It's the end of another week-long family Christmas, and tomorrow I head home for a week of grading essays so I can wrap up 1st semester grades by the 11th. I always wonder how many people have Christmas weeks similar to our family's, a thick, messy mixture of projects, meals-in-shifts, contrasting agendas, rowdy games, and at least a little drama. Usually, at least one story evolves that will live an unnaturally long life, much to the dismay of the person at the center of it, "it" almost always being a joke. If this yearly get-together were a soup, it would be jambalaya: a bizarre mixture of stuff that would seem unrelated, but generally works together. Like jambalaya, it's not for everyone. Like jambalaya, it's got a little kick. Like jambalaya, you have to be careful with your ingredients, or you might get more than you bargained for.
Dad's agendas are the spice in the stew. They rule the time we have together, and his agendas are driven by time and weather. This Christmas Eve, he spent the biggest portion of the day freaking out and trying to get everything in order in case we got the blizzard-like weather that was predicted. He, my brother, and his boy Chris readied a tractor and a Bobcat to be able to move snow that we all, frankly, were praying for. With most of the ponds on the place completely dry, any moisture would be a blessing; our only concern was for my sister and her family, traveling back home from her in-law's place in Texas. Of course, we didn't need to prepare---no one saw a flake of snow. But that didn't mean Dad ran out of projects. There's always equipment for my brother to work on, cattle for my sister and her husband to tend to, and citrus business for mom. This year's special project was to get the hot tub out of the basement; the two-year drought has caused the house that I always thought indestructible to settle so much that the basement's concrete walls are cracking, and the hot tub only made it worse. It took an act of Congress, seven members of our family and a neighbor, and removing a patio door to get it out, but it's done and loaded to go to South Texas when Mom and Dad head back to the grove in a few days. This sort of thing isn't even unusual. Our parents have spent the better part of the spring through the fall building an apartment to stay in when they're here, which is about six or seven months a year. Whoever came around, Dad generally enlisted their aid for some part of the project. This in no way implies that he pawns things off on people. I have never known, and will never know, a harder worker, even though he 73 and in so much pain from arthritis and a hard ranching life. In our jambalaya, he is unmistakable, a little much, an acquired taste---and as necessary as water is to life. Dad keeps everything bubbling by hopping around fanning the flames, making sure everyone is moving.
If he is the spice, Mom is surely the substance. She's earthy and comforting, the veggies that balance the spice. And she. does. it. all. Running errands, prepping meals, doing chores (both inside and outside), watching kids, and running a citrus business that would, by itself, be more than most people would want to take on, from customer calls to bagging and delivering fruit: she's a world wonder. I can't even try to keep up with her, but I try to be at least a little like her. Like the veggies, she tries to keep everyone's perspective healthy throughout the days together, to smooth over a little extra sting here, to give the weaker portions more substance there. If she feels her role is diminished, she doesn't complain of it, any more than those sustaining substances do. I can't imagine our family gumbo without her.
The adult children---my brother and sister, their spouses, and I---could be considered the roux that binds it all. We each have our parts we play: brother the reserved, sarcastic wit; sister the dramatic, high-energy, obsessively neat hostess; I the non-ingredient that works with everyone. I don't get to see enough of either of them, since they're often at the helm of a big project, and I am only working in the house from time to time, usually cooking or taking care of a kid or three. When we do sit down to talk, we're much more civilized than we used to be---we seem to be silently preparing ourselves and each other, because we know that the more time passes, the closer we inch toward the cataclysmic day when we must rely only on each other as heads of our family. I don't know if we'll have anything even similar to the same consistency when that day comes, but we're keeping the recipe on file.
And lastly, the six grandchildren---what part do they play in our jambalaya? Oh, of course, the meats, the true nourishment, the tidbits we search for and don't want to do without, for they are the true flavor. Chris, the oldest at 21, is just starting out to become his own man, and yet is so much like both his dad and his papa, such a hard worker blessed with common sense. Nolan and Logan, 18, brilliant, funny, and talented, but both are distinct individuals. Emeri, now 10, came to us at 6 and brought an immediate joy to our lives with her loving personality and exuberant ways. Katie was the first girl grandchild, born eight years ago with a personality as big and ever-changing as the South Dakota sky that nourished her. Little Allie, just a year old, her father's miniature in person, her mother's miniature in personality---she's the last dash of pepper that finishes off our gumbo-like family holiday.
No doubt there are a lot more elegant things to compare one's family time to, but not one occurs to me right now that represents our clan so well. It is NOT for the faint of heart. It never turns out the same way twice. I don't know if any other families are crazy enough to deliberately set out to spend just a little too much time together. But I do know they are missing out if they don't. And here's the oddest bit: I don't even like jambalaya or any form of Cajun gumbo. Spiritually, I would starve, though, without a Welker Christmas week cooking up at the end of each year, sending me fortified into the next year, knowing I make sense with at least one recipe out there, that I'm as necessary as the other 12 ingredients for it all to come together.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Your Holiday Field Report
Dateline: 12/22/12, 23:00 hours; This, the Holiday Season
Location: Embedded in the 'burbs; top secret designation
Reporter shellshocked from doing all gift shopping between 12/17 and 12/21; blames school administration for imprisoning faculty with adrenaline- and fudge-fueled teenagers until mere moments before Santa is scheduled to land in not-very-Green Country.
Yesterday was biggest shopping day planned. Plan goes south when reporter finds suspected gates of Hell hidden in a vortex at 61st and Mingo. Billions of vehicles circle the intersection, making random turns and reversing paths to escape the swirl and then complete stoppage of traffic in every direction. After 45 minutes, reporter is pulled from the whirlpool by a smoking, wheezing Toyota of indeterminate age, who allowed her to pull in to traffic ahead and return to the east, following that Holy Star, the shining beacon of economic prosperity, the radiant blue, gold, and white of the Wal-Mart Supercenter sign. Remaining gifts must come from this great Asian marketplace, purveyors of everything Sam Walton despised.
Zombified shoppers, driven by the tick-tick-tick of the clock counting down the hours of the last workday before the holiday, shuffle through the aisles pushing carts laden with toys, trinkets, and enough paper goods to host a national disaster. Entering grocery section only slightly less ambitious than storming the beaches at Normandy. Expecting medal ceremony to be announced shortly.
Random forays into baking aisle provide enough candy-making supplies to complete usual projects. However, reporter and various others discover covert action has removed ALL raw peanuts from this site. Roaming bands of would-be brittle-making grandma types seek even one lone raw Spanish goober, but fail. Will continue to search for materials at Atwoods, where gift idea for reporter's father will, with any luck, conk her in the noggin and knock her out until all the work of the next few days is done.
Return to base at 2000 hours, earliest all week, allowing one fudge-making session before reporter collapses in preparation for today's heat of laundry, phone calls, cooking, dishes, more candy-making, and prep for leaving two bored teenage cats alone for the week. More behind than ever and too tired to worry about it. Santa should be this busy. Reporter will pray for elves and angels to finish up and pack while she attends church in the a.m. in hopes of some time to just sit still.
Time for reflection of joy and memory making with family scheduled to begin at 1800 hours, Christmas Eve. Until next holiday season, then, readers, make much of your merriment and
enjoy your people. And stay away from 61st and Mingo if you value your mortal soul.
Location: Embedded in the 'burbs; top secret designation
Reporter shellshocked from doing all gift shopping between 12/17 and 12/21; blames school administration for imprisoning faculty with adrenaline- and fudge-fueled teenagers until mere moments before Santa is scheduled to land in not-very-Green Country.
Yesterday was biggest shopping day planned. Plan goes south when reporter finds suspected gates of Hell hidden in a vortex at 61st and Mingo. Billions of vehicles circle the intersection, making random turns and reversing paths to escape the swirl and then complete stoppage of traffic in every direction. After 45 minutes, reporter is pulled from the whirlpool by a smoking, wheezing Toyota of indeterminate age, who allowed her to pull in to traffic ahead and return to the east, following that Holy Star, the shining beacon of economic prosperity, the radiant blue, gold, and white of the Wal-Mart Supercenter sign. Remaining gifts must come from this great Asian marketplace, purveyors of everything Sam Walton despised.
Zombified shoppers, driven by the tick-tick-tick of the clock counting down the hours of the last workday before the holiday, shuffle through the aisles pushing carts laden with toys, trinkets, and enough paper goods to host a national disaster. Entering grocery section only slightly less ambitious than storming the beaches at Normandy. Expecting medal ceremony to be announced shortly.
Random forays into baking aisle provide enough candy-making supplies to complete usual projects. However, reporter and various others discover covert action has removed ALL raw peanuts from this site. Roaming bands of would-be brittle-making grandma types seek even one lone raw Spanish goober, but fail. Will continue to search for materials at Atwoods, where gift idea for reporter's father will, with any luck, conk her in the noggin and knock her out until all the work of the next few days is done.
Return to base at 2000 hours, earliest all week, allowing one fudge-making session before reporter collapses in preparation for today's heat of laundry, phone calls, cooking, dishes, more candy-making, and prep for leaving two bored teenage cats alone for the week. More behind than ever and too tired to worry about it. Santa should be this busy. Reporter will pray for elves and angels to finish up and pack while she attends church in the a.m. in hopes of some time to just sit still.
Time for reflection of joy and memory making with family scheduled to begin at 1800 hours, Christmas Eve. Until next holiday season, then, readers, make much of your merriment and
enjoy your people. And stay away from 61st and Mingo if you value your mortal soul.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
There with Them
I am more than a passing fan of words. They are my children and my currency, the only lasting things I can leave to the world, the only power I can wield. Yet there is a time when there are no words, none that can do justice. We call that time "unspeakable" not figuratively, but literally. For what can be said to explain or justify the horror of 20 murdered children? What consolation and encouragement could possibly assuage the grief of the families of the children and the teachers who died with them? Never would I presume to know what those loved ones feel, so how can I offer words as a balm to their souls?
No, tonight I write for me and for you, because you know who I am. You know me, or your child knows me---the great majority of my friends who read this are those I've gained because I am a teacher. That profession is the only thing that gives me authority to speak here.
The classroom has been my wheelhouse all my adult life, going on 27 years. It is the only place where I feel supremely comfortable and confident. I spend more waking hours there than in my own home and take a corresponding pride in it. So it only makes sense that I want my students to feel that way as well. Parents, too, should rest easy that their children are welcomed into a clean, safe environment in every classroom in this country. But at moments such as yesterday in Connecticut, many members of society lose hope that schools can ever be anything like comfortable, clean, and peaceful ever again, let alone safe.
I assure you they are; they are all those things because a teacher wills it so. A teacher makes it happen there with students with a resourcefulness few can match.
A teacher is there early to start the day smoothly by being prepared and visible and available to her students.
A teacher is there consistently to observe everything that is taking place.
A teacher is there to ensure that things are placed appropriately and put away so no one can injure himself.
A teacher is there to enrapture a crowd with examples, stories, and explanations that make even the driest of subjects sparkle and sing.
A teacher is there to know who is normally in the building so that strangers may stand out.
A teacher is there to greet his students with a smile or a kind word as they arrive.
A teacher is there to commiserate over a skinned knee, a sprained wrist, a broken heart.
A teacher is there to discipline her students so that they may do better.
A teacher is there to sacrifice his own time if a child needs tutoring before or after school.
A teacher is there to love even the most unlikable child.
A teacher is there to think and act quickly for his students' best interest.
A teacher is there....always....to take the fall, take the responsibility, take the high road, take the time.
A teacher is there---never doubt it---to take the bullet.
No matter where you are tonight, friend, know that every single person in this country represents any number of schools who got it right. Multiply that by the numbers of good teachers they might have had who represent the qualities above, and the numbers grow exponentially larger. The children of this country are as safe at school as they are nearly anywhere else. You can still take comfort in that, even as we grieve with our fellow citizens.
No, tonight I write for me and for you, because you know who I am. You know me, or your child knows me---the great majority of my friends who read this are those I've gained because I am a teacher. That profession is the only thing that gives me authority to speak here.
The classroom has been my wheelhouse all my adult life, going on 27 years. It is the only place where I feel supremely comfortable and confident. I spend more waking hours there than in my own home and take a corresponding pride in it. So it only makes sense that I want my students to feel that way as well. Parents, too, should rest easy that their children are welcomed into a clean, safe environment in every classroom in this country. But at moments such as yesterday in Connecticut, many members of society lose hope that schools can ever be anything like comfortable, clean, and peaceful ever again, let alone safe.
I assure you they are; they are all those things because a teacher wills it so. A teacher makes it happen there with students with a resourcefulness few can match.
A teacher is there early to start the day smoothly by being prepared and visible and available to her students.
A teacher is there consistently to observe everything that is taking place.
A teacher is there to ensure that things are placed appropriately and put away so no one can injure himself.
A teacher is there to enrapture a crowd with examples, stories, and explanations that make even the driest of subjects sparkle and sing.
A teacher is there to know who is normally in the building so that strangers may stand out.
A teacher is there to greet his students with a smile or a kind word as they arrive.
A teacher is there to commiserate over a skinned knee, a sprained wrist, a broken heart.
A teacher is there to discipline her students so that they may do better.
A teacher is there to sacrifice his own time if a child needs tutoring before or after school.
A teacher is there to love even the most unlikable child.
A teacher is there to think and act quickly for his students' best interest.
A teacher is there....always....to take the fall, take the responsibility, take the high road, take the time.
A teacher is there---never doubt it---to take the bullet.
No matter where you are tonight, friend, know that every single person in this country represents any number of schools who got it right. Multiply that by the numbers of good teachers they might have had who represent the qualities above, and the numbers grow exponentially larger. The children of this country are as safe at school as they are nearly anywhere else. You can still take comfort in that, even as we grieve with our fellow citizens.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Conversations with God
The Muses, it seems, decided not to bless me this evening. I wrote four painful paragraphs of blah before deciding that topic wasn't going to work out. That brought me to this crossroads of 10:12 p.m. and nothing cohesive in mind for a full blog. What to do, what to do? Ah, this: I have a running, changing list of questions I plan on asking the Big Guy when I get to heaven. I bet you do, too, readers. Here's a sampling of my intended conversation starters with God:
Wasn't it possible to make broccoli taste like chocolate cake and cooked spinach as creamy as Edy's ice cream? Couldn't fish have been as appetizing as pizza?
Why spiders? Why TICKS?! What were you thinking!?!
What's the timeline on finding cures for cancer and diabetes? I have more than a few horses in this race, and I'd sure like to get a hot tip on this one.
Am I completely justified in hating hot weather? Doesn't that just say that I have an instinctive understanding of why to turn away from hell?
Other than having to flood the earth to start over and all, what's your worst mistake?
I know you have a great sense of humor. Who's your favorite comedian?
What's your thinking on separation of church and state, just for the record?
Are the special-needs people in the world the normal ones, and the rest of us the special ones? They sure seem to have the better outlook on life, and much better dispositions. Or, possibly, are they the angels?
Who you feel more leniency toward, the Christians who have mistaken passing judgement on their brothers for Godliness, or the Christians who don't work hard enough at calling others out over their sins?
Do things like the current Mayan end-of-days craze piss you off, or do you just wave it off as another of man's daily foibles?
Don't you occasionally get tired of the incessant prayer requests and just turn off the line for a while, or do you hand it over to Michael or Gabriel? Someone should invent an app for that.
And right now, the question uppermost in my mind: will inspiration return to me in time for next week's work here? Please? Just a tiny bit of supplication while I have your ear.
I sure hope it does. And even more, I hope God really does have that excellent sense of humor, or I may be in a little hot water here.
Wasn't it possible to make broccoli taste like chocolate cake and cooked spinach as creamy as Edy's ice cream? Couldn't fish have been as appetizing as pizza?
Why spiders? Why TICKS?! What were you thinking!?!
What's the timeline on finding cures for cancer and diabetes? I have more than a few horses in this race, and I'd sure like to get a hot tip on this one.
Am I completely justified in hating hot weather? Doesn't that just say that I have an instinctive understanding of why to turn away from hell?
Other than having to flood the earth to start over and all, what's your worst mistake?
I know you have a great sense of humor. Who's your favorite comedian?
What's your thinking on separation of church and state, just for the record?
Are the special-needs people in the world the normal ones, and the rest of us the special ones? They sure seem to have the better outlook on life, and much better dispositions. Or, possibly, are they the angels?
Who you feel more leniency toward, the Christians who have mistaken passing judgement on their brothers for Godliness, or the Christians who don't work hard enough at calling others out over their sins?
Do things like the current Mayan end-of-days craze piss you off, or do you just wave it off as another of man's daily foibles?
Don't you occasionally get tired of the incessant prayer requests and just turn off the line for a while, or do you hand it over to Michael or Gabriel? Someone should invent an app for that.
And right now, the question uppermost in my mind: will inspiration return to me in time for next week's work here? Please? Just a tiny bit of supplication while I have your ear.
I sure hope it does. And even more, I hope God really does have that excellent sense of humor, or I may be in a little hot water here.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
What's Your Sign?
Last night I stayed in the pool after our usual deep-water aerobics class was over to do some extra strength training. It was fairly quiet, since it was Friday evening and the weather had been nice; there was just one woman there with three little ones in the shallowest quarter of the pool. After a very irritating day, a good workout in the almost-too-warm water had left me feeling energized but too relaxed to get right out and drive home. It all made for the perfect circumstances to spend a little longer working on getting stronger.
I kept to the opposite end from the family, close to the swim lanes, next to those odd little diver's blocks that the competitive swimmers use. Working with weights and foam noodles in the water requires an odd bit of concentration for me. Though I am still relatively flexible, I'm neither athletic nor graceful, so I find myself staring unseeing at some focal point while I "fix" the move in my mind. Once I have it down, I snap back to reality and sometimes surprise myself with what I've been looking at or thinking about. Something like that happened last night. With noodles on each foot, I set myself into cross-country mode; I like this move and will keep up with it as long as I can keep the noodles down. It only took a moment to get going, and click! I realized I was looking at my own name up on the wall, on a white board with the other names of the swim team, their best times in each style, and the training instructions.
But no, it wasn't quite my name: "Cathy W." is what I saw, but why? There were probably 25 kids' names there, in very small writing on a huge chart, all done in the same blue Expo marker. Why had I seen my own name out of everything else on that board? In fact, why had that same kind of thing happened over and over? I know, readers, that you've had a very similar experience---you're driving down an unfamiliar road and see your nickname on a place of business or a billboard; you come across your full name unexpectedly in a book or newspaper; you do a double- or triple-take thinking someone has called out to you in a busy mall or stadium or theater. Each time, there's a little thrum of anticipation across the top of your brain, as though the universe has just casually but clearly recognized your existence, no matter how briefly. Validation: this name has meaning and power and purpose in the world.
In our frappaccinoed/blendered/technologized society, we've added on to these purposeful, simple monikers a selection of pictographs that are meant to represent us with little or no words even necessary. Check your name at the door; just show us your icon or a tagline. We only have to look at the popularity of tattoos to see how prevalent the idea is. This icon phenomenon worries me somewhat. Could it mean we're evolving backward, back to the hieroglyphics used by ancient man, before written or even spoken language? Most of the time, though, I'm like most people---it's just fun to think of alter egos, pseudonyms, pictures, and cartoons to stand in for us when we'd rather remain to some degree, a little or a lot, more anonymous.
If you'd asked me what represented me from the first time I could articulate it, all the way up through my early 20's, it would have been music notes, or something close to that. One would think it would be books, and I did indeed always have a book somewhere close by. But music was the foundation of all my love of the arts. Then for a rambunctious decade, my icon would have been those ridiculously long 120 cigarettes I smoked, so nice for brandishing about with a drink in one hand in an elegantly estrogen-washed persona of Ernest Hemingway I liked to play at, but never could fully pull off. And then, for a glorious dozen or so years, a head of wildly curly, long, full hair: that was truly my motif, the one I most happily chose. The curls were always there; I just fought them until they came in fashion in the 90's, and then embraced them with joy until, mysteriously, I lost most of my hair. In fact, it's still that 30-something girl waving that silly smoke around and pulling up her hair in a ponytail that I picture in my head, when I picture myself, and it's a shock to realize that it's been a decade since anyone knew me with long, full hair. For most women, we have some icon of personal pride that revolves around our style or our looks.....and it's a cruel thing when it doesn't represent us anymore, no matter how plain or pretty the rest of the world saw us to be.
I don't comment on websites or have a lot of personas with pseudonyms out there on the web, just here and on Facebook. In both cases, I find that my taglines and my photo icons almost always have one theme anymore: home, family, which are synonymous to me. I have a photo here of me walking along the old railroad bed that bisects the family ranch, taken back in the summer by my sister. On Facebook, I almost always have a photo with one or more of my nieces in it. I'd have my nephews if they'd sit still for it. Teaching has always defined me; I could have a teacher icon with a book and a purple pen---that's what I grade with---but I know that in a few years I'll have to find something to replace that with as retirement approaches.
It's an interesting place to be in the world: to wonder what will next represent me in this life. On one hand, I have the comfort of knowing that Cathy W. or C. Welker or CJ or CJW will always be recognizable to my mind's eye. On the other, there's excitement for what I can choose as my motif for the future.
And how about you, reader? What's your sign?
I kept to the opposite end from the family, close to the swim lanes, next to those odd little diver's blocks that the competitive swimmers use. Working with weights and foam noodles in the water requires an odd bit of concentration for me. Though I am still relatively flexible, I'm neither athletic nor graceful, so I find myself staring unseeing at some focal point while I "fix" the move in my mind. Once I have it down, I snap back to reality and sometimes surprise myself with what I've been looking at or thinking about. Something like that happened last night. With noodles on each foot, I set myself into cross-country mode; I like this move and will keep up with it as long as I can keep the noodles down. It only took a moment to get going, and click! I realized I was looking at my own name up on the wall, on a white board with the other names of the swim team, their best times in each style, and the training instructions.
But no, it wasn't quite my name: "Cathy W." is what I saw, but why? There were probably 25 kids' names there, in very small writing on a huge chart, all done in the same blue Expo marker. Why had I seen my own name out of everything else on that board? In fact, why had that same kind of thing happened over and over? I know, readers, that you've had a very similar experience---you're driving down an unfamiliar road and see your nickname on a place of business or a billboard; you come across your full name unexpectedly in a book or newspaper; you do a double- or triple-take thinking someone has called out to you in a busy mall or stadium or theater. Each time, there's a little thrum of anticipation across the top of your brain, as though the universe has just casually but clearly recognized your existence, no matter how briefly. Validation: this name has meaning and power and purpose in the world.
In our frappaccinoed/blendered/technologized society, we've added on to these purposeful, simple monikers a selection of pictographs that are meant to represent us with little or no words even necessary. Check your name at the door; just show us your icon or a tagline. We only have to look at the popularity of tattoos to see how prevalent the idea is. This icon phenomenon worries me somewhat. Could it mean we're evolving backward, back to the hieroglyphics used by ancient man, before written or even spoken language? Most of the time, though, I'm like most people---it's just fun to think of alter egos, pseudonyms, pictures, and cartoons to stand in for us when we'd rather remain to some degree, a little or a lot, more anonymous.
If you'd asked me what represented me from the first time I could articulate it, all the way up through my early 20's, it would have been music notes, or something close to that. One would think it would be books, and I did indeed always have a book somewhere close by. But music was the foundation of all my love of the arts. Then for a rambunctious decade, my icon would have been those ridiculously long 120 cigarettes I smoked, so nice for brandishing about with a drink in one hand in an elegantly estrogen-washed persona of Ernest Hemingway I liked to play at, but never could fully pull off. And then, for a glorious dozen or so years, a head of wildly curly, long, full hair: that was truly my motif, the one I most happily chose. The curls were always there; I just fought them until they came in fashion in the 90's, and then embraced them with joy until, mysteriously, I lost most of my hair. In fact, it's still that 30-something girl waving that silly smoke around and pulling up her hair in a ponytail that I picture in my head, when I picture myself, and it's a shock to realize that it's been a decade since anyone knew me with long, full hair. For most women, we have some icon of personal pride that revolves around our style or our looks.....and it's a cruel thing when it doesn't represent us anymore, no matter how plain or pretty the rest of the world saw us to be.
I don't comment on websites or have a lot of personas with pseudonyms out there on the web, just here and on Facebook. In both cases, I find that my taglines and my photo icons almost always have one theme anymore: home, family, which are synonymous to me. I have a photo here of me walking along the old railroad bed that bisects the family ranch, taken back in the summer by my sister. On Facebook, I almost always have a photo with one or more of my nieces in it. I'd have my nephews if they'd sit still for it. Teaching has always defined me; I could have a teacher icon with a book and a purple pen---that's what I grade with---but I know that in a few years I'll have to find something to replace that with as retirement approaches.
It's an interesting place to be in the world: to wonder what will next represent me in this life. On one hand, I have the comfort of knowing that Cathy W. or C. Welker or CJ or CJW will always be recognizable to my mind's eye. On the other, there's excitement for what I can choose as my motif for the future.
And how about you, reader? What's your sign?
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