Caramel Apples and Carved Pumpkins

My girl and I were playing a game coming out of the store today:

Me: If my life were a book, all three kids would like me at the same time on the same day (it's been one of those days).
Her: If my life were a book, I'd have a Westie (her favorite dog that she has asked for a gazillion times and will most likely keep on asking).
Me: If my life were a book, I would never have to wait in line at Wal-Mart (today was like the night before Christmas in that place).
Her: If my life were a book, I would have snow every day (one thing she misses about the Midwest is snow; of course, she never had to shovel it).

This went on for some time until I got swamped in traffic and could no longer think and drive at the same time. Had I known the impending disaster waiting for me at home, though, I would have added:

If my life were a book, my caramel apples would have turned out just as beautiful as the ones I watched Giada make last weekend on the Food Network.

No such luck. It was suggested that I look up the directions on the internet before making them. Whatever. I've got a good memory and I can picture those apples just fine. A bag of caramels, apples, sticks, chocolate chips for melting and black and orange sprinkles. What more do you need?

Evidently ability and talent is required. Who knew?

Maybe I was trying too hard. Today started off just rotten following a little teenage drama last night. Nobody's in trouble, nobody got hurt... just stuff that happens that I have no control over. I hate that.

We don't necessarily celebrate Halloween so I had the bright idea to make those apples just to do the "mom thing" and have my three kids ooh-ing and aah-ing over the motherly things that I do. I know this is stretching things a bit. They just don't quite look at me anymore with those you're-so-awesome-mom eyes that toddlers have when you hand them a cupcake. It's more like the you're-so-lame-mom look when I sing along to Bon Jovi on the classic rock station.

Of course, now they have the caramel apple disaster to consider:

Problem #1: Not enough caramel.
Problem #2: Redo's don't necessarily work.
Problem #3: Chocolate wouldn't drizzle.
Problem #4: Giada's weren't this ugly.
Problem #5: Wax paper permanently glued to the bottom of apples.

What a mess! I was determined to enjoy those apples, though, so with my shadow at my side, we each took one and armed with a towel, headed outside. She had chocolate on her nose and I had caramel stringing everywhere and to be honest, neither one of us could say that we completely enjoyed the whole experience.

Well, I take that back. I think we did enjoy it. I had to push her hair back because her hands were completely covered in chocolate that didn't quite set up (Note: Magic Shell ice cream topping does NOT work in this instance... her idea, not mine). We laughed and I sang silly songs and she rolled her mascara-coated eyes. She went in to get a wet washcloth and we warned the boys in advance to watch out for the wax paper and keep a towel handy.

Nobody was ooh-ing and aah-ing, though. Nobody hugged me out of the blue. So I did something I haven't done for probably fifteen years. I carved a pumpkin. That got their attention.

One joined me on the porch. One watched me through the door. And one said, "Wow. I can't believe you're really doing that."

I scooped out the goop, cut out a cross, and put a candle inside. Okay, maybe this one was for me. I needed to look at what crud I've been carrying, remind myself of my salvation, and then let my family see it.

I'm sure they think I'm crazy and wonder what in the world I might pull next. But then again, they're the teenagers, right? I wonder that about them almost every day.

How does this tie back into the caramel apple disaster? I have no idea. Except maybe when they look back on their childhood years and are swapping stories while I bounce grandbabies on my knee, one of them will bring up that time that Mom made a sticky mess in the kitchen and then cut up a perfectly good pumpkin on the front porch.

Of course, if they think I'll be able to explain it any better then, they're in for a surprise. I can't explain it now.

I can't wait to try those apples again next year, though. Next time I'll look up the directions and grease the wax paper first. Now that will be sure to impress them.

Rocking Chairs and Tea

This morning I had a couple of loads of laundry done and a paper written and submitted well before noon. Anything done before noon on a Saturday is a milestone for me, but I guess all the extra rest I got this week recovering from a cold has left me feeling energized.

And my daughter was not here to watch That's So Raven or Hannah Montana with... I feel kind of funny watching those on my own.

Since it's right at the end of the month, Old Mother Hubbard's cupboards are pretty bare. Everyone is out for the day except for me and the middle (and that kid is happy with Cheerios's for lunch), so I thought I would make a pot of tea and finish off some biscuits with the remainder of the pumpkin butter I bought a while back in the Smoky Mountains.

How amazing that the simplest things can turn out to be such a treat! I took my plate full of tea cup, biscuits, and butter and made my way out to the front porch with the cat close behind. I've gotten so accustomed to the front porch swing I forgot how much I enjoy sitting in a rocking chair. I thought about that first Christmas we were here and my mom, dad, and grandma came out to visit. My dad insisted on getting those chairs (2) and a small table to go with them. I can still see my little ole grandma sitting on the swing holding her bad foot up in the air. She was so small and though we didn't know it at the time, she didn't have a full month left on this earth. Maybe that's why I love this porch so much. Good memories, lasting moments that the Lord graced us with.

Anyway, the biscuits have been finished off and my tea cup is about empty. The neighbors next door are planting more bushes and putting down mulch that I am certain will be washed downhill with the next good rain. A neighbor across the street is arguing with a Direct TV guy about how he "shouldn't have to pay" for something or other. Another neighbor just waved as she pulled up to get her mail. A few motorcycles have went by and several vehicles with bicycles on the back. Just another beautiful Saturday.

In a few hours I'll have to fight the interstate traffic to go pick up our youngest. Another few hours after that and I'll have to sit through several stoplights to go pick up our oldest. It will be right around that time my husband will come home wondering what's for supper. Until that time, though, I think I'm going to sit right here and have another cup of tea.

And possibly watch the neighbor and the Direct TV guy get into a fight.

Sherman Makes My Head Hurt

Odd title, I know, but that really is what I'm thinking about. I have a paper to write on Sherman's March to the Sea and at this moment, I wish he had kept right on going into the sea... but that's another topic that will probably never happen.

While sitting on the swing, I watched as our cat pawed desperately at the front door wanting to get out. He's a house cat, by the way, so it's not a bathroom-thing, it's just a cat-wanting-to-get-outside-and-watch-the-birds-thing. I'm not opposed to him coming out, but I am opposed at this moment to getting up. After giving up on the front door, he decided to try our opened bedroom window and in the process, apparently got his head stuck in the blinds. That particular window is right by the swing and you can only imagine what a sight that was... poor cat. He wiggled out of his predicament and has since moved on. I know just how that cat feels.

I felt a little bit stuck myself today. I spent the morning watching the clock and going over in my head the preparations that were probably taking place back home. It has been a long week. After hearing the news about my grandma on Monday and then wrestling with to go-or-not-go dilemma while nursing a bad cold, it just seemed like the days crawled by. Finally today, Friday, is the day she has been laid to rest. I had to make peace with the fact that we wouldn't be there and just figured once today was over, things would get back to normal (whatever that might be).

At any rate, in the middle of that feeling of "stuckness," I turned on the tv to have a little noise while I puttered through the house. "The Bold and the Beautiful" was coming on and some announcement about "the people you will see today are not actors" caught my attention. Sure enough, the entire thirty-minute episode was dedicated to stories of "real-life" people in a Los Angeles homeless shelter and how they came to be there. What struck me most was that they looked just like my family: a mom and dad, kids, stuffed animals in the background. Stories of jobs lost, homes foreclosed on, and a general feeling of "What comes next?" When the show was over, I was left with that all too familiar feeling of a what-am-I-whining-about-type thing.

What am I whining about anyway? Yes, I'm not exactly thrilled at our current situation, but my husband did have a job to go to this morning. Sure, I miss my mom and dad, but through techno-gadgets like the webcam we can talk just like we're sitting across the table from each other. I'll bet Caroline Ingalls would have been thankful for that when Charles got the urge to move her away from her family.

I feel like I repeat myself a lot. Those little reminders, though, serve me well. Just like my cat can get un-stuck from the caught-in-the-blinds situation, I can get un-stuck from the attitude I tend to find myself in when things aren't going the way I would like.

Now as for Sherman, well, I guess getting stuck in the Atlantic Ocean would not have been a good thing for him or the Union, but this southern girl could not help but wish he would have kept going straight in Savannah instead of making a left.

Did I just call myself southern? No wonder my head hurts.

Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice

Tonight my husband and I went on a date. Well, kind of a date if you consider thirty uninterrupted minutes sitting at a little table outside our local Starbucks a date. To me, it was most definitely a date.

We didn't plan it that way. One boy asked if he could go hang out at the library (can't complain about a kid wanting to do that) so instead of being faced with a fine that I knew would pop up on my library card, I elected to drop him off then treat myself to a pumpkin spice latte while I waited. Because my husband had already left the house to drop off our trash at the dump, I called to tell him where I would be. Jokingly, I asked if he would like to join me.

"Starbucks? I don't know about that."

He is most definitely not an overpriced-coffee kind of guy. He is, though, a guy who will go to great lengths to make his wife happy (most of the time).

I always have a book handy, so after making the drop-off at the library, I went on and found a table outside. I figured if nothing else, General Sherman and his march to the sea could keep me entertained for an hour. I had just opened my book when I heard that familiar rumble of a motor.

There he was. He was trying to maneuver his big blue Ford Supercab around a parking lot full of foreign compact cars and mini-vans like mine, and the truck is not the quietest thing in the world. I wasn't alone outside and I watched as several heads turned to see where all the racket was coming from.

Yeah. He's with me.

He snarled his nose when I asked him if he wanted anything.

"What I would like is a sweet tea."

I left him there and went in to order his tea. I know it sounds crazy, but the man is very particular about his sweet tea. We've tried to get one there before and he has never quite been satisfied. I ordered it "extra sweet" and prayed they would get it right.

One sip later said it all. He smiled, sat back, and with a cool breeze blowing on a late October night, we talked. About the kids (they doing their homework?), about his job (wishes he had another one), about my schoolwork (how many more classes?), and about my grandma's funeral (real sorry we couldn't get there). Thirty minutes went by pretty quick.

We threw away our cups and headed to our respective vehicles. At the stoplight, he went straight to go home and I took a right at the library. By the time I got back to the house, things were in their usual routine: husband on the computer, oldest on his laptop, girl in her room, and library boy off to a corner to read. Typical night with nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for my pumpkin spice latte and an impromptu date with my man.

It's those little things in life that make everything nice.

A Waffle Kind of Night

Tonight we had waffles for supper.

Life changing statement, huh?

We had waffles for supper because the cook (that would be me) was wanting something quick and easy for supper. Having bounced back from a rough few days, cooking the usual meal of meat and potatoes held no appeal for me. Waffles seemed like a quick fix. Of course, I forgot how long you have to wait in between waffles.

The kids love those Belgium waffles. The problem is you can only do one at a time. That leaves a whole lot of thinking time while watching the steam rise.

When the first one was ready, I yelled, "First one's up!" A kid came running. That kid was done eating by the time I yelled, "Second one's ready!" As I was plating the third one, the second kid was bringing his plate to the sink while the third one sat down at the table with a book (like mother, like daughter). As she was finishing, my husband was on stand-by with his plate in hand. By the time he was finished, I was just unplugging the waffle maker and sitting down at the table. By now, an empty table.

Having pity on me, I suppose, my husband sat down with me to lend his moral support, I guess. I was a little uncomfortable, though, being stared at while I spread butter on my waffle, sprinkled it with chocolate chips, and poured thin, generic syrup over my now dessert-like concoction. After about two bites and much to his relief, I'm sure, I said, "You don't have to sit with me." He waited it out for about a minute and a half for good measure and then gracefully left the room.

I was alone. Just my waffle and me. I wondered if my parents were having company tonight. I thought about my grandma. I wondered if it might rain. Glancing through the want ads, I wondered if I would ever have I job that I loved again.

Darn those waffles. Had I made our typical supper, there would have been no time for thought in between the cooking, the eating, the what-happened-at-school-today conversations, and the clean-up.

God is good, though. Patience is a virtue and all that. My thinking time is over. The waffle iron is cool. Dishes are in the sink.Three kids are looking at the clock and looking at me. "Aren't we going to church?"

With a nod of my head, they head out the door. The oldest already has the keys in his hand. Guess he's planning on driving. The younger two are bickering about something. Life continues as usual.

December will come soon enough. I'll see my grandmothers again. The flash of lightning and low rumble of thunder confirms that it just might indeed rain. And I'm starting to get the feeling that this unemployed journey  I have found myself on is just another road to something else the Lord has in store. None of that can be a bad thing.

Guess those waffles were a good idea after all.

My Two Grandmas

Another era in my life came to an end yesterday afternoon with a phone call from my mom. My dad's mother passed away unexpectedly bringing my title as a granddaughter on this earth officially to an end.

One grandma was my biggest supporter (next to my own mom, of course) and introduced me to the Lord. She's been gone for almost three years now and yet her phone number can still be found on my cell phone. I have called it, in case you're wondering. At first one of those disconnected tones would sound; later an actual person answered. I stopped calling after that.

I didn't know the other grandma quite so well, but she was always glad to see me and would ooh and aah over my kids like a great-grandma does. She's the one I inherited my red hair from and as I looked in the mirror last night, I thought that I would never again hear the words, "I had hair that same color." Kind of makes me want to hang on to the color that I hated so much as a kid.

With that call that came in the middle of a parent-teacher conference, a dilemma arose that I have come to know and dread... do we drive back for the funeral? It seems like a no-brainer until you consider the van needs new tires, gas money is involved, and the kids would miss school. Oh, and it's a nine-hundred mile drive one way. Yeah. That's the kicker.

Both parents say they don't expect us to drive that distance for a few days when we have a December trip already planned. Logic warns against putting those expenses on a credit card. Faith says though the body is yet to be buried, the spirit and soul have moved on. My heart just wants my mom and dad.

At times like this, I feel just like a little kid that can't get her way. I feel so trapped... so stuck. Did I mention I have a cold? The bowl of Campbell's Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup I just had just doesn't cut it, I can promise you that. My grandma, the first one, would have already made me her potato soup and sent it over. My mom would have brought me medicine, kleenex, and Lysol. My dad would have bought me a chocolate shake from the Dari Kup. I guess the combination of a death in the family and being sick on top it just naturally leads to an almost forty-year old woman wanting her mama.

Now, Mom, when you read this (like I know you will), don't get all down and worrying about me. I've got three kids that are doing their best to get along, make me hot tea, and load the dishwasher. I know the world doesn't revolve around me and whether or not I make it to a funeral; I just wish things could be different. I suppose this is where I look to my two grandmas: one gave me faith so I'll always know where I'm going, the other gave me fiery red hair so I'll remember where I've been. I guess that's what a legacy is all about.

Roadside Stands

We were driving along some backroads today on our way home from a little weekend getaway when I began to notice all the different roadside stands that dot almost every intersection in rural America. Handpainted signs would announce the upcoming goods that "You Don't Want To Miss!" Everything from "PEACHES!" to "SWEET POTATOES!" to "HOT-BOILED PEANUTS!" was made available for just a short stop and some quick cash. Me, thinking the way I do, got to wondering about the people who sit behind the tables in their well-worn lawn chairs waiting for passersby.

Take for instance the man with a truckload of sweet potatoes. The back of the truck was full of what my husband calls "yams" and on the tailgate he had little baskets lined up neatly with miniature piles of the potatoes. He had a wad of one dollar bills in his hand (yes, we were that close) and he was busily handing one lady a basket while keeping a close eye on another vehicle that pulled in. I got to wondering about all those potatoes. Did he grow them? Did he pick them? Did he have a wife at home praying that he would come home with an empty truck and a full wallet?

And the peaches... my goodness those peach stands are busy this time of year. On one stretch of road a man had tables and tables of peaches while on the other side of the road a woman had tables and tables of peaches. My husband said, "They get you going and coming." I wondered if they were working together. Or if they were in competition. Maybe we were witnessing a neighborly feud over whose territory that stretch of road belonged to. Maybe we were in the midst of a couple trying to cover all their bases so they can make their mortgage payment next month. This is just how my mind thinks.

My husband is a hard working man. He has to be to support a family of five. I know how it is to be that wife at home praying that he comes home with a full wallet. I know how it is to read the disappointment on his face before he ever walks through the door. I know the light in his eyes that says he's had a good day's work. We've had our ups and downs; our feast and famine. Sometimes I think you gotta have the one to appreciate the other. Maybe that's why I think of the people at those roadside stands. I don't see the sweet potato or the peach, I see the family at the dinner table.

Now the hot-boiled peanut? I've not got that one figured out yet.

Won't You (Not) Be My Neighbor?

I was sitting outside in my usual spot when I got the most unusual feeling. Glancing up from the book I was reading, I spotted my neighbor across the way standing as still as a statue and facing my way. He was by a tree and with the wind whistling though the New Orleans-style shutters behind me, well, let's just say that creepy would be a good word choice here. I looked back down as quick as I could (see no evil, hear no evil) and when I chanced to sneak a peak a few seconds later, he had moved on.

Now perhaps the man was just taking a break from all the planting he has been doing lately. Perhaps he just needed a few zen moments to focus on nothing and just happened to be facing my direction. Perhaps he is just weird.

Neighbors. Gotta love 'em... or build a very tall fence.

Chicken or Beef?

I was sitting on the front porch swing this morning drinking my second cup of coffee when a sudden feeling of sadness came over me. The indecision that has plagued our family forever and the feeling of uncertainty that comes along with it has been very overwhelming to say the least. Sitting there listening the birds sing and watching the cars go by, my eyes teared up as I said to the seemingly thin air, "Lord, are You still there?"

Of course I knew the answer, but it felt good to ask a question that I did know what the answer would be. The last week has been chaotic around here and trying to make sense of all the drama on any given day can be an impossible task. Do we move or not? Homeschool or public school? Chicken or beef? Seriously, the most non-important issues have turned into thirty-minute decisions.

Well, just to be sure I knew that in fact that He was still there, He solved one of our big dilemmas pretty darn quick. Within minutes of whispering that one simple question, some information came through via email that erased any doubts or wishful thinking. Of course, lately I've noticed that what I think the answer should be never quite works out that way. The question to move or not suddenly became crystal clear. Even though it was not what I wanted to hear, I had a strange sense of peace in at least knowing that dark cloud of "What Do We Do?" had lifted. As a result, I did something I never do: I called a hair salon.

I know... not quite the reaction one would expect, but I suddenly had the urge to do something for me. Not a quick trip to Wal-Mart's Smart Style (although I am most definitely not opposed to a $14 hair cut). I made a call (and then actually went) to a real salon where the nice lady shampooed and deep-conditioned my hair while massaging  my head. For almost one solid hour, she listened while I talked about the problems one of my kids is having and the concerns about if I'm doing everything right (another first because I like to think that my problems are just that... my problems). By the time she showed me a new way to style my hair and successfully suggested an over-priced salon product, I tipped her as much as my debit card would allow and happily went on my way. I felt like I had just been to therapy.

The good feeling lasted about as long as it took to pick the kids up from school and then slowly began to fade as I saw the look on one child's face. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. (The repeat is not a mistake, just be glad I don't write it as many times as I say it to myself). Guess I'll just have to trust in that as sure as He cleared up one question, He can give direction on the other.

As for the nightly question that usually occurs around 5:00 pm every night? Well, the lady with the new haircut and style already has that taken care of and it's not up for debate. Beef. That's what's for dinner tonight.

A Story of People and a Picture Message

I was in the middle of making lunch today when my phone let out a "ding-dong" announcing an incoming text. What I got wasn't a text, but a picture... in fact, a couple of pictures. Technology is so amazing that I was receiving (almost) real-time photos of an event in (delayed) progress taking place almost nine hundred miles away. A short phone call later and I found myself outside thinking about all the people I have met so far in this thing called life.

My world use to revolve only around a little town and not much farther than that. I laugh when I tell my kids about how I never ate Chinese food until I was twenty-one and in the service (they think it's funny because for the most part, they love Chinese food). The Air Force took me to a few places I would have never otherwise been where I met some interesting people. I remember a guy from New Orleans that had an accent I never did quite figure out, another from California who was without a doubt a typical surfer dude, a girl with poofy blonde hair from Georgia who called any kind of carbonated beverage a Coke, and yet another girl from Wisconsin who really did love cheese. I found all of these people interesting and am certain they found me something of a backward puzzle... I never could come up with a good answer on why I insisted words like "wash" and "Washington" were pronounced with an R (warsh, Warshington... get it?). Anyway, that short-lived experience was one of my first to other people outside of my small town circle. I will never forget those people I met.

Then came my days as a teacher. I know, I know... teachers aren't suppose to have favorite students, but don't students have favorite teachers? At any rate, I have enough sense to keep such things to myself and treat everyone the same so any comments or helpful advice on the issue can be saved for another time. When you have those students, though, that remain close to your heart long after their year with you has gone... well, those are the ones that stick with you. You're always curious to know how they're doing in school, what kind of friends they have, what their plans are after graduation... that kind of thing; just a general interest in their well-being. I had one girl who hated math to the point it made her sick, a couple who loved horses with a passion (and still do), one girl whose smile and enthusiasm could influence an entire classroom, a girl who loved McDonald's pies so much she stashed them in her lunchbox, a boy who matched his tennis shoes to his shirts, another who experienced random nose bleeds... good grief, I could go on and on. Whether from the Midwest or the South, I've got stacks of ribbon-tied cards, pictures, and notes buried deep in my cedar chest.

You know how some books are so long that they are not only divided into chapters, but also into parts? Sometimes I wonder if that is how life is. Is it wrong for me to hope, to pray, that this particular "part" is about to come to a close so another can begin? I know things can never go back to how they used to be, but we can certainly take experiences back to where we were. To be fair, I have met some interesting people in this part of life as well: a neighbor who became like a grandfather to our kids when they needed one close by, for instance. I have fallen in love with a thing called Carolina bar-be-que that I am pretty sure I won't find anywhere else. Our kids have been introduced to the Atlantic Ocean and the Smoky Mountains. I've experienced Civil War history in a way I never would have before. Those are the kind of things that make this part of life worth it.

So back to that "ding-dong" today that started this whole thing. A girl in the midst of a marriage proposal. Yes, she was a student of mine some time ago whose joy could win over an entire classroom. Earlier this year I got news of another engagement concerning another former student that I had the honor of teaching for four years and can still remember when she got her first horse. It's just something a bit unreal to watch these kids that you use to teach arithmetic and geography to embark on the whole grown-up-thing called life. My daughter will think I'm crazy and sentimental for writing these things and I suppose some feelings are hard to transcribe into something that makes sense. If my life were a book, though, it would be full of stories about the people close to my heart and forever in my thoughts.

And yes, Mom, there would be an entire "part" devoted to you.

Stains on the Tablecloth

During my latest round of afternoon tv, a commercial came on where the dad spills bar-be-que sauce on the tablecloth, gives a "no problem" look to the kids because he knows he has the perfect stain remover, and has the tablecloth washed, dried, and back in place by the time the mom gets home. Whatever.

At my house, the tablecloth would stay on the table along with all the dirty dishes (provided I'm not there to motivate anyone else to do it). Don't get me wrong... my kids can clean a kitchen and leave everything spotless within thirty minutes flat... they just need that mom-inspired motivation to do so. Before we had a dishwasher, I use to joke that I, in fact, had three: Nick, Andrew, and Katelyn. They use to rotate with one kid having the week off while the other two washed and dried. They still do that, it's just with an actual dishwasher now. Yeah. They have it made.

But that has nothing to do with bar-be-que sauce and a tablecloth. At any rate, if you want to remove a stain before the mom gets home, Tide evidently can do the trick and she'll never know what you've been up to. Thank goodness for progress in the laundry department.

By the way, my lunch time with The Young and the Restless and another pepperoni hot pocket carried over to The Bold and the Beautiful and two double-stuffed oreos. I have to say, for better or worse, I was rather impressed. No twisted love triangles or glamorous big-money deals taking place, just a half hour focused on one woman's (Stephanie's) introduction to the homeless of the inner-city. Looks to be a interesting storyline, but I think I best break my habit before it becomes too comfortable (and let me tell you, a recliner with an open-door breeze and a curled-up cat is a very comfortable picture). Yep, I think I'm gonna have to move this party outside and away from the allure of Hollywood.

And with that, back to the Shenandoah Valley and Jackson's brilliant military strategy, chapter fourteen.

Soap for Lunch

I'm sitting here watching Nikki fall off the wagon on The Young and the Restless. She's crying about how she has been sober for seventeen years and doesn't understand how she could start drinking again. Funny that I can relate to that. Not necessarily the sober part, but the soap opera part. I've been soap opera free for fifteen years myself. What happened?

Normally I would have been working and besides, we all know that you can skip years on a soap and still perfectly understand what's going on when you randomly happen to tune in. Even during the summer when I was off with the kids, I never really felt the urge to sit around and watch tv all day. Typically once the Price is Right is over, the tv goes off. Heck, I'm not even an Oprah fan. Afternoon television has never done much for me.

Blame it on reading. I've been so engrossed in the same book for four weeks now that I've little time for anything extra. Usually I read while I eat lunch. Lately, though, to take a break from reading, I've been keeping company with the Newman family and I have to admit that I'm just a little more than intrigued.

When did Victoria change? Nick and Sharon aren't together anymore? Crickett is still around? And I thought Paul was the love of her life? Kathryn is married and apparently has a long, lost son that nobody really likes. Oh, and the same with Victor. His family tree alone must be a work of art.

I know, I know. I could be doing so much more with my time but in all fairness, the laundry gets folded, a question gets researched, and today... well, blogs and emails have shared the recliner with my remote and a pepperoni hot pocket. I would call that time well spent.

Besides, between my muting the steamy parts and ignoring the new characters in which I am clueless and/or not interested in, Nikki is really the only one who catches my attention. She really needs to get off that booze.

Katelyn's Tea

Somewhere I have a book (and at the moment I have no idea where), but somewhere I have a book that is basically a poem written by a mother to her daughter. It's all about growing from a baby to a girl to a woman and so forth. It really is a touching poem. I just have no idea where it is at the moment.

What got me thinking about it was, of course, my own daughter. Twelve years old and at times pushing sixteen (at least in her head), I sometimes forget what a remarkable young lady she is turning out to be.

I had three papers to write today. Partly due to procrastination and partly due to an unbelievable amount of required reading, we skipped church today just so a stressed-out mom could get a jump start on her homework. I dutifully swallowed my Prilosec, drank a couple of cups of coffee, spent some idle time on the front porch swing, then prepared myself for the drudgery that lay ahead. Little did I know the surprise that was in store for me.

"If you get started, Mom, I'll make us some tea and biscuits," said my girl as she watched me still squandering my time chatting with my own mom on Facebook. "Four minutes then you need to tell Granny you've got to work."

Who's the adult here?

I did as I was told as she headed into the kitchen. Just as I began to hear the sounds of pots and pans rattling around, she closed the door to the screened-in porch where I was sitting so I wouldn't guess what she was up to. I was getting the feeling there was going to be more to this tea than just biscuits. Sure enough, it wasn't long before some pretty sweet smells started drifting through the open kitchen windows. I was about two hundred words short of finishing the first paper when she opened the door and announced, "Ready!"

I hate stopping my work when I am that close to finishing. Sometimes the train of thought that I am on is hard to pick up again, but what do you do? You hit "save" and go have tea... that's what you do.

Did I say I thought there would be more to it than biscuits and tea? Well, let me tell you what I saw: a three-tiered tray with tiny biscuits on top complete with a jar of pumpkin butter (my fall favorite), a middle plate with tiny ham sandwiches cut into triangles, and a bottom dessert plate with freshly baked brownies topped with a Hershey's square of chocolate (boy, was I glad I had went to the store before the weekend!). Two pots of tea ~ chocolate mint for her; apple crunch for me, completed the table that had been set with Grandma's china along with milk and sugar. The best part of all? A young lady (who to me is still a little girl) beaming with pride. When I asked if I could take her picture for Granny, she didn't hesitate one second. She was very pleased with what she done.

That was, without a doubt, the best half hour of the day. Everything was soooo good, I ate one biscuit too many, and just when I finished off a brownie (a center piece, she suggested), she jumped up to get the final course... two tiny teacups filled with ice-cream. The girl literally thought of everything.

It goes without saying that any work I had to do was a breeze after that. When I finally finished everything up around eight o'clock this evening, she said, "Wow, Mom. When you have that much to do you are usually working on it till late."

"It was that tea," I told her. "All that tea and goodies really motivated me and helped me get everything done."

She just smiled as she went back to reading her book. "Yep. I knew that would do the trick."

Little does she know that it was the GIRL behind the tea and goodies that did the trick.

If I ever find that book, I just might read it and cry. Thank you, God, for my daughter and thank you, Mom, for helping me to become the kind of mother that would have a daughter like her.

Saturday Mornings

I was just thinking how quiet a Saturday morning usually is around here. Two out of three kids are usually up before I am and well into their individual cyberworlds while the third one doesn't come up for air till noon. The husband is always busy on someone else's project trying to make some extra weekend cash and doesn't reappear around the house till late afternoon for lunch (or supper, depending on the time). When I finally do get up, my spot on the couch stays occupied with coffee-in-hand while I watch a couple of episodes of Raven and one of Hannah Montana (that's what we get for sticking to free tv courtesy of an antenna). Anyway, the point is the house is usually very quiet.

Not today. In just the last few hours I've endured two electric guitars being simultaneously played on the back porch (still going as we speak), two preteen girls roaming around telling me how bored they are (in fairness, it's just MY girl telling me how bored SHE is), and a house cat that wandered unnoticed off the front porch to stubbornly refuse to come out from UNDER the front porch (wouldn't give it much thought except he has no front claws). For us, that's quite an eventful morning.

The front porch is nice. There's a slight breeze, birds are chirping, water is trickling, and I can only hear faint streams of guitar music filtering through the windows... of course, the fact that they are on the back porch and I'm on the front suggests that the amps are no longer set on volume one. All in all, though, I suppose it's not a bad way to start off a Saturday. I still miss my mom, still have this mysterious pain in my chest that won't leave me alone, and still have one too many papers to write before the sun goes down tomorrow; but I guess I'll enjoy this not-the-usual Saturday while it's here. 

Wonder what those boys would do if I plugged in a microphone and joined them...

Missing In Action

For the last few weeks I feel like I have been missing-in-action on this thing called life. I started a new course on one of my favorite American historical subjects of all time, the Civil War, and have since then been immersed in a thousand-page book and unlimited DVD documentaries from the library on the subject.. not to mention writing a minimum of three papers a week. Throw into this mix a philosophy class that is at the maximum boredom level ever (and yet still requires me to discuss and write about things that I will never understand or care about) and I would say that I am on the borderline of academic burn-out. Don't get me wrong... I want this degree. I NEED this degree. But I'm getting a little tired of the whole degree thing.

What I love is history. That's what keeps me focused. What can I use this history degree for? A year ago I would have said without a doubt for teaching; after all, that is another thing that I absolutely love. Now I'm not so sure. I can see working in a museum or giving tours around a historical battlefield or plantation home. The more documentaries I watch the more I think about taking part in re-enactments. One thing is for certain, I need to find others that share the same passion about history that I do whether it is in the rare student that actually listens or a straggling tourist following a battleground map... I try to limit the sharing I do at home due the ever-present glazed look that seems to befall my family any time I begin a sentence by saying, "Let me tell you what I learned today."

With that said, my unemployment status that began on July 3, 2009, continues as I  try to better my career options while at the same time not get too addicted to Facebook, Kathie Lee and Hoda, and The Young and the Restless. The plus side is that the house stays clean, the cat stays fed, and I am always available when I get those stray phone calls that say, "Mom, I missed the bus." My husband says I am living the dream (minus the bon-bons) and I suppose in a way, I am. Of course, my dreams lately have involved Civil War generals and the like, but I guess that's a part of it. One day when this phase is over, I'll most likely long for the days when I could putter around the house in sweatpants and slippers and look suspiciously at the phone when it rings. For now, though, I kind of miss that social aspect of the workplace and those alien creatures called friends... I can count on one hand the people who will call: Heath, Nick, Mom, Dad (notice I did not even need the whole hand for that!). My days are indeed quiet and for now, that's a good thing- I've got two more chapters to finish today.

Back to my missing-in-action life.