You Call It Hero Worship. I Say, "And...So?"

Today, 74 years ago, the first man to hold my heart and never let go came into this world. 

He taught me to read as easily as I breathe, to seek and question knowledge, to see wonder in the ordinary and made it absolutely impossible to not share his love for all things Disney and "Muffets." 

I thank him for stepping in and hearing my daily download and ending it with "I love you, honey" for more than two years now; for giving the best, safest, loving, tightest(!) hugs a girl could ask for; and for always being my hero, in uniform or not. 

I love you, Daddy. 

Happy birthday.

Up, Up and Away ...

"This one's for you, Uncle Jamie ..." - Caryn Conley Bowen
©2010 cliff bowen/halfglassistan

Sometimes truth just happens. It just happens and can be a beautiful accident. And it just sucks at the same time.


This unprompted photo of my nephew J.C. was taken last year on Halloween night in Atlanta. His mama, my baby sister Caryn, was 300-something miles away in South Carolina, fielding phone calls, fetching fast food, giving Nurse Tilly much needed breaks and — along with my big sister, Chrisie — basically making sure whatever was happening around me just happened. If without my knowing, at least without my worrying about it. Because in less than 24 hours, Mr. J would be — I choose to think — in the heavens where the above almost-two-years-old John Conley Bowen is looking. And, it must be noted, saluting with a Tootsie Pop, my favorite simile for describing Mr. J's personality. Hard outside. Soft inside. Meltable parts always much closer to the surface than he'd ever have you believe.


Caryn didn't caption this photo until a week later, November 8, what would have been Mr. J's 48th birthday. Mr. J did not like to celebrate his birthday, but as he was reminded every year, " ... you knew what you were getting into when you married me. Birthdays are not ignored in my world ..." Last year, it was celebrated on Facebook, where still-stunned friends and family posted simple messages.


Mr. J's death was surrounded by what I am choosing to call — instead of cruel coincidences or circumstance — beautiful accidents of truth. He died two days after our 11th wedding anniversary. He died the day after Halloween (Trust me, there's a story here and it's coming, too. Soonish.). He died on his father's birthday. He died on All Saint's Day. (I would have gone to light a candle for him for the rest of my days regardless. Way to go, baby, dying on a Holy Day. Now every year, you're gonna get that full-blown ritual of Mass that you dug so much.) He died a week before his own birthday. I choose — I very definitively choose — to see poetry rather than pity in these coincidences.


Except the truth that just sucks. My brilliant, beautiful nephew J.C. will only know his brilliant and beautiful Uncle Jamie through stories and pictures — as will so many of our Munchkins. And the eerie poetic quality of this undeniable circumstance of suckitude? When I had just turned three, my Aunt Betty Ann died of cancer. She was, as my beloved Uncle Ray has so often expressed without anyone contradicting him, "The best of them all," meaning my mother's siblings. That phrase repeated itself a year ago when my beloved brother-in-law Rob said many times of Mr. J, "He was the best of all of us," meaning his siblings.


I'm not equipped to pass judgment on either declaration. But I am all too familiar with the pangs of loving — deeply and desperately — someone you never knew. The blessing in Betty Ann's death ... Wait. What's that you say? Yes. Yes, more coincidences. ... Betty Ann left behind a teenaged daughter, Lynn. Who just happens to be my godmother. And as a too-early-widowed woman herself, she is also a guide, a comfort and everything I've needed a second mother to be. Lynn is also the mother of the mothers of many of my oft-mentioned Munchkin tribe who has given me so much joy over the past year — Mommies and Munchkins alike. And finally, no coincidence at all, her latest grandchild's name, James. Whose two-month birthday does just happen to be today.


So. I've decided that every year, the November chapter of The Ballad of Uncle Jamie will be about happiness. About love. And I will think to myself about the way all of these independently unconnected dates and details are pressed into a imperfectly perfect tale.


November 1 marks the one-year anniversary of Mr. J's departure from this world. I'll be Atlanta for the week, receiving very much needed sister, parent, puppy and J.C. therapy. And the opening page of the story to come will be a sky filled with bright, free-flying symbols of weightless — and painless — shiny, happy messages to Mr. J.


I know, without a doubt, even though he's another place, he's with me. With all who love him. But when I think of him, when I talk to him, when I stop whatever I'm doing to just breathe, I look to the sky. So that's where the messages are headed.


With J.C.'s help, I'll be releasing 50 balloons — 49 for Mr. J's birthday that I still will never ignore — and truly one to grow on for Baby James. To them, I'll tie names, messages, anything that's light enough to float and from whomever would like them attached.


CatCon will be fielding and organizing any requests. (I know. I've already had to tell her three times: "No. Glitter.") Comment here on the blog. Click on the e-mail the author link below. Email me here. Post it on my half-glassed life's Facebook page.


As I've said before, here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all. And as we say here in South Carolina, "Y'all come." Bring on the love.

Back Home Again In Indiana

I do love me some gritty city:

[picture the El platform with folks bundled up in hats, boots, coats, gloves and scarves. I'd actually post the pic I had to take to capture the 40-something degree weather on May 26, but I can't actually figure out how to do it yet on this itty-bitty iPhone. Quite frankly, I'm amazed I've figured this much out. The bundled up pix are not of me. Oh, no. I was wearing khaki capris, an adorable little cardigan and open-toed flats. I'll choose cute over comfort every time. I did throw on a windbreaker (um, stylish...not stupid.) but I promptly checked it upon my arrival at the Art Institute.]

And some not-gritty city:

[picture the green patina of the iconic lions standing guard over some of the world's greatest masterpieces. And, my favorite place in which to lose myself. Beyond them, picture pot after pot after pot of brightly bloooming flowers following the same line of perspective as the just-lit spherical streetlamps.]

But today? Today I may as well be in a whole other world: Northwest Indiana. Imagine, if you'd like, steel mills and small-town life. I don't see any of that. Well, I do, but not right now and not in my heart when I depart the Calumet Region. Today I see a rolling pasture, a red barn, flowers and the rich green leaves of hardwood trees. In. Every. Direction. I. Look.

And I see this, too:

[picture the majestic Leo, a Palomino whose blond mane is whipping through the wind as he comes in to nuzzle my neck. And the petite Scarlett, who shyly comes over for a carrot only after Alpha Horse has had enough and decides that, yeah, this little solid black mare with a tiny white star on her forehead can have a snack, too.]

I hope you can picture it, because it's pretty freakin' awesome. And who knows when the hell I'll figure out how to load pix through this portal?

Oh, and Jen Lancaster? I told you I wasn't a stalker. I know there's no way in hell I'll see you in Indiana.

Cathleen Day 2011 Is Here

Today marks the 43rd anniversary of my arrival on this planet.

In 1968, my Nana received (her words) "the best birthday present ever" when my mother delivered me on the date of her mother's birth, a happy twist of fate that has always made me feel a little more special, a little more lucky and a lot more blessed.

The date of my birth is also only two days prior to my mother's, which has also always felt like a gift, as well. The symmetry of a mother and daughter each birthing a daughter within two days of their own birthdays has always felt, to me, like a multigenerational trifecta. The fact that the three of us look exactly alike (Yes. Really.) is, in my not-so-humble opinion, no accident. Although I chose not to have children, I do admit to wondering if Mr J and I would have created a brown-haired, green-brown-eyed, Dorothy-Judy-Cathleen clone. And born on May 30, of course.

So. With all this magical thinking, is it any wonder that I treat my birthday like a national holiday? It doesn't help matters that it always falls within close proximity to summer's first fireworks, parades and hamburger/hot dog event (Which, bee-tee-dubs: three of my favorite things. Next to cake, anyway, but we've covered that topic...)

Or maybe I'm just a raging narcissist. Hmmm...

I'm gonna call it a draw.

Cake. It's What's For Dinner. (And Breakfast. And Lunch.)

HRH Princess Snarkerella has declared today the official start of Birthday Week 2011. Typically all of May is Birthday Month, but everything in Halfglassistan has been wonky these past six months.


(CatCon and Tilly, however, would like it noted that they began celebrating my existence at 12:00:01 EDT May 1 and haven't stopped. Which isn't much different than the way they act every day. So I've got that going for me. Which is good.)


I may be getting a bit of a slow start, but by the order of HRH (you might not think so, but she can really be a bitch when she wants to), I am commanded to have fun. So a little less than 36 hours from now, I'll be with one of my ATL munchkins, who just happens to be the most awesome boy one of my siblings has ever birthed. The fact that I get to watch the eerie reincarnation of my sister as a toddler giving herself hell is just icing.


Then less than 24 hours later, I'll be on my way to my Midwestern tribe of munchkins in Chicagoland — provided the TSA, ATL and MDW all cooperate. And no random atmospheric activity mucks it all up. (Iceland? I'm talking to you.)


You can call it running away from home. It's OK. I am and I'm lucky enough to have my choice of awesome homes to which to run. I need tickles, giggles, oohs & ahhs, sister, cousin and munchkin therapy. And lots and lots and lots of love.


And cake.

"cake." (c)2002-2010 natalie dee

Wordless I'm-Living-Sassy-For-You-Kim Wednesday

in honor of kimberly a. hansen 1971-2009

Wordless Not-Jumping-Off-The-Birthday-Bandwagon-Yet Wednesday

Somebody First Had To Wake-N-Bake To Make This Possible

"being a grown-up rules!" (c)2002-2010 natalie dee (whom i am so loving lately)

Everybody Move Over — CatCon's Taking Over

me-me-me-me-me-me-me ... [dum-DUM] me-me-me-me-me-me-me  ... [dum-DUM]

No, not vocal warm-ups — pfft! like I need them? — just clearly stating what's the what here in Halfglassistan right now: It's. All. About. Me.

Miz CCW is prepping for her big holiday weekend, as tomorrow is, of course, the actual date of Cathleen Day on the calendar — the High Holiday of Halfglassistan. It's observed nationally (we're working on a global campaign) Monday.

So, that three-day weekend you're looking forward to? The fireworks? Parades? General merriment to be had by all?

Umm, yeah — you're welcome.

But for now ... follow my lead, and ONE AND TWO AND THREE AND FOUR:

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)! Tomorrow's her birthday (hey)! We're going to the beach (YAY)! ... and, all together now!

A-HEM — I said, all together now ... Thank you. That's more like it.

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)!

"Oh, It's A Doozy!"

" ... Today you are You, that is truer than true. 

There is no one alive who is Youer than You ..."

MARCH 2 IS THEODOR GEISEL'S BIRTHDAY

QUOTES AND IMAGE DR. SEUSS PROPERTIES ™ and ©1937—2009 

Wordless Christmas-Bun-Fresh-From-The-Oven Wednesday

(Almost)Wordless Happy-First-Birthday Wednesday

One year ago today, John Conley Bowen joined us. 

In no particular order (because it's more fun that way), a year in the life of JC:

I love you so much, sweet boy.

Happy Birthday.

You Knew What You Were Getting Into When You Married Me

... is pretty much what I say every year to Mr. J when he would just as soon let the 8th of November pass without fanfare.

But birthdays? Are not ignored in my world.

I don't care how old you are, Mr. J; and I sure don't care how broke we are, 'cause I don't need money to make a fuss. I only care enough to never have anyone sing to you in a cheesy restaurant, and to never (never, I promise!) throw you a surprise party.

And that's only because I expect the same in return. The only cheesy singing on my (oh, and yours, too) birthday shall be done by me. And the only surprising on my birthday shall be done by you. We agree on that.

But that's it. 

I will never ignore a birthday (I might forget, but that's a whole other story), because I am exponentially cheesetastic like that. I will never stop being grateful that one day in November, 1962, you happened. I may have taken another six years to show up, and then another 29 to find you, but none of that's important.

It was always meant to be.

What's that? Er, no. 

No. It's not easy being this cheesy.

Below, birthday happiness 2009:

Nom, nom, nom ...

One dozen little cups of happy.

Red velvet.

Caramel apple and chocolate peanut butter.

The black bottom, a brilliant concoction of dark chocolate cake with chocolate chip cheesecake and cream cheese frosting.

Nurse Tilly, asking for the 4,782nd time, "Why? Why can't I have a little happy cake of joy?"

Why? Because you can't have chocolate. And there'd be fewer for me. But mostly the chocolate reason. Really.

Thank you, Cupcake, for coming to Columbia. And thank you, anonymous college girl (ACG) working at Cupcake for your validation when I picked these out.

ACG (smiling): "Are these for a special occasion?"

ME (drooling): "Yes, they are. My husband made me promise not to get him anything for his birthday, and this is the anything I'm getting anyway."

ACG (seriously): "Ma'am, you did the right thing."

Yes, I did, ACG. 

Yes.

I. 

Did.