Love Handles by Nannette Croce

Love handles. The little inner-tube of flesh that appeared at my waist on my 50th birthday. I don’t love them;I hate them.

Almost all the pounds I gained in the next few years left with the hot flashes. My body returned to its normal shape, though one size larger, and with those dang handles.

I can’t exercise them away. I can’t diet them away. Anything that fits well enough not to slip from my waist squeezes the little roll of soft flesh out over the top. As someone who has eaten right and exercised all my life, with menopause behind me, I could return to knitted tops and slim-cut jeans, but for that spare tire, that emergency fat, that bagel of flesh around my middle. How often I pine for the sleek profile I maintained well into my forties.

Then I think of that woman I see at the supermarket. You know the one, with the teased up cotton candy hair, the skin tight jeans, the mules she can barely balance on and the wrinkled 75-year-old face she tries to disguise with bronze pancake makeup.

Maybe, like my graying hair, those little handles are nature’s way of telling me it’s time to change my look. Time to opt for dignified over youthful; time to opt for handsome over sexy; time to accept my aging body with grace rather than fight a losing battle and end up looking ridiculous.

Time to learn to love those handles.

Nail Art by Barbara Quinn

I discovered a great product that’s a time saver. Nail polish pens. These little pens are amazingly simply and accurate. I’ve never been able to do my own nails well and I don’t want to spend time at the nail parlor. I’m not fond of all the roughing up of the surfaces that they do either. Plus I spend time digging in the dirt for my garden, and cooking and hate gloves. So I usually don’t do anything to my nails. Now, when I want to have them done, it’s goodbye nail parlor, hello nail pens.

So how do they work? You click on the nail pen and a small amount of polish is distributed to a brush in the tip. No more trying to get the right amount onto the brush. No more dipping the brush into the bottle, and knocking it over. I’m a major klutz and am prone to spills like that. Also, usually, no sooner do I put on a second coat than I smudge a nail or two. Then I have to start the process over for those nails.

For $7 or $8 you buy a nail pen and you’re in business. I’ve done my nails twice with one of them. You pop the pen in your bag so if you need a touch up it’s easy to do.

Today I sat outside and had my nails done in about two minutes. I’ve tried two brands: Sally Hansen, and OPI. Both work well. My only complaint is there aren’t many colors to choose from. I bet that’s going to change. Thank you to the person who figured this out.

I heard on the radio that someone’s invented a bra with movable straps, one that really works and is easily converted, so you won’t need an entire bra wardrobe. Sign me up! Gotta love the entrepreneurial spirit!

The Loveliness of Words by Angie Ledbetter

I've always loved reading books, short stories and interesting articles, but only in the last 5 or 6 years have I started really paying attention to poetry. Sure, I tried my hand at a few pathetic poems in high school to express all that teen angst bottled up inside, and studied the required "masters" in class, but that was as far as my exposure went. Now that I've begun reading poetry in print publications and literary zines such as Rose& Thorn
http://http://www.theroseandthornezine.com/ , Rattle http://http://www.rattle.com/ Drunken Boat, http://http://www.drunkenboat.com/db9/index.html etc., I love it. Taking a poetry course has added to my enjoyment.

With the increased reading of poetry, I've been writing quite a bit of it also. I get pure joy from stringing words and thoughts together in a concise form. Although very different from crafting articles or books, I can jot the bare bones or ideas for a poem down quickly, then come back to it at my leisure. And when the words flow and the stanzas pop, it gives me a great feeling of satisfaction. I've created something from seemingly random ideas or by trying to convey a feeling succinctly. Writing poetry gives me a relaxing and enjoyable break from bigger, heavier projects.

Since I've been reading so much more poetry, I now have favorite poets. Their voices are distinct and their words have the power to transport me to unexpected places. Two contemporary modern poets I am thankful to "know" are former Poet Laureate Billy Collins (Listen to his magic here: http://http://www.loc.gov/today/cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3664 ) and Pulitzer Prize winner Natasha Trethewey, whom I've had the pleasure of hearing in person: http://http://www.pbs.org/newshour/indepth_coverage/entertainment/poetry/profiles/poet_trethewey.html .

Their work always makes me smile with surprise and pleasure.

Image and Word Link Us at Umpteen-Thousand Feet by Kat Magendie

Because I’ll soon be flying the overly crowded skies amidst warnings of chaos, I want to recall the last time I flew—from Portland, Oregon where I’d visited my son, back home to North Carolina. What luck! I had the two seats all to myself, a relished luxury I appreciated. Exhausted from my great trip, I dozed, and when I again opened my eyes, colors ripped through a charcoal-threaded darkening sky. As it became full dark, I watched the towns below light up. Those lights signaled life and people, some crowded and full and others tiny dots of tiny towns. Behind me, two women spoke a foreign language, a lyrical beautiful sound. I lay my head against the cool glass and listened to a conversation I could not understand. But then, what is this? With a flashing burst of color, the women and I were linked when we said the same word in the same awed way, "Fireworks…"

Below us the colors burst in a raining arc. A town celebrating! I imagined a parade; hotdogs, hamburgers, big salty pretzels, cold cokes that leave that burning feeling in the back of the throat; the high school band playing badly but no one cares, for the little town has sons and daughters marching; and the fathers with small children bouncing on their shoulders, pointing to floats and clowns and bright-colored confetti; and then as the evening darkens, the first burst of colored light blazes in the sky with a Boom!, and the sighs and oohs and aahs of the people follow. The bursts become faster and bigger and louder, and that is when our airplane passes over, and within all of our unknown words is our uniting one: Fireworks!

I pointed with my index finger, the pad pressing against the glass. Our shared experience, the link of our language from the image below. Then, together, we repeated, “Fireworks..." I never want to forget. It was the only time I was grateful to be flying in a tin can high above my Earth. I blew a kiss to the town below, thanking them for sending us their message, one that bound strangers together in the language of joy and color and blazing sparkled light.

Sounds of Silence by Nannette Croce

Those who live with man made sounds all around them may long for the silence of nature, but nature is rarely silent. The sounds are merely drowned out by all the manufactured noise.

Thirty-odd years ago when I first moved to this ex-urb of Philadelphia, warm, moonless nights brought blackness beyond my window screen, but not silence. In spring it was the peepers, later in summer, the crickets. During August summer days the cicadas. Some nights a barking fox would tease my dog, starting up each time he quieted down. Then there were the owls, hooting the same rhythm over and over. In the mornings the two-toned cluck of a pheasant under the bush and, of course, the birds waking with the sun. In winter the rustling of a skunk or raccoon snuggling up against the house to keep warm.

These sounds haven’t disappeared, not all of them anyway, but most of them are lost under the constant swoosh of traffic on the nearby highway, sirens––police, fire, ambulance–-at all hours. Planes, trains, and automobiles. The new noises expand exponentially, but so gradually that we don’t even realize what is happening and forget the underlying sounds ever existed.

But sitting on my patio on summer nights, sometimes if I concentrate very hard, I hear them again. Not over the man-made noise but beneath it. These are the sounds that really matter. These are the sounds of life and new beginnings.

Unlike the newcomers, I know they are there, and I’m grateful for that knowing, because it makes me remember to listen.

The Kindness of Strangers by Barbara Quinn

Blanche DuBois of A Streetcar Named Desire is famous for the line, "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers." Unlike Blanche, most of us don’t depend on the kindness of strangers, but when a stranger provides us with an unexpected kindness, what a sweet gift it is. (Full disclosure here: I have to admit I also think of Woody Allen playing Blanche DuBois in the movie Sleeper whenever I hear that "kindness of strangers" line.)

I was running late, again, and the supermarket was incredibly crowded. I only had a few items in my hands. I scanned the lines. Darn. There was no checkout relief in site. Even the self-checkout lines were three deep. I took a deep breath, found a shortish line, and resigned myself to the wait. The woman in front of me caught my eye and I said, “What on earth is going on today? Everyone must have gotten the memo to go to the A&P at the same time.” She smiled and said, “Why don’t you go ahead of me.”

Oh wow. I did not expect that, even though I often let people go ahead of me when they have only a couple of items.

I hesitated and she said, “It’s fine. Really.” I thanked her. And I thanked her again when I’d finished. It was so nice to have someone do me a favor.

Sure there are a lot of sour pusses out there. It’s so much better to remember the encounters with the good-hearted souls like the supermarket lady. That little exchange left me in a good mood for hours. Here’s to those who take the time to do a little kindness.

Simple Gestures by Angie Ledbetter

During tough times or when I'm just down about something, the simplest gesture can lift me out of a blue funk.

Having a rough day in class with fifth graders in the throes of Spring Fever, one kind student came to me later and said, "Mrs. Ledbetter, I'm sorry our class was so rowdy," and gave me a hug. That sweet child makes me take extra care planning a class retreat instead of punish work. One good apple redeemed a barrel of bad ones.

Similar gestures which I try to "pass forward" are: one of my own kids saying thanks for a special dish I'd prepared for supper; another who appreciated that I attended a school function instead of visiting with friends; phone calls and emails asking about my sick mom. These acts are easy and free to perform, but leave a lasting feeling of goodness. Sometimes, even a smile or a wink can turn around a bad day. And the best thing about it is they make you feel great -- whether from the receiving or giving end.

There's a Gratitude Campaign website everyone should visit. It made such an impact on me, after I dried my tears I couldn't wait to meet up with a service person to let them know I appreciate their service and sacrifice. The site teaches a simple gesture we can use to express our thanks. I hope you visit and practice its message: www.gratitudecampaign.org

I know my stepdaughter, her husband and their three beautiful kids would love to see the gesture expressed the next time they are in the airport bringing him to board another overseas plane, or when they're just taking a family outing.

THANK YOU, service men and women, and your families. I appreciate you and your willingness to serve and defend!