Shelter

We arrive at the shelter in the morning with eight carloads of first, second, and third graders. They are energetic, eager, sometimes distracted. In concept, they understand that they are helping, but do not yet know how much.

From our cars, we pull out bags of mittens, socks, children’s books, teddy bears, coats, and blankets. In addition, they have collected cans and bottles since the start of school, and have raised $106.00 to share with this place called Father’s Heart Street Ministry.

We tour their very organized warehouse-like surroundings, led by the founder. She is small in stature, but clearly a force of nature. She has been called for this purpose, and is passionate about serving those who have no place to call home. She is adamant they be treated as equals and called by name. There is no such thing as a John or Jane Doe.

It smells of cigarette smoke mingled with laundry detergent. We hear the click-click of a zipper as clothing is tossed about in a nearby dryer. Visitors are able to wash and dry their clothes once per week. Comforts of home have been recreated in the form of a living room area, with cozy couches covered in once-popular fabric colors arranged in rows in front of a large-screen television.

We learn that a second shower has been added recently thanks to the blessing of donations. The shelter is always open during the day. At night, they are open when the temperature drops below freezing. Mats line the walls in perfect piles. We are told that these mats – on frigid nights – are used by those needing a warm place to lay their heads. They take the mats, and find any open space they can on the cold, concrete floor.

A few of the school children remain distracted by the surroundings … the voices from the television, early visitors having a bite to eat. Most of the others have a look of concern as they simultaneously listen to the leader describe what led her to create this haven while watching an older gentleman, curled up on a mat, coughing deeply. It is sinking in.

I am having trouble seeing clearly, as my eyes fill with tears. I will not cry. The individuals here have smiled at us as we’ve walked through the facility. They don’t want our sadness, they have no interest in pity. They simply want our minds to be aware; and, if possible, our hearts to stir us to action. I blink back the tears by focusing on the sheer magnitude of organization throughout this place - - coats, sweaters, socks, shoes … meticulously arranged and labeled with care so items can be quickly and easily located.

My eyes connect with my son’s … literally and figuratively, they are wide open. He is clearly saddened by what he is seeing and hearing.

We hear of children who come and visit this place to have a meal, take a shower, read a book, and maybe receive the blessing of a soft teddy bear. Something to hug when they are scared, or cold, or hungry.

I suspect that each child’s grand illusion of how cool it would be to live in a car is slowly being replaced by the reality of what that really means, as we hear of families literally doing just that, or sleeping under bridges, or - if they are “lucky” – rotating through the homes of friends and families who have some extra space for a night.

The high walls of this large space would likely tell stories of both heartache and healing … those who have found hope, and those who are still seeking. The space is remarkably tidy and our guide shares that – upon opening the doors that morning – those waiting in line picked up a mop and broom, and started cleaning before doing anything else. They respect this space in which they are given the same.

I leave with an unrelenting feeling of tension in my chest that lasts well into the afternoon. But, that feeling is slowly replaced by others which linger long after the day is over … among them, gratefulness, heartbreak, inspiration, and hope.

Did I Hear You Correctly?

Mondegreen \MON-di-green\, noun:

A word or phrase resulting from a misinterpretation of a word or phrase that has been heard.

Timing can be a funny thing ... last week, I wrote about me and a friend misinterpreting the question, "How was the hike up?" for "How was the vodka?"

Mere days following that post, Dictionary.com sent MONDEGREEN as their Word of the Day.

So, as it turns out, "How was the vodka?" is a mondegreen. Did you already know of that word? Please ... be nice, and tell me you didn't.

I suspect mondegreens abound in the world of song lyrics. My personal favorite hails from a time before I could read. I had memorized many of the songs we sang regularly in church. There was one song, in particular, that included a phrase that stumped me every time we sang it. Nonetheless, I sang the words with all the confidence and vocal power I could muster, "P for Pine-sol, the highest good."

I remember being uncertain as to why we were singing about a cleaning product and how the church had picked Pine-sol as the best one. If I remember correctly, I even consulted with a dear friend. She agreed with the words, but didn't understand them either.

When I learned to read and decided to double-check the actual words ... imagine my surprise in learning that the phrase I had been singing, so often, as "P for Pine-sol, the highest good" was actually, "Be for my soul, the highest good." Ahhhh ... that made much more sense.

Think back ... do you have a favorite, funny mondegreen?

How Vas the Vod-Ka?

This is a re-post from about a year ago, with a few minor updates. I've been thinking about Austria lately, and this is one of my favorite memories. And, I'm so thrilled for the upcoming Winter Olympics, I can hardly stand it ... so there's a bit of Olympic trivia at the end of the post. Enjoy! :-)

One of my favorite memories of my exchange student days in Austria involved a trip to Innsbruck, Austria.

Admittedly, I’d label the majority of Austrian towns as ‘gorgeous and amazing’, but - oh my - is Innsbruck ever cool. It’s situated right in the midst of the Austrian Alps, which makes for great hiking, especially when you’ve been blessed with stunningly beautiful weather.

We visited the Alpenzoo first. Situated 727 meters above sea level and nestled into the mountain, it is the highest zoo in the world. And, as its name would indicate, it is home to animals that originate from the alpine region, showing them in their natural habitat. The Alpenzoo, in and of itself, could be considered a hike for many.

After visiting the zoo, our group split into two and my dear friend, Rachel, and I decided to hike up into the Alps. It was my absolute favorite day in Europe … exhilarating and incredibly beautiful.

Halfway up the mountain, we were joined by Marco from Germany. We had no clue who he was, but he stayed with us for the remainder of the hike. He seemed nice enough, as did all our fellow-hikers that day. I guess back then crazy stalkers weren’t as prevalent on our minds. I’m still quite certain he was a bit enamored with Rachel!

We made it above the tree line and, after a few moments of sitting and taking in the beautiful view and brilliant blue sky, decided to commence the joint-pounding trek down the mountain!

Towards the end of our descent, we passed another hiker who was headed up the mountain. As he passed, he greeted us and asked, “How vas the vodka?”

You know how you respond when you don’t really know what someone has said, but you still want to reply in a friendly and jovial way? You kind of do a hearty laugh and throw your head back like you ‘get’ the joke or the funny comment even though you haven’t a clue as to what they actually said?

That’s what we did. And, I think we added something like, “Gut … sehr gut!”

We giggled as we tried to figure out what had possessed him to ask us about vodka. I mean, we knew these particular hills were alive with music, but not vodka-drinking hikers.

It wasn’t until a few laughter-filled minutes later, that it dawned on us what he had really asked.

“How was the walk up?”

To this day, Rachel and I still laugh about that story. And, it just goes to show that the hills are alive … with music, yes … but also with fresh air, exhilarating views, and very friendly German-speaking hikers. No vodka required.

~~~~~~~

Now for the trivia! Just so you can impress your friends and family with your vast knowledge of international Olympic trivia, here are a few interesting tidbits about Innsbruck:

• The Olympic Winter Games were held in Innsbruck twice, first in 1964, then again in 1976. The 1976 Winter Olympics were the last games held in the German-speaking Alps (Austria, Germany, or Switzerland).
• Along with St. Moritz (Switzerland) and Lake Placid, NY, Innsbruck is one of only three places which have hosted the Winter Games twice. (It also hosted the 1984 and 1988 Winter Paralympics.)
• And … this excited me quite a lot … on December 12, 2008, Innsbruck was chosen as host of the first-ever Winter Youth Olympic Games to be held from January 13 to January 22, 2012.

When God Closes a Door ...

It was a very cold, snowy night in December. Our gas-powered fire was pretend-crackling and I had a million things to do before Christmas arrived. I was quickly flipping through the television channels in search of something entertaining to keep me awake while I accomplished my never-ending list of “to-do’s”.

I found "The Sound of Music" and was hopelessly drawn in. I got very little done for the rest of the evening, and went to bed way past the time I had hoped for.

Sure, I've seen it a dozen, maybe more, times (though never from start to finish). Yes, I know the story, but certain details sometimes need refreshing. Yes, the song lyrics have long been ingrained in my brain. Nevertheless, I still had to watch it.

Maybe because it is such a gentle, hopeful movie about the love of family, standing up for what you believe, and holding on to the hope that "when the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window..". But, I think it's also because it reminds me of my time as an exchange student in Austria, including a funny little incident involving a certain gazebo in Salzburg.

We traveled to Salzburg in November. My most vivid memory is that of hillsides crowded with trees in every shade of autumn you could possibly imagine, against a brilliant, clear-blue sky. It was like walking into a painting. It was gorgeous.

I also remember our long and comical search for the famed gazebo from 'The Sound of Music'. Just when we were about to give up looking, we found it. Locked! Hours of walking, and it was locked. I could see inside, but it wasn't the same. I wanted to be inside where they had filmed that touching scene between Maria and Captain von Trapp.

So, I did what any reasonable college student would do. I started pulling and yanking on the door. Not that I thought I would get in ... my roommate and I were laughing to the point of tears when she took this picture.

Nonetheless, I still do believe that when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window ... just not the one to 'The Sound of Music' gazebo.

Success Redefined

My steps were finally coming a bit easier as my feet rhythmically pounded the old cobblestone streets of North Tacoma. Distractions were – thankfully – abundant, as I passed beautifully-restored historic homes; well-manicured gardens; and the towering trees that stood like sentinels along the street.

My first time running ten miles in one outing was going surprisingly well (I attempted to ignore the fact that I was only 1/3 of the way into the run!). My breathing was steady as I wound my way through the neighborhoods of North Tacoma, heading downhill to Ruston Way. There, one of my favorite diversions – expansive bodies of water – would come in the form of Commencement Bay. I would worry about getting back up the hill when the time came. For now, I was reveling in the fact that I was running rather effortlessly.

Months before, I had walked out of a meeting with The Leukemia Society’s (now The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society) Team in Training, excited and anxious that I had just committed to not only running a marathon, but raising money for this remarkable organization as well.

Raising the money twisted my stomach more than the thought of training for and running the marathon. So, I did what all good sisters do … immediately called my sister to rope her into signing up as well. Misery loves company, right?

“Heidi,” I started, “I have a proposition for you.”

“What,” she said as a skeptical statement rather than a question.

She thought I was going to ask her to go skydiving, so – initially – raising thousands of dollars and running a marathon felt like a more sane alternative. She agreed to join me.

Our final destination would be The Mayor's Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage, Alaska, a race that takes place each June.

Shortly after committing to the marathon, an unexpected opportunity arose and I accepted a position with a company in Seattle, leaving behind an organization I had considered home since college. For six weeks, I spent the early morning and late evening hours commuting from Tacoma. Weekends were spent looking for a place to call home in Seattle. Marathon training was squeezed into the brief moments in between.

The donations that had come so abundantly at the beginning of my fundraising effort, began to taper. At the ‘go/no-go’ point, I was still over a thousand dollars away from my goal. I decided to continue, which committed me to either raising the remainder of funds or paying them myself prior to the deadline. My sister had raised a bit less, and was not able to commit to going forward. My heart sunk with the news that she would not be accompanying me to Alaska.

After moving to Seattle, I had only three weeks to focus on training and a stunningly beautiful place to do it. Alki Beach became my training ground, and the crisp, blue waters and sweeping views of the Puget Sound were not only a beautiful distraction, but calmed my growing nerves.

Likely the result of a somewhat haphazard training schedule over the recent months, knees that had never known pain now strained with every bend. At one point, my joints rebelled in such a way that – after bending to open a lower filing cabinet drawer – I could not return to a standing position without physically pulling myself up.

One week before boarding the plane, exhaustion, then aching, settled into my body. As the week progressed, a fever and racking cough joined the unwelcome party. Two days prior to take-off, a doctor told me I had bronchitis, then gave me two simple orders: Do not get on a plane; and do not run a marathon. He solidifed those orders with a threat of pneumonia if I did not comply.

I returned home where the tears were inescapable. This was not the ending I had imagined or the outcome toward which I had labored. As the tears blurred my vision and overflowed onto my cheeks, I dialed my mother’s number. It was clear, from my barely audible voice, that I was both sick and upset. I had failed on multiple counts. As mothers do so well, she suggested otherwise. It took me some time, though, to arrive at the same conclusion.

It is true that my desire to challenge myself physically and mentally had triggered this marathon-running endeavor in the beginning. What continually emboldened me, however, was that I was doing it to raise money for the Leukemia Society. The individuals they serve tolerate excruciating treatments in order to heal; and, if they could endure that, then I could go outside, in the dark and the rain, and run.

I had envisioned handing over the entire sum to which I had committed to The Leukemia Society. In the end, I was not able to raise the full amount required by the organization. I came close. I raised far more money than I could have ever donated personally in such a short period of time. Those funds would do great things.

I had envisioned crossing the finish line in Alaska. In the end, I did not run a marathon. But, I had learned my limits, including that of knees that would need to be rehabbed and treated with much more respect than I had given them in the past. I had affirmed my love of exercise and how physically and mentally strong it made me feel. And, I had challenged and pushed my body further than ever before.

I had not failed. Success simply looked different from the picture I had originally envisioned.

Generation Gap

We had just purchased our beloved morning mochas and lattes at a local coffee shop in the small, coastal town of Manzanita. My husband and kids were waiting outside, as my dear friend and I exited the building, steaming drinks in hand. We were chatting as I held open the door for both of us, then quickly glanced behind me to see if anyone else was coming before letting the door close.

Just as my hand let go, I noticed a man – possibly in his late 70s or early 80s – walking up the ramp to the door. I grabbed the door to re-open it, saying to him in a cheery tone, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you coming!”

He smiled in a peculiar way and shared a hearty “Thank You”, as we exchanged responsibility for holding the door open. But, he didn’t proceed through into the warm coffee shop.

He turned to me, as he was still holding the door wide open, and said, “You know, I really appreciate you opening the door for me. Not many people from your generation do that anymore. It’s terrible … “ and then, still holding the door open, he launched into a speech about his experiences with people - apparently from my generation - who had failed to impress him in the ways of manners and etiquette.

I stood, smiling and nodding. And, then watched as – halfway through his diatribe – he let go of the door without looking … just as my friend’s husband was walking through the open door, hands and arms piled full with his drink, his son’s drink, and a coat. He quickly caught the door with his elbow before his piping hot coffee became a part of his wardrobe.

The man – still ranting about the lack of manners belonging to us Generation Xers (if that’s the generation he pegged me for) – was completely oblivious to what he had just done.

My husband, friend, and I – all having heard the rant – fought to keep our laughter at the irony of it all at bay until the man was in the building, and we were alone outside.

I’m inclined to be of the opinion that a lack of manners does not necessarily ‘belong’ to a certain generation. I’ve witnessed politeness and courteousness, or a lack thereof, across all age groups. I’ve observed 5-year olds holding the door open for those coming behind them; 65-year olds doing the opposite; and vice versa.

My very unscientific conclusion is that manners maybe have less to do with the generation you happen to be born into, and more to do with what you have been taught by example, what you have observed, and trying to be aware of and involved in your surroundings.

So, I will continue sharing a friendly smile, and maybe a ‘hello’, with passersby, waving a ‘thank you’ to those who stop their car to let me cross the street, and holding the door open for those coming behind me. And, I’ll expect my children to do the same on behalf of Generation Z.

Photo: October Sunset in Manzanita

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

Isn't it funny how knowing the story behind a song (or book or movie) can endear that song to you in such an overwhelming way?

I've always been drawn to the Christmas song "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day'. A few years ago, my husband and I attended an awe-inspiring Christmas concert with Steven Curtis Chapman and Mercy Me. During the concert, as the melody and a deep base beat played ever-so-softly in the background, they shared with the audience a glimpse of the events that had inspired the lyrics to this song, written by American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow so very long ago on Christmas Day in 1964.

After the concert, I investigated further, seeking more detail to the story. I learned that, in a very short time span, Longfellow had lost his wife to a tragic accident in their home, and his son had returned - critically injured - from the American Civil War that was devastating his beloved country. I can only imagine that his faith was being tested beyond measure and his hope for peace - in his country and his own life - was weak.

Something changed on Christmas Day 1964 when Longfellow penned the poem, originally titled "Christmas Bells". Maybe it was the re-election of Abraham Lincoln and, with that, the possible end of the terrible war; maybe it was the relief that came from his son surviving; or maybe it was the churches that - during the war - would ring their bells on Christmas as a call for ceasefire, bringing peace to the nation, if only for a day.

Knowing the history behind the words has made this song become even more beautiful, sorrowful, haunting, and hopeful. In many ways, it is a call for peace. Something we all hope for.

If you haven't already heard them, here are a few of my favorite arrangements of the song:

Mercy Me, from 'The Christmas Sessions' (my absolute favorite arrangement ... unfortunately this upload skips a bit, but it's still hauntingly beautiful!): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzJ9wieZH0M

Casting Crowns, from 'Peace on Earth': http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bK8xB1opuQ8

Steven Curtis Chapman, from 'All I Really Want for Christmas' (btw ... the title song, which is about adoption, will bring tears to your eyes): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JH5dPy0gwD0

Hope your Christmas was a blessed one! And, Happy New Year!

A Christmas Picture Book Must-Read!

As I've mentioned before, our household is a big fan of Karma Wilson and her 'Bear...' books. And, this is the very book that started the 'Bear...' craze in our household.

In "Bear Stays Up for Christmas", Bear's friends make a valiant effort to keep him awake for Christmas. Their efforts are successful ... but all that hard work keeping Bear awake makes Mouse, Hare, Badger, and the rest of the friends VERY tired. That's OK ... Bear's got them covered, and he works through the night to ensure a special Christmas for all of them.

The rhyming text is perfection, and the illustrations are so warm and cozy, it makes you want to snuggle up with Bear and his friends in his lair.

It's targeted to 4-8 year olds, but the pictures, lively characters, and catchy rhymes make it perfect for younger children as well.

If you're looking for a warm and fun holiday picture book classic for your family, "Bear Stays Up for Christmas" is guaranteed to please ... even when it's not the holidays (this is one we do NOT pack away after Christmas is over!).

Sweet 'Yuletide'

We were visiting one of my favorite places ... spring, summer, fall, winter, I can spend oodles of time at Al's Garden Center no matter the season.

Their store was a veritable winter wonderland. We were admiring the intricate railroad town. My son couldn't take his eyes off the train as it chugged by again and again.

My eyes, however, were multi-tasking ... watching the train, taking in the beautifully-decorated surroundings, and people-watching, when the most gorgeous shock of color caught my eyes.

I had to investigate. Certainly, this beautiful plant was only flowering during this frigid time of year because it was currently housed in the greenhouse.

I abandoned husband and kids at the train table and made my way over to the colorful blooms. It was a Camellia 'Yuletide' ... a plant that celebrates Christmas by blooming in December with big, bright red flowers and vivid yellow stamens that pop from a sea of shiny evergreen leaves.

Talk about a cure for the winter 'brown-ness' that has overtaken most gardens by now!

Sadly, I do not have the space. But, if YOU do ... run, go get one! Put one of these stunners in a big pot on your front porch and - voila! - your entryway is effortlessly decorated for Christmas! (The blooms last through February!).

Enjoy your week!

The Real St. Nick!

In honor of St. Nicholas Day, which was this past Sunday (I know, I know ... I'm late! :-)) ...

Santa Claus … love him and the joyful spirit of giving he brings to Christmas. I believed in him for a long time. I don’t remember the turning point when I went from a staunch believer to one who believed in the magical feeling he brought to Christmas, but knew it was my parents leaving the goodies. I do remember, over the course of several years, having questions … logistical questions that made me doubt the whole flying reindeer, down the chimney story. But, I never expressed my doubt out loud or asked questions of my parents, nor did I transfer any of my uncertainties to my three younger sisters.

Fast forward to me as a parent … still loving the magical feeling that Santa brings to Christmas, loving watching my children excitedly pour over toy catalogs as they carefully choose what they will request from Santa, and feeling just a tad bit of guilt as they ask a million and one questions about the Man in Red! After all … I’m kind of lying … which, as we’ve ingrained in our children’s heads … is generally enough to put you on Santa’s ‘naughty’ list! Did my parents feel this way? They never said anything to me. My transition was just … natural. It just happened.

So … we are trying, gently, to weave in the true story of St. Nicholas. When I was in college, I did a semester of study abroad in Austria. I was so fortunate to be there during the holidays and experience the celebration of St. Nicholas Day on December 6th. On this day, children awaken to find their shoes filled with chocolate gold coins, oranges, and other special gifts. This day is a celebration in honor of St. Nicholas, a real person who lived in the fourth century and was the very model of love and generosity. While he and his generosity are believed to be factual, they sparked the larger-than-life legends and tales of Father Christmas and Santa Claus.

“Saint Nicholas: The Real Story of the Christmas Legend”, by Julie Stiegemeyer, is one children’s book that paints a picture of the true St. Nicholas via a fictionalized story. It’s a tad overtly didactic (I tend to prefer covertly didactic :-)), but that’s okay, it gets the message across. And, it has a great ‘Dear Grown-Up’ section at the end that nicely details the life of Nicholas, Bishop of Myra.

So … for now, we’ll read this book, talk about the real St. Nick … and hope that Santa and Saint Nicholas (a.k.a. the truth behind Santa) someday in the future meld nicely into one another without drama!

A Little More Hopeful

"Peaceful, Snowy Christmas" by B, December 2008

Every December for the past three years, my son has gone to the ‘Share’ drawer of his allowance box and retrieved a collection of one dollar bills that has been growing over the course of the year. This year, his younger sister was inducted into the fun with her own, slightly smaller, collection of bills.

The sum doesn’t amount to anything earth-shattering - maybe thirty to forty dollars. We then head out on what has become one of our favorite shopping trips of the year.

We look for puzzles, drawing paper, colorful pens, pencils, and crayons, play-doh, sporty Hot Wheels cars (for the boys!), Hello Kitty jewelry (for the girls!), cozy socks, and whatever else strikes us as something that might be fun or useful for the patients at one of our local children’s hospitals or for the kids that will be chosen as part of Operation Christmas Child.

Our children get to choose the cause. And, while we may gently guide them to certain aisles of the store or give them little ideas, it is their money and, ultimately, their choice of gifts.

Every day, I give thanks for two healthy children and pray for children whose health, wellness, and safety have become battlefields they face daily. The little friend who is on his eighth round of chemotherapy for a brain tumor; the young classmate who lost all of her beautiful curls to the poisons trying to kill the leukemia; and the innocent toddler who can’t yet defend himself against a parent’s anger and lack of self-control.

I feel helpless. I can’t take the cancer away and I can’t shield them from being hurt by someone who is supposed to protect them. So I pray … alone, and then with my children, so they gain a sense of appreciation for being healthy and safe, and a desire to help those who are struggling with the opposite.

That desire to help is what our shopping trip is all about. After they have made their purchases, we drive to the hospital or the designated Operation Christmas Child drop-off site, where they pass the treasures along to a representative of the organization.

We don’t get to see any of the children that receive the toys, but we hope the gifts bring smiles and glimpses of joy to their faces on Christmas morning. Our gifts may be small in number, but they are a tangible way of feeling just a little less helpless and a little more hopeful. And, they are a way to celebrate love and generosity … the true spirit of Christmas.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Have a blessed one!

Oh ... and if you get an opportunity to see a movie over the holiday weekend, RUN, RUN, RUN to see 'The Blindside' ... one of the most perfect movies ever (according to moi!). :-) Loved it!

Enjoy! See you next week!

"Turkey" by B, November 2008

The Strength of Nature

The towering maple, stuffed with green leaves a mere month ago, is now disrobed - save for a few brittle leaves still hanging on with all the strength their withering bodies can muster. The shedding of leaves reveals an abandoned nest.

In the summer, we heard sweet squeaks coming from the nest and often witnessed a busy mother robin gathering worms from our grass. We could see the bottom of the nest from our patio, but had no idea what was happening inside. Even from our upstairs window, it was sheltered by the abundant leaves of the maple.

Last night, strong gusts of wind shook the trees, while rain and tree debris pelted our house. I half-expected not to see the nest when I opened the curtains this morning. But, there it sits. Bound firmly to the branch to which the mother robin originally attached it. Nature's strong winds were no match for nature's delicate, yet brilliant, weaving of grass and twigs.

Maybe it will be refurbished in the spring by another mother robin for her brood. Maybe it will remain vacant. Either way, I have no doubt this testament to nature's strength - a seemingly fragile structure - will remain rooted in that very spot for years to come.

How to Fold a Fitted Sheet … Me vs. Martha!

At my former company, one of our wonderful employees - on his own time - took Martha Stewart's "30 Things Everyone Should Know" list, printed out each tip in full-color, and placed it in a binder. He made one for each of us in the department.

The other day, while searching for a book, I spotted that binder sitting on the bookshelf. Flipping through it, Tip #21 caught my eye - "How To Make A Bed." "Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder if there is a tip on how to fold a fitted sheet."

There wasn't ... but, there was a note at the bottom of the "How To Make A Bed" page, that referred the reader to MarthaStewart.com for tips on "How To Fold A Fitted Sheet."

Brilliant! I navigated my way to her website to discover what I had been doing wrong for all these years.

The following is a step-by-step breakdown of her tips versus my own process:

Martha: Stand holding the sheet by the two adjacent corners of one of the shorter edges. With the sheet inside out, place one hand in each of these two corners.

Me: Roll your eyes and sigh deeply and loudly … because you dread this task. Then, grab two outer corners of the sheet … whichever you can find first.

Martha: Bring your right hand to your left, and fold the corner in your right hand over the one in your left, enveloping it. Next, reach down and pick up the corner that is hanging in front; bring it up, and fold it over the two corners in your left hand; the corner that's showing will be inside out.

Me: Bring your two corners together and secure them with your right hand while your left hand grabs the folded side. Shake vigorously to attempt to straighten out the remainder of the sheet that is now dragging on the floor picking up whatever you just washed off of it. Mutter something about how much you despise this task.

Martha: Bring the last corner up, and fold it over the others; with its right side showing, it should envelop the other three corners.

Me: Toss the whole thing up into the air gently and catch it smack dab in the middle; remove the fitted corner which landed on your head and is now covering your face; proceed to fold it in half, if possible.

Martha: Lay the folded sheet on a flat surface and straighten it into the shape shown.

Me: Realize there is something small caught in one of the corners. Unfold the entire sheet. Remove a damp, wadded, wrinkled pillow case from the corner. Start folding process from the beginning.

Martha: Fold the two edges in so all the elastic is hidden.

Me: Stuff ... I mean, tuck in the edges, attempting to hide the elastic.

Martha: Fold the sheet into a rectangle.

Me: Think of the song “Rolling on the River” and use that hand motion to ‘roll’ the sheet up into an oddly-shaped version of a rectangle.

Martha: Continue folding until the rectangle is the size you want it to be.

Me: After you’re done ‘rolling’, fold it in half one more time and smooth it vigorously to make it appear less voluminous and wrinkled.

Me: Place under the flat sheet, so only one edge of the fitted sheet shows when viewed from the already-cramped linen closet. This will give the appearance that it has been folded correctly.

Martha’s directions (and accompanying pictures) can be found on MarthaStewart.com from the October 1997 issue of Martha Stewart Living.

Clearly, you don't want any more of my directions on this particular subject!