THE “M” ROOM
My daughters were showing me around the home they just moved into. One of the bedrooms, they called the “M” room. M for Mattie when he spends the weekend, M for Mom when she stays over and M for middle as it’s the middle bedroom.
After I returned home that word “MIDDLE” kept running through my mind. Middle room, middle class, middle child. Ah, that was what was nagging at me. Was there now a crack in my Mother’s armor allowing the middle child to show through for the whole world to see, even my children?
Yes, I was a middle child, sandwiched between the first born, only son ,who never did any thing wrong and the blonde, giggling, deep dimpled baby girl. Once I was the baby, but it lasted only one year and four months when I was suddenly bumped up under wonder boy and held there firmly by golden girl.
I fought a constant battle to get out of the middle and move to the forefront. Regrettably my ammunition was sadly lacking. I had fine straight hair that would not hold a curl no matter how my mother tried and believe me she did try and try and try. I had the Irish white skin that freckled and burned and peeled and burned again all summer long. My scrawny body racked with a bronchial cough from November until the following April. A weaker child might have just settled into the middle slot and made the best of it. But not, I. I had an abundance of stubbornness and spunk which lasted me until I donned the armor of motherhood, where I had a throne that was mine alone.
Am I now in danger of being ousted from this throne as my armor gets older and erodes around the edges? I’ll have to spend a night in the middle room and see if it caters to the mother , or the middle child in me, or maybe a little of each.

LOVE REVISITED
The mother who held me and dried my tears was the same mother who swatted my bottom when I dumped a bowl of oatmeal on the dog’s head.
The father who took away my roller skates for three whole days was the same father who always let me win at Candyland.
The brother who closed me in a room with burning sulpher from his chemistry set, to see if I would turn yellow was the same brother who put the worm on the my hook when we went fishing.
The sister who ignored me when she was with her friends was the same sister who brought me a piece of cake when I was being punished.
The best friend who sat faithfully by my side every day of summer vacation while my broken leg healed was the same best friend who blabbed to everyone that I loved Tony.
The boy who hit me in the back of the head with a slushy snowball was the same boy who looked to me for praise when he produced the loudest burp in second grade.
The dog who chewed the arm off my favorite doll was the same dog who always greeted me with tail wagging and lots of slobbery kisses.
I am a survivor of love.

CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS

Christmas with my grandfather always meant the perfect Christmas tree. He would spend hours cutting off branches, drilling holes in the tree and repositioning each branch until the tree was perfect. My brother, sister and I would sit and watch him, yawning frequently, sometimes falling asleep, and being poked awake by each other, waiting for Grandpa to get the tree perfect so we could decorate it. My Mother put on the lights and her prize ornaments from Germany. We were then allowed to add a few plastic balls and hang the icicles which had to be hung one at a time. When I would get up during the night I would find my Mother still in the living room repositioning each icicle until the tree was a work of art.
When I had my own family the Christmas tree lost much of its perfection. We never quite got the knack of how to choose a tree. One year we could only get it to stand straight by tying a string around the tree and attaching it to the wall with a tack. The tack gave way and the tree ended up on the kitchen floor. This was the end for many of my mother’s precious ornaments that I had inherited. The rest were broken the next year when one of my sons received a clown punching bag as a gift. Need I say more? I started my own tradition listening to Dean Martin’s Christmas album while trimming the tree. This caused a lot of moans and groans when the children became teenagers. One thing remained of my mother’s traditions, I still insisted on the icicles being hung one at a time. I often found myself doing this alone as everybody got bored quickly and disappeared until the next meal.
When the children were grown, one of my daughters invited me to come and help trim their Christmas tree. When she opened the door, I was delighted to hear Dean Martin singing, “Ill Be Home For Christmas”. After the tree was trimmed I was appalled to see my two grandsons, three and four years, throwing icicles on the tree. When my oldest grandson handed me a bunch of icicles, I looked into his shining laughing eyes, said quietly to my self, “Forgive me Mother”, and threw the icicles at the tree.

WHO NAMED OUR COLORS?
Who named the sky's color blue?
It wasn't me. Was it you?
I have never liked this name very well.
It sounds sad and is hard to spell.
Let's not call it blue, just for today.
Kubu would be more fun to say.
The bright kubu sky meets the deep kubu sea.
This sounds happier to me.
Let's see what we can do with the color red.
It sounds like a book that has been put to bed.
Let's not call it red, just for today.
Bipo would be more fun to say.
The shiny bipo apple fell from the tree.
This sounds happier to me.
A new name is needed for the color white.
It sounds like teeth without any bite
Let's not call it white, just for today
Dizzle would be more fun to say.
The dizzle clouds floated free.
This sounds happier to me.
Our flag's colors of red, white, and blue
Would now be bipo, dizzle and kubu.
This would be a fun thing to say.
Just remember, it's only for today.
Yellow's name can stay the same.
For sunshine there is no better name.
Let's keep the name yellow for today.
Yellow is a fun word to say.
The yellow bus takes me home at three.
This makes yellow sound happy to me.

WHO NAMED OUR COLORS?
Who named the sky's color blue?
It wasn't me. Was it you?
I have never liked this name very well.
It sounds sad and is hard to spell.
Let's not call it blue, just for today.
Kubu would be more fun to say.
The bright kubu sky meets the deep kubu sea.
This sounds happier to me.
Let's see what we can do with the color red.
It sounds like a book that has been put to bed.
Let's not call it red, just for today.
Bipo would be more fun to say.
The shiny bipo apple fell from the tree.
This sounds happier to me.
A new name is needed for the color white.
It sounds like teeth without any bite
Let's not call it white, just for today
Dizzle would be more fun to say.
The dizzle clouds floated free.
This sounds happier to me.

WHAT IF?
What if the sun doesn’t shine?
I won’t lie around and whine.
I’ll spend the day with a good book
Curled up in my favorite nook.

What if someone does not like me?
I won’t hide where no one can see.
I’ll look elsewhere for a friend.
One person is not the end.

What if I can’t afford steak tonight?
I can still have a hamburger to bite.
I’ll toss a patty on the grill,
Warm a bun and eat my fill.

What if you don’t like this verse?
I could always make it worse.
I could make you want to yawn.
I could go on, and on, and on.

A GOOFY TOON
Don walked into his apartment and noticed the light blinking on his answering machine. He picked up the phone, pushed the button and listened to his friend Jim’s voice.
“Call me, Don. I’ll be at home this evening. Don’t make any plans for Saturday until we talk.”
Don returned Jim’s call. “What’s up, pal?”
“Hello, Don. I have a family reunion to go to Saturday and I would like you to come with me. I’m sorry for the late notice, but I forgot about it until my sister Connie called today to remind me.”
“Where is the reunion, Jim? I was planning to visit my parents this weekend.”
“It’s in Janesville at the Stillwater Lake Park. That’s not even twenty miles from your parent’s home in Canton. I hope you will come, as I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Not a set up with one of your old flames that burned out, I hope.”
“I don’t date my cousins, Don. This girl is perfect for you. Trust me!”
“Okay, Jim, I’ll meet you at the park on Saturday. Bye!”
“Bye, Don until Saturday. You won’t be sorry.”
Don drove up to the park Saturday morning after spending Friday night with his parents. He heard Jim call as he got out of his car. Jim was busy at one of the barbecues and waved a pair of tongs at Don motioning him over.
As Don was greeting Jim’s parents and sister, Jim approached with a beautiful girl on his arm. She had long dark brown wavy hair and sparkling eyes. A smile filled her whole face as she looked up at Don. Her bright yellow sun dress accented the brightness of the moment.
“Daisy, Jim said, meet Donald. Donald, meet Daisy. Get it! Donald and Daisy, the Disney ducks. I told you that you were perfect for each other. But Don and Daisy weren’t laughing. They were still standing there smiling at each other unaware of Jim.
“Daisy, would you like to ‘duck’ out of here and go paddle together in the lake?”
“Is that a real invitation, Don, or just a wise quack?”
“It is a real invitation. Let’s just jump in with both feet and get to know each other.”
This was the beginning of their courtship.
Soon people stopped thinking of Disney’s ducks when they were near them. Instead they marveled at the glow that emanated from this happy couple. After six months they both knew this was forever. Don proposed. “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you. Will you marry me?”
“I will marry you under two conditions she said. We will never name any of our children any name that can be shortened to Huey, Dewy or Louie, and we will never associate with any couple named Mickey and Minnie.”
The wedding was beautiful. The colors were white and yellow and there were white and yellow daisies everywhere. Jim, the best man, told everyone at the reception how he brought Daisy and Donald together. Daisy just smiled and Don wore a ‘Goofy’ grin.
Oh yes, and they all lived happily ever after!