Garden Spots

I have the brownest thumb in the world.  Although I love the look of a pretty garden, a gardener I am not. Unfortunately.

That's why I so appreciated the tidy and well-manicured landscaping that came with our house in VA when we moved into it in 2017.  The garden areas in front on either side of the entryway sidewalk are filled with easy-to-trim bushes.  On the left there are several flowering bushes (all the color and beauty with none of the work!), and I think that with our 36" statue of the Blessed Mother in front of them, they make for a nice Mary Garden.  (Does anyone know what these bushes are called?  They have the most lovely blossoms!)

Along the side of the house and near the driveway, the previous owners had planted perennials (again, all the color and beauty with none of the work!).  I left well enough alone and didn't plant anything new, because I liked the low-maintenance garden just the way it was.  I just adore the profusion of gorgeous irises that bloom each spring.  They thrive on benign neglect, which is my go-to gardening technique!

I say I liked it just the way it was; but something was missing...so recently, we purchased a new statue to stand amongst the irises.  It is considerably less holy and sacred than the one we have out front.  But you see, my dad, who passed away one day shy of his 82nd birthday in 2016, was known by the nickname "Bigfoot."  (Some kids have a Grandpa, some have a Papa; my boys had a Bigfoot.)  So when I saw this 36", solid cement Sasquatch figurine—which was meticulously created by some local Mennonite craftsmen—calling out to me from a downtown garden shop, I just couldn't resist it.

When I texted our boys a photo of my newly acquired garden statue, son #4 replied in his usual amusing fashion:

A garden Bigfoot might not be "essential" for most folks; but I think it was for me.  I'm  always up for whimsical touches, especially when they have personal meaning.  My mom is coming here tomorrow, staying with us for about three weeks; and I think she's going to enjoy this reminder of her beloved husband—gone, but never forgotten!—when she sits on the patio with us during cocktail hour.

I plan to write more about my mother and the ups and downs of her life over the past five years, and also about the younger sister saint and her husband who have taken Mom into their home (a long overdue post, to be sure); but for now I'm going to sign off by saying that I just love springtime in VA.  Especially with garden spots like these!

7 QT: Refinishing Bigfoot's Chair

I thought I'd join the 7 Quick Takes link-up today, because I don't have time to write anything lengthy these days but here I can be quick!  Also, it's fun to attend a "get-together" (in a virtual reality sense, anyway) with other gals in the Catholic blogosphere whom I admire and whose writing I enjoy.

The link-up, as you probably already know, is hosted by Kelly Mantoan, of This Ain't the Lyceum fame.  (Kelly recently signed a book deal with Our Sunday Visitor.  Congratulations, Kelly!)

Okay then, here we go: I'm going to tell you a tale about a dining room chair that was once owned by Bigfoot.  That sounds like a tall tale, I realize, but I assure you it's absolutely true!  That is the nickname by which my dad was known, and what all of his grandchildren called him.

1

When I was in junior high, my mom found a treasure at an estate sale: an enormous antique oak dining room table with 10 matching chairs, and if I remember correctly, she got it for about $200.  She refinished the top of the table, but as a busy working mother of 5, she never got around to refinishing the chairs. Despite that, it was a beautiful set--solidly built, with exquisite carved details, packed with history.

This dining room set was used for many a family holiday dinner when I was growing up, such as this Thanksgiving (circa 1973 or 1974, when I was 15 or 16).  This is my dad, affectionately known as Bigfoot, toasting with his eldest daughter.  Dad is sitting in the only chair with arm rests, the only one big enough for a giant of a man such as himself (he was over 6'3" with size 13 feet).

2

When my parents downsized to a condo a number of years after that photo was taken, their tiny dining room could not accommodate such a large dining room table.  By then, I had 4 children (which was more than any of my siblings at that time) and a new house with a huge dining room, so Mom decided that the set should go to me.  (Woo hoo!  Just one of the many perks of having a big-ish family!)  I got the table, 9 chairs, and a matching sideboard.  The only piece of the set that I didn't get was Dad's man-sized arm chair.  He just couldn't part with it.

For the 26 years we lived in our NH house, this dining room set had a perfect home in a space so oversized that there was plenty of room to spare.  I eventually refinished the 7 chairs that still had their cane seats intact--which was perfect because we eventually had a 5th son, so there were enough chairs for all 7 members of our family.

When we moved to VA and experienced a downsizing of our own, however, I was worried that I wouldn't have room for my parents' dining room set.

But I made room!  It's a little more crowded than it used to be, but I think it works.

3

My dad, God rest his soul, died almost two years ago, and when my mom sold their house about a year later, she took what she wanted for the assisted living room that would become her new home and encouraged her kids to take whatever they thought they might use (before the rest was sold in a giant garage sale).  Everyone agreed that I should take Dad's chair, because it belonged with the dining room set.  So I did.

4

Dad's chair has been sitting in the basement ever since we moved to VA, because I have been too busy to deal with refinishing it.  Well, yesterday I decided that it was time to get it spruced up so that it will be ready to use at our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners this year.  It will become my husband's head-of-the-table seat, just like it was Bigfoot's.

To refinish an aged beauty like this, I find that stripping the piece with Formby's antique furniture refinisher and then rubbing Formby's tung oil into it afterward gives the best results.

I actually love doing this.  I find it so satisfying to see the old varnish melt off to reveal the beautiful grains of the wood underneath.

5

This before-and-after comparison shows how dark and dingy the wood looks before Formby's works its magic.  What a difference!

6

Here is what Bigfoot's chair looked like, after I'd stripped off the old finish but before I'd rubbed in the tung oil to give it a protective glow.  It is so much more beautiful now!  It still has imperfections in it, like any piece of furniture that has been around this long; but what an improvement from the first picture up there, taken before I started the refinishing process.

7

The after picture!

Bigfoot's chair now has a home in our VA family room, providing extra seating in there when our large and ever-growing brood comes to visit.  And it can be easily brought into the dining room when needed for special meals with our kids and grandkids.

I am so grateful to have this piece of my family's history--and a reminder of my dear dad--in my home.  I'll be toasting Bigfoot this Thanksgiving...with fond memories of the guy with the 70's sideburns and the full head of brown hair, who used to call me his "Ickle Aurie-Do" (which translated means "Little Laura-Do").

They weren't that Quick after all, but those are my Takes.  Now head on over to Kelly's for more!

Turning the Big Six-Oh (Oh No!)

I never got depressed or stressed when I hit any of the milestone birthdays, the "big ones."  Thirty, forty, fifty--those numbers were not all that big a deal to me.  But SIXTY..hoo boy, that's a big number.  That sounds old.  You know, very senior citizen-esque.  That's a lot of years of living on this earth.  At that advanced age, you'd think I'd be the wisest woman in town, but this is not even close to the truth.  (And we live in a pretty small VA town these days.)  I still feel like the exact same person inside that I've always been, like the shy young girl who could hardly look at a cute boy when she passed him in the hall in high school (and then ended up marrying him--proving that anything is possible and dreams can come true!); however, my outside is starting to show a good amount of wear and tear.

But as my dear dad, who died  almost two years ago, just one day shy of his 82nd birthday, would say, "It's better than the alternative."  Dad loved birthdays.  His last week with us, he knew he was dying but he REALLY wanted to hang on to celebrate one last birthday.  That's how much love of life he had in him, even at the end.

So in his honor, I think I'll embrace 60 and remember that it is indeed better than the alternative.  Especially when you are surrounded by the love of a big and ever-growing family.

A couple of weeks ago, when our youngest son was in VA with his girlfriend (on leave and in the States for the first time since last summer), the kids planned a dinner out at a restaurant in our little hometown.  The four oldest boys and their wives got babysitters for all but our youngest grandchild (she was the youngest at the time, anyway--as reported in yesterday's post, another Pearl has since been added to the string), so it was a very rare grown-ups only dinner.  I had been eagerly anticipating this night out with all of my favorite grown-ups on earth.

When my husband and I walked into the restaurant, I realized that it was actually a surprise birthday celebration for me as well--a few weeks early, since our youngest would be back in Germany on my actual "natal day," as my Dad liked to call it.

There were balloons!

There was cake!

There were presents!

But most importantly, there were these precious faces gathered around the table together.  These are my people, and I am the luckiest 60-year-old woman on the face of the earth.

I've got more gray hairs these days.  More wrinkles. More aches and pains.  More fat around the middle that won't seem to go away (no matter how much ice cream I eat--ha ha!).  But I've got this amazing bunch of humans who love me and whom I adore.

Young mamas, look forward to this.  All the sleepless nights, changing dirty diapers, mediating squabbles over toys, fixing dinners for the pickiest of eaters, taxiing carloads of smelly football players, listening to your darlings' accusations of being "the strictest parents in the whole school"--all of those things you're going through now (and that's just the tip of the iceberg, of course) will be well worth it when your children become kind, thoughtful, responsible adults and fill your table with love and laughter, when they start having families of their own.

Life is indeed a gift.  So I'll take 60, with a heaping helping of cake.

Sunday Goings-On

Happy first Sunday of Advent, dear readers...that is, if there are any of you left out there; and if so, God bless you, because there hasn't been a whole lot going on here at the blog as of late.

It's not that I don't have anything to write about, either; quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.  But the problem is that I just don't seem to have the time.  Or perhaps I do, but when I prioritize all the things I want to do or should do each day, sitting down to write keeps ending up at the bottom of the list.  (Kind of like working out.  And my expanding waistline is proof of that!)

So much has been happening in our family, it's enough to make my head spin.  The triplets were baptized, for instance.

I made the boys' christening gowns and bonnets with fabrics that my

mother-in-law had collected; the wee lass wore an exquisite 

heirloom gown from my daughter-in-law's family.

And a brand new granddaughter--our 12th grandchild--recently joined our clan.

My third baby, with his third baby.  It's the circle of life!

We celebrated our first big family Thanksgiving in our new house in VA.

The "grown-ups table," set for 11.  (There were also 12 kids,

aged 6 down to newborn!)

The first anniversary of my father's death came around, a tough day, followed by what would have been his 83rd birthday; and I had hoped to write the story of his amazing and inspiring last week on earth (the story of the making of a saint, I believe) by now, but even with a whole year to get it done, I still haven't been able to do it.

Literally hours before death, here he is: raising his glass of

Tia Maria and smiling, after enjoying a Thanksgiving meal

with his family at the hospital.

My mom has had a slew of health issues this past year; she has quite literally been in and out of the hospital or the rehab center.  Because she is not ambulatory anymore without a great deal of help, she is no longer a candidate for the assisted living home into which she'd moved shortly after my dad's death.  So not too long ago, she moved in with my baby sister and her husband, who hired round-the-clock aides to help with her care.  But as I was writing this post, my sister texted to say that Mom is sick again, about to be admitted to the hospital for the umpteenth time since she lost her husband of 60 years.  Please keep her in your prayers, if you would!

As you can see, there's so much to write about--so much, in fact, that I am overwhelmed and suffer from almost crippling writer's block.  I miss writing, and one of my resolutions for 2018 is to do it more regularly.  So...in the spirit of getting back on the proverbial horse, I am going to force myself to post something here today.

I thought maybe I could tell you about the holiday craft fair at our new parish in VA this weekend, and about how I decided to rent a table to sell my books.

I had fun setting up my wares; but I started out feeling really shy, even though there weren't really too many shoppers after the anticipated Mass on Saturday evening.  But on Sunday, I started to come out of my shell a little bit and enjoyed meeting and talking to some of the parishioners after the Masses.

I made a few sales--six copies of Erin's Ring and two copies of Finding Grace.  And talk about stepping boldly outside my comfort zone: I even asked a couple of buyers if I could snap photos of them to include in this post.  They were very good sports, as you can see.

In the spirit of the holidays, I wore a Christmas-y red Talbot's knit sheath dress (purchased on clearance)--because as my sister-in-law who wears almost exclusively Talbot's clothing likes to say, when your outfit is attractive and well-made and you feel comfortable in it, you feel happy and therefore you can't help but spread happiness.  (I have talked about this Talbot's happiness-spreading quality before here at the blog, actually.)  I paired the dress with a black 3/4-sleeved ruffle-front jacket from Dress Barn.

Okay, well now this is turning into a My Sunday Best post, isn't it?  So you know what?  I'm going to link up with Rosie et. al., as long as I'm talking fashion.

I closed the front of my jacket with a special pin--it's actually a tiny picture frame.  I found it on Etsy and fell in love with it, thinking that if I slipped a tiny picture of one of my book covers inside it, it would make the perfect brooch to wear for book signings.  (Or for church holiday craft fairs like this one, where my books didn't exactly sell like hot cakes, but more like "tepid cakes," as my husband so humorously put it.)

A couple of tables down, there was a sweet gal selling hand-made Rosary bracelets, and I couldn't resist getting one for myself.  I am a sucker for a Rosary bracelet.  Or anything made of pearls.

Although I didn't sell many books, I feel like it was a successful outing for me.  I grew in confidence as time went by, and I met lots of nice folks.  I'm finding that almost everyone I meet down here is so friendly and exudes the hospitality for which the South is famous.  The longer we live here, the more comfortable I feel in our adopted hometown.  I will always have a soft spot for the Northeast, and a deep sense of nostalgia for the beloved home on a quiet wooded street in Dover, NH where we raised our five boys.  But northern VA is proving to be a very nice place to live.

And those five boys?  Four of them, and their wives and kids, live a stone's throw from us down here.

Life is good.  It is very good indeed.

Well, that's it for today.  But I'll be back.  Sooner rather than later, I hope!

(Now head on over to Rosie's for more Sunday Best fashion talk.  And remember that you can get a signed copy of Finding Grace for $10 here at the blog, from now til Dec. 10.  Email me for details, or use the "Buy Now" button to purchase your copy via PayPal.)

The Heart of a Lion

My dad's name was Leon, but to his friends he was "Lee."  And to his "grandthings" he was "BIGFOOT." Always.  He insisted on that.  (If you were lucky enough to know my father, you know that he was a character.)

Dad passed away on November 25, 2016, one day shy of his 82nd birthday and about five months after celebrating his 60th wedding anniversary with the love of his life.

Mom and Dad on one of their early dates at the Naval Academy in 1955.

The end seemed to come quickly and suddenly, and it took our breath away.  But Dad's death was not really unexpected; just a month and a half before, we had gotten the tragic news that after years of blood disorders, frequent trips to the hematologist, and regular transfusions at the cancer center, he had full-blown leukemia.  Without treatment, he had maybe 3-6 months to live; but there was a slim chance that chemotherapy might buy him a year or two.  He chose the chemotherapy route, because as hard as his life had become over the past few years, dealing with so much pain and illness, he had one goal and one goal only: to stay alive as long as possible so that he could take care of my mother.  That was what he prayed for daily.  That was what he was living for.

We had known for some time that Dad was failing.  His family care doctor had told my sister this quite a while ago, and advised us not to nag him about things like his nightly vodka tonics or his excessive salt intake.  We knew that he felt lousy most of the time, but we didn't know this because he complained about it. Trying to find out what was going on with him health-wise was like pulling teeth.  He was almost heroically stoic when it came to his own aches and pains.  (Poor circulation ultimately led to multiple surgeries and the amputation of eight of his ten toes, but he never once felt sorry for himself or asked, "Why me?") And he wanted to be independent.  Thinking about him now, I believe he would have died much, much sooner if he hadn't been so stubborn and loved my mother so much.

To say that my dad loved my mother fiercely is an understatement.  They met when they were kids (she was 19, he was 20) and were married within a year of their first date, a blind date arranged by a buddy at the Naval Academy.  He knew she was the one for him almost from the very beginning and never had eyes for anyone else.  Right from the start, he told her he wanted to be a dad (and by age 28, he was the father of five).  It was the only role he ever wanted to have, our mother has told us; he lost his father to suicide when he was six, and he spent the rest of his life making sure his own children had what he didn't.

About a year before he died, my four siblings and I staged an intervention.  Mom had fallen and broken a hip already.  Dad was getting increasingly feeble, and it had become the norm for him to call his children in the middle of the night because she'd fallen out of bed (yet again!) and he couldn't lift her.  It wasn't safe at home anymore, we said; it was time for an assisted living situation.  But my dad dug his heels in and said they were staying in their house.  Period.  He agreed to a couple of hours of daily in-home aid, but otherwise he insisted that he would take care of Mom himself.

Dad visiting Mom at the rehab center last year, sporting a Band-Aid on his

forehead...because he had started to fall occasionally, too.

So he did, by golly; he did.  He did all the grocery shopping.  He brought her breakfast and lunch to her on a tray every day, and he heated up frozen dinners for the two of them every night.  He sat with his best girl after dinner and watched "NCIS" or "Blue Bloods" or "The O'Reilly Factor," and then he followed her back to their room and made sure that she got safely tucked into bed.  He took her to her appointments when we didn't even think he should be driving anymore.  I should have known the end was near in October, when he let me drive him to the hospital every day for his first (and ultimately, last) round of chemo treatments.  It was so unlike Dad to relinquish control like that.  After he died, I was so thankful that he was spared the indignity of having his driver's license taken away from him; for Dad, that would have been the last straw, the final assault on his manhood.  Because even though he was failing, and he knew it, he had the heart of a lion and he still wanted to roar. 

So often I am reminded of Dad, by little things that happen in the course of an average day.  Like today, for instance.  You see, it's garbage day here in our new VA hometown.  And garbage day makes me remember Dad with a fondness that, unfortunately, I didn't always feel back when he was alive.  (If any of my siblings are reading this post, you probably know where I'm going with this!)

Dad absolutely loved his job with the NY State Lottery, and if health issues hadn't forced his "early" retirement at 74, he would have happily worked until he was on his deathbed.  So after he no longer had the stimulation provided by work, I think he just needed to have other jobs to do around the house, jobs that only HE could perform properly.  (We're pretty sure he had OCD, although it was never diagnosed.  But that's a subject for another time.)  And garbage, for some bizarre reason, was of monumental importance to him.  He had specific methods for tying the plastic bags, loading them into the big cans, placing the cans just so at the curb--and in spite of the fact that all of his past-middle-aged children had been successfully disposing of garbage at our own homes for decades, none of us could be trusted to do it right.  We used to joke that of course we couldn't help, because we didn't have our PhD's in garbage.

Even when the end was near for Dad, trying to get him to let you help with the garbage was brutal.  He would follow you around, barking instructions, inching painfully along stooped over his walker while holding a tall kitchen garbage bag into which you were supposed to empty each of the small trash cans located throughout the house.  Trying to convince him that you could take care of this task on your own was futile.  I remember saying, "Dad, please sit and rest and let me do this for you. And even if I do the unthinkable and miss one can this time, it's no big deal.  The garbage man comes every week!"  He could really frustrate you with his inability to give up control.

Now I see that my father was just trying to do what he could still do, for as long as he could do it, when so much of his strength and vitality had been cruelly stolen from him.  Now when I remember his stubborn refusal to let me take out the trash by myself, without him supervising me every step of the way (to the point of even watching from the door to make sure that I parked the cans in exactly the right spot at the end of the driveway), I realize that I shouldn't have gotten so annoyed with him.  I should have been proud that he still wanted to roar a bit, that his lion's heart had not been completely beaten down by illness.

Knowing that I enjoyed doing artwork and creating homemade gifts, Dad once asked me to paint something special for him.  An incurable Anglophile, he wanted me to make a coat of arms and incorporate a picture of a lion's head and the words "Coeur de Leon." The phrase "Coeur de Lion" is often associated with Richard I of England, the 12th-Century Crusader-King who is known as "Richard Couer de Lion" or "Richard the Lionhearted."  In French, "Coeur de Lion" means "heart of a lion," and the way the French word "lion" is pronounced sounds very similar to my dad's name.  So...get it?   Dad was always a sucker for a good pun (the cornier, the better).

So here's what I made for him, as a gift for Christmas 2002.  It's mine now and hangs on the wall of one of the guest bedrooms in our new house.

My father was a complicated man, flawed--as we all are--and sometimes hard to understand.  He was even hurtful at times, without meaning to be; but at heart he was as good and strong and moral and brave and loving as they come.  And never in his life did he demonstrate just how incredible he really was until his final days, about which I must write when I can bring myself to do it.

When I look at this painting, I think of my lionhearted dad and the way he roared through life for as long as he could...but then when he knew his death was imminent, gave himself over to God with the meekness and gentleness of a lamb. Even though it meant he had to do the unthinkable and leave my mother.

It is my fervent prayer that I've inherited even the tiniest piece of the heart of Leon, my father.

Happy Belated National Chocolate Cake Day!! And National Cake Day!! And Birthday!!

So I was catching up with my blogging friend Madeline over at A Dash of Snark this morning, and I realized that I had missed a national holiday without even knowing that it existed.  There is a holiday known as National Chocolate Cake Day!!  True story!  And I missed it!!

(Am I the only one who didn't know that this perfect excuse for baking one of the best treats a sweet tooth ever tasted even existed?  Did everyone else know about it and not tell me?  Were you keeping it from me because you wanted to help me finally start and stick to the "21-day fix" healthy eating program that is on my long list of grandiose and ambitious resolutions for 2017?)

Well, I Googled "National Chocolate Cake Day," and I found out that it was Friday, January 27, 2017.  That got me curious to know if there was also a National Cake Day for all kinds of cakes, so I Googled that (yes, that's how I spent my morning: Googling national cake holidays!); and it turns out this is a holiday as well--and it was last celebrated on Saturday, November 26, 2016.  Who knew?!  What's so sweet to me is that my dad's birthday is November 26; what's more, he died on November 25, 2016, one day shy of his 82nd birthday, which he really wanted to live to celebrate.

Well, I know now what I have to do: I'm going to bake a cake today in honor of Dad's birthday, and I'll start my "21-day fix" tomorrow.  (Yeah, that's it: tomorrow.)

So...what kind of cake to bake?  There are so many great choices!  My go-to, however, is always a golden cake (made with butter instead of oil), topped with homemade buttercream frosting.

And it just so happens that I have another great excuse, aside from Dad's birthday (and of course, the important national holiday that I missed), to bake such a cake.  In February, my husband and I are heading down to VA to celebrate the first birthday of our little granddaughter, Princesa.

And I was asked if I would be willing to make her a "smash cake" for the party, which will be a royal affair fit for a princess if I know her other grandmother (who could seriously start a party-planning business, she's that good at it).  My answer of course was, "Would I ever!"

So this is the kind of cake I'm going to try to make for Princesa's big day, using 6" round pans.

As soon as I can get out to the grocery store for baking supplies, I'm going to practice by making a prototype of this little beauty.  And then my husband and I are going to do some practice eating of the cake, I believe.  Just so we'll be up to speed for Princesa's birthday.

Yes, I want to "fix" my bad eating habits.  But life is too short...and I also believe that every now and then, I just need to

(P.S.--Perhaps I'll post a picture of my practice smash cake tomorrow...even if it's a "Pinterest fail"!)

My Sunday Best: Accessorizing!

Here I am, again, talking clothes and shoes and hats and whatnot.

That's right, it's another "My Sunday Best" fashion post, and I'm linking up with sweet Rosie at a blog for my mom to show you what I wore to Mass today.

So...I guess I'm becoming a fashion blogger.  And String of Pearls is becoming a fashion blog.  Mmm hmmm.

Yeah, I know. That was a good one.  But if you're finished laughing at with me, I'll continue now.

As you might have surmised from previous fashion link-up posts, I favor wearing some kind of head covering while in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.  Normally, I wear a lace veil or mantilla.  But sometimes, I wear a hat.

Today, I donned a boiled-wool cloche that my daughter-in-law Regina had specially made for me at the greatest online craft store in the world, Etsy.  (And no, this is not a sponsored post!  You're welcome, Etsy!)  This extremely lovely one-of-a-kind hat was a Mother's Day gift from her and my oldest son a couple of years ago.

Regina knows me well; she knows how much I love vintage-inspired styles like this one.  She also knows how much I love the blue and gold color combination--thus her choice of fabric for the decorative band (making this hat the perfect thing to wear to a Notre Dame football game on a chilly fall day).

I must have a slight allergy to wool, because when I wear it I always get itchy after awhile.  But this hat is fully lined with high quality cotton fabric, and it is exceedingly comfortable to wear.

I'm not even going to show you my Mass outfit, because it's just too boring: the usual black skirt, black tights, and black leather flats, topped with a bright-colored cardigan sweater.  This is seriously a uniform for me, practically.  You don't need to see it.  Today, it's all about showing you my awesome accessories instead.

Aside from the hat, I wore a pair of Alex and Ani stackable bracelets that are special to me.

I have six of these popular bangle bracelets, and they were mostly gifts.  The one with the wing charm on it was given to me by my older brother's wife back in November, just before my dad's wake and funeral.  (She gave my mom and two sisters the same bracelet.)  Whenever I wear it, I think of Dad and pray that if he isn't there yet, he will soon be among the angels and saints.  The one with the Miraculous Medal on it is actually one I bought for myself.  (I have trouble resisting when it comes to images of this particular devotional, and I consider this bracelet well worth the $30-ish price tag.)

So that's it for me today.  I may not be the most fashion-forward lady on the planet; but I think I may be one of the most lavishly blessed, and I loved visiting God's house today wearing tangible reminders that there are people in this world--and in the next--who love me.

Now head on over to Rosie's for more fashion fun.

This Post is All over the Place!

Hi readers!  I thought I'd pop in and let you know I'm still alive and kicking--I've just been busy and distracted lately, as my husband and I work to get our family homestead cleaned out, updated, and ready to sell.  And as we fly hither and yon to house-hunt down south and celebrate the birthdays of our darling far-flung grandchildren.  And as we drive back and forth from NH to Upstate NY, to take care of our "Oyster Haven" VRBO house on the lake...

Well, you get the drift.

Also, I have "homework" to do: there are several books I've received gratis from authors and publishing houses, in exchange for honest reviews, and I'm very behind (I feel like a college student with overdue papers to write!).  Here are two of said books.

And of course, I must--I MUST--write the story of my father's courageous last days on earth.  That is probably the biggest stumbling block I have to getting back in the groove here at the blog.  It's been two months now since he died, and if I don't write it all down soon, I fear the memories are going to start getting hazy.  So write it I must...but for some reason I can't. 

In the meantime, just to give you an idea of how amazing Dad was in the face of his imminent death, here is a conversation we had on Tuesday, November 22.  My brother took out his phone and videotaped us as we talked, and as you'll see, Dad's sense of humor remained intact until the end.  (He passed away in the wee hours of the morning on Friday the 25th.)

Anyway, this kind of writer's block has happened to me before: back when I was writing my first novel Finding Grace (from August 2007 to December 2011), I hit two stretches where I literally couldn't type a word for weeks and weeks: when I was writing about one character's tragic Holocaust survival story; and when I was writing about another character's unplanned pregnancy and (SPOILER ALERT!) abortion.  I was terrified of tackling those two very serious topics.  Even though I'd done tons of research, I had no first-hand experience with either of those life-altering scenarios, so I was worried that I wouldn't be able to handle them properly, with the gravitas, compassion, and truthfulness they deserved.

I feel that way about writing the incredible story of Dad's death, too...

Speaking of Finding Grace (how's that for a segue?), I'm running an ad (or a "boosted post") on Facebook today.  It's such a pro-life novel, and today is the March for Life in Washington, D.C.--so I thought it was a good time to do it.  I would love to get this book in the hands of more young (and not-so-young) readers who might be touched and inspired by it.  If you want to check out my Facebook author's page, you can find it by going to Facebook and typing @laurahpearl in the search box.  If you do head over there, maybe you could "like" or share today's post about Finding Grace.

My middle son is a fan of everything I do.  He's a doll.

I will get back to blogging regularly, I mean it; that is one of my resolutions for 2017.  I have so many things to share, and some of them are so fun!  We've finished a bathroom renovation, for instance, and it looks so spectacular that I think Chip and JoJo would approve.  One of these days, I'm going to share the "Before" and "After" pictures with you.  And I've got Christmas pictures that I never posted, and birthday homages to my two January boys...

So much to do, so little time!  But I'm working on it!

Okay, then, that's enough for today.  Now for a title...okay, I think I've got it!

I'm Back, and Life Will Never Be the Same

If you've been checking in here and wondering why it's been almost a month since I last posted something at String of Pearls, there's a very good reason for my hiatus.  On November 25, my dad passed away.  We had known that he was probably terminal, but were hopeful that his chemo treatments were going to buy him some time--even a year or two, according to the best case scenario.  On November 21, however, he got very sick and had to be admitted to the ER; that very day, he got the devastating news that his leukemia was not responding to the chemo and he had at most a week or two to live.

My older brother took this picture of my Dad and his bride of

60 years not long after he got the bad news.

Dad had previously thought he wanted to die at home, and we were preparing to be trained by hospice so that we could fulfill his wishes; but he ultimately chose to spend his last days at the hospital.  I believe it helped him to keep from getting anxious, having all that medical staff nearby.

However, it was anything but lonely there for him.  Every day, it was like there was a party in his room, with talking, laughter, food and drink.  He was always surrounded by loved ones: his wife, his sister, his kids, his grandkids, and even a few of his great-grandkids were there with him, so that he was never alone.  And it was simply an amazing time--joy-filled in its way, if you can believe that.  As one of my sisters said, it was like we were having a big Irish wake...but the guest of honor actually got to be present to party along with everyone else.

Dad's doctors even allowed him his nightly after-dinner glass of Tia Maria (which he hid under his tray whenever the nurses came around, even though it was written right on his chart that he was allowed to have it!).

Cheers, Dad!

Look at his happy smile.  My mom is by his side;

my daughter-in-law Preciosa and grandson G-Man are on

his bed.

This is our second-oldest son, who along with our middle son

was there to say good-bye as Dad passed on to the next life.

(Notice that Dad is resting his hand on Mom's arm; he never
stopped touching here when she was in the room with him.)

Dad ("Bigfoot" to his grandkids and great-grandkids) was completely lucid and fully engaged with those around him, telling lots of stories and even jokes; he kept his sense of humor until the very end.  "How are you doing, Leon?" a nurse would ask; and he would chuckle and respond with a wry, "I've been better."  Here's an excerpt from my Christmas newsletter, just to give you an idea of what my father's passing was like: A whole bunch of us (including his beloved wife, his three daughters and their husbands, a number of grandchildren, and three of his ten great-grandchildren) brought a lasagna dinner to the hospital and celebrated Thanksgiving with him: he smiled and raised his after-dinner glass of Tia Maria for a toast; he regaled us with stories of his first date with my mom and their short courtship before he asked her to marry him.  Then just hours later, not long after midnight, he died with a brown scapular around his neck as we stood around his bed, praying and laying our hands on him.  He was enjoying the company of his family almost to his last moments, and he did not suffer.  His was the holiest, the most peaceful death one could ever imagine.  You couldn’t script a more perfect passing from this earthly life to the eternal one.  God love him; he had a hard life in many ways, but was also very blessed and never took his blessings for granted.  I hope Dad’s enjoying a beautiful Christmas in Heaven, most especially with the father he lost when he was only six.  May he rest in peace!

Dad died one day shy of his 82nd birthday.  He really wanted to make it to the 26th, but God had other plans for his birthday celebration.  I have so much to say about my dad's last days and hours, so much I want to write down and post here because I feel it absolutely must be shared.  But I have been suffering from the most severe writer's block I have ever experienced.  There is so much to say, and I fear that no matter how hard I try, I won't be able to do the story justice.  But in the days to come, I'm going to force myself to sit in front of this computer and try to get it all down, while the details are still fresh enough in my mind.  I don't want to forget one minute of it...but actually, if I live to be 100, I don't think I could ever forget it.  The experience of watching my dad face the end of his earthly life with such courage and peace was profoundly life-changing for me.

I had our Christmas cards printed up months ago, because for once we were ahead of the game: we had a great family picture, with--miracle of miracles!--all 18 of us together (including all 7 grandchildren), since we'd had the forethought to have a professional photographer take pictures during our week-long family reunion this summer at our Oyster Haven retreat on Lake Champlain.  But I haven't had the heart to finally start addressing the envelopes and getting them in the mail.  Today, I am forcing myself to do so. 

And in the coming days, I will post more about my father and his extraordinary passing from his earthly life to his eternal one.  Until then, God bless you and yours throughout this holiday season and always.