In Our Mothers’ Names

Each year as part of our Mother’s Day celebration, St. Alban’s parishioners donate bags of food in our mothers’ names. The Monday following Mother’s Day, we deliver these bags to our Tucson neighbors.

Today was the first time I participated in the delivery.

Willow's truck: Part of the 277-bag load

Willow was not available to make the trip, as she’s finishing up her last few hours of high school classes; but she loaned us her big, green truck. She told me there was “plenty of gas” to get from home to the church and then to South Tucson, however, the minute I got behind the wheel and turned down the country music, I noticed the gas needle in the red. 

It was the perfect illustration of the difference between a teenager’s interpretation of “plenty of gas” vs. a mother’s.  So, her truck donation proved to be a perk since I stopped and filled up the tank. (It should get her through the rest of her high school career).

We had a small army of volunteers at the church loading trucks and cars with canned and dry goods. In total we counted 277 bags. Then we paraded from our serene Foothills location, southwest to the Casa Maria Soup Kitchen at 352 E. 25^th Street.

Once we arrived, it took less than half the time to unload the bags as it did to load them. We had a lot of help.

Brian Flagg runs the Casa Maria operation, which consists of several small buildings each serving a purpose to help those in need. We literally filled one of the houses with our bags, and this house was across the street from the Señora de Guadalupe y Cocina Gratis. Other members of the Casa Maria staff live nearby, including Flagg, who opens his home to provide showers.

Flagg has a long history of social and community activism. When I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, I was bathed in his kindness and warmth. This is a man who clearly walks-the-walk.

St. Alban's Fr. Bruce with Brian Flagg of Casa Maria

Casa Maria serves 500-650 bag lunches plus soup, and also distributes 250 family bags per day. Flagg says they help to feed at least 1,000 per day. And by the way, he’s been at this for 30 years and pays himself $10/week.

According to the U.S. Border Beat newsletter, Casa Maria Catholic Worker House also provides medical aid and legal services, and offers United States citizenship classes in Spanish.

Willow only has a couple weeks left in Tucson before heading to her future in Wisconsin. She’s got a calendar full of activities leading up to graduation and more party and event invitations than we can count. But now that she’s got a truck full of gas, I hope we can find a few hours one morning to make it back to South Tucson to volunteer our time by the side of Brian Flagg. He said they need volunteers every morning between 8:30-10:00 a.m.

I believe exposing her to this operation would be the most valuable graduation gift I could give her.

Prom Queens vs. Academics: A Soccer Mom’s Dirty Laundry

Last Sunday, the soccer team I manage, the first place seed in the state championship tournament, qualified for the semi-final game. It was immediately brought to my attention that this game, scheduled for the following Saturday morning, conflicted with the plans of several of our players taking the SAT exam.

TVSC 95 Girls Blue "Samba": U-18 Division 1 State Semi-finalists

Therefore, I checked the Arizona Youth Soccer Association (AYSA) website to read the rules about rescheduling games. It listed SAT/ACT exams as the number one priority. Next, I informed our coach and we approached the coach of our semi-final opponents, who had just won their semi-finalist spot on the field next to us. This coach had no problem moving the game to an afternoon start time. I told them I’d call the AYSA on Monday morning to request the change.

I did. The AYSA administrator told me to put the request in writing, and to include the reason and that we had already discussed the change with the opposing team. By the way, it’s a tough opponent with a current state rank of #3. We are ranked #13 (in spite of our seeding in the tournament). We need all our players.

Monday afternoon we received notice that the game was rescheduled to 1:50 p.m. Although this time would only give our test-takers one hour and 20 minutes from test end to game start, we were thankful for the change. We understood our players would be late to the field (it’s a 1.5 hour drive from Tucson to Casa Grande/ Grande Sports Complex), and that they’d have no warm-up; however, we were willing to accept this compromise.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end with this compromise. The next day, Tuesday, I received an email asking if we could change the game to Friday night in Phoenix. I knew we were unavailable because, for one, our team captain was performing in a school play—the drama department’s senior swan song—and several of our girls planned to attend. Then I received an email asking how many of our girls were taking the SAT. I responded, “four.”

On Wednesday, I received yet another email indicating that the game had been rescheduled again. It was moved to a 12:45 start. I had to read the email twice to make sure I was reading correctly.

How could this be? It meant that our test-takers would be lucky to make it to the field for maybe the last 15 minutes of the 90-minute game. And this scenario meant they’d need to put down their pencils, grab their soccer bags, change in the car and have their drivers speed up I-10 with a prayer that the Interstate corridor connecting Tucson and Phoenix, which is often plagued with roll-overs, fender-benders and haboobs (!) would be traffic jam free.

In other words, a 12:45 start time was NOT a workable option for us. So, before I sent word to the team, I called the AYSA office to find out why the game had been rescheduled again.

Did I get a straight answer? Absolutely not. You’d think I had asked this administrator to reveal her weight. Or her politics? Her views on the death penalty or abortion? What ensued was a crazy, even shocking conversation.

This is how I worded my inquiry: “I just received word about the U-18 game being rescheduled again and before I inform the team, I’d like to be able to tell them the reason why it was changed.”

This is the response I received: “It was a compromise. All the U-17 and U-18 games needed to be rescheduled for a variety of reasons, and we did our best to accommodate the most people. There wasn’t an easy way to do it without impacting someone.”

I reminded her that the first change was a compromise for us and that it had an impact. I added that the new change was unworkable, and then asked again: “Would you please tell me the specific reason that our game was changed?”

Obviously, I pressed a button that switched on this woman’s defenses. She immediately went on the attack. First she told me that I was the ONLY one who wasn’t accepting this current compromise. Given that I called her about 15 minutes after receiving the change I was surprised that she had already heard from EVERY OTHER manager, coach, player and parent affected. But I let that slide. I repeated the question until I finally got her to say that the opposing team had five players going to prom that evening.

Yes, she said “prom.”

Samba Goes to the Prom

Now believe me, I understand that prom is important to U-17 and U-18 girls and I also understand that after ACT/SAT exams and coaches with multiple teams/conflicts, consideration of proms ranks #3 on the list of priorities for rescheduling consideration. What I didn’t understand was, why would a game scheduled for 1:50 p.m. (90 minutes of play plus 10-minutes halftime break) affect girls attending a prom that evening? Yes, they faced a one-hour drive from field to salon, but is that still not enough time to get their hair and nails done and enjoy the full evening?

Samba Goes to the Prom

In Tucson, our proms began at 7:30 p.m. Those attending the pre-prom dinner we hosted arrived at 6pm. I realize it takes some girls longer to get ready than others, however, if you can’t accomplish this in 2.5 hours, something’s wrong. It’s not the Oscars for pity’s sake!

“What time does their prom start?” I asked the administrator.

“Photos begin at 4pm,” she said.

“Photos?”

Yes, photos. I had to refer to the AYSA priority list again for rescheduling:

Source: azyouthsoccer.org/tournaments/statecup.aspx

You can see for yourself, there’s NO mention of prom PHOTOS.

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “The answer to my question regarding the specific reason the game was changed was that the team we’re playing has prom photos and that prom photos took priority over the SAT exam?”

She would not admit this and I understand why. It was TOO ridiculous.

“Look,” she said, “Everyone needs to compromise. You’ll just have to accept that your girls will arrive late but it evens out because their girls will need to leave early.”

Even more ridiculous. I was supposed to accept that our girls would miss most of the game AND believe that the other team’s coach was going to let five of his girls leave the state semi-finals early in order to primp for prom? 

On what planet?

I wish I could say it ended there. I figured this was going to be my last call ever to the AYSA so I might as well make the most of it. I kept trying to get her to answer my question—to admit specifically why the AYSA made this scheduling decision— and she amped up her personal attack.

I think it’s fair to say that this woman CRACKED. She called me “pitiful.” She suggested that I (and my team) “are always crying ‘poor-poor me’ and the ‘AYSA is always out to get me!’ ” She said I was spinning the situation to be in line with my consistent claims that the AYSA is always treating our team unfairly.

“Really?” I asked? “You’re really going to insult me like this instead of simply answer my question?“ I told her she didn’t know me nor did she seem to understand our team’s history and the problems we’ve faced with scheduling games with this league.

“Oh we ALL know who you are,” she spit . . .

She went on to hurl insults not worth repeating because she was clearly confused, highly stressed and unable to face the consequences of her actions. Not only did she not follow the rules of the AYSA, but also she was so caught up in defending her actions that I can only conclude she was guilty of giving preferential treatment to the Phoenix-based team. That’s an obvious no-no she wasn’t going to admit.

Instead she opted to take the avenue of turning the situation on me by insulting me, and accusing me of being uncompromising and pitiful.  In some circles, that’s called “victim blaming.”

It was difficult to keep my composure, but I did.  Yes, I was upset on behalf of my team; however, I knew I was perfectly within my rights to have made that call, and I believed my team deserved an honest explanation.

Further, I knew the administrator with whom I was speaking had faced a very difficult task and obviously had a lot of pressure from parents calling in on behalf of their daughters’ upcoming photo sessions. I understood she had a lot more people with whom she had to deal than I, and I didn’t envy her for this job. It was clear to me that she was unable to properly handle the pressure in a professional manner.

A wise person once told me: “There will always be someone who is worse off than you.” That is a certain truth. And on that afternoon it was this AYSA administrator.

I ended the conversation by saying that since I managed a U-18 team it would be the last time she had to deal with this pitiful, uncompromising person—me—and also said, for the record, that I was very disappointed in her language and her unprofessional demeanor.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said sarcastically.

Clearly, she wasn’t the least bit sorry.

I contacted the parents of players planning to take the SAT and they all opted to reschedule the exam (it’s a $20 fee) because it was the only workable option for our team.

So, we found a way to make this situation work because we are neither pitiful nor uncompromising. On the contrary.

I’d like to point out that I believe my job as a manager is to A: understand the problem, and then B: Find a way to solve the problem. We accomplished this as a team, and the result is that none of our girls will be late for the game on Saturday.

Meanwhile I wonder, will the prom girls on the opposing team still leave early?

You can BET I’ll be watching.

Nasty Neighbor Needs to Chill

I really don’t want to fan the flames of the lunatic fringe, but right now I’ve got a slow burn going and frankly, I’m pretty pissed. I have been forced to tolerate the bullshit antics of some of our neighbors for over 16 years, and finally, I’m saying ENOUGH!

We’ve had a volatile road situation surrounding our small neighborhood, which we’ve known about since the day we took ownership of this house. We hadn’t even made our first trip from Wisconsin to live in this place when one neighbor called to explain his side of the situation and attempt to rally our support.

It was a disturbing phone call. “Welcome to the neighborhood and we want you to side with us on the road issue.” Since it was impossible to fully understand the issue, and we didn’t intend to move into our new house for months, all I could say to him was that we’d have to at least wait until we arrived in Tucson to check all the facts for ourselves.

In brief, on the south end of our property, there is a 30-foot easement from the fence line bordering a large area of undeveloped land. There wasn’t a road there when we first came; however, we understood this easement marked an ingress/egress from the west in order to access a still undeveloped parcel to the east.

The man who called us, owner of the house to the west of us, apparently ignored the easement when he built his house, and had not only a wall on the easement, but also the corner of his family room. Naturally, he wanted to do everything possible to prevent a road from going in there. He and his neighbor to the west, who also had a wall and a corral built into the easement, campaigned to move the ingress/egress to a different location, a utility easement from the north.

And that made them the Hatfields and all the homeowners to the north of us with properties backing up to the utility easement the McCoys. Since we lived on the corner, I suppose they thought we were the swing vote.

Fast forward eight years or so with both of the original Hatfields gone and two of McCoys gone, the property behind us develops and the road goes in on the legal ingress/egress. Our new neighbors to the west, who as it turns out were misinformed—told by the real estate agent selling both properties that the easement was only 15-feet on their side of the fence—are stunned by the notices they receive to move their development in the easement. (Apparently they took the word of the agent and failed to check the deed or title report). Nevertheless, they strike compromises with the developer in order to keep, in one case, the violating wall and in another, their living room.

Then the first house goes up on the newly developed property. Turns out this new homeowner wants all 30-feet of the road easement cleared and accessible, and we all receive letters from his attorney informing us of what needed to be moved.

For us it was only a matter of relocating a propane tank because they were worried about their elderly in-law hitting it with her car (!) Naturally we thought that if there were truly a danger of her hitting that tank, perhaps she shouldn’t be driving? Regardless, it was easy for us to move it and we did.

The battle between the rest of them went on for years and culminated in a lawsuit. Saguaros were relocated, a beautiful natural mesquite removed and I don’t even know what else happened in court other than the emergence of a new Hatfield in a previously uninvolved household, who moved into the neighborhood believing, for some reason, that this dirt road (not his legal ingress/egress) belonged to him.

And he became the neighborhood bully.

Metal Speed Bump, 17' width

He put down a lot of dusty stones, narrowed the road to 15 to 17 feet, erected crappy metal speed bumps, and installed video surveillance to monitor all traffic going by. He then chose to harass drivers who have the nerve to use this road and called the sheriff’s department to file complaints in order to intimidate and prevent people from driving by his house.

He did that to us today. He called my home and informed me that “my daughter purposefully spun out her wheels” in front of his house and that he was planning to call the sheriff to file “a harassment charge” against her. He said he had “evidence of her action on surveillance cameras.” 

My daughter claimed that the tire on her pickup spun on the rocks as she crossed one of the crappy speed bumps, and that she didn’t do anything on purpose, nor did she have any reason to do so.

He was having none of it, and told me I needed to be a better parent and “parent her correctly” so she didn’t drive down that road.

Road narrowed to 15' at this makeshift speed bump

“You have some nerve,” I said. “Don’t ever call here again.” And I promptly hung up the phone.

The smiling sheriff was soon at our front door, informing us of the complaint and also informing us that the sheriff’s office couldn’t do anything about it but deliver the message. For half a minute I thought about filing a counter complaint because . . . if this harassment charge isn’t an example of the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.  

We have every right to drive on this road. And if any of our vehicles respond to his crappy speed bumps or a little extra oomph is needed to get the tires over them, well that’s his fault, not ours.

But I simply cannot stoop to this person’s level.  And given his volatile and explosive behavior in the past, I don’t want my children anywhere near him! And that’s because I AM a good parent and I AM parenting correctly. We have another legal ingress/egress road that no one minds if we use.

I don’t care if this means he “wins.” It may be the only pleasure this man receives in what is, perhaps, a very sad existence.

Don't run or walk behind my house!

Meanwhile, regarding the other easement, the one from the north originally protected by the McCoys, I wonder what I need to do to deal with the idiot on the far northeast end who blocked all access with wire fencing and “no trespassing” signs behind his yard’s back wall. It has blocked my regular running route, one I’ve used daily for the past 16 years.

Like I said, I’ve had enough of this ridiculous, selfish and intimidating behavior on behalf of people who are supposed to be our neighbors. If they don’t want anyone running by or driving past their precious properties, why did they move to this neighborhood in the first place?

Shouldn’t they have settled for forty acres and a mule some place without people?

Tucson Foodies: Have You Heard About Alfonso?

I’m not truly comfortable with the term “foodie;” however, since I’ve been one for the past 15 months or so, I suppose I should embrace it. Regardless, before I bury the lead and go off on a tangent, I will stress that today’s blog is about Alfonso Gourmet Olive Oil & Balsamics, located at St. Philips Plaza off River and Campbell in Tucson.

Alfonso is a one-of-a-kind shopping (and tasting) experience. And whether or not you're familiar with the term “foodie,” IF YOU COOK and you live in Tucson, pay attention: Do yourself a favor and visit this shop.

Tom Alfonso, owner, Alfonso Gourmet Olive Oil & Balsamics

I’ve been meaning to go to Alfonso for months, ever since my childhood friend, Cindy Ridings, recommended it. And today was the day. This olive oil and balsamic vinegar boutique is located across town—on a route I normally take for my weekend trips out of town to Phoenix. But generally speaking, it’s in the fertile, gourmet heart of Tucson. It’s not that far from the Tanque Verde Valley nor from anywhere in the beloved cowtown we call Tucson.

Today was the day because A: I made the time and couldn’t take the distressing news out of Boston another minute; and B: The owner, Tom Alfonso, at the prompting of Mrs. Ridings, generously offered to help support the Sabino Volleyball program with purchases made at his shop.

Give me a cause to support and I WILL make the trip.

In this case, however, I intend to become a regular customer of this special destination. Alfonso is one of those places that appeals to a multitude of senses—aka, MY, and I’ll bet YOUR foodie senses.

From the outside, St. Philips Plaza is classy and exclusive. Step into the Plaza and you’ll find the shop immediately, which is located next to the popular restaurant, Vivace. 

Enter Alfonso, and the subtle aromas of the oils and balsamics are immediately tempting. The backdrop colors—olive green, deep purple—reflect the bottled products and the sophisticated tasting apparatuses lining the walls. The shop is neither overcrowded nor stuffed with product, and I was immediately greeted and made to feel comfortable.

I told Mr. Alfonso I was a balsamics novice and therefore hoped to learn more about them. Within moments, he handed me a small cup of his traditional style balsamic, and upon tasting, I’m not kidding, my taste buds ZINGGED out of control. This is touted as his “finest grade,” aged 18 years and it pairs well with any of the oils in his collection. It made me want to taste samples of everything on the walls! And trust, there are PLENTY of varietals from which to choose, on both the balsamic side and the oil side of the display.

Ultimately I chose the  “TRADITIONAL Balsamic Vinegar” and the “Organic Tuscan Herb Infused Olive Oil.” I felt that was a good place to start. And I suspect I won’t wait long before I’m back for the “Tangerine Balsamic Vinegar.”

If you cook with olive oil (honestly, WHO DOESN’T?) and have any interest in balsamic vinegars for marinades, salad dressings, or as I learned today, so much more, Alfonso is a gift. And the staff will help you realize this.

4320 N. Campbell Avenue, Suite 40, Tucson, AZ   85718. 520-441-9081. Alfonsooliveoil.com

Book Review: Best Kept Secret by Amy Hatvany

Best Kept Secret by Amy Hatvany
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The Human Condition: One Woman’s Story
This story covers a relatively short period of time in a woman’s life. Best Kept Secret reveals the secret of alcoholism and illustrates the sneaky spiral, the dire consequences and hopeful path to recovery. It is well written and brave; however, I felt it lacked a certain edge that for me made it stand out as unique and groundbreaking.

But that may be the point. The main character, Cadence, is every woman. She’s bright, beautiful, educated, witty, likeable and sympathetic. She marries a man who seems to be her equal at first, but is ultimately portrayed as a selfish and harshly judgmental mama’s boy. The birth of their son, naturally, changes the dynamic of their relationship. And as Cadence’s fear of not-being-good-enough (what new mother doesn’t feel this?) ultimately leads to gaining comfort from ever increasing glasses of red wine, her world falls apart.

I found Cadence to be the only really likable character. The others--husband, mother-in-law, sister, son, counselor, partners in recovery--are either self-serving jerks or too underdeveloped to matter. The story focuses everything on Cadence and keeps one reading only to find out whether or not she triumphs in the end.

I recommend this book to young mothers struggling with mommy-n-me groups who drink wine rather than coffee or tea while their children play, or anyone who drinks in secret and thinks she doesn’t really have a problem. Reading about the fate of Cadence may help the reader come to terms with alcohol addiction and hopefully choose the path to recovery.

If, however, you’re looking for a more brutally honest depiction of the alcoholic spiral that truly helps one to understand the nature and experience of this disease, I recommend Drinking, A Love Story by Carolyn Knapp.


View all my reviews

ACL Diary: The Sequel

This morning, as I do every morning, I stepped outside barefooted to collect the newspaper. I read the front page headlines and then opened the Sports section—again, something I do every morning—to check the high school soccer scores and stats. The only game in which I was truly interested was the one I had already witnessed and knew the outcome.

January 25, 2013 AZ Daily Star 

I read the cold, hard stats without emotion:
CATALINA FOOTHILLS  1 – SABINO  0

The brief statistics didn’t come close to relaying the true story of that game. There was no accompanying article, and even if there were, no reporter but I could tell it in a way that might capture the essence of what happened from our perspective.

It was a big game—Senior Night for Sabino’s five seniors with lots of balloons and flowers and posters and smiles for the camera. And it was the last game of the regular season, a rematch with a rival played two weeks ago that ended in a 1-1 tie before overtime saw yet another victory for the state champions three-years running, the Cat Foothills Falcons.

Senior Night Swag

Sabino went into last night’s game missing three key players, one with a head-injury, one with a broken back, and one with a cold. Nevertheless, Coach Lowry switched around a few positions, and the girls played strong in the first half with both respectable shots-on-goal and spectacular saves by junior goalkeeper, Sylvanna Islas. It was 0-0 at the half.

And then late in the second half, senior Willow Cozzens, my darling daughter, twisted her knee and went down in a heap. There was a slight gasp from the stands and I couldn’t help but call out, “No! No! No!” I momentarily tried to shield my eyes from watching her once again reel in pain; however, her coach called my name and waved me to the field. I ran to them at once, knowing in my heart that I was about to face another ACL injury.

I had seen it before. And it was the same.

Her trainer and I helped Willow off the field and as we approached her teammates, their big-eyed expressions and looks of sorrow and concern broke my heart. “No, no, no,” I said again, “Keep going! Be strong and keep playing strong!”

I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the game; however, I did hear and understand that Cat Foothills scored (in the 74^th minute according to the paper). Willow’s dad and I made our way around the track but we couldn’t return to the stands. We tried to stay calm and wrap our minds around what had just happened, and it was like wading through a massive haze. Everything in what had been a noisy stadium seemed really quiet.

One-by-one parents approached us and one-by-one we relayed the bad news. Her club coach, her friends, her fans, other parents that love her like a daughter the same way I love their girls, shared our disappointment.

This morning we wonder, was it a stunned and quieted crowd or was it just that haze that shielded us from reality? Did Willow’s injury take the heart out of our team or was it just another Catalina Foothills victory?

Who can say? The loss most likely won’t keep us out of the state tournament; however, it will certainly affect our seeding and we await that posting.

Willow in action prior to injury

We have an appointment with her surgeon on Monday and I’m dreading it.  Willow heard/felt the telltale “pop,” which pretty much guarantees the road ahead to replacement surgery and physical therapy. But this time we know her soccer career is over.

It’s okay. Of course she’s disappointed to miss the state tournament and finish out her final year in club, but she didn’t plan to play soccer at the University of Wisconsin. It will have to be enough that she fought her way back after surgery on the right knee, and that the whole experience helped to build a solid character and both a sense of achievement and humility. We are as proud of her as we can be.

Meanwhile, I can’t help but think about two things her surgeon said to us during the course of her last procedure and recovery. One was regarding his work on her right knee using the hamstring replacement method, “She’ll have a far better chance of tearing her left ACL than she will re-tearing her right with this replacement.” (I wanted to tell him to “shut up!” at the time, and now I could just punch him for being so prophetic!). Secondly, when he ultimately cleared her to play soccer again after five months of intensive physical therapy he said, “Willow, I never want to see you again.”

Well, sorry to disobey doctor’s orders, but Dr. Tucker, we’ll see you on Monday.

Oh My Buns!

The name of the new café at Park Place Mall, “O’My Buns!” stopped me in my tracks this afternoon. When I burst out laughing, my daughter didn’t know the reason for my absolute amusement other than the clever/funny name for a bakery/coffee shop.

“We’ve got to get a photo!” I said. She wasted no time whipping out her phone and snapped the shot. She then texted it to me and I, in turn, sent it to my four siblings. I knew I wouldn’t have to explain it and they, too, would also get a good laugh.

Yes, it’s an inside family joke that I’m about to let out of the oven.

Many, many years ago when a tri-level house in Brookfield, Illinois housed a family of seven—a World War II vet and his war bride, along with their five baby-boomer children—the dining room of this cozy home held family dinners every evening and Sunday afternoon/after church dinners with Grandma joining them. Actually, I don’t remember if the setting for my story was a typical Sunday afternoon or if it was something more formal or festive like a Thanksgiving dinner. I do know my mom had, as usual, taken care of the entire meal preparation.

After filling the hot tray and the Lazy Susan will all of her efforts she was the last to sit at the table. The main course had been placed in front of Daddy, who took care of carving and who set the mood of the meal. He ruled that table. No one, for example, was allowed to leave said table before Dad took his last bite.

Unfortunately for us—a group of antsy kids—he was a very slow eater.

Well into the meal that day, suddenly a look of panic covered our mother’s face. This, by the way, was a very demure woman of few words. She was quite petite and very proper, and always exhibited impeccable table manners. Something was obviously wrong.

I’m not sure if she smelled burning food or if she simply noticed an important omission on the table, but covered in panic, she stood up and shouted, “OH MY BUNS!” Immediately, she ran from the table and into the kitchen.

Shocked, we all looked at one another as if to say, “did that just happen?” In a moment, we all cried in unison: “OH MY BUNS!” And we giggled with laughter through the rest of the meal.  Even Dad thought it was very funny.

The tale of Mom’s burnt buns is one of those family stories we bring up with one another again and again. But we don’t need to go into the detail that I’ve just conveyed.  All any of us has to say to one another is “Oh my buns!” and it’s like our dear sweet mother is right there with us.

That’s exactly how I felt today when I saw the sign for the new café. It was just like a little heavenly hello.

And talk about heaven, of course, I had to buy one of their original coffee buns. It was large, cost about $2.50 and Willow and I split it. The verdict? It was the most delicious bun I’ve ever eaten. Light and flavorful, it was the tastiest treat I’ve had in a long, long time.

Check it out: O’My Buns, Park Place Mall, 5870 Broadway Blvd., Tucson. It’s located next to Claire’s, just inside the North movie theater entrance.

ACL Diary: Scars Can Be Beautiful

Willow sat for senior portraits a couple weeks ago. Since she was born in Wisconsin, spends summers in the woods, and has every intention of going to school in this state after she graduates, the property surrounding our Northwoods home was the ideal setting for her session.

Kudos to Lauren Kerwin of Rose:Life Photography for capturing all the beauty (of both Willow and the woods) with her camera.

Lauren shot hundreds of photos with multiple outfit changes, and provided a USB drive with our choices. Frankly, there are far too many from which to choose. She narrowed it down to her top 25, most of which were on our list too.

Finally, I believe I've found my favorite. Aside from Willow's cute smile, twinkling blue eyes and the wind gently blowing her beautiful blonde tresses, I like that it shows her ACL surgical scar(s) on her right knee.

Willow Gayle Cozzens at Sandy Point

Without question, Willow's ACL injury, surgery and recovery played a huge role in her life thus far. I think it's fair to say she has made a complete recovery; however, the experience definitely changed her. For example, I don't think she defines herself first and foremost as a soccer player any longer.

She still plays, still loves the game, still plans to attend camp at UW Madison next month. Yet when it comes to her future, her main focus is now on academics. And the results of this focus should, God willing, enable her to get into most any school she chooses to attend.

Willow has not let her injury or her scars define her. She has risen above this brief setback and used this episode in her life as a learning experience. I believe it has made her an even stronger and more formidable young woman. She's shown us that not much is going to get in her way.

So, for those of you who are worried or concerned about the scars after ACL replacement surgery, understand that wounds do heal. And I think it's a fair assumption to say that Willow's scars are NOT the first thing anyone notices when looking at her.

Pencil Marks On the Wall

It’s an almanac of height, and significant to a very small number of people. It’s called a “height wall,” and I’ll bet you have one in your home.

Height walls where we periodically record the growth of our children from the time they can stand until the time their growth plates close.

Where is your’s?

Our height wall is in our Wisconsin home, the place where our children were born. It’s a vertical four-inch, drywall-covered support beam separating the kitchen—built in the 1980s—from the original part of the home, which was built around 1930.

We return to this lake home from Tucson every spring, and it therefore seems the logical place to mark growth each year. It’s a smudgy, dirty wall that only we appreciate. Pencil hash-marks are in place for not only our daughters, but also for several family members (and close family friends), who regularly visit us. There’s no real system for measurement or marking the heights and it’s only been vandalized once, and that was in July of 2003, when Uncle Todd labeled himself “No. 1, IL DUCE.”

Todd Cozzens continues as our tallest family member, and Cinco, yes, our long-haired pet Chihuahua, our shortest. Our most cherished measurement is of our niece, Stephanie, who in 1998 stood a glorious 5’-11” tall. It may have been her last measurement as she passed away in 2002.

2012 marks the year our elder daughter, Willow, has shown no annual growth in one year. We were informed her growth plates had closed back in April, 2011 when she had x-rays just after tearing the ACL in her right knee. So, she has made her mark on the world at 5’ 9” tall. “Too tall,” if you ask her. But what does she know?

Camille, on the other hand, at 14-going-on-15, managed to add another inch to her height during her freshman year. A volleyball player currently playing middle position, she was the tallest girl on her club team—however, she’ll still need to add a couple more inches to maintain that tall-girl status. She, too, believes she is tall enough.

Neither of my daughters understands what it feels like when at some point in middle age, one no longer reaches the heights of youth. That said, I’m letting my hash-mark stand at 5’-10”.

Feature & Follow Friday: Your Favorite Summer Reading Spot?

Feature and Follow Friday is a blog hop designed to provide exposure to the bloggers participating and to expand their following. Hosted by Parajunkee and Alison Can Read, each features a chosen blog for the week. Click on their links to see this Friday’s features. MEET NEW FRIENDS!

Question of the Week: Summer Break is upon us! What would be the perfect vacation spot for you to catch up on your reading & relax?

My Answer: Easy. I have only ONE CHOICE--actually, ONE OPTION--for a place to go for summer reading:

SANDY POINT RESORT in the NORTHWOODS of WISCONSIN. Day and night, my favorite place on the planet. The icing on this cake is . . . I own the joint.

New Reality Show: The Real Book Reviewers of Amazon.com

Posting book reviews in a public forum as large as Amazon.com is like swimming in an Internet ocean. One never knows what creature lurks behind alias (alien?) corners.

I posted my first book review on Amazon back in 2002 for Diane Dean-Epps’ Maternal Meanderings. Today, like many of the books I have reviewed, it’s available on Amazon for a penny.  It was brief and 2 of 3 readers found it helpful.

Over time my reviews became more in depth—some very helpful to readers, others decidedly not helpful at all. And then there are the reviews that generate controversy—reviews that stir the pot and unleash the trolls.

TROLL: A member of an internet forum who continually harangues and harasses others. Someone with nothing worthwhile to add to a certain conversation, but rather continually "threadjacks" or changes the subject, as well as thinks every member of the forum is talking about them and only them. Trolls often go by multiple names to circumvent getting banned.

Reading troll threadjacks is like watching a bitch fight among the BRAVO TV housewives. In other words, it’s a waste of time, but it also provides a bit of mindless, guilty pleasure. It’s like sipping a cocktail of sweet relief knowing I’m not living in their worlds mixed with a full jigger of schadenfreude.

Earlier this week, one of my reviews attracted a troll, and I couldn’t help but break the DNFTT (Do Not Feed The Troll) rule, and poke back a little bit. After everything I had recently learned about how to successfully handle a bully, let’s just say I was in the mood to expose and fight back.

The book, no coincidence, is by former BRAVO TV housewife, Bethenney Frankel, and it’s her first effort at fiction. From what I’ve seen of her on television over the years, I found her to be funny and refreshingly honest. My opinion of her thinly veiled autobiographical novel, Skinnydipping, reflected these same characteristics, and I expressed this in my review. It’s no great work of literature and isn’t meant to be so. It’s light reading, funny and fun. Four stars.

Well, “my” troll didn’t like that I wrote anything positive about the novel. Using the alias, “Julie,” it not only called me a “moron,” but it also claimed I had “low standards for literature.” Silly as they were, it was easy to laugh off the comments, and I wouldn’t have fed it anything had I not learned that “Julie” posted similar insults on every positive review and issued supportive comments on every negative review.

Clearly, this troll was on a mission to trash the book, the author and any reviewer who even remotely enjoyed reading Skinnydipping. This practice is against Amazon’s standards and needed to be exposed. I mean really! I am many things, but I’m NO moron!

The troll’s final comment on the thread attached to my review was “deleted by Amazon,” before I had the chance to read it. After that, “Julie” crawled back in her hole, defeated. Show over. Moving on. Like I said, it’s like swimming in a vast Internet ocean with trolling creatures around every dark and anonymous corner.

Troll attacks is one risk book reviewers (and authors) take. Most of us understand that in a forum like Amazon, many shoppers don’t actually read the reviews. They look at the stars and jump to conclusions. They base their helpful, non-helpful votes on whether or not THEY liked the book—and in more cases, whether or not they like the author.

Posting reviews on Amazon is done strictly on a volunteer basis. It’s a hobby—perhaps a way to keep track of the books you’ve read—and a practice that shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

I’ve made many friends by reviewing books on Amazon and I’ve also made a few enemies. It’s apparent not only in the comment forums, but also on my own books sold by Amazon.com. Several over the years have received anonymous one-star “reviews,” some of which I believe are from trolls with retaliation on their small minds.

Perhaps the trolls are incapable of understanding that alias accounts and transparent tactics emit a powerful stink that gives their “reviews” and their comments no power whatsoever.

Barbed Garbage

We spend a lot of time walking, running and biking around our desert neighborhood. Our adventures are often rewarded with wildlife sightings including coyotes, javelinas, roadrunners, deer, prairie dogs, voles, hawks, bunnies, and lots of lots of quail.

The other day we were delighted by a very rare sighting of a covey of tiny baby quails pecking at what was a loaf of bread tossed on the road the day before. Willow snapped this photo with her phone just before they scurried away and hid behind the creosote bushes.

In addition to the fauna is the beautiful cactus flora, including an endless variety of cactus. And right now, the desert is abloom. The colors are so vivid they will stop you in your tracks—even if you’re running.

Unfortunately, we also spot a lot of trash. In spite of a lifetime of earth days, “don’t be a litterbug” slogans and recycling education efforts, it astounds me that there are still people who feel they have the right to throw their crap out of their car windows instead of saving it for a trash receptacle.

We therefore instigated a family community service project and became regular trash collectors for the neighborhood. And last evening, my girls and I went for our last sunset walk of the season. Community Service hours are due for Student Council, so we figured we’d wrap up the project for the school year.

It’s been a fun way to spend time with the girls—especially because they’re so funny. Camille, for example, loves walking in the middle of the busy street when no cars are present, because I think it gives her a sense of power. And both girls make up stories about some of the items they find: study notes, grocery lists, Slurpy cups, Rock Star cans and the like. “Drinking ‘n driving,” Willow says with a disapproving scoff each time she finds a discarded beer can.

Over the course of our neighborhood scavenger hunts, I’d say the items found most often are plastic grocery bags. They’re EVERYWHERE. And they are particularly treacherous to collect because more often than not they’re stuck to cactus and filled with needles. Straws may run a close second, but aluminum cans and plastic bottles are also shamefully prominent.

The most unusual find of all time has to be the discarded paper containing an acceptance speech for the Mrs. Arizona contest. We kept checking local media to see if one of our neighbors had won the event; however, ultimately made no discovery of crowned royalty in the hood.

Wrapping up the project for the year, we feel our social status may be that of mere trash collectors, but it helped us believe we were doing our part to keep our desert kingdom beautiful.