louise on the left (coast)

Clearly this author and I share certain things in common; like carrying Epi pens and wanting to have a nice long talk with Joel Stein. In person. LA Times Writer Gets My Irish Up Shared via AddThis

...I removed the piece because I decided I'd given enough attention to idiotic attention-seekers already. If people have to get attention by pretending that our elected (by a broad margin) is an evil person I don't care to endorse this even by arguing it. There will always be people at war with authorities leaders. They need to fix their psychological imbalance elsewhere. Done.

I am now home, again, if "home" means the place where your name is on the property deed. If "home" is the geographical real estate where I feel most at peace and happy, than, sadly, I am not at home, but merely moving through time and space, content to share my journey along side those I cherish. However, I am now back in California where my husband has a busy job (amazingly, still in the newspaper business) and my children are each, excitedly, just about embark on their next school year. It is September: A time of new #2 pencils, new outfits, and crisp, empty composition books. A time of rebirth and beginnings. And, it's time for me to decide how I plan to balance what it is I want for myself, too, right now. While on the road for the past few weeks I temporarily broke my addiction to my computer. Stepping away from losing myself to the seductive escape of needing to find just the right word made me realize something that I've always known deep down.

Last week we got up early and drove all the way up (and across) the lovely state of Vermont to the little tiny town "New Haven, Vermont." There we attended what was billed as the largest agricultural fair in Vermont. I have to say, it was everything it was billed to be plus a bag of chips. So, here's our Ferris Wheel ride at Vermont's Addison County Fair on a perfect summer's day.

It's hard to describe the complete change of pace that occurs whenever my family and I fly 2000 miles across country and drive from Boston up to Vermont to visit with my parents twice a year. I always think it will be easy to maintain contact with others (it isn't) or that I will continue to find time and access to a computer regularly (hardly) and that all the beauty and history and feelings from being where I grew up will naturally evoke material for writing that will be effortless. But, alas, here's what happens: I am overwhelmed to find how time has changed my parents. I am worried about how they live all on their own without any other children, other than myself, to care for them. I sit and think about what I can do and then the battle about "don't change things for us" starts and I begin to shut down. Sadly, that's what happens. I try not to faint when I see all the appliances plugged into an outlet crowded like a bad yard sale just over the leaky