those miniscule results of fish love appeared, we weren't sure who "mom" is--there is also an Aloysia who resides with these two. So, Freddy could be a Fredrica--we don't know.

These two are considered huge for their breed of goldfish and they have forced themselves out of a tank for the winter. We have finally succumbed to putting them into a plastic tub with a filter for the winter inside the house, which I think they secretly hate. This is fish heaven, to be back in the pond where there are bugs and algae, and lots of space to be a fish. I think they are smiling fish smiles.

Eye of the Beholder

I have this strange obsession with frog eyes--they are so beautiful in the sun. This guy (?) sits in the pot all day in the sun, hoping I'll go away. They are slowly learning to trust, plunging only at the last minute. This pond brims with life and I spend countless hours watching and enjoying its inhabitants.

House for Rent

It is roomy by today’s standards, but then again, this house wasn’t built for those who inhabit it. The bluebird box was made as a craft project on vacation, and we were brainwashed into thinking that “if you build it, they will come”. They never did, so I guess we’re out of luck on the Save the Bluebird bandwagon. We crafted it to the exact standards of what bluebirds like and require to nest, and hung it the recommended height on the telephone pole in the corner of the yard. We even made sure it had the correct exposure to the wind and elements. There is a plethora of food and water for the ungrateful bluebird, as there are numerous feeders, birdbaths, and the waterfall in the pond for fresh water drinking and bathing. Our yard qualifies for the National Wildlife Foundation Certified Wildlife Habitat, but I’m too cheap to pay the twenty bucks it takes to have it recognized officially. What else could these birds ask for?!

The rustic one-bedroom sat empty for nearly four years, until now. Mom and Pop Sparrow moved in a few weeks ago. Oh, there was lots of consideration before acceptance. Those two couldn’t decide if this was truly the place to raise their family. For a week, they were flying little sorties in and out of the opening, sitting on the roof cheeping like an old married couple arguing, and then landing on the fence nearby, acting as if nobody was noticing all of this fuss. They were so secretive about moving into this “love-nest” that the only sign that they actually live there is a couple of strands of grass sticking out of the bottom.

A few weeks later, there is lots of posturing and performing before Pop will fly into the place. I’m surmising that there is a nest full of babies, as he is very careful before he enters--although, I don’t think all this hopping about and peeping is actually considered “stealth”. It’s really silly, as he makes such noise before he goes in—but now I’m thinking maybe he’s just warning the little woman of his impending entrance so she doesn’t peck his eyes out.

I’m excited that finally someone moved into the birdhouse, but I’m also full of dread too. I hate baby bird season. As my optimistic self is excited for the promise of new life and cute poof-balls of fluff, my pessimistic and realistic self is not looking ahead. There is a reason birds have so many offspring—it’s because so many don’t make it in the cruel world. Eggs fall out of the rickety nests of mourning doves. Pink featherless baby sparrows drop out of the nest, forgotten, and left to die by helpless parents. Robin babies learning to fly on their own are scooped up off the lawn by well-meaning humans, not knowing that their parents are actually nearby watching out for them from a distance. Baby bird season to me is death season. What a happy thought.

I watch the house more carefully now. I watch for signs of emerging offspring—parents bringing in food like bugs and worms, droppings on the ground under the house, and more peeping by the babies. I’ll have to vanquish the kitties to the indoors as the little house is directly above Henry’s secret hosta lair in the garden. I’m thinking he would have an interest in those babies, but for different reasons. I’ll have to be extra watchful with the babies near the pond, because although my bird-eating frog has been relocated, I’ve found that birds don’t swim so well. It is constant vigilance for about a week once they leave their safe little house, and it’s the mom in me that wants to protect them. I’m just relieved that nobody likes the multi-family dwelling on the other side of the yard.

Grace of 1000 Collars

Take a good look at it now, before it disappears into the black hole of missing Grace collars.

There is something about her, intentional or not, that makes Grace lose every single cat collar we buy for her. I imagine her in the thick jungle of weeds in the neighbor's yard, struggling to free herself of this human-imposed hell around her neck. It's either that, or she's just squeezing her fat butt through the fence instead of going over which makes them disappear on such frequency.

I've completely given up on buying those cute heart-shaped name tags to adorn the expensive snap-away collars.

Graham Rahal?!

“I’m getting old!” Joe’s reading the Sunday paper and talking to me. I’m really not listening as I’m going through the routine on the computer and trying unsuccessfully to post on the blog over the weekend. My family does this—they talk at me while I’m doing things like folding laundry, reading, working on the computer, or whatever. I guess they think I’m listening, but most of the time, I’m not.

This one I heard. Maybe it’s because it has been coming out of both of our minds and mouths too much lately. I feel old. Not old, like 90 and my bones ache. Well, they do, but usually after some sort of physical demand like cutting the grass or hauling 50 bags of mulch around the yard. I’m talking old, like I’m thinking I’m still 20, but the rest of the world is sending me subtle messages that I’m not anymore. Sure, I have the strands of gray hair and I am starting to need the reading glasses now. I think even my hearing isn’t what it used to be—or are my kids intentionally blurring all of their words into one.

Its funny what makes a person feel old--well, I should say not young like we used to be. To Joe, a big sign this weekend was the fact that one of his favorite all time Indy drivers, Bobby Rahal, doesn’t drive anymore. He is a big time owner now and his son, Graham is driving in the race. “He wasn’t even born when I went to the 500!” was the voice over the paper. Why was that the tipping point for Joe? Why isn’t it the fact that he doesn’t know one current movie star? Or that he can’t recognize the kids’ favorite song on the radio? Or he doesn’t know the hip slang or lingo? All of that passes him by and he is unscathed by the fact that he is clueless on what’s cool and what’s not. He doesn’t care. But he does care that Bobby Rahal’s son drives race cars now. What is that?!

For me, feeling old is that I don’t think skateboarder Ryan Sheckler is cute or that High School Musical is any good. I can’t wear baby doll tops without looking like a pregnant old lady, or ignore that all the boys on my son’s tennis team are eyeing my daughter. I don’t want a cool car like a Mustang or Charger, I drive my mini-van and I like it. Old is that I get stiff sitting for any amount of time with the cat on my lap or that I cannot drink pop anymore. The hysterectomy last year didn’t bother me nearly as much as the bunion surgery 10 years ago—bunions are for grandmas.

Getting old, or feeling old, is a very personal issue. For some it’s becoming a grandma, no matter that you are only 45 when it happens. For others, it’s the lines on your face or that your body doesn’t look the same. Me? It’s the stupid stuff. It’s not about feeling old--it’s all about just not feeling so young anymore. For Joe, it was somebody’s kid driving a race car.

New York City and The Big 30 + 10!

It’s hard to believe that a year has already passed since the infamous New York Trip. Three sisters and three friends made the trek from our various points of origin to celebrate Cheri’s 30 + 10 birthday. (She refused to use the number 40.) It was Memorial Day weekend, and coincidently, Fleet Week as well. What luck! There were tons of uniformed men, cocktails, swanky bars, fabulous restaurants, shopping, and endless purse salesmen on the agenda for the weekend. There were too many stories, too many inside jokes, and waaayyyy too many cocktails consumed to even start reiterating. I won’t bore you with all of the details—besides everyone is tired of hearing about how much fun we had anyway. Let’s just say it was the trip of a lifetime.

Happy Birthday, Cheri!

Can't See for the Brightness

Thursdays are bad for blogging--it's House Cleaning Day! It may just be a day for pictures without words. Or maybe just a few words.

Twenty Years, Two Kids, Eyes Closed, Funny Hats and All

It was twenty years ago today that we got married--hard to believe it, as those years seem to zip by. Oh, there have been days longer than others, but for the most part, they have been fun. It is amazing that so many years have gone by and it seems that we have hardly noticed them. Raising kids will do that to you. Years escape you as you are busy diapering babies, getting soaked in the rain at your 200th Little League game or smiling through the endless montage of ruby-lipped tiny dancers at your daughter’s dance recital. It is amazing that I have put up with him for so long, and even more amazing is that he put up with me for twenty plus years!

To think that it all began in Higgins Hall at Western Illinois University. One party, one rug, and one knocked over ashtray. If that doesn’t scream destiny, I don’t know what does. He and I were meant for each other, or so Marnie Beretini said. Those words will live in Kautz infamy --“Lin Galat, you are going to marry that man.” All because he stopped a party to shake out his rug after someone dumped an ashtray. So, we are neat—is that really something to base a marriage on?! Apparently so. I can attest 20 years later.

I love you, Joe. It has been fun, tough, demanding, confusing, scary, adventuresome, sad, happy, and mostly silly. I love to make you laugh that silly laugh you have, especially when we are someplace where you aren’t supposed to laugh, like church. I like when you try to suppress it and not look at me, but you feel my eyes upon you and you lose it. I like when you crack up and can’t stop, like the time we were playing cards with Laura and you almost dropped her grandbaby.

I like that you try new projects with me—like laying a wood floor, siding the house, or digging the pond. You always support my latest brilliant idea, and you rarely say “I told you so”, even if you know you’d have to face the wrath of me. I like that you let me rant, even if it is about you. I hate it when you make me fight my own battles, but I like it when I know that you are behind me anyway—even if it is waaaayyy behind.

I like that you are neat and that you help me vacuum, wash the dishes, clean the fish tank, and sometimes do laundry. I like that you grocery shop and cook dinner. I like that you work a job that lets you come home early in the evening and that you make family a priority. I like that you work hard so that I can stay home and take care of the kids. I like that you “don’t have a minute” to yourself and that you are such a softy with the kids--although this buying of Monkey Chow thing has to go.

I like that you love Kentucky and the Falls like me. I like that you square dance, badly, but you try. I like that you make Lemon Drop Martinis and go to Weight Watcher’s with me. I like that we both love the White Sox and that you have a soft spot for Henry.

You are patient, kind, and giving. You are so type B personality that it brinks on B minus, but I guess I like that about you or I wouldn’t be here. I look forward to our future together, whether here in Weirdville trying to ignore the nuts, or somewhere quiet in the hills of Kentucky. I look forward to more years of Marching Band competitions, the flooding garage, and raising the kids with you. It’s been fun and I can only imagine what’s to come.

Happy Anniversary, Joe. I love you.

P.S. You're cuter with your eyes open!

The Only Flame In Town

Long before Joe, I had another love. He was older than I, more experienced in the ways of the world, politics, and deep thought. He opened my eyes to things going on in the world that I didn’t know existed. He was good looking, had a sweet voice, and I would go starry-eyed whenever I saw him. He didn’t love me, though, and that was okay-- I still loved him anyway.

Years went by and he fell by the wayside. I knew that I would never be his love, and so the accessible college boyfriends came and went. I finally found true love when I met Joe, and we went through the usual friendship, courtship and then got married. I had kept up, somewhat, with the old love and what he was doing, but it wasn’t like we corresponded or anything. He just seemed to fade into the past-- a young girl’s crush. Now I had more important things to do, like diapering babies and doing laundry 100 times a week.

The old love was coming to town, or so all my friends said. My cousin in Atlanta sent an email informing of his impending visit to Chicago. The phone kept ringing with reports and friends kept insisting I needed to see him. They all knew I was obsessed with him so very long ago, and I needed to have one last moment with him. How did all of these people know he was coming, and I didn’t? How out of touch have I become? Who knows when he would be back this way again? It was now or never. The problem was his visit coincided with the very weekend of Joe’s and my twentieth wedding anniversary. How do I explain that one to Poor Joe?! He is usually so patient and understanding, but could he possibly forgo the weekend downtown in some swanky hotel to go see my old love? Is that fair to ask of him? I asked anyway.

He caved, God bless him. Joe made all of the necessary arrangements--scheduled the kids’ activities around the evening, delayed the hotel reservation, and planned for an evening that was all about his wife and her old love. The weekend came; I dressed up, eager to see the old love again. Joe dressed down—he was pretty much just playing along.

My heart raced with excitement as we approached the place. The lights were dimmed and he walked in--suave, confident, and extremely built for a man of 55 years old. His beard was scruffy though, and I have to admit, it disappointed me that he couldn’t shave for me after all of these years. He began to sing and I forgave it all--those years of absence, the no shaving, and the marrying of someone else. My heart smiled and it was like I was 20 years old all over again.

It was an odd anniversary present to say the least, Joe escorting me to see Sting in concert for our twentieth wedding anniversary. It's then when I realized how much I loved him and I think he even winked at me once—Joe, I mean.

Thanks for the wings, Jon!

"Why so afraid of response?” It was a simple enough question. Why did it catch my breath? Why did it stay in my mind all day, if not all weekend? That one sentence dug down deep and forced me to push just a little harder.

It started out as a simple email to one of my favorite authors and blogger, Jon Katz. He is on this mission to get creative people to send their “signal to the world” and he has inspired me. His daily blog, chock full of wonderful photos and meaningful insights, has lit the fire inside. I figure if he can write about the beauty in mundane, everyday life, so can I. Except mine is suburbia, not an upstate New York farm. So, my cast of characters is my family, two cats, a yard of bugs and flowers, and a pond full of wacky frogs, tadpoles and fish. There are weird neighbors and quirky friends. I guess the blog name says it all—just a strange conglomeration of funky things and people.

Katz encourages blogging, which I have already done, but did so with hesitation. I only posted safe, well-thought out essays--things that wouldn’t offend, provoke an argument or condemnation. But after my email and a subsequent blog from Katz, I have rethought my agenda. I need to stretch those wings and take the plunge into writing daily. I do have a voice and I want to be heard. I cannot be heard if I don’t write what I think and feel. It will be my signal to the world and you can choose whether or not to receive it. I may offend, but not intentionally. I will try to be purposeful and find meaning in my life. I hope to celebrate simple joys and sorrows. I hope to inspire my writing friends to find their wings and voices too.

When in doubt, sing loud.