Is it just me, or is this cat needy?
He is doing his best to nudge my arm away from the keyboard and making a very direct point by swishing his tail across my work. When all that doesn't budge me, he curls up right against my leg and occasionally looks up at me with those big green eyes. Good grief. When did I become a cat person?
The weather is fixing to change around here. Seventy-five and breezy today, but much cooler temps on the horizon for tomorrow. Maybe that's why the cat is hanging around so much. He feels the change in the air.
It has been an odd day. I've been reading about Alexander the Great and thinking about all the time and energy that went into trying to keep the monarchy alive. I'm also reading a book called Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (or something like that). I'm not that far into yet, but the best I can tell is that the infamous witch from Dorothy's nightmare was born green and as of yet, no one quite knows why. As crazy as it seems, it's keeping my interest and I want to know why she turned out so mean (as if being green wouldn't be enough to do it).
After school, the kids were treated to Sonic's Happy Hour and we sat and watched a woman evidently dig and search and dig some more for change to pay her bill. This was a long event, mind you. Long enough that we had practically polished off our drinks and were waiting to see what would happen. The middle offered to take her over some dollars, but I had nothing (and I mean nothing) in my purse other than a debit card. The car hop finally seemed satisfied and left only to have the manager-looking person run out as the woman was putting her car in reverse. "This is not a valid dollar bill," she was saying. I thought it was time for us to leave. You never know what might happen around this place.
Like stupidity. People are going nuts around here. Black Friday had the Marine Corp chasing a thief out of the local Best Buy only to have one of them get stabbed. Apparently the Marines were collecting toys when the bandit made his escape. The wounded soldier is all right, but... wow... that is all I can say. Now they have security posted outside all the stores in that area. Makes for some fun holiday shopping (which is why I don't get out much, at least on that side of the river). Oh, for the days of walking to the post office and to Grandma's house.
I know at this point my parents are reading this and thinking, "What is that girl doing out there?" Tell me about it. So sorry you have to read the good, the bad, and the ugly with all this. As Dad would say, "Keep your head up." And like I keep saying, "You never know when things might change." It could be today.
Change is definitely in the air. The breeze suddenly has a chill to it. The cat is no longer my friend. He snuck off the porch and then came running when I said his name. Now he is inside glaring at me through the front door.
Maybe I'm not a cat person after all.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Lesson of the Stump
There once was a tree stump. It didn't look like much from the top. Just another old tree stump to mow around. No big deal.
There once was a boy. A boy who figured he could just forget about grades for a while. A boy who thought, "What's the big deal?"
And then there was a dad. A dad who thought that, indeed, grades are a very big deal. And he was tired of mowing around that stump.
Day One: The lesson on manual labor begins. No picture is available, however, due to the fact that it was dark and the only light provided for the boy was that of a flashlight suspended from a tree branch.
Day Two: The digging and chopping continues. No pictures are available due to the fact that this was a lesson that would not be easily learned. We don't take pictures of the struggling.
Day Three: The digging and chopping continues and the hole gets deeper. Again, pictures are not snapped due to the fragile emotions that coincide with the work. Feelings are hurt as the break times are regulated.
Day Four: Thanksgiving. The boy is thankful for his turkey and day of rest.
Day Five: It rains. All is not lost, though, as the dad makes use of the covered porch to sharpen the axe.
Day Six: The digging and chopping continues and the hole gets deeper and deeper. Today the digging resumed voluntarily. There seems to be a determination that this task can be accomplished. Today I took a picture.
And another one. And yes, the dad has reminded the boy more than once how lucky he is to be digging in sand.
Day Seven: Today would be the day. There was not any digging left to do and the swinging of the axe was limited. As the stump was lifted out (and it took two people to lift it), we stood back to admire the hole. The youngest was the first to notice the shape. "It looks like a heart," she said.
Indeed, it does. "A father's love for his son," I told the boy.
What's the moral of the story? A boy who thought grades weren't a big deal and then when faced with the punishment of the stump, thought it would be no big deal either. A boy who would rather read and draw quickly learned, however, that the stump would be a big deal. After a few hours of digging in the dark, he began to realize that maybe grades were a big deal after all, too. His dad asked him if he now understood why a good education was important.
The boy replied, "Yes. So I can pay somebody else to dig up my stumps."
Lesson learned (and his picture proudly used by his permission).
There once was a boy. A boy who figured he could just forget about grades for a while. A boy who thought, "What's the big deal?"
And then there was a dad. A dad who thought that, indeed, grades are a very big deal. And he was tired of mowing around that stump.
Day One: The lesson on manual labor begins. No picture is available, however, due to the fact that it was dark and the only light provided for the boy was that of a flashlight suspended from a tree branch.
Day Two: The digging and chopping continues. No pictures are available due to the fact that this was a lesson that would not be easily learned. We don't take pictures of the struggling.
Day Three: The digging and chopping continues and the hole gets deeper. Again, pictures are not snapped due to the fragile emotions that coincide with the work. Feelings are hurt as the break times are regulated.
Day Four: Thanksgiving. The boy is thankful for his turkey and day of rest.
Day Five: It rains. All is not lost, though, as the dad makes use of the covered porch to sharpen the axe.
Day Six: The digging and chopping continues and the hole gets deeper and deeper. Today the digging resumed voluntarily. There seems to be a determination that this task can be accomplished. Today I took a picture.
And another one. And yes, the dad has reminded the boy more than once how lucky he is to be digging in sand.
Day Seven: Today would be the day. There was not any digging left to do and the swinging of the axe was limited. As the stump was lifted out (and it took two people to lift it), we stood back to admire the hole. The youngest was the first to notice the shape. "It looks like a heart," she said.
Indeed, it does. "A father's love for his son," I told the boy.
What's the moral of the story? A boy who thought grades weren't a big deal and then when faced with the punishment of the stump, thought it would be no big deal either. A boy who would rather read and draw quickly learned, however, that the stump would be a big deal. After a few hours of digging in the dark, he began to realize that maybe grades were a big deal after all, too. His dad asked him if he now understood why a good education was important.
The boy replied, "Yes. So I can pay somebody else to dig up my stumps."
Lesson learned (and his picture proudly used by his permission).
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Post Holiday Blues
I haven't driven my van since I picked the kids up after school on Tuesday. A quick stop at a little shop for a Christmas gift or two and a run into Walmart for milk and cereal reminded me why... I am in no mood to dodge people cramming into too crowded aisles for assorted holiday goodies.
Thanksgiving Day I did so well. Smiled the whole way through even up to the time I went to bed. It really was a good day. The next morning just went downhill, though, and I haven't been able to kick it since.
I could blame it on that joke of a group my husband calls a family (Grandma excluded). She called Friday to tell him what all he had missed the day before. She means no harm by it... just talking about everything like she always does. The short of the story is he stood up to an abusive father long ago and has since been the black sheep of the family. I tell him they're like the mafia without the drugs or money. Seriously. You go against the godfather, you go against the whole family. That's how we ended up where we are now... a firstborn son trying to make amends with his dying (well, that's what we were told, but it turned out not to be true) father. We moved nine hundred miles to be with family that had no intention of being our family.
And then the housing market fell. Talk about bad timing.
I could blame my mood on the instant pressure to shop that immediately follows Thanksgiving. This time of year always brings up the how in the world are we going to do this anyway feeling. I even had a tough time decorating yesterday. Thank the Lord for my girl. I knew she was counting on it, so we had no choice but to go into action. And then the oldest took it upon himself to decorate the front porch (even when I told him we could just skip it this year). After it was all said and done, I had to admit that it just felt better to see the tree in all its glory. Something about pulling out those handmade ornaments from long ago reminded me of the family we are building now. Not to mention the fact that I realized that the number of years those same ornaments will by on my tree is severely limited... where has the time gone?
Yeah, and I miss my mom. It's that Saturday thing again.
Sometimes it stinks being the grown-up. If I could hide out in my room and not have to think about supper or laundry or breakfast for the morning, this would be the time I would do it. My mom says I'm the glue that holds the family together. Sometimes I think that glue is getting ready to crack. So much for being the grown-up.
Pretty sad, huh? How one person go from the perfect day to this is just a tad bit pathetic, in my opinion. And yet, that is where I am at. Love it or hate it, life never seems to run at the same pace. My dad was talking the other day about paths that take you off the road you should be traveling on. My path has most definitely made a detour on the woe-is-me dead end. I suppose I better turn around.
There are other things to think about: a girl in a school play, a son turning seventeen, a boy and his stump (now that will be a great story!). We have a new baby to shop for this year and a much anticipated trip home just around the corner. And, since I'm looking on the brighter side of things, if my clothes are always feeling like they have shrunk in the dyer, well... I guess that's a pretty good reason to go shopping for myself. There are worse things in life.
At least my family likes me.
Thanksgiving Day I did so well. Smiled the whole way through even up to the time I went to bed. It really was a good day. The next morning just went downhill, though, and I haven't been able to kick it since.
I could blame it on that joke of a group my husband calls a family (Grandma excluded). She called Friday to tell him what all he had missed the day before. She means no harm by it... just talking about everything like she always does. The short of the story is he stood up to an abusive father long ago and has since been the black sheep of the family. I tell him they're like the mafia without the drugs or money. Seriously. You go against the godfather, you go against the whole family. That's how we ended up where we are now... a firstborn son trying to make amends with his dying (well, that's what we were told, but it turned out not to be true) father. We moved nine hundred miles to be with family that had no intention of being our family.
And then the housing market fell. Talk about bad timing.
I could blame my mood on the instant pressure to shop that immediately follows Thanksgiving. This time of year always brings up the how in the world are we going to do this anyway feeling. I even had a tough time decorating yesterday. Thank the Lord for my girl. I knew she was counting on it, so we had no choice but to go into action. And then the oldest took it upon himself to decorate the front porch (even when I told him we could just skip it this year). After it was all said and done, I had to admit that it just felt better to see the tree in all its glory. Something about pulling out those handmade ornaments from long ago reminded me of the family we are building now. Not to mention the fact that I realized that the number of years those same ornaments will by on my tree is severely limited... where has the time gone?
Yeah, and I miss my mom. It's that Saturday thing again.
Sometimes it stinks being the grown-up. If I could hide out in my room and not have to think about supper or laundry or breakfast for the morning, this would be the time I would do it. My mom says I'm the glue that holds the family together. Sometimes I think that glue is getting ready to crack. So much for being the grown-up.
Pretty sad, huh? How one person go from the perfect day to this is just a tad bit pathetic, in my opinion. And yet, that is where I am at. Love it or hate it, life never seems to run at the same pace. My dad was talking the other day about paths that take you off the road you should be traveling on. My path has most definitely made a detour on the woe-is-me dead end. I suppose I better turn around.
There are other things to think about: a girl in a school play, a son turning seventeen, a boy and his stump (now that will be a great story!). We have a new baby to shop for this year and a much anticipated trip home just around the corner. And, since I'm looking on the brighter side of things, if my clothes are always feeling like they have shrunk in the dyer, well... I guess that's a pretty good reason to go shopping for myself. There are worse things in life.
At least my family likes me.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A Perfect Ending
Well, I wore my mom's turkey apron today while I cooked my turkey. Just as expected, the husband loved the meal and raved about the mashed potatoes. I had the experience of having my daughter in the kitchen with me today which I loved and the meal was just about next to perfect, but that wasn't the best part of the day.
As expected, I made everyone do the What I Am Thankful For and then much to the middle's dismay, forced everyone outside after the meal for a little family football. We had fun (though at least one child would protest that fact), but that wasn't the best part either.
After we came inside, we passed around the pumpkin pie and red velvet cake. We watched a game (Lions vs. Patriots) and then later took a nap. A typical Thanksgiving, I suppose. We heard nothing from my husband's side of the family and everything from mine, just as expected.
What was unexpected was the ending to the day. One thing you will never hear me complain about is the weather here. Absolutely beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that a fire outside seemed the perfect way to end the night, so that's what we did. Just me and the husband and the firstborn (because the other two would rather be inside).
We talked about our first date, our first year, and our first holidays. We looked at the stars, complained about the neighbors, and listened to sirens in the distance. We listened as our oldest talked about his friends and his thoughts on life. At one point the middle and the youngest joined us and as the fire died down, we headed inside.
Now we are surrounded by homemade pizza and promises of a Uno throwdown. The cat is stretched across my feet and visions of Christmas decorating (tomorrow!) lurk in the back of my mind. For now, though, it really is the perfect ending.
Not bad for a Thanksgiving entirely on our own.
As expected, I made everyone do the What I Am Thankful For and then much to the middle's dismay, forced everyone outside after the meal for a little family football. We had fun (though at least one child would protest that fact), but that wasn't the best part either.
After we came inside, we passed around the pumpkin pie and red velvet cake. We watched a game (Lions vs. Patriots) and then later took a nap. A typical Thanksgiving, I suppose. We heard nothing from my husband's side of the family and everything from mine, just as expected.
What was unexpected was the ending to the day. One thing you will never hear me complain about is the weather here. Absolutely beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that a fire outside seemed the perfect way to end the night, so that's what we did. Just me and the husband and the firstborn (because the other two would rather be inside).
We talked about our first date, our first year, and our first holidays. We looked at the stars, complained about the neighbors, and listened to sirens in the distance. We listened as our oldest talked about his friends and his thoughts on life. At one point the middle and the youngest joined us and as the fire died down, we headed inside.
Now we are surrounded by homemade pizza and promises of a Uno throwdown. The cat is stretched across my feet and visions of Christmas decorating (tomorrow!) lurk in the back of my mind. For now, though, it really is the perfect ending.
Not bad for a Thanksgiving entirely on our own.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Pie In A Box
Twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the house
The cat was sleeping on his little play mouse.
The kitchen was clean awaiting the mess
That would definitely be more before it was less.
Ahhh. Thanksgiving. The turkey is thawed; the pumpkin pie is in the freezer. The potatoes are ready to be peeled and boiled; the gravy is on stand-by in a jar. I like to mix my thanksgiving dinners up between the homemade and the ready-to-go. That's why I let Mrs. Smith bake the pie and pull the gravy from the cabinet.
The youngest asked me at supper what I did for Thanksgiving when I was a kid. "Went to Grandma's or Aunt Patty's, I suppose." The table got quiet.
I guess we were all thinking of Grandma's house. I thought of her today when I fixed up a card to send to my niece. One time Grandma sent me a sympathy card for my birthday. She had scratched out the sympathy part and wrote in birthday and laughed about it later. Her theory? Why buy a new card when you can make what you have work?
Or maybe we were thinking of Aunt Patty. You want a home where everybody is made to feel special? Go to Aunt Patty's. She never does anything halfway no matter if the meal is a holiday dinner or just burgers on the grill. And if the dessert she has planned is ice cream? It's a guarantee that every topping imaginable will be there.
I guess we are all trying not to think about the fact it will just be us tomorrow. I have to admit it gets kinda difficult (and annoying even to me) to act all cheerful like it's no big deal. It is a big deal, though, and we all know it. Blame it on Grandma and Aunt Patty. We just love those big family holiday dinners. Here, we have supper around the table every day. It's no big deal to sit down with the same five people you look at every night.. even if you dress it up with Grandma's china.
We will sit down together, though, and we will use the good china. Daddy will go on about how good everything is and I'll make everybody do the "What I Am Thankful For" speech. Afterward the kids will scatter and I'll sing along to Bryan Adams while I wash dishes. I'll talk to my parents across the miles and we'll eat leftovers for supper. Just another holiday dinner on our own.
And yet another reminder to be thankful. We may be a family of five who sits around the same table every night looking at each other, but we're still a family of five sitting at the table (if that makes any sense). My dad reminded me on the phone just this morning to enjoy every moment of those kids while they are here. I'm thinking he knows what he's talking about.
So you can bet I'll be up early in the morning with a big smile on my face forcing everyone to be happy. It's a holiday for crying out loud! I'll take the pie out of the box and microwave my jar of gravy. Somewhere in the midst of it all, the forced smiles will fade and real ones will appear. We are a family, after all, and we are together. That's five reasons enough to be thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a good night!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Give That Kid A Doughnut
If my life were a book, my children would not follow me to every room to which I go. At least I don't think that they would. If my life were a book, I would have a room dedicated to me complete with a lock on the door.
Wait. I have that. It's called my bedroom. The problem is that if I went in my room I would get tired and think only of sleep. I'm tired enough as it is. That's why I'm in the dining room.
But we've been here before. And we know what happens when I sit down at the table surrounded by papers and a laptop. Instant I want time with my mom and I want it now! It's all making my head hurt.
I should be thankful. This is the season for thankfulness and family and turkey. I've got the family. I've got the turkey. I just need to find the thankfulness.
And I am thankful. I'm thankful for kids that just want my opinion on something. I'm thankful for kids who evidently like to be around me most of the time. And I'm thankful for the kid who hovers around me like he has some life changing question only to ask,
"Can I have a doughnut?"
A doughnut? Seriously? Oh, if only all of life's problems could be solved by a Krispy Kreme doughnut. We would all be thankful whether it was Turkey Day or not.
"Yes. Please. Have a doughnut... and leave me alone till morning."
Wait. I have that. It's called my bedroom. The problem is that if I went in my room I would get tired and think only of sleep. I'm tired enough as it is. That's why I'm in the dining room.
But we've been here before. And we know what happens when I sit down at the table surrounded by papers and a laptop. Instant I want time with my mom and I want it now! It's all making my head hurt.
I should be thankful. This is the season for thankfulness and family and turkey. I've got the family. I've got the turkey. I just need to find the thankfulness.
And I am thankful. I'm thankful for kids that just want my opinion on something. I'm thankful for kids who evidently like to be around me most of the time. And I'm thankful for the kid who hovers around me like he has some life changing question only to ask,
"Can I have a doughnut?"
A doughnut? Seriously? Oh, if only all of life's problems could be solved by a Krispy Kreme doughnut. We would all be thankful whether it was Turkey Day or not.
"Yes. Please. Have a doughnut... and leave me alone till morning."
Monday, November 22, 2010
Just Give Me An *A* And Call It Good
Oprah has her favorite things. Martha has her good things. May I present my list of Things I Would Rather Not Deal With Right Now:
1. Progress Report
2. Sensitive Teeth
3. Progress Report
4. Phone Bill
5. Progress Report
I guess you can see where this is going. Progress Report Day is rarely a joyous occasion around here and it just barely beats the Actual Report Card Day. One thing about me... I'll never beat you over the head with my A+ student (although I do have one. Just so you know). No, around here, anything that has to do with a check-out-how-your-kid-is-doing thing can either go one way or another. Sometimes it's a sigh of relief and sometimes it's a painful experience. Whatever the reaction, it always has a way of making me appreciate summer just a little bit more.
I hated grades as a kid. I hated grading as a teacher. Nothing compares, though, to how much I hate grades as a parent. The whole grading thing is overrated. And yet so needed. It's just a part of life, kid. Do your stuff, get over it, and move on.
And since when did I develop sensitive teeth anyway? I'll tell you when... when I started going to the dentist on a regular basis, that's when. Before that (all those years before that), I had no complaints. Seriously, none. Now it seems that everytime I go for a check up they find another reason for me to come back. And now my teeth hurt. Just on the sides, just in the back, but they hurt. The only solace I have is that hot stuff like coffee doesn't bother me; only cold things like ice in my tea. The dentist said I was brushing too hard. I said he scared me with all of his dire warnings. Dumb dental insurance.
My husband just interrupted my tooth issues by asking me if I remember what it was like to be a teenager. "Barely," I say. "Well, I remember it pretty well, " he replies. That's all that is said. We look at each other, look at one kid's backpack on the table, and sigh heavily. This too shall pass. Darn progress report day.
And then there's the phone bill. Yeah... not even gonna think about that now. I changed my plan today anyway to allow for all those pictures I've been receiving of a certain baby girl. At least that's one thing I can change.
We take what we can get. No grading required.
1. Progress Report
2. Sensitive Teeth
3. Progress Report
4. Phone Bill
5. Progress Report
I guess you can see where this is going. Progress Report Day is rarely a joyous occasion around here and it just barely beats the Actual Report Card Day. One thing about me... I'll never beat you over the head with my A+ student (although I do have one. Just so you know). No, around here, anything that has to do with a check-out-how-your-kid-is-doing thing can either go one way or another. Sometimes it's a sigh of relief and sometimes it's a painful experience. Whatever the reaction, it always has a way of making me appreciate summer just a little bit more.
I hated grades as a kid. I hated grading as a teacher. Nothing compares, though, to how much I hate grades as a parent. The whole grading thing is overrated. And yet so needed. It's just a part of life, kid. Do your stuff, get over it, and move on.
And since when did I develop sensitive teeth anyway? I'll tell you when... when I started going to the dentist on a regular basis, that's when. Before that (all those years before that), I had no complaints. Seriously, none. Now it seems that everytime I go for a check up they find another reason for me to come back. And now my teeth hurt. Just on the sides, just in the back, but they hurt. The only solace I have is that hot stuff like coffee doesn't bother me; only cold things like ice in my tea. The dentist said I was brushing too hard. I said he scared me with all of his dire warnings. Dumb dental insurance.
My husband just interrupted my tooth issues by asking me if I remember what it was like to be a teenager. "Barely," I say. "Well, I remember it pretty well, " he replies. That's all that is said. We look at each other, look at one kid's backpack on the table, and sigh heavily. This too shall pass. Darn progress report day.
And then there's the phone bill. Yeah... not even gonna think about that now. I changed my plan today anyway to allow for all those pictures I've been receiving of a certain baby girl. At least that's one thing I can change.
We take what we can get. No grading required.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Cotton Fields, Nuclear Smokestacks, And What Use To Be
We set out on a quest today to find the house my husband's grandpa was born and raised in. With my husband at the wheel, his grandma sat beside him as his co-pilot. I knew we were in for an interesting drive five minutes into the trip.
There was much discussion about the best way to get to our destination that was a little over forty miles away. Grandma may have grown up in this city, but it evidently has been a while since she made this particular drive. She was directing him this way and that, and he finally gave me a look in the rear view mirror that said get the map! She had him turn around so she could "re-group" and "collect her bearings" and after retracing a few miles worth of driving, we were finally on the right highway.
Don't get me wrong- I have grown to love this woman. She is the last grandmother left for my husband and me. She spent her life working as a registered nurse in both a veteran's hospital and a mental institution, I think. Much of her work was during World War II and the years that followed. She has many stories and loves to share them all. I just have a hard time keeping up with her and her deep southern accent.
Take the cotton fields, for instance. Fields and fields of cotton. There was at least ten miles worth of talking about cotton and manufacturing and how this younger generation has probably never held real cotton in their hand. And we're not talking about cotton balls out of a plastic bag either. We're talking cotton picked fresh from the field. "Why, with all these new fangled machines, a man doesn't even have to bend over those cotton plants any more," she said. Miles and miles and fields and fields of cotton.
Then came the nuclear smokestacks. It was really quite the picture, by the way. I wanted to ask my husband to pull over so I could snap an actual photo, but, well... Grandma rarely takes a breath and I hate to interrupt. Needless to say, over a field of cotton and behind trees draped in their beautiful fall colors stood two twin reactors pouring thick columns of white smoke into a clear blue sky (which my son assures me is steam... that's why they call them cooling towers, Mom). The contrast between the created and the man-made was remarkable. Grandma wasn't talking about that, though.
She was talking about electricity and power companies and lay-offs. Jobs gained and jobs lost and money made. Kids and colleges and marriage. New homes and job transfers. I was thinking that I needed some fresh air and she was reliving parts of her life. With each new road or house we passed, she was amazed at how much had changed.
We were almost through the town to which we were headed when we realized we were actually in the town. It was that small. She definitely knew where she was at now. We turned on a road that bore her last name and after a few quick turns and some finger-pointing directing, we pulled over. We were at the childhood home of her husband. A home that she evidently new very well. And for a moment, she just sat.
Like I said, it had been a while since she had been here. A long while. Opening the door for her, my husband helped her out and as soon as her feet hit the ground, she started talking again. An old, dilapidated house began to come alive as she described swings on the front porch and a well out back. Pointing this way and that, we heard stories of grocery stores and neighbors and family members that have long since gone. Babies had been born in that house and the elderly had died there. Memories literally tripped over one another as she described life as she once knew it until finally, she said she was ready to go.
The trip home was a little more subdued. Grandma was tired and talked of taking a nap. We ate lunch, talked about my family (she remembered the little girl in our wedding and was amazed when I told her that little girl was now a new mom), and made a quick stop to visit her son. It was late afternoon when we finally walked her to her front door and as she hugged my husband good-bye she said, "Now you know where some of your folk come from." There seemed to be a peace in that this was something that was important to her. She wanted him to know, and now he knew. He left her to nap and promised to see her next weekend.
So that was our Sunday afternoon taking a literal drive down memory lane. Cotton fields, nuclear smokestacks, and what use to be.
There was much discussion about the best way to get to our destination that was a little over forty miles away. Grandma may have grown up in this city, but it evidently has been a while since she made this particular drive. She was directing him this way and that, and he finally gave me a look in the rear view mirror that said get the map! She had him turn around so she could "re-group" and "collect her bearings" and after retracing a few miles worth of driving, we were finally on the right highway.
Don't get me wrong- I have grown to love this woman. She is the last grandmother left for my husband and me. She spent her life working as a registered nurse in both a veteran's hospital and a mental institution, I think. Much of her work was during World War II and the years that followed. She has many stories and loves to share them all. I just have a hard time keeping up with her and her deep southern accent.
Take the cotton fields, for instance. Fields and fields of cotton. There was at least ten miles worth of talking about cotton and manufacturing and how this younger generation has probably never held real cotton in their hand. And we're not talking about cotton balls out of a plastic bag either. We're talking cotton picked fresh from the field. "Why, with all these new fangled machines, a man doesn't even have to bend over those cotton plants any more," she said. Miles and miles and fields and fields of cotton.
Then came the nuclear smokestacks. It was really quite the picture, by the way. I wanted to ask my husband to pull over so I could snap an actual photo, but, well... Grandma rarely takes a breath and I hate to interrupt. Needless to say, over a field of cotton and behind trees draped in their beautiful fall colors stood two twin reactors pouring thick columns of white smoke into a clear blue sky (which my son assures me is steam... that's why they call them cooling towers, Mom). The contrast between the created and the man-made was remarkable. Grandma wasn't talking about that, though.
She was talking about electricity and power companies and lay-offs. Jobs gained and jobs lost and money made. Kids and colleges and marriage. New homes and job transfers. I was thinking that I needed some fresh air and she was reliving parts of her life. With each new road or house we passed, she was amazed at how much had changed.
We were almost through the town to which we were headed when we realized we were actually in the town. It was that small. She definitely knew where she was at now. We turned on a road that bore her last name and after a few quick turns and some finger-pointing directing, we pulled over. We were at the childhood home of her husband. A home that she evidently new very well. And for a moment, she just sat.
Like I said, it had been a while since she had been here. A long while. Opening the door for her, my husband helped her out and as soon as her feet hit the ground, she started talking again. An old, dilapidated house began to come alive as she described swings on the front porch and a well out back. Pointing this way and that, we heard stories of grocery stores and neighbors and family members that have long since gone. Babies had been born in that house and the elderly had died there. Memories literally tripped over one another as she described life as she once knew it until finally, she said she was ready to go.
The trip home was a little more subdued. Grandma was tired and talked of taking a nap. We ate lunch, talked about my family (she remembered the little girl in our wedding and was amazed when I told her that little girl was now a new mom), and made a quick stop to visit her son. It was late afternoon when we finally walked her to her front door and as she hugged my husband good-bye she said, "Now you know where some of your folk come from." There seemed to be a peace in that this was something that was important to her. She wanted him to know, and now he knew. He left her to nap and promised to see her next weekend.
So that was our Sunday afternoon taking a literal drive down memory lane. Cotton fields, nuclear smokestacks, and what use to be.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Happiness Is
I might as well get this out of the way. Lord knows I won't be able to concentrate on anything else today until I release some of this happiness that is making me want to... well, smile. Even the kids look extra special to me this morning. Oh, now... you know kids are always special, but today is extra special. I might even bake them cookies.
"The happiest days are when babies are born," Melanie from Gone With The Wind.
What is it about babies that can make even the grumpiest person smile? How does a little baby have the power to infuse so much hope into an otherwise ordinary and mundane life? I haven't even seen this little girl yet other than tiny pictures on my cell phone and bigger ones on Facebook, but I honestly feel like I could overcome anything today. If I've looked at her picture once, I've looked at it a hundred times since early (really early!) this morning. Every time I look at her, I just see a new beginning.
A beginning. Oh, how quickly those days fly by! I'm in the middle part with my own and I never quite understood until now how the moodiness of teenagers would make a mom long for the days of a toddler tantrum. Seriously. At least then a chocolate chip cookie and a cup of milk could chase the tears away. Now that same cookie and milk cup doesn't get much of a response, but we're not going to dwell on that. Because today is a happy day.
I remember when we brought our oldest home. Crammed into the backseat of a sporty Mustang sitting by a tiny baby snug in his car seat, I didn't have a clue what I was doing. A few years later we brought the middle home in the back seat of a four-door Buick Skylark. I was more confident then. And then the youngest. Well, by then we were riding in a Dodge Caravan for our been-here-done-this trip home from the hospital. Three kids. Three different vehicles. It seems like I was always in such a hurry for things to change and move on.
Now I want to pause life. I want to see little Lily just as she is today in her first day of this thing called life. I want to experience a new mama's awe of her newborn. I want to see a new daddy who can't stop smiling. And I want to see the look on a grandparent's face when they realize that the next generation has arrived. God is good.
Life doesn't pause, though, does it? It moves on at a steady pace and waits for us to realize that there are moments worth slowing down and enjoying. This is one of those moments. I won't be able to hold this new baby for another month (and you better believe that this is one trip I will not miss), but I still have her picture. I already have a box on the table perfect for shipping what I'm sure will be something pink and irresistible. Heck, I might even put up our Christmas tree today.
Wait. I take that back. I don't think I'll have to time to decorate and shop. And the shopping will have to be the top priority today.
Because today is a happy day. The day when a baby is born.
"The happiest days are when babies are born," Melanie from Gone With The Wind.
What is it about babies that can make even the grumpiest person smile? How does a little baby have the power to infuse so much hope into an otherwise ordinary and mundane life? I haven't even seen this little girl yet other than tiny pictures on my cell phone and bigger ones on Facebook, but I honestly feel like I could overcome anything today. If I've looked at her picture once, I've looked at it a hundred times since early (really early!) this morning. Every time I look at her, I just see a new beginning.
A beginning. Oh, how quickly those days fly by! I'm in the middle part with my own and I never quite understood until now how the moodiness of teenagers would make a mom long for the days of a toddler tantrum. Seriously. At least then a chocolate chip cookie and a cup of milk could chase the tears away. Now that same cookie and milk cup doesn't get much of a response, but we're not going to dwell on that. Because today is a happy day.
I remember when we brought our oldest home. Crammed into the backseat of a sporty Mustang sitting by a tiny baby snug in his car seat, I didn't have a clue what I was doing. A few years later we brought the middle home in the back seat of a four-door Buick Skylark. I was more confident then. And then the youngest. Well, by then we were riding in a Dodge Caravan for our been-here-done-this trip home from the hospital. Three kids. Three different vehicles. It seems like I was always in such a hurry for things to change and move on.
Now I want to pause life. I want to see little Lily just as she is today in her first day of this thing called life. I want to experience a new mama's awe of her newborn. I want to see a new daddy who can't stop smiling. And I want to see the look on a grandparent's face when they realize that the next generation has arrived. God is good.
Life doesn't pause, though, does it? It moves on at a steady pace and waits for us to realize that there are moments worth slowing down and enjoying. This is one of those moments. I won't be able to hold this new baby for another month (and you better believe that this is one trip I will not miss), but I still have her picture. I already have a box on the table perfect for shipping what I'm sure will be something pink and irresistible. Heck, I might even put up our Christmas tree today.
Wait. I take that back. I don't think I'll have to time to decorate and shop. And the shopping will have to be the top priority today.
Because today is a happy day. The day when a baby is born.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Waiting On Baby
The longest days are those when you are waiting for a baby to arrive. At least that has been my day. Almost a thousand miles away, my brother's family is anxiously awaiting their newest arrival. The arrival that will make him a grandpa. Where did the time go?
I remember when we were little kids. We had bunk beds although I think I usually ended up with him. He had a Stretch Armstrong that we would, well... s-t-r-e-t-c-h. On the Fourth of July we would put firecrackers in a metal coffee can and smoke bombs in the metal pipes of our swing set. When he got his first car he would crank up the volume on the cassette player and then hit his power booster. The day he got married he missed the drive to the church a couple of times. The day I got married he put bunny ears behind my head, wedding veil and all. He will always be my big brother.
My big brother who will now be called Grandpa. Just seems kind of crazy and yet, so right. I remember when we would stay all night with my grandparents and our grandpa would always get up at midnight on Saturdays to watch wrestling. My grandpa and his overalls. And his CB radio. And his dominoes. Wonder what kind of grandpa my brother will be.
I can't see him in overalls or talking on the CB or for that matter, playing dominoes. But I can see him out in his garage tinkering away on his newest drag car with a little granddaughter at his side. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he dedicates a whole corner to her complete with a pink tool box and kid-size wrenches. Like my own dad has, he'll probably have cute little pictures tacked up here and there behind a door that reads "Men Only". Of course, that rule will be broken for those that have stolen his heart.
And the little baby girl we're waiting on? Little Lily? Well, she'll be the one to do that.
If she would only hurry up.
I remember when we were little kids. We had bunk beds although I think I usually ended up with him. He had a Stretch Armstrong that we would, well... s-t-r-e-t-c-h. On the Fourth of July we would put firecrackers in a metal coffee can and smoke bombs in the metal pipes of our swing set. When he got his first car he would crank up the volume on the cassette player and then hit his power booster. The day he got married he missed the drive to the church a couple of times. The day I got married he put bunny ears behind my head, wedding veil and all. He will always be my big brother.
My big brother who will now be called Grandpa. Just seems kind of crazy and yet, so right. I remember when we would stay all night with my grandparents and our grandpa would always get up at midnight on Saturdays to watch wrestling. My grandpa and his overalls. And his CB radio. And his dominoes. Wonder what kind of grandpa my brother will be.
I can't see him in overalls or talking on the CB or for that matter, playing dominoes. But I can see him out in his garage tinkering away on his newest drag car with a little granddaughter at his side. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he dedicates a whole corner to her complete with a pink tool box and kid-size wrenches. Like my own dad has, he'll probably have cute little pictures tacked up here and there behind a door that reads "Men Only". Of course, that rule will be broken for those that have stolen his heart.
And the little baby girl we're waiting on? Little Lily? Well, she'll be the one to do that.
If she would only hurry up.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
This Thing Called Blogging
I wish I had discovered this thing called blogging a year ago. Whether or not anyone actually reads what's on my mind, writing my thoughts and reading the mind wanderings of other people is turning out to be a type of therapy for me.
Take this morning, for instance. One lady's husband is going through some heart testing today, another mom made me feel better about the fact that I can't keep things straight (she actually forgot a kid at school... I forgot one of my own years ago), and yet another woman mentions her son in Afghanistan often. Things like that remind me that there really are other people out there.
I get stuck in my own world. Poor me. Nobody cares. God who?
Sound familiar? Well, I do struggle. And I know that I am not poor. And that my mom cares. And that Jesus is my Savior. Like I've said before, though, I spend too much time alone.
This time alone was not by choice. I'm on my second year of not teaching school. I've lost count of how many jobs I applied for. Believe me, I've got every job search option saved on my tool bar. I can practically recite my resume. I went through all last year thinking I was a loser that couldn't get a job. Or hold a job. Or contribute anything to society.
This year I'm just hanging on. And the thread is getting pretty thin, let me tell you.
The only peace I have is when I tell myself that this is only for a season. Last year was such a mess with the kids entering public school for the first time. This year was easier, but those big schools scare me. That's just the way it is. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the girl.
And as far as me being home? Well, I have to admit that it has made things easier as far as sick kids, early pick-ups, and dentist appointments go. I'm on my way to cramming four years of college into two and a half (December 2011!). The house stays clean. The cat has grown to love me. And blogging has become a way to vent and connect myself to the outside world.
But, oh, how I miss the outside world! I miss welcoming grumpy students in the morning, watching them roll their eyes when I would start singing about prepositions and pronouns (and then ask me later privately to please teach them that song), and then sending them on their way in the afternoon with a sigh of relief. I miss hearing lockers slam in the hallway. I miss my magnetic white board. I miss my red pen.
What was. What is. And what will be.
Until then, you're stuck with me. In between perfecting history essays about total war and separating the many loads of laundry, I read blogs and I write them. And it all has a way of making me feel better.
Take this morning, for instance. One lady's husband is going through some heart testing today, another mom made me feel better about the fact that I can't keep things straight (she actually forgot a kid at school... I forgot one of my own years ago), and yet another woman mentions her son in Afghanistan often. Things like that remind me that there really are other people out there.
I get stuck in my own world. Poor me. Nobody cares. God who?
Sound familiar? Well, I do struggle. And I know that I am not poor. And that my mom cares. And that Jesus is my Savior. Like I've said before, though, I spend too much time alone.
This time alone was not by choice. I'm on my second year of not teaching school. I've lost count of how many jobs I applied for. Believe me, I've got every job search option saved on my tool bar. I can practically recite my resume. I went through all last year thinking I was a loser that couldn't get a job. Or hold a job. Or contribute anything to society.
This year I'm just hanging on. And the thread is getting pretty thin, let me tell you.
The only peace I have is when I tell myself that this is only for a season. Last year was such a mess with the kids entering public school for the first time. This year was easier, but those big schools scare me. That's just the way it is. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the girl.
And as far as me being home? Well, I have to admit that it has made things easier as far as sick kids, early pick-ups, and dentist appointments go. I'm on my way to cramming four years of college into two and a half (December 2011!). The house stays clean. The cat has grown to love me. And blogging has become a way to vent and connect myself to the outside world.
But, oh, how I miss the outside world! I miss welcoming grumpy students in the morning, watching them roll their eyes when I would start singing about prepositions and pronouns (and then ask me later privately to please teach them that song), and then sending them on their way in the afternoon with a sigh of relief. I miss hearing lockers slam in the hallway. I miss my magnetic white board. I miss my red pen.
What was. What is. And what will be.
Until then, you're stuck with me. In between perfecting history essays about total war and separating the many loads of laundry, I read blogs and I write them. And it all has a way of making me feel better.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
He's Still Working On Me
So I thought I would try something new today and add a picture. I'm still thinking on that random cheerio from yesterday. I keeping wondering what it is that is throwing a kink into our whole way of living. And I'm still plotting a way to make my escape. Some thoughts just don't go away that easily.
My, though, what a beautiful place I live in. The fall colors have just really got my attention this year. I've even started carrying my camera with me and I am by no means a photographer. I just have the urge to capture every pretty color I see. Maybe I'm so desperate to find the bright side of things, I'll take it any way I can... even in a leaf.
Some colors just aren't quite there yet. I guess that gives me something to look forward to and maybe, just maybe, it's a reminder also. I'm not quite there yet either.
He only is my Rock and my Salvation; He is my Defense and my Fortress, I shall not be moved. Psalm 62:6
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Random Cheerio
Our printer has been jamming up for about the last week now. Today was the first day that I really took the time to look at it and after fiddling with it for about thirty minutes, determined that I did not have a clue and decided this was a job for the oldest.
After coming home from school, he sat down at the table with a tool kit by his side. I figure any working man is best left alone so that's how I left him. Only once when I heard the sound of what was very similar to plastic snapping did I ask, "Is everything all right in there?" He assured me it was.
This when on for a little while until I could hear the distinct sound of paper being fed properly through the printer. "Nick wins," was the announcement from the kitchen. I walked in there to find the printer completely, or almost completely, taken apart and him sitting there with a smile on his face. "Random cheerio," he said. Who would've thought?
As usual, that comment got me to thinking about other things. If something as small and random as a cheerio can wreak havoc on a printer, I wonder how many seemingly insignificant things can wreak havoc on my life?
And with that thought, I'm gonna have to think on it a while.
After coming home from school, he sat down at the table with a tool kit by his side. I figure any working man is best left alone so that's how I left him. Only once when I heard the sound of what was very similar to plastic snapping did I ask, "Is everything all right in there?" He assured me it was.
This when on for a little while until I could hear the distinct sound of paper being fed properly through the printer. "Nick wins," was the announcement from the kitchen. I walked in there to find the printer completely, or almost completely, taken apart and him sitting there with a smile on his face. "Random cheerio," he said. Who would've thought?
As usual, that comment got me to thinking about other things. If something as small and random as a cheerio can wreak havoc on a printer, I wonder how many seemingly insignificant things can wreak havoc on my life?
And with that thought, I'm gonna have to think on it a while.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Meatballs No More
I am watching my husband clean out his tool bag. It makes me think of my make-up drawer. Some things you use and some things you don't. Some things just don't live up to the promises the packages proclaimed.
He just informed me that he doesn't like spaghetti. This is after almost eighteen years of cooking it. The topic of spaghetti came up because I mentioned that was what I was making for supper. The oldest chimed in. He doesn't really care for spaghetti either.
Where are these people when I'm asking on my way out the door to the grocery store, "What's everybody want for supper this week?" Oh, they're around, but you can't get a solid answer out of anyone. Except for the middle's "Cashew Chicken!" and the youngest's "Sandwich Ring!"... things are pretty much left up to me.
And guess what? I like spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I love spaghetti. I could eat some kind of pasta dish practically every night. And pizza. Don't even get me started there. So it doesn't take a genius to figure out that when the suggestions are few and far between, mama's choice will win the prize.
And for the record, it's not like I fix spaghetti all the time- probably every other week. People around here are just too picky at times. I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter the other night (my all-time favorite). They survived on coarse brown bread and plain potatoes for a good month or so. Considering that thinned out codfish gravy on the bread was considered a special treat, I think it's safe to say pickiness around the dinner table was not an option.
Oh, how far we have fallen.
As the tool clean-up continued, I was given the go-ahead for spaghetti. (Really?) Evidently the meatballs are pretty good and so is the sauce. Okay, then, you do like my spaghetti. Well, I've changed my mind.
It's now a Chinese kind of night.
He just informed me that he doesn't like spaghetti. This is after almost eighteen years of cooking it. The topic of spaghetti came up because I mentioned that was what I was making for supper. The oldest chimed in. He doesn't really care for spaghetti either.
Where are these people when I'm asking on my way out the door to the grocery store, "What's everybody want for supper this week?" Oh, they're around, but you can't get a solid answer out of anyone. Except for the middle's "Cashew Chicken!" and the youngest's "Sandwich Ring!"... things are pretty much left up to me.
And guess what? I like spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I love spaghetti. I could eat some kind of pasta dish practically every night. And pizza. Don't even get me started there. So it doesn't take a genius to figure out that when the suggestions are few and far between, mama's choice will win the prize.
And for the record, it's not like I fix spaghetti all the time- probably every other week. People around here are just too picky at times. I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter the other night (my all-time favorite). They survived on coarse brown bread and plain potatoes for a good month or so. Considering that thinned out codfish gravy on the bread was considered a special treat, I think it's safe to say pickiness around the dinner table was not an option.
Oh, how far we have fallen.
As the tool clean-up continued, I was given the go-ahead for spaghetti. (Really?) Evidently the meatballs are pretty good and so is the sauce. Okay, then, you do like my spaghetti. Well, I've changed my mind.
It's now a Chinese kind of night.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
An Apology Letter To My Mom
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry for all those time I must have drove you nuts. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I gave you when you told me something I didn't want to hear. I'm sorry for all the times I repeatedly asked you for new clothes.
I'm sorry I frowned at the supper you put on the table. I'm sorry all my socks and underwear rarely made it to the laundry basket. I'm sorry I didn't lift the knick-knacks off the shelf and actually dust underneath them.
I'm sorry I never thanked you for the toothpaste in the bathroom. I'm sorry clean dishes in the cabinet went unappreciated. I'm sorry I didn't take better care of the bedroom that was provided.
And for all those other seemingly unimportant things that I never thanked you for... things like electric lights, flushing toilets, and a working furnace... well, I'm sorry I never fully understood that those things didn't just magically happen. Like the money tree out back that I thought you just didn't want me to know about. I'm sorry I thought you lied.
You must have always thought, "One day she'll understand. One day she'll get it." Or maybe you had your doubts, "That girl will never have a clue." Well, I get it, Mom, and I'm sorry.
Love,
Your Daughter
P.S. And tell Dad I'm sorry for thinking he really did want to ruin my life by checking my grade cards and keeping tabs on me around town. I guess he knew what he was doing afterall, too.
I'm sorry for all those time I must have drove you nuts. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I gave you when you told me something I didn't want to hear. I'm sorry for all the times I repeatedly asked you for new clothes.
I'm sorry I frowned at the supper you put on the table. I'm sorry all my socks and underwear rarely made it to the laundry basket. I'm sorry I didn't lift the knick-knacks off the shelf and actually dust underneath them.
I'm sorry I never thanked you for the toothpaste in the bathroom. I'm sorry clean dishes in the cabinet went unappreciated. I'm sorry I didn't take better care of the bedroom that was provided.
And for all those other seemingly unimportant things that I never thanked you for... things like electric lights, flushing toilets, and a working furnace... well, I'm sorry I never fully understood that those things didn't just magically happen. Like the money tree out back that I thought you just didn't want me to know about. I'm sorry I thought you lied.
You must have always thought, "One day she'll understand. One day she'll get it." Or maybe you had your doubts, "That girl will never have a clue." Well, I get it, Mom, and I'm sorry.
Love,
Your Daughter
P.S. And tell Dad I'm sorry for thinking he really did want to ruin my life by checking my grade cards and keeping tabs on me around town. I guess he knew what he was doing afterall, too.
Friday, November 12, 2010
1983 Monte Carlo
My husband said goodbye to a dream today. An '83 Monte Carlo kind of dream. A dream that took up coveted space in our old garage and ruined the grass in our new yard. A dream that started with a hundred dollar bill and visions of a father-son project. That dream is no more.
It was time for the car to go. Actually, it was past time. It should have went with just about everything else when we made the Big Move. It didn't, though. Somehow that hunk of junk (with a perfectly straight body, or so I've been told) made it's way onto a car dolly and was pulled nine hundred miles in an effort to keep the dream alive. Some dreams just don't stand a chance.
He'd been talking about getting rid of it for quite some time now. It had already killed one patch of grass on the back forty (okay, back one acre) and was well on it's way to destroying another section of the prized grass that we have so much trouble keeping alive. Plus, we needed the money. And for some reason, today became the day for the car to go.
He looked so sad. I walked out just in time to help him hook up the trailer to the truck and for one last time, I heard the stories of how he had found the car and all the work he had already put into it. The only thing left was a motor, transmission, paint, interior... and as usual, I stopped listening at this point because in my mind, I'm thinking only?? Sounds like a lot to me, but then again, it wasn't my dream. Maybe when it is your dream, the amount of work doesn't compare with what the finished result will be.
With a final sigh and thoughts of what might have been, he left for the junk yard. He could have gotten more for it by selling it for scrap metal, but like any good car-loving man, he was hoping that someone else would find what he had started and finish the job. Perhaps in that way, the dream would live on.
Three hours later he returned with an empty trailer and a pocket full of money. I found him outside moving around concrete blocks where the car had been. While he cleaned up and shook his head at the sight of all that dead grass, he told me what had become of his beloved '83 Monte Carlo.
He made it as far as the parking lot of the junk yard. Before he could drive through the gates, another old truck with three old men were pulling out. Hanging his head out the window, one old boy hollered, "What year is that Monte?"
Less than an hour later, that Monte had found its way to a front yard in a run-down neighborhood. A teenage boy counted out a fist-full of five's and ten's while his dad came up with the rest. A new dream had begun. Or maybe it was the continuation of an old dream. By the time my husband pulled off, he was promising he would swing back by sometime to see the dream realized.
He had so many dreams when he moved us out here. As odd as what it sounds to me, that Monte Carlo represented all that he hoped to build in making a new life for his family. I guess that's why it was so sad to watch him have to let go. I'm pretty sure he's going to be all right, though. There's already talk of a '67 Camaro.
It was time for the car to go. Actually, it was past time. It should have went with just about everything else when we made the Big Move. It didn't, though. Somehow that hunk of junk (with a perfectly straight body, or so I've been told) made it's way onto a car dolly and was pulled nine hundred miles in an effort to keep the dream alive. Some dreams just don't stand a chance.
He'd been talking about getting rid of it for quite some time now. It had already killed one patch of grass on the back forty (okay, back one acre) and was well on it's way to destroying another section of the prized grass that we have so much trouble keeping alive. Plus, we needed the money. And for some reason, today became the day for the car to go.
He looked so sad. I walked out just in time to help him hook up the trailer to the truck and for one last time, I heard the stories of how he had found the car and all the work he had already put into it. The only thing left was a motor, transmission, paint, interior... and as usual, I stopped listening at this point because in my mind, I'm thinking only?? Sounds like a lot to me, but then again, it wasn't my dream. Maybe when it is your dream, the amount of work doesn't compare with what the finished result will be.
With a final sigh and thoughts of what might have been, he left for the junk yard. He could have gotten more for it by selling it for scrap metal, but like any good car-loving man, he was hoping that someone else would find what he had started and finish the job. Perhaps in that way, the dream would live on.
Three hours later he returned with an empty trailer and a pocket full of money. I found him outside moving around concrete blocks where the car had been. While he cleaned up and shook his head at the sight of all that dead grass, he told me what had become of his beloved '83 Monte Carlo.
He made it as far as the parking lot of the junk yard. Before he could drive through the gates, another old truck with three old men were pulling out. Hanging his head out the window, one old boy hollered, "What year is that Monte?"
Less than an hour later, that Monte had found its way to a front yard in a run-down neighborhood. A teenage boy counted out a fist-full of five's and ten's while his dad came up with the rest. A new dream had begun. Or maybe it was the continuation of an old dream. By the time my husband pulled off, he was promising he would swing back by sometime to see the dream realized.
He had so many dreams when he moved us out here. As odd as what it sounds to me, that Monte Carlo represented all that he hoped to build in making a new life for his family. I guess that's why it was so sad to watch him have to let go. I'm pretty sure he's going to be all right, though. There's already talk of a '67 Camaro.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
If My Life Were A Cat
If my life were a cat I would find the coziest spot in the house and never leave it.
If my life were a cat I would wait for someone to refresh my food and water bowl.
If my life were a cat I would have someone else clean up all the poo I left behind.
Ha!
Random thoughts for a beautiful Veteran's Day. The cat came to mind because he has ceremoniously perched himself atop a blanket left behind on the couch. He knows he shouldn't be there, but that hasn't stopped him.
The food and water bowl thought occurred because from where I sit, I can see a countertop in the kitchen covered with dirty dishes. I know I'll have to deal with that mess before I can address the issue of "What's for dinner?"
And the poo remark just kind of came from nowhere, but the more I think on it, the more meaning I can find. If I used the word that came to mind, my daughter would have a fit. And it's not the bad version of the word; more like the rap with a c in front. That's a big no-no in our house, and I'm the worst offender.
Wouldn't it be something if we could make the mess (and understand I'm talking life experiences here and not just the literal translation of the word) and someone else would come along, scoop it all up, and then dispose of it so we would never have to deal with it again?
I think the cat has it all figured out.
If my life were a cat I would wait for someone to refresh my food and water bowl.
If my life were a cat I would have someone else clean up all the poo I left behind.
Ha!
Random thoughts for a beautiful Veteran's Day. The cat came to mind because he has ceremoniously perched himself atop a blanket left behind on the couch. He knows he shouldn't be there, but that hasn't stopped him.
The food and water bowl thought occurred because from where I sit, I can see a countertop in the kitchen covered with dirty dishes. I know I'll have to deal with that mess before I can address the issue of "What's for dinner?"
And the poo remark just kind of came from nowhere, but the more I think on it, the more meaning I can find. If I used the word that came to mind, my daughter would have a fit. And it's not the bad version of the word; more like the rap with a c in front. That's a big no-no in our house, and I'm the worst offender.
Wouldn't it be something if we could make the mess (and understand I'm talking life experiences here and not just the literal translation of the word) and someone else would come along, scoop it all up, and then dispose of it so we would never have to deal with it again?
I think the cat has it all figured out.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Superman
I spent the better part of the morning at a middle school Veteran's Day event which always gets me thinking back to one of the many memorable events in my life. Some of my family and friends have probably heard this story more than once; some have not heard it at all. It bears repeating many times over. It's about my dad.
Once upon a time there was a twenty-one year old girl who had made up her mind to go into the Air Force. Bags had been packed and papers had been signed. All that was left was to board a train bound for a St. Louis airport.
Well, that girl was me and let me tell you, I thought I had it all figured out. I knew I was doing the right thing, I had my family's support, and I was just ready to escape a small town that I thought was holding me back. Granted, this is the same small town that I long for now, but that's another story for another day.
At any rate, my mom and dad along with my best friend at the time drove me to the train station. I don't remember all the details... for instance, I'm sure my recruiter was there to ensure that I actually did board the train, but I don't remember seeing him there. I vaguely remember the hugs and tears that I'm sure took place. I kind of remember the parking lot. I have no idea what I was wearing.
What I do remember are the seats on the train. When I finally boarded, I found a spot and set my bag beside me. I checked and re-checked my ticket and just sat taking it all in. There were other people boarding although the train was by no means full. The seats were red velvet (or at least very soft fabric) and the arms rests were red vinyl. You get the picture. Now I'm sure I was not sitting there for as long as it seems, but very slowly I began to realize that this process of joining the military was actually being put into motion. I looked out the window to see my mom, dad, and friend all standing there. I knew my mom would not allow anyone to leave until that train left the depot.
That's when those doubting thoughts began to descend on me like a low, black cloud on a stormy day. What was I thinking? There was no way I was going to pull this off. Heck, I didn't even like to run (and still don't). Maybe Walmart wasn't such a bad job afterall. And, most importantly, it's not like I had actually taken the oath yet. No actual contract had been signed; I had only promised to show up to collect my train ticket. I looked out again at my family. Yep. This was one big mistake. And I was about to get out of it.
Now this part I remember just as clear as the day it happened. This is why I say I can remember those seats so well. I remember sitting there with a firm grip on the arm rests. My heart was pounding, my stomach felt sick, and my mind was reeling. There was no way I was staying on that train. I recall vividly taking a deep breath and placing all my pressure on those arm rests. I was about to come up out of that seat.
Then I looked out the window. There was my dad, watching his girl embark on something I knew he was proud of and yet at the same time probably scared to death of, but he just stood there smiling. I'm telling you, even sitting outside a Starbucks right now as I type this, I still choke up at the memory. That is how intense this moment of time was: in one swift motion, he gave me the thumbs up sign. Only God Himself could have inspired that because with that one seemingly simple gesture, I felt all fear leave me and myself relax. My immediate thought was that if my dad believed I could do it, well then... I could do it.
At other times when I have written about this, I've referred to my dad as Superman. This was my Superman moment. To have a man that you have so much respect for pack so much encouragement into something as trivial as putting a thumb up into the air... well, what else do you call it? Needless to say, I stayed put on that train. I went on to accomplish things that I would have never thought possible and even though my time in service was relatively brief, I have never looked back with regret. I will always remember that moment and I will always talk about it. It's just that important.
Of course, there's another side to that man in the form of my mom. Tucked away in a box is a ribbon-tied stack of polka-dotted envelopes full of all the words of prayer and encouragement that she wrote to me while I was away. God knew before I was born the team it would take to see me through. I'm so glad He chose them.
Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139:16
Once upon a time there was a twenty-one year old girl who had made up her mind to go into the Air Force. Bags had been packed and papers had been signed. All that was left was to board a train bound for a St. Louis airport.
Well, that girl was me and let me tell you, I thought I had it all figured out. I knew I was doing the right thing, I had my family's support, and I was just ready to escape a small town that I thought was holding me back. Granted, this is the same small town that I long for now, but that's another story for another day.
At any rate, my mom and dad along with my best friend at the time drove me to the train station. I don't remember all the details... for instance, I'm sure my recruiter was there to ensure that I actually did board the train, but I don't remember seeing him there. I vaguely remember the hugs and tears that I'm sure took place. I kind of remember the parking lot. I have no idea what I was wearing.
What I do remember are the seats on the train. When I finally boarded, I found a spot and set my bag beside me. I checked and re-checked my ticket and just sat taking it all in. There were other people boarding although the train was by no means full. The seats were red velvet (or at least very soft fabric) and the arms rests were red vinyl. You get the picture. Now I'm sure I was not sitting there for as long as it seems, but very slowly I began to realize that this process of joining the military was actually being put into motion. I looked out the window to see my mom, dad, and friend all standing there. I knew my mom would not allow anyone to leave until that train left the depot.
That's when those doubting thoughts began to descend on me like a low, black cloud on a stormy day. What was I thinking? There was no way I was going to pull this off. Heck, I didn't even like to run (and still don't). Maybe Walmart wasn't such a bad job afterall. And, most importantly, it's not like I had actually taken the oath yet. No actual contract had been signed; I had only promised to show up to collect my train ticket. I looked out again at my family. Yep. This was one big mistake. And I was about to get out of it.
Now this part I remember just as clear as the day it happened. This is why I say I can remember those seats so well. I remember sitting there with a firm grip on the arm rests. My heart was pounding, my stomach felt sick, and my mind was reeling. There was no way I was staying on that train. I recall vividly taking a deep breath and placing all my pressure on those arm rests. I was about to come up out of that seat.
Then I looked out the window. There was my dad, watching his girl embark on something I knew he was proud of and yet at the same time probably scared to death of, but he just stood there smiling. I'm telling you, even sitting outside a Starbucks right now as I type this, I still choke up at the memory. That is how intense this moment of time was: in one swift motion, he gave me the thumbs up sign. Only God Himself could have inspired that because with that one seemingly simple gesture, I felt all fear leave me and myself relax. My immediate thought was that if my dad believed I could do it, well then... I could do it.
At other times when I have written about this, I've referred to my dad as Superman. This was my Superman moment. To have a man that you have so much respect for pack so much encouragement into something as trivial as putting a thumb up into the air... well, what else do you call it? Needless to say, I stayed put on that train. I went on to accomplish things that I would have never thought possible and even though my time in service was relatively brief, I have never looked back with regret. I will always remember that moment and I will always talk about it. It's just that important.
Of course, there's another side to that man in the form of my mom. Tucked away in a box is a ribbon-tied stack of polka-dotted envelopes full of all the words of prayer and encouragement that she wrote to me while I was away. God knew before I was born the team it would take to see me through. I'm so glad He chose them.
Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139:16
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Yard Man Thinks I'm Strange
Two blog entries in one day. I'm sorry. I can't help it. This one ties so nicely with a previous (October-ish) creepy neighbor entry. I'm thinking someone somewhere will appreciate it.
This one concerns another neighbor, not the creepy-one-by-the-tree neighbor, but an across-the-road neighbor. Actually, I don't even think this guy is an actual neighbor. I think he's the yard man. He's only seen every other week or so, and he always parks his truck and trailer right in front of our house.
He wears one of those straw hats and is a fairly big fellow. And I know he's only doing his job. Okay, okay... I know that seeing me try to lure an indoor, clawless cat from under the front porch was probably comical. I had been sitting on the swing completely immersed in an article I was reading for a paper when I suddenly got the feeling that the cat who had been curled up by my feet was no longer there. A few "Here, kitty-kitty's" later confirmed what I fear most when no kid is around to do the dirty work for me: the cat had tiptoed his way off the porch and had found his way under the porch. Keep in mind that this is a full-length-of-the-house porch and he was smack-dab in the middle. I went into the house to find a flashlight just so I could be sure that those glowing eyes I was seeing really did belong to my cat. That's probably when the creepy feeling started.
Minutes later, I had begged and pleaded enough (no way I was crawling under there) that the cat finally meandered out. I looked up to see, sure enough, the yard man in the hat holding his weedeater in mid-air looking at me. Like any good neighbor lady, I acted like I couldn't see anything from the blinding sun and strolled back to the porch like this happens all the time. I seriously think I heard him chuckling. With the cat back inside where he belongs, I went back to the swing to get back to work.
The air was silent. Not a bird chirping, not a bee buzzing. Only the trickle of water from the fountain. Those glowing eyes came back to me. A shiver went up my spine as I wondered what I would have done had that not been the cat. And yes, I do spend too much time alone.
Suddenly, that weedeater fired up with a vengeance. Well, there just are no words to express the spiral of emotions that went through my body in a matter of seconds. When my fingers stopped shaking enough to log out of the page I was on, I had to laugh. Or else I might cry. When did I get so jumpy?
So now the yard man and the creepy-neighbor-by-the-tree both think that the lady on the front porch must have some serious issues.
I'm starting to think they may be right. :)
This one concerns another neighbor, not the creepy-one-by-the-tree neighbor, but an across-the-road neighbor. Actually, I don't even think this guy is an actual neighbor. I think he's the yard man. He's only seen every other week or so, and he always parks his truck and trailer right in front of our house.
He wears one of those straw hats and is a fairly big fellow. And I know he's only doing his job. Okay, okay... I know that seeing me try to lure an indoor, clawless cat from under the front porch was probably comical. I had been sitting on the swing completely immersed in an article I was reading for a paper when I suddenly got the feeling that the cat who had been curled up by my feet was no longer there. A few "Here, kitty-kitty's" later confirmed what I fear most when no kid is around to do the dirty work for me: the cat had tiptoed his way off the porch and had found his way under the porch. Keep in mind that this is a full-length-of-the-house porch and he was smack-dab in the middle. I went into the house to find a flashlight just so I could be sure that those glowing eyes I was seeing really did belong to my cat. That's probably when the creepy feeling started.
Minutes later, I had begged and pleaded enough (no way I was crawling under there) that the cat finally meandered out. I looked up to see, sure enough, the yard man in the hat holding his weedeater in mid-air looking at me. Like any good neighbor lady, I acted like I couldn't see anything from the blinding sun and strolled back to the porch like this happens all the time. I seriously think I heard him chuckling. With the cat back inside where he belongs, I went back to the swing to get back to work.
The air was silent. Not a bird chirping, not a bee buzzing. Only the trickle of water from the fountain. Those glowing eyes came back to me. A shiver went up my spine as I wondered what I would have done had that not been the cat. And yes, I do spend too much time alone.
Suddenly, that weedeater fired up with a vengeance. Well, there just are no words to express the spiral of emotions that went through my body in a matter of seconds. When my fingers stopped shaking enough to log out of the page I was on, I had to laugh. Or else I might cry. When did I get so jumpy?
So now the yard man and the creepy-neighbor-by-the-tree both think that the lady on the front porch must have some serious issues.
I'm starting to think they may be right. :)
A Tale of Shampoo
I spent at least fifteen minutes in the shampoo aisle today trying to figure out what would be the best buy. I needed shampoo and conditioner, my daughter needed shampoo and conditioner, and one son needed shampoo (no thanks to the conditioner). Do I even need to mention how quickly that stuff adds up? I've heard all the pros about buying salon-quality products and believe me, I get it. I mean, I don't get it as in actually paying the higher prices for the stuff, but get it as in I really do think there is a difference. My hair feels better, behaves better, and (according to my husband) smells better. Unfortunately, salon quality does not fit a Suave budget.
So I stood there trying to read the fine print regarding how many ounces are in a bottle versus the cost. I ignore all the promises about what any particular kind can do (Sleek! Shiny! Curly! Wavy!)... my thought is that it's all the same in different colored bottles. After much time and thought and sniffing of the different scents of fruity goodness, I had five bottles in my cart that satisfied my economy requirement.
This same scenario was repeated in the toothpaste aisle, the shaving cream aisle, and the paper towel aisle. Don't get me wrong, I'm not that indecisive about most everyday items; but my teeth are suddenly sensitive, my husband is picky about his shaving products, and my daughter is still a little miffed that I don't use the paper towels that her science project proved was the most absorbent. Most things are a no-brainer for me: brand name toilet paper, dishwasher detergent, coffee, and mayonnaise; store brand everything else. We all have our little quirks.
For now, though, the shopping is complete until we run out of everything at the same time again. Then I will once again be that lady taking up space in the aisle with calculator in hand. All that trouble just to save a few bucks... hey, I gotta fund my Starbucks habit somehow.
So I stood there trying to read the fine print regarding how many ounces are in a bottle versus the cost. I ignore all the promises about what any particular kind can do (Sleek! Shiny! Curly! Wavy!)... my thought is that it's all the same in different colored bottles. After much time and thought and sniffing of the different scents of fruity goodness, I had five bottles in my cart that satisfied my economy requirement.
This same scenario was repeated in the toothpaste aisle, the shaving cream aisle, and the paper towel aisle. Don't get me wrong, I'm not that indecisive about most everyday items; but my teeth are suddenly sensitive, my husband is picky about his shaving products, and my daughter is still a little miffed that I don't use the paper towels that her science project proved was the most absorbent. Most things are a no-brainer for me: brand name toilet paper, dishwasher detergent, coffee, and mayonnaise; store brand everything else. We all have our little quirks.
For now, though, the shopping is complete until we run out of everything at the same time again. Then I will once again be that lady taking up space in the aisle with calculator in hand. All that trouble just to save a few bucks... hey, I gotta fund my Starbucks habit somehow.
Monday, November 8, 2010
When the Frost is on the Pumpkin
We had what I guess you would call the first official frost this morning. Well, the first the one that I've noticed anyway. There was even a thin layer of ice in our front yard fountain. That was reason enough for me to break out my thermal shirts.
I love thermal shirts. You know, the thermal underwear kind. There was a time I wore that bottoms as well under slacks. Since we've moved south, I haven't ever needed the bottoms... got rid of those a long time ago. I really didn't think I would ever need them again. Of course, there was a time when I considered sixty degrees warm and flip-flop weather. I think I'm officially acclimated.
Now sixty degrees is just right for a thermal shirt, long-sleeved shirt on top of that, jeans, and socks. The flip-flops were tucked away deep in the closet this morning. I felt like they were mocking me, so I had to put them in their place. No flip-flops for a while.
Okay. Maybe just until tomorrow. This week looks to be in the mid-70's. That's definitely flip-flop weather. Not so much in the morning, though. Temps in the thirties call for a cozy fire, warm sweats, and fuzzy socks. It's almost a guarantee that by noon tomorrow I'll be trading the fuzzy socks for the flip-flops. Well, almost a guarantee. I've had trouble staying warm lately. Must be this southern weather.
By the way, the title is from a poem my classes used to recite right around this time of year. A frosty morning always takes me back to a room full of elementary students who genuinely enjoyed school (almost) every day of the year.
Thermal shirts and frosty pumpkins. It's a good combination.
I love thermal shirts. You know, the thermal underwear kind. There was a time I wore that bottoms as well under slacks. Since we've moved south, I haven't ever needed the bottoms... got rid of those a long time ago. I really didn't think I would ever need them again. Of course, there was a time when I considered sixty degrees warm and flip-flop weather. I think I'm officially acclimated.
Now sixty degrees is just right for a thermal shirt, long-sleeved shirt on top of that, jeans, and socks. The flip-flops were tucked away deep in the closet this morning. I felt like they were mocking me, so I had to put them in their place. No flip-flops for a while.
Okay. Maybe just until tomorrow. This week looks to be in the mid-70's. That's definitely flip-flop weather. Not so much in the morning, though. Temps in the thirties call for a cozy fire, warm sweats, and fuzzy socks. It's almost a guarantee that by noon tomorrow I'll be trading the fuzzy socks for the flip-flops. Well, almost a guarantee. I've had trouble staying warm lately. Must be this southern weather.
By the way, the title is from a poem my classes used to recite right around this time of year. A frosty morning always takes me back to a room full of elementary students who genuinely enjoyed school (almost) every day of the year.
Thermal shirts and frosty pumpkins. It's a good combination.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Meltdown at the Dinner Table
Yep. We had an official meltdown at the dinner table and it wasn't even dinner time. Just another eventful night on the ole homestead.
The oldest has re-written a meaningful letter at least a dozen times and is exerting his nervous energy via a bodily-noise sounding machine.
The middle, who is a boy by the way, just made the comment, "Hey, I can't wear make-up either." He sounded somewhat saddened by that fact.
The youngest thinks her life is over and she's only twelve. She is attempting to do her homework while at the same time rebuking every comment her brothers toss her way.
The oldest has mercifully left the room. The middle is trying to convince me how trustworthy he is. And the youngest is reminding everyone how good she is.
The oldest is back. The youngest has offered to give up make-up for a week if I will only let her tape the middle's mouth shut. Now they're discussing hair-do's. And discussing who looks best. Which the middle is warning the others that this particular line of discussion may not be wise.
We've got a whole house out there and where are they gathered? Right around me. I am blessed.
Lord have mercy, the oldest just left and returned with an electric guitar. The middle is mad cause I just pinky-promised the youngest that if she makes brownies, she can wear mascara tomorrow. He reminded me how his "soul was burning" when he had to get a hair cut four weeks ago.
Where is their father?
One of these days when the house is quiet, I'm sure I'll miss these kids. I'll miss the sound of "Smoke on the Water" on the guitar and all the "Eeewwwww's" that resound as an egg is dropped on my freshly polished hardwood floors. When the middle is not around to bombard me with his witty remarks that he apparently graces his culinary teacher with, I'm sure I'll sit and wonder what those kids of mine are up to.
For now, though, I'm going to fight the urge to scream and go back to the work that I came into the kitchen to do. And for the record, no one was around when I chose the table as my workspace.
Oh, and the meltdown? It was mine.
The oldest has re-written a meaningful letter at least a dozen times and is exerting his nervous energy via a bodily-noise sounding machine.
The middle, who is a boy by the way, just made the comment, "Hey, I can't wear make-up either." He sounded somewhat saddened by that fact.
The youngest thinks her life is over and she's only twelve. She is attempting to do her homework while at the same time rebuking every comment her brothers toss her way.
The oldest has mercifully left the room. The middle is trying to convince me how trustworthy he is. And the youngest is reminding everyone how good she is.
The oldest is back. The youngest has offered to give up make-up for a week if I will only let her tape the middle's mouth shut. Now they're discussing hair-do's. And discussing who looks best. Which the middle is warning the others that this particular line of discussion may not be wise.
We've got a whole house out there and where are they gathered? Right around me. I am blessed.
Lord have mercy, the oldest just left and returned with an electric guitar. The middle is mad cause I just pinky-promised the youngest that if she makes brownies, she can wear mascara tomorrow. He reminded me how his "soul was burning" when he had to get a hair cut four weeks ago.
Where is their father?
One of these days when the house is quiet, I'm sure I'll miss these kids. I'll miss the sound of "Smoke on the Water" on the guitar and all the "Eeewwwww's" that resound as an egg is dropped on my freshly polished hardwood floors. When the middle is not around to bombard me with his witty remarks that he apparently graces his culinary teacher with, I'm sure I'll sit and wonder what those kids of mine are up to.
For now, though, I'm going to fight the urge to scream and go back to the work that I came into the kitchen to do. And for the record, no one was around when I chose the table as my workspace.
Oh, and the meltdown? It was mine.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
New Friends
My daughter is so proud of me. I have a new friend. Just the fact that she giggles about it confirms what I know all too well... it really is a big deal.
I've never been one to make friends easily. It's not that I like being a loner, it's just that I've never been that good with meeting people. Maybe it's all that torment I endured as a kid. Red hair and freckles pretty much make you a daily target in elementary school and don't let anybody tell you any different. I know, I know... blame it on the childhood. Whatever works.
I've been labeled somewhat of a snob for what really amounts to a severe case of insecurity. I just never quite know what to say to someone I've just met or am barely acquainted with. Thank God for my husband. That man has seriously never met a stranger in his life. A testimony to his friendly nature lies in the fact that he is a tax appraiser and is well liked by tax payers, at least that's what I always tell him. People who cringe at the sight a tax assessor's vehicle in their driveway are offering him refreshments and invitations back by the time he leaves. We balance each other out nicely: he can talk someone's leg off and I know when to cut him off.
In our last house, I lived next door to someone who would become a very good friend of mine. The problem is that it took a few years for me to bridge the fence that separated our back yards. Once we got to talking, though, I looked forward to the times we would sit out back or go for walks and talk about everything from our husbands to our kids. It was around that same time that we moved. Now when we go home to visit, her house is always on my list of places I want to go.
History tends to repeat itself. We've been here for over three years now and I do believe I've finally made a friend just within walking distance of our house. Only time will tell the depth of what this friendship may be, but at least it's a start. As my daughter knows, it is a big deal. She asked me if I was gonna see if my new friend has a Facebook page. I told her not yet; she may see my profile information and get scared. Baby steps.
For now, it's just nice to be invited to someone else's house. I hope my husband doesn't talk them to death.
I've never been one to make friends easily. It's not that I like being a loner, it's just that I've never been that good with meeting people. Maybe it's all that torment I endured as a kid. Red hair and freckles pretty much make you a daily target in elementary school and don't let anybody tell you any different. I know, I know... blame it on the childhood. Whatever works.
I've been labeled somewhat of a snob for what really amounts to a severe case of insecurity. I just never quite know what to say to someone I've just met or am barely acquainted with. Thank God for my husband. That man has seriously never met a stranger in his life. A testimony to his friendly nature lies in the fact that he is a tax appraiser and is well liked by tax payers, at least that's what I always tell him. People who cringe at the sight a tax assessor's vehicle in their driveway are offering him refreshments and invitations back by the time he leaves. We balance each other out nicely: he can talk someone's leg off and I know when to cut him off.
In our last house, I lived next door to someone who would become a very good friend of mine. The problem is that it took a few years for me to bridge the fence that separated our back yards. Once we got to talking, though, I looked forward to the times we would sit out back or go for walks and talk about everything from our husbands to our kids. It was around that same time that we moved. Now when we go home to visit, her house is always on my list of places I want to go.
History tends to repeat itself. We've been here for over three years now and I do believe I've finally made a friend just within walking distance of our house. Only time will tell the depth of what this friendship may be, but at least it's a start. As my daughter knows, it is a big deal. She asked me if I was gonna see if my new friend has a Facebook page. I told her not yet; she may see my profile information and get scared. Baby steps.
For now, it's just nice to be invited to someone else's house. I hope my husband doesn't talk them to death.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Two Sides of Silent
I was thinking today about how loud silence can be. You're sitting in a quiet room with someone who you know desperately needs to talk; someone who has so much going on inside that you literally think they might spontaneously combust if they don't relieve some pressure fast. You try to think of something to say to get the ball rolling, but their pain is so evident, so volatile, that you want to be sure to choose your words carefully. Even simple questions produce a dead end and only the silence of the room remains. To me, that is when silence is loud.
The other side of silence is the welcome quiet that comes in the middle of a hectic day. Those are the times I'm glad to reach the safety of my car and just turn the radio off. Or the mornings when I've been on to the kids since the time they rolled out of bed and the last one is dropped off at school. Good silence. Like the still of the night when the family is tucked in and you hear a faint train whistle in the distance... that's when you give a faint sigh as, for a moment, all is right in a quiet world. That's the other side of silent. It's the silence I like best.
My boy is troubled. My heart aches for him. His silence is unbearable. A small grin is a welcome relief. He tells me he doesn't think God cares about him anymore; that he gets his hopes up just so God can let him down. I'm suddenly no longer a mother, but a pastor... a counselor. He listens to me, his eyes fill up, he cannot speak. He is silent. And thinking. And hurting. Learning life the hard way.
"It's just not easy, Mom," he finally gets out. "I didn't think it would be like this."
And the rest is silence. The side of silence that I hate the most.
The other side of silence is the welcome quiet that comes in the middle of a hectic day. Those are the times I'm glad to reach the safety of my car and just turn the radio off. Or the mornings when I've been on to the kids since the time they rolled out of bed and the last one is dropped off at school. Good silence. Like the still of the night when the family is tucked in and you hear a faint train whistle in the distance... that's when you give a faint sigh as, for a moment, all is right in a quiet world. That's the other side of silent. It's the silence I like best.
My boy is troubled. My heart aches for him. His silence is unbearable. A small grin is a welcome relief. He tells me he doesn't think God cares about him anymore; that he gets his hopes up just so God can let him down. I'm suddenly no longer a mother, but a pastor... a counselor. He listens to me, his eyes fill up, he cannot speak. He is silent. And thinking. And hurting. Learning life the hard way.
"It's just not easy, Mom," he finally gets out. "I didn't think it would be like this."
And the rest is silence. The side of silence that I hate the most.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thirty-Five Reasons to Cry
I love the convenience of online banking. No envelopes, no stamps. Email alerts for almost everything. Tonight, though, one of those alerts about sucked the life right out of me.
No need to tell the whole story. Too much information would have to be given and seriously, who really cares about somebody else's bills? We all have enough to worry about just keeping track of our own. The short of the story is it was my mistake. The wrong account marked for the wrong payment and bingo!... the bank now has some of our money in the form of a fine. Or a fee. Whatever they call it, thirty-five bucks is no longer our own.
What could thirty-five dollars buy? My mind races through the number of gallons of milk, loaves of bread, cartons of eggs, and bags of apples I could get. Or almost a gas tank fill-up. It could pay the water bill and still have enough left over for one boy who needs ten dollars for a birthday party this week-end and a hazelnut latte for the mom. More importantly, that thirty-five bucks could have bought me that pretty sweater I saw today and a corduroy jacket I've had my eye on. Good thing I resisted the urge and walked out of the store empty-handed.
Bummer. The night was going so well. I fixed Daddy's Favorite Pork Chops for supper which is always a hit with... well, the daddy. He fired up the chainsaw afterwards to get some wood ready for a bonfire we're having this week-end, chased me around the yard just for fun, and slung me over his shoulders much to our daughter's delight. It was just one of those fuzzy,warm feelings kind of night.
Darn that email. After blaming the bank silently in my head and then recognizing my mistake and confessing what I had done, that husband of mine just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Nothing to do about it now." I adjusted some numbers with a handy transfer button and that was that, but the warm, fuzzy feeling was gone.
Then again, it is election night. Numbers in the right places could very well bring that warm feeling back. If that doesn't work, Kurt Warner on Dancing with the Stars just might. :)
No need to tell the whole story. Too much information would have to be given and seriously, who really cares about somebody else's bills? We all have enough to worry about just keeping track of our own. The short of the story is it was my mistake. The wrong account marked for the wrong payment and bingo!... the bank now has some of our money in the form of a fine. Or a fee. Whatever they call it, thirty-five bucks is no longer our own.
What could thirty-five dollars buy? My mind races through the number of gallons of milk, loaves of bread, cartons of eggs, and bags of apples I could get. Or almost a gas tank fill-up. It could pay the water bill and still have enough left over for one boy who needs ten dollars for a birthday party this week-end and a hazelnut latte for the mom. More importantly, that thirty-five bucks could have bought me that pretty sweater I saw today and a corduroy jacket I've had my eye on. Good thing I resisted the urge and walked out of the store empty-handed.
Bummer. The night was going so well. I fixed Daddy's Favorite Pork Chops for supper which is always a hit with... well, the daddy. He fired up the chainsaw afterwards to get some wood ready for a bonfire we're having this week-end, chased me around the yard just for fun, and slung me over his shoulders much to our daughter's delight. It was just one of those fuzzy,warm feelings kind of night.
Darn that email. After blaming the bank silently in my head and then recognizing my mistake and confessing what I had done, that husband of mine just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Nothing to do about it now." I adjusted some numbers with a handy transfer button and that was that, but the warm, fuzzy feeling was gone.
Then again, it is election night. Numbers in the right places could very well bring that warm feeling back. If that doesn't work, Kurt Warner on Dancing with the Stars just might. :)
Monday, November 1, 2010
Dancing with a Plan
If it's Monday night at our house, then it's Dancing with the Stars. As far as my girl is concerned, all life stops with the opening number. Tomorrow night will be no different due to the results show. Since we haven't had anything but antenna television since something like 1994, nobody really complains because quite frankly, nothing else is on.
I was never really a fan of this show because of the sometimes scantily-dressed women and two teenage boys in the house. I've got into it this season for some reason (probably because the channel gets changed right after Andy Griffith). Also, if the dances get a little to, well... let's just say suggestive, I've got a daughter that will turn the tv off until she thinks that number has ended. "Gotta think about the boys, Mom." Yeah, I've trained her well.
Those kids of mine are in seventh heaven tonight anyway. No school tomorrow. Why? I have no idea. Election day, I suppose. Last year was their first year of public school and we're still trying to figure everything out. Some things I like and somethings I don't. God's got a plan, though. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
That plan is what brought us to where we are now. Kind of like public school, some things I like and some things I don't. I like that our oldest boy is excelling in a course that would have never been offered where we were. He's probably the main reason we are staying put. Well, he is the reason. How do you pull a kid from something he is good at? You don't, in our opinion. That's a good thing.
God's got a plan. That's been my theme of the day; the theme of my life. "Many are the plans in a man's mind, but it is the Lord's purpose for him that will stand," Proverbs 19:21. I have given up trying to understand it. I no longer act like I even have a clue how it's all suppose to work out. It's His plan, not mine.
I am momentarily distracted by the "Bust A Move" routine. My girl about falls off the couch laughing when I tell her, "Boy, I'd like to be doing that." Must be the visual of her mom in split-up-to-thighs pants busting a move across the dance floor. I'm pretty sure God's plan for me doesn't include that.
But wouldn't it be funny if it did? Stranger things have happened. I've got a southern accent that proves that.
I was never really a fan of this show because of the sometimes scantily-dressed women and two teenage boys in the house. I've got into it this season for some reason (probably because the channel gets changed right after Andy Griffith). Also, if the dances get a little to, well... let's just say suggestive, I've got a daughter that will turn the tv off until she thinks that number has ended. "Gotta think about the boys, Mom." Yeah, I've trained her well.
Those kids of mine are in seventh heaven tonight anyway. No school tomorrow. Why? I have no idea. Election day, I suppose. Last year was their first year of public school and we're still trying to figure everything out. Some things I like and somethings I don't. God's got a plan, though. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
That plan is what brought us to where we are now. Kind of like public school, some things I like and some things I don't. I like that our oldest boy is excelling in a course that would have never been offered where we were. He's probably the main reason we are staying put. Well, he is the reason. How do you pull a kid from something he is good at? You don't, in our opinion. That's a good thing.
God's got a plan. That's been my theme of the day; the theme of my life. "Many are the plans in a man's mind, but it is the Lord's purpose for him that will stand," Proverbs 19:21. I have given up trying to understand it. I no longer act like I even have a clue how it's all suppose to work out. It's His plan, not mine.
I am momentarily distracted by the "Bust A Move" routine. My girl about falls off the couch laughing when I tell her, "Boy, I'd like to be doing that." Must be the visual of her mom in split-up-to-thighs pants busting a move across the dance floor. I'm pretty sure God's plan for me doesn't include that.
But wouldn't it be funny if it did? Stranger things have happened. I've got a southern accent that proves that.
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