News Trend Christmas Fulfilled |Actual

"Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold,

everything is softer and more beautiful."

- Norman Vincent Peale

When I was young, I used to prepare for Christmas as if I were making a month-long forced march up a steep, unrelenting mountain trail. Chores, obligations, and foot-long to-do lists weighed down my every step. And when I finally reached the mountain-top high of the season on Christmas Day, I felt like I had just a moment to admire the view. The day was over in a snap, and at midnight, I had no choice but to leap from the summit, falling back to earth with a bone-crunching thud and a litter of credit card bills.

This makes me sad, for this is not how Christmas was meant to be.

Or maybe the season of Christmas is like a rose. In early December, tightly furled buds appear and slowly grow to maturity within their closed petals.

I now understand that the month of preparation - called Advent - is meant to be a joyous affair in its own right. Rather than a death march; Advent compares to a peaceful hike up a mountainside where my expended effort is offset by immediate satisfaction as well as mounting excitement over what is still to come.

Rather than packing all the festivities into a brief 24-hour pause on December 25, I now celebrate Christmas Day as the high point of the twelve-day-long festival of Christmastide. The joy of the season plays out slowly and satisfyingly over the days, and I can take the time to breathe and relax and soak up the experience.

Those extra eleven days feel to me like a ride back down the mountain in an aerial cable car.

I'm still enraptured with the glory of the mountaintop high while slowly and almost imperceptibly, the cable car carries me through the forest tree tops and flurrying snowflakes toward the solid ground - still far below - of everyday life.

On Christmas morning, the petals finally open to reveal the layers and ruffles of a perfectly formed blossom. But on that first day, we get just a glimpse of the flower's full potential as it has yet to completely unfold.

Just as the Twelve Days of Christmas draw to a close, the feast of Epiphany arrives on January 6.

That's today.

This day, which celebrates the three kings' visit to the newborn baby Jesus, marks the resolution of the Christmas season. As my family celebrated tonight with homemade soup and one last round of simple gifts, I felt the cable car of Christmas gently bump down at its landing point. I heard the doors whoosh open, allowing me to disembark in peace; I smelled the sharp scent of pine still in the air, fainter than before but still crisp and clear, reminding me that the gifts of Christmas are mine to take with me as I step off into the new year.

The full Twelve Days of Christmas allow our rose to bloom luxuriantly, petals fully rolled back in its abundant glory, playing out every moment of its indescribably beauty until at last we are satisfied, and the flower gently fades.

This -this - is how Christmas is meant to be.

I'm glad I finally learned.

* * * * *

Celebrate the Twelve Days of Christmas with me!

The First Day

The Second Day

The Third Day

The Fourth Day

The Fifth Day

The Sixth Day

The Seventh Day

The Eighth Day

The Ninth Day

The Tenth Day

The Eleventh Day

The Twelfth Day

And Epiphany too.

News Trend Inspiring Impressionism|Actual

Hi, my name's Seattle Art Museum but you can call me SAM.

Dreams came true for me this week as I saw with my own eyes some of my favorite Impressionist paintings at the Seattle Art Museum.

As I strolled among the masterpieces and filled my soul with their sparkle and light, my mind traveled back through the decades to the year that I was seventeen.

That's when my senior-in-high-school self signed up for an art history group.

^ Certain artists and paintings generate an electric surge of excitement within me when I see them in person. This one by Degas on his beloved theme of horses was the first piece I saw and delivered quite a jolt.

^ Impressionism was an art movement concerned not so much with working out the precise details of a subject, but quickly capturing a general impression with bold, unblended brush strokes.

In those days, we called it art humanities, and at my school, this class was touted as the most challenging offering in the entire curriculum. Besides teaching us about frescoes, chiaroscuro and Op Art, Mrs. Rose considered it her privilege and fist-shaking duty to break down our high school hubris and invoke in us a terror for the rigors of college.

Little did she know that her class would teach me three interesting things far beyond the syllabus.

1. Maybe I was ready for the Big World after all.

Up until I took this group, when it came to academics, I was the kind of student who skated by on a sharp memory and a quick mind. With precious little effort, I had always been able to master my classes and bring home top grades.

And while that's a nice skill set, I was also well aware that college was likely to be a deeper pond in which I might not so successfully swim. What I learned from Mrs. Rose was that I was indeed capable of upping my game and meeting her lofty standards. Little did she know that instead of beating me down, her academic rigor gave me waves of confidence that swept me forward into college.

^ The idea of painting peasants at work in an orchard was a revolutionary and shocking idea in 19th century France. Go figure.

This one hung over my dorm room desk for four straight years.

^ Impressionist painters obsessed over the art of capturing reflected light on water.

I, for one, am glad for their obsessions.

2.  It's entirely possible to learn and have fun at the same time.

My shamelessly sassy and oh-so-smart friend, Jeff Miller, happened to attend the group with me. And I must say, we had a blast together. As we slogged through long afternoons of Madonna and Child slides in a darkened classroom, he would lean back over my desk and whisper improvised obrolan from the characters in the paintings. His impersonations of other, more serious students in our class were bang-on and snicker-inducing, And when Jeff was particularly feeling his oats, he would drop a pencil on the floor and while ducking down to pick it up, yell out our favorite nickname for our short and stout instructor; "Puaka!"

I know. Taken out of context, those antics sound janggal and adolescent. But there in the back of the classroom, our teenage selves would collapse into snorting giggles and find ourselves completely entertained with our outrageous wit.

Certainly, Mrs. Rose could sniff out troublemakers even in the dark, and she would retaliate by asking either Jeff or me a pointed question about whatever she had just said. Luckily, both of us had the ability to listen as we goofed off, and we compounded her anger with our flawless answers.

In the end, she gave us both As on our report cards. She had to. We killed every test and totally mastered her material. But she also gave us the lowest possible scores for our classroom behavior and contented herself with that punishment. I slow clap her to this very day for that frustrated and entirely futile comeback.

 ^ I've been lucky to see a handful of Van Goghs in my day, and they send shock waves through my soul. This old school work of Dutch tulip fields tells a more restrained color story than his later works, but I love it just the same.

This one also decorated my dorm rooms throughout my college career.

^ Up close, this is nothing but a mishmash of green lines and colored blobs. But take one step back, and the chaos transforms to a tranquil meadow in bloom.

3. Art is me.

During my childhood, like all children, I received endless messages, both mulut and nonverbal, about who I was and who I was not. In this way, my parents clearly informed me that I was a person of math and science, and perhaps music. But I was most definitely not an artist. Art, I gathered, did not run in our family, and my occasional requests to foray into that area were met with the message that I was not meant to live in the world of art.

But this art history group Alfred Sisley

Especially personal for me were the works of the Impressionists. I loved their landscapes, their still lifes and informal portraiture, their en plein air philosophy and game-changing focus on the beauty of the simple life. I carried that passion far beyond my high school classroom to this very day.

 ^ Impressionist painters typically used a color palette invoking fresh air, fresh flowers and fruits, and a fresh way of looking at the world. Rather than paint the table a single color, Cezanne opted to capture the many tones and hues created by the play of light across the wood.

^ Outdoor scenes often captured idyllic picnics in dappled shade. Painted hastily on easels, these compositions are perfect example of the Impressionists' preference for working out of doors.

These are the memories that danced through my mind as I wandered among the Degas and Pissarros, Monets and Renoirs. I am thankful, once again, for a strong-willed teacher whose determination to beat me down actually built me up in life-changing ways, inspired me to pursue a love of art, and made me very much the person I am today.

Thanks, Puaka!

^ Though the overall effect of this painting a bit dark and somber for a typical Impressionist work, the brush strokes in these oysters are classically loose and bold.

^ Just to be sure that we don't miss the Impressionists' vital sense of playful humor, consider this piece, entitled Mound of Butter.

* * * * *

The works shown are from the Intimate Impressionism exhibit:

The Races | Edgar Degas

George Moore in the Artist's Garden | Edouard Manet

Orchard in Bloom, Louveciennes | Camille Pissarro

Festival in the Harbor of Honfleur |Eugène Boudin

Flower Beds in Holland | Vincent Van Gogh

Meadow | Alfred Sisley

Still Life with Milk Jug and Fruit | Paul C ézanne

Table Set in a Garden | Pierre Bonnard

Oysters | Edouard Manet

Mound of Butter | Antoine Vollon

News Trend We Shall Overcome|Actual

source

We shall overcome

We shall overcome

We shall overcome someday

Oh, deep in my heart I do believe,

We shall overcome someday.

In honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's life and legacy, we sang this song in church today.

As the words unfurled from my tongue and the music swirled about the room, my mind's eye was transported back to the days when he was alive.

The Lord will see us through

The Lord will see us through

The Lord will see us through someday

Oh, deep in my heart I do believe

The Lord will see us through someday.

Though I was only a little girl, I intuitively grasped the issues of his work.

Decent men and women were upset that the world did not treat them fairly.

Just because they were black.

Some whites were upset about it too.

I recall seeing pictures of the marches in magazines and on television, and I was deeply touched by what I saw.

We'll walk hand in hand

We'll walk hand in hand

We'll walk hand in hand someday

Oh, deep in my heart I do believe

We'll walk hand in hand someday.

These people, some genteel in their formal coats and dress shoes and stylish hats.

Other wearing the plain simple clothes of working folks.

Calmly, serenely, they walked in steady streams.

The sound of their footsteps often punctuated by spiritual songs

As if they were coming home from a morning at church.

You would never guess they were fighting against evil.

But even as a tiny child, I knew they were.

We are not afraid We are not afraid

We are not afraid today

Oh, deep in my heart I do believe

We are not afraid today.

And today, though we still have a ways to go before we completely overcome the dark powers of racial inequality, the truth is that we have come a long, long way since the days of Dr. King.

But sometimes, I wonder if we have lost track of the truth that racism is a spiritual battle.

Dr. King knew that it was.

He invoked the power of the pulpit and prayer in his pursuit of peace.

His speeches convey the lilting cadence of God talk.

His Biblical references and spiritual imagery flow freely.

And sometimes, I wonder if we have forgotten that.

So today, on this day that celebrates the life of this courageous and remarkable man, I pray that we remember and lift up equality as not a political issue or an ugly argument about white privilege.

I pray that we remember what Dr. King taught us - that racism is evil, and only God can truly set us free from its wicked grasp.

And I pray that someday, we will indeed live in peace.

We shall live in peace

We shall live in peace

We shall live in peace someday

Oh, deep in my heart I do believe

We shall live in peace someday.

* * * * *

More reflections on this special man:

MLK Day Musings

News Trend Hidden Beauty|Actual

Sitting abandoned on the shelf at the thrift store, the object of my attention looked as battered and beaten down as Lord Voldemort's horcruxed soul.

It's alright, I told myself. I'll drill a hole in the bottom, fill it with dirt and use it as a planter. All those nicks and scratches will disappear behind a riotous display of rich, green leaves.

But on the ride home, this wooden bowl began to speak to me.

Look at my contours, she said. You don't see these kind of curves every day.

Check out my undulating grain patterns. To die for.

And you're right. I would make a lovely planter. But I could be so much more.

As I turned the bowl over in my hands, listening to her voice and imagining the possibilities, I caught a glimpse of a mark on the bottom

Sweden. And undecipherable words that surely must indicate the craftsman.

I'm not a label chaser, but that kind of insignia usually marks an item made with quality and care.

We took a detour to pick up sanding pads and finishing oils.

After ten minutes of sanding and a quick rub-down with mineral oil, all of the scratches, dings and dents had disappeared and my bowl's transformation was complete.

As I proudly displayed my newfound treasure, each of my daughters has asked me, "What are you going to do with it?"

I'm not entirely sure.

But for now, it's more than enough to set my wooden bowl out on the table, where I can see it every day and be reminded now important it is to look beyond the superficial flaws of life to see the hidden beauty that lies underneath.

News Trend Life As A Math Teacher: My Hero|Actual

If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.

- Issac Newton

Once upon a time, there was a boy named John.

I know. Not an exciting start to the story. Please bear with me.

Even though he was a simple boy from a small town in the deep south, John had a big dream.

He hoped to become an Air Force fighter pilot.

As dreams go, that one is about as finely tuned and high-reaching as they come.

But guess what. Against all odds, John made his dream come true. Eventually, he flew 55 missions in a B-26 Night Intruder during the Korean war, worked as a test pilot at Edwards Air Force Base from 1957 to 1962, and later served in Vietnam. Bucket list item most definitely ticked.

When John retired from the Air Force, he established a quiet life in Norman, Oklahoma and thought about what to do next. And as he pondered his options, his thoughts kept circling round and drifting back to the circumstances of his own satisfying life, and this is what really captivated his mind:

I achieved my life's dreams because of math. I could never have made it as a pilot without my engineering degrees, and I would have not succeeded as an engineering student if not for my strong background in high school math.

And with that sentiment, John dedicated the remaining decades of his life to helping high schoolers build math skills that would allow them to make their own dreams come true. He developed a revolutionary math curriculum uniquely built for success, and spent years as an outspoken advocate for a return to strong, unsullied math education in American high schools.

Source

In case you don't know, this man's name is John H. Saxon Sr.

And he is my hero.

Honestly, I get choked up l every time I ponder his genuine heart, deep wisdom and powerful educational vision.

I am a passionate proponent of his methods and his materials. They work. Every student who makes an effort to follow the Saxon program will succeed - I've seen it happen a hundred times. In fact, I would never teach students using any other curriculum.

John Saxon is the best.

Even though Mr. Saxon died in 1997, after a long, rich and rewarding life and just a few years before I began teaching algebra to high school students, I like to think we are kindred spirits.

Just ask my students. I speak his name pretty much every day in our lessons, invoking his wisdom and channeling his encouragement. I like to think he's sitting alongside of us,

doling out distance problems about girls who hike to Lake Tenkiller and ride back with Mr. Ali,

insisting that a good first step is to isolate our radicals,

and reminding us to always, always draw the diagram first as an aid to problem-solving.

And while I humbly acknowledge that I bring my own gift for teaching to the table, my success as a high school math teacher has been accomplished by standing on the shoulders of this math education giant, John Saxon

* * * * *

Read more stories about my life as a math teacher:

Social Distancing

Playing With A Full Deck

The (Math) Joke's On Me

Sharing Life

Little Brothers

Sweet Inspiration

My Hero

What I Do

Number 15

Christmas Edition

tiga.1415926

Buy It And Burn It

In Honor Of James K. Polk

House Tours

My Deep Gladness

Isolating The Radical

By The Numbers

Teaching My Own: High School Art And Algebra

News Trend Beauty's Where You Find It|Actual

Beauty has been on my mind lately.

* * * * *

I know of two women who died this week.

Both were considered beautiful by cultural standards - wide eyes, big smiles and slim stature - both were still young and at the height of their physical power.

One was cut down in a moment - she died an accidental death with her beauty intact.

The other wasted away at the hands of cancer, and was worn to a mere thread of her former glory by the time she blessedly passed.

And while it may seem natural to pity the woman who suffered before she died, I can't help but believe that her illness brought out a kind of beauty that runs far deeper than symmetrical facial features and silky hair. I've seen a few photos of her last days and rather than being repulsed by her sunken eyes, bald head and skeletal frame, I see a deeper, transcendent beauty in her eyes that expands my definition of what it means to be beautiful.

* * * * *

I was raised by a woman who never spoke of beauty.

To the best of my memory, my mother didn't talk about my looks. She might have mentioned that my dress looked nice or she liked my new haircut. But she never told me that I was cute or pretty or beautiful, even though I'm sure she thought I was. So I grew up assuming there was something wrong with the way I looked. Maybe I wasn't straight-up ugly but certainly I must be unattractive or at least plain.

Once I survived the turbulence of adolescence and got myself settled into young adulthood, I realized my looks were fine. But it wasn't until I hit my late twenties that I pieced together the reasons for my mom's inability to compliment me..

My mom never thought of herself as beautiful. She hated the way she looked.

And her mother before her carried the same shame.

I was born to a line of women who could not see their own beauty and could not speak of the beauty of their own flesh and blood. Feeling sadness and pity for their pain, I decided that I would be the generation to break that chain. I choose to see beauty in myself and my daughters, as well as my mother and grandmother.

* * * * *

Here in the Pacific Northwest, spring is quietly tiptoeing in. Though I always look forward to the dazzling cherry trees of mid-April and the exuberant peony season of late May, these early days of the new season are dearest to my heart.

One bold daffodil pushing up out of the earth.

Small bumps of leaf buds swelling the tips of tree branches.

Fresh rain that falls not with the icy chill of winter but the sweet promise of warmer days to come.

There is beauty not just in the lush celebration of spring but also first hints of new life.

* * * * *

Ranger's been feeling much better this week. After his attack and some serious injuries to his unfortunate tumors, his heart also needed some time to mend. Quiet and withdrawn for the first few days, he has bounced back nicely. Once again, with twinkly eyes and sassy stomping feet, he began reminding me of our daily walk time just like always. My handsome Irishman seemed to be back on track.

Until I put him into the car. Nine days after the attack, I took Ranger out to the garage. I opened the side door of the van and he readily hopped up. But instead of settling into the middle seat as he has done all his life - and where he sat on that horrible ride to the emergency clinic - he took an odd detour to the far back seat. And within a heartbeat, he let loose with the most unholy noise I've ever heard him make.

My fourth-born described it as a screaming seal. I recognized it as pure primal distress.

Ranger let out a series of maybe ten such yelps before I could get my hands on him to pet and soothe. Once I stroked him for a few seconds, he seemed calmer so I turned around to settle myself into the middle seat. The cries started up again, just as heart-wrenching as before.

This time, I used one hand to rub the closest fluffy red ear while I pulled on his leash to guide him off the back seat, up to the middle seat, and onto my lap. My trembling boy climbed up willingly and settled himself across my legs where he stayed, quiet and calm, for the rest of our drive.

My guess is that sitting inside the car reminded Ranger of his harrowing trip to the emergency vet. Maybe he was actually remembering my anxiety rather than his own pain but there's no doubt that Ranger experienced an ugly recollection when he found himself back in that car. And nothing but my physical contact could soothe his anguish and restore his peace.

The ugly scars on my dog's body are slowly healing. And likewise, I see that in the hurt places of his soul, a beautiful new trust in me has grown to fill in the wounds.

* * * * *

My final word on beauty goes to Madonna.

Two months after my first daughter was born, at a time when my postpartum self felt dreamily happy but not particularly beautiful, I danced before an audience for the first and only time (so far) in my life. The song was Madonna's Vogue and for our performance, the six of us were encouraged to go all out with dramatic hair and make-up. Holding nothing back, I smoldered my eyes in smoky shadow, lengthened my lashes with impossible layers of mascara, and let loose my usual pony-tailed hair into a long curly mane.

I was transformed.

I danced with wild abandon.

And I felt insanely beautiful.

To this day, every time I hear that song, the lyrics speak truth into my soul once again.

Beauty's where you find it.

News Trend Decorating Advice|Actual

^ This room has seen more trades over the last two months than New York Stock Exchange.

^ The art over the fireplace was recently kicked out of my bedroom and needed a big place to live.

^ Overgrowing its home in the family room, the philodendron in its jute basket got dumped on this table last weekend.

^Trusty old standards, the natural canvas pillows have been a fixture in this room forever.

The botanical bird pillows have been drifting around the house for years, never quite finding a place to belong.

I've been thinking about buying these black and white IKEA Stockholm pillows forever, and when I saw they were about to go out of stock, finally succumbed to the urge. Once I got them in the house, I realized I had no idea where to use them, so I just dropped them down on the couch for the time being.

^ The line-up of  plants against the window has shifted and changed all winter long, as healthy specimens are carried off to other corners of the house, and sun-starved sicklings are brought in to recuperate.

* * * * *

The best decorating advice I've ever heard is this:

Don't worry about trying to buy things that match. Just buy what you love and trust that all your pieces will effortlessly flow into a cohesive look.

My living room has surprised me as a perfect case in point. Since stripping away the Christmas cheer, this space has been left to flounder. I've raided most of the colorful pieces for other rooms and used this room as a dumping ground for other homeless objects. Basically, it's been a catchall junkyard for things I like but don't quite know what to do with.

Imagine my astonishment when running up the stairs yesterday with an armload of laundry, I glanced into the room and noticed not a cacophony of castoffs but a symphony of style. Somehow, all the secara acak odds and ends have come together and I, for one, am digging the look.

Buy what you love. Trust in the flow.

I don't put much stock in most decorating advice, but believe me, this trick of the trade is right on.

News Trend Life As A Math Teacher: Sweet Inspiration|Actual

When I'm working with my students, marching through math lessons together during the morning and early afternoon hours of my day, my brain is totally focused.

Normally one to have a thousand thoughts dancing through my head, my algebra-teacher brain singularly zones in on such scrumptious topics as inverse variations. Rationalized denominators, and quadratic equations. Nothing distracts me from my numbers.

Well. Normally, that is true. But today proved an exception

Today, as I was seated at the dining room table in my student's home, I looked over at her face to see if she was getting my instruction. Inadvertently, I glanced over her shoulder to take in the scene behind her.

And BOOM. My head exploded.

Painted a pale shade of grey and offset by the grey-green walls, this adorable piece grounds a grouping of light neutrals and projects a calm, soothing authority.

This lovely grey cupboard - which I've passed by literally hundreds of times on my way in and out of the house - suddenly spoke to me.

"I just might be the answer to your family room decorating dilemma," she said. "If you painted your pine TV cupboard a serene shade of light grey like me, you could cut back on the number of competing natural wood surfaces in that room, bring more light into a dark corner, and refresh an old piece of furniture all at the same time."

Accessorized with metal geometrics and white twinkle lights, this cupboard and I already speak the same language. I wonder if she can simplify square roots?

Hmm. Duly noted, cute cupboard. You have given me a lot to think about and I appreciate your sweet inspiration.

And then, gathering up my composure and laying these thoughts aside for another time, I went back to factoring trinomials.

* * * * *

Read more stories about my life as a math teacher:

Social Distancing

Playing With A Full Deck

The (Math) Joke's On Me

Sharing Life

Little Brothers

Sweet Inspiration

My Hero

What I Do

Number 15

Christmas Edition

3.1415926

Buy It And Burn It

In Honor Of James K. Polk

House Tours

My Deep Gladness

Isolating The Radical

By The Numbers

Teaching My Own: High School Art And Algebra

News Trend Finals Week|Actual

During my college dayzz, I lived in the dorm for eight quarters.

And each and every one of those quarters, during finals week, usually around midnight on Monday night, a male voice would ring out from one of the upper floors and bounce around the courtyard for all to hear:

"I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!!!"

I never figured out who he was. But he yelled that phrase, word for word, quarter after quarter, just like clockwork.

I really loved that guy.

He was quoting the movie, Network. Watch this clip and maybe, on behalf of stressed-out college students everywhere who are cramming for finals this week, you'll get up from your chair, run to your window, open it up, stick out your head, and yell that legendary phrase.

Listen carefully, and you might just hear me yelling too.

News Trend Feeling Good And Sassy|Actual

Ranger has always been allowed to sleep on our bed, with certain caveats.

No pillow sharing. Ranger's place is at the foot of the bed, and he's fine with that.

No monopolizing the blankets. In fact, Ranger doesn't like our fuzzy comforter so he lies only on this sheet that I so generously provided for his comfort.

All in all, Ranger is a very agreeable bedfellow and has warmed my toes on many a chilly night. On days when I must get up early, though, he is a terrible influence and has often caused me to be late.

In the three weeks since he was attacked and injured by another dog, Ranger's life has gone right back to normal.

Oh, well, certainly the first few days were a bit rough, but since then:

His cheerful and bouncy disposition is back in full force.

His wounds have healed far better than the vets predicted.

And after going silent for most of that first post-accident week, his automatic time-for-my-walk! Alarm system is fully functioning once again.

For the most part, Ranger has returned smack dab to his old schedule, and much to our amusement, refuses to recognize a few needed changes to his routine.

Case in point: for the last decade, Ranger has taken two pills at bedtime, rolled up into balls of cheddar cheese. His clever nose demands that we create a third, empty cheese ball as a decoy; rather than give him time to sniff round the first two and possibly pick out the pills (which he did a dozen times before we got wise), we hold that blank ball out for last so he will gulp down the medicine-filled cheese balls in his hurry to get them all.

Since the accident, we've been giving him two extra pills at bedtime - a dose of antibiotics that was first prescribed to ward off infection from the dog bites but now seems to be keeping his skin healed and healthy.

Which means that Ranger now gets five - five! - cheese balls at bedtime each night.

However, creature of habit that he is, he often turns and walks out of the kitchen after three cheese balls, oblivious to the two remaining tidbits awaiting him on the counter. Takes a fair amount of prompting to coax him back in to finish the party.

Once he remembers the drill, Ranger is more than happy to eat the last two treats.

The simple face is that he is used to three cheese balls. Not five. And the old habit is still firm in his sweet red noggin.

* * * * *

But just as he refuses to adapt to some changes to his regime, my boy has learned some new tricks all on his own.

Here's the one that's really got me up in arms.

Ranger no longer tolerates my late-night work sessions.

Before the accident, he would stay downstairs with me and snooze nearby as I typed and scrolled till two or three a.M., moving from the couch to the floor under my desk and back again. Always patiently did he wait for me to finish up, and when I turned off the lights and called to him, he would groggily rise to his feet and clamber up the stairs to the bedroom where he slept all night long.

But no more.

Now, around midnight, when the rest of the family migrates up the stairs toward bed, Ranger comes in to find me at the computer and begins a barrage of barking and whining noises calibrated to wake the dead. Utterly inconsolable, he pauses for nothing but the occasional drink of water until he gets what he wants.

And what he wants is for me to snap off the lights, close down the computer, and head upstairs.

Honestly, my best guess is that he wants to fall into his deep sleep for the night without having to worry about my movements.

But the bottom line is that my ornery dog is now telling me when to go to bed.

Not exactly sure how I feel about his headstrong ways. But it's nice to know that my boy, Ranger, is feeling good and sassy again.

News Trend The Great Seattle Graffiti Wall|Actual

During the photo-posting extravaganza that was my fourth-born's golden birthday celebration, I came across this shot of my then-fifteen-year-old, impersonating a T in front of an amazing wall of graffiti.

Memories quickly came rolling in as I recalled the day that I went by myself in pursuit of this legendary place.

Yes, my daughters accompanied me on my second trip to the wall, but the first trip was a solo run. When they heard that I was going alone to explore the back side of a warehouse in a gritty city neighborhood, they all questioned my sanity. But when they saw the photos and heard the amazing story that I brought home, the only question on their minds was whether we could go back the next day.

Those photos of mine popped right up on on my Facebook laman, where I shared them as part of an ongoing digital tour of Seattle, undertaken to give my Malaysian friends a first-had look at my city. Here are my favorite excerpts from that album, along with the original captions from July 20, 2009:

^ so one day nasir and i were talking about street art and graffiti, and it got me to thinking about this place i'd heard of, called the great seattle graffiti wall.

The story goes that down in the industrial part of seattle, the owners of a warehouse decided to allow graffiti on their building...And that it was a pretty amazing thing to see.

So today i decided to go see for myself. I found the front of the warehouse, painted ugly grey...But as i walked toward the back, i saw this wrting on the building and knew i was in the right place.

Smile emoticon

^ this is the full view of the back of the warehouse. the art literally covers every bit of the building that you can see from this shot. it was such a blast of energy and color...i couldn't believe my eyes.

^ i took some shots of the building, just to help you get oriented. then i went crazy on close-ups.

^ from this shot, you can get an idea of how there are just layers and layers of designs.

^ "Paint runnin in my veins - like a vet staring at trains.

And then, this happened:

^ ok this pic has a very special story that goes with it. I already told it to nur bahiyah so she will help me tell it to you:

streicher.Diane: so i was at this graffiti wall today, right?

Streicher.Diane: i was alone behind this warehouse

streicher.Diane: near railroad tracks

streicher.Diane: no one around

Nur Bahiyah: yeah

streicher.Diane: but a man sitting in like a big SUV

streicher.Diane: it was kinda freaky but i just walked along and took all my pics

streicher.Diane: and i hear a voice saying...Hey, lady

streicher.Diane: which, first of all, let me say... LOLZ

streicher.Diane: 'lad'?

Streicher.Diane: 'lady'*?

Streicher.Diane: that just makes me laugh

streicher.Diane: but anyway i turn around, and this gangsta ish man is walking over to me

streicher.Diane: crap

Nur Bahiyah: oh god

Nur Bahiyah: then

streicher.Diane: i say, yes?

Streicher.Diane: and he says, why are you taking pictures

streicher.Diane: and i said cuz i think its really cool

streicher.Diane: he is standing by me now

streicher.Diane: and he says, wait here

streicher.Diane: and he starts walking back to his truck

streicher.Diane: im like...Oh shoot, hes gonna get me

streicher.Diane: but he takes a bag out of the back

Nur Bahiyah:

Nur Bahiyah: what is in the bag?

Streicher.Diane: and i realize right away that its a bag of spray paint can

Nur Bahiyah: pictures?

Streicher.Diane: cans*

Nur Bahiyah: ohh ok ok

streicher.Diane: and he says....Im gonna teach you how to paint

streicher.Diane: hehehehehehehe

Nur Bahiyah:

Nur Bahiyah: thats cool

streicher.Diane: it was AWESOME

Nur Bahiyah: so you learn how to paint it eh?

Streicher.Diane: yes

streicher.Diane: he was gonna write my name for me

streicher.Diane: but he only got the D finished and he had to leave

streicher.Diane: but he told me to buy some paint and come back

streicher.Diane: he wants to see my name on that wall

Nur Bahiyah: have u take the D's picture?

Streicher.Diane: of course

* * * * *

So that is the story of how I learned to paint graffiti from a straight-up Escalade-driving g at the Great Seattle Graffiti Wall. And while I do not expect to ever top that experience in my whole entire life, I must say that the next day's visit, with two of my daughters and one splendid niece, was pretty darn special too.