I See Dead People

How's that for an attention-getter?

But seriously, I do... kinda.

Last night in my dreams, I was making the journey back home to attend my grandmother's funeral. I know it was a dream simply because a fifteen-hour drive took me about six, and even though the purpose of the trip was to attend her funeral, my grandma was still very much alive.

You gotta love dreams.

I saw my aunts sitting around the table and hugged every one of their necks. I talked with my grandma about recipes while we sat on her front porch swing. I visited with my dad as we all made our way to the graveside service and stood among the familiar stones for family and friends. We were obviously there for someone, but I have no idea who... maybe it was just a good excuse to go home.

I woke up thinking about our little white house that we left and wondered how our lives might be different if we had never moved. Would our oldest still live three hours away from us or just down the road? What would things be like for our middle and youngest? Would the husband still be in law enforcement? Would I still be teaching in the same classroom in the same school where I painted desks and swept endless drywall dust and wrote scriptures that went into the foundation?

What ifs can be a dangerous thing.

Granted, I also dreamed last night that I was in the production of Annie. Daddy Warbucks had just bought out the theater for some movie and we were happily passing around the popcorn and Starbucks (seriously). For that reason alone, I can't get too hung up about the details of my midnight wanderings and wonder why.

I look at dreams as a gift. I get to see people who have went on and visit places I have long since left. I get to take a break from reality and for about seven or eight hours, time really has no meaning and distance has no length. There is nothing to stop me from being where I really want to be. Let's face it... time might march on, but the heart knows what was left behind. Thank goodness the Lord knows what lies ahead.

I will leave the whys up to Him.

Sweet dreams.




*In case you're curious, the photo above was taken by yours truly in Savannah, Georgia.
  Beautiful, isn't it?

Suffocating Santa

Normally the unveiling of the Santa under the tree would be a momentous occasion for our family. A cause for a phone call made for the sole purpose of taunting his former owner. A sight that would officially ring in the Christmas season for this particular household. Today, or yesterday if we want to be exact, his rosy cheeks only made me cry.

I still cannot believe my father is gone. When the call came back in May with the devastating news that a mass had been discovered and even when the depressing pathology report was later read aloud, I distinctly remember thinking,

At least we'll have Christmas.

I never expected to say good-bye as autumn was just beginning.

I mourn my father every day. A few weeks ago, I dreamed about him for the first time since he's been gone. In that dream, he appeared similar to how he looked as his days on earth came to an end. He was thinner and his hair was cropped short, but he wore no glasses and he was by no means weak. He sat on the end of a couch by two men I did not know and patted his knee for me to sit on his lap. As I sat on my father's lap, he wrapped a blanket around me and simply said, "Tell me about your day." I talked and talked until the sound of my alarm shattered what had been an absolutely perfect dream. I found myself angry and resentful all over again.

I loved my dad.

We talked almost every day. It's rather difficult to go from that to...

Nothing.

The Santa that sits under the tree belonged to my parents' household. I'm not quite sure how I inherited him, but inherit him I did and for years my household has enjoyed having him under our many Christmas trees. Always, always I would call my dad the moment Santa was in place and we usually played the game of "how did he end up there?" It was just one of those family jokes. This year, however, there was no laughing. When we began unpacking Christmas totes yesterday, I was caught off guard when those rosy cheeks and mushed beard peeked out at me. To be honest, I plunked him back inside a plastic bag so fast that if Santa had been real, he would have stood zero chance of surviving his oxygen-deprived environment. My heart sank as the reality of this Christmas set in harder than a block of concrete sinking the sweetest of dreams. I even entertained the thought of "not this year, Santa." As far as I was concerned, that plastic bag could be his tomb for at least another year.

But then the tree was up.

The husband trimmed it perfectly.
The youngest decorated it beautifully.
The cats sniffed it appropriately.

Only one thing, one item, one memory was missing.

I know people say to remember the memories. I know my mom has heard that saying often. I know there's a lot of truth to that and I do believe that time has a way of healing all wounds, but for now just bear with me.

My heart breaks when I look at that Santa and yet I firmly believe he is right where he needs to be. My dad wouldn't have it any other way. Tears fall down my cheeks, though, as I write this and inside... well, inside there is that dull ache that threatens to shut me down completely.

Until I look at that tree.

Full of ornaments. Full of lights. Full of hope.

Loaded with memories.

Especially the one tucked underneath the branches.




Breathe, Santa.
Breathe deep.

Do Demons Chase You?

Okay, so not the most encouraging title, but I wonder if it got your attention. It really is a question, by the way. I don't throw things out there just to watch it wither. But anyway...

Another week down. I had a few comments on my previous post from last week that caused me to look back to see,

Just exactly what did I write?

I do tend to ramble on at times, although if you've been with me since the beginning you can recognize that my ramblings have become more spaced out over the years. I figure you can only ramble on about any one thing so many times. Even I grow weary of the thoughts in my head.

We managed to gather the family around the table twice this past week. A remarkable feat considering nobody seems to be in the same place at the same time. The youngest surprised me mid-week with a clean house and folded laundry. In fact, it was a pretty decent week until I got hit over the head with a two-by-four of aggravation. It started Wednesday night and ran for a straight twenty-four hours. In the wee hours of Friday morning as a debilitating headache began to overtake any chance of reasonable functioning, I found myself asking the Lord a lot of whys and whens, questions in which He rarely answers me. As my eyes finally closed, I wondered where my bible was as demons and ghosts chased me through my dreams.

Hey, I'm just here to make you feel better about yourself, remember?

This life is a funny thing. I make a few steps forward only to be tossed back about ten. I fill my head with stories I could write only to never put them to paper- and please, do not encourage me here. There may come a time, but now is not the time...

Unless I figure out a really good pen name and a way to cover my virtual tracks. Stranger things have happened.





P.S. Love you, Mom. Praying you feel better soon. =)

Having The Queen Over For Coffee

My dreams have been rather twisted lately, something that tends to happen when I immerse myself in places other than reality. I've spent the better part of this weekend in Elizabethan England and as a result, Queen Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley have invaded my dreams. I'm pretty sure that Sir Francis Drake was a student of mine last night and somewhere in the midst of the dream-like confusion, I think I was giving a pep talk to Fanny Price of Mansfield Park (as dreams tend to do, I skipped a few centuries without giving it a second thought). Anyway, this is what happens when I have one too many lattes and spend too much time with PBS on Netflix.

Happy Labor Day To Me.

(And to you, too, of course. May your grill be hot, your feet propped up, and your pajamas still on).



Bring on the fall!

Wet Cats & Country Music

We are the home for two cats.
Two very, MAD cats at the moment.

I would take a picture, but out of respect for their self-esteem (do cats have such I thing?), I will refrain. Let's face it, nobody looks pretty coming straight out of a bath... especially a cat.

That daughter of mine is a trooper. She jumped right in and gave the first one, the old and clawless one, a Dawn-infused soapy bath without too much excitement. For cat number two, the younger one with claws, she sported a long-sleeved shirt at the advice of her older brother and fearlessly battled the flying suds for the one she loves.

And once again I cannot help but wonder,

How in the world did we end up with animals in the house?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Summer marches on our house. In our neck of the woods, it's been nothing but rain every day. The sun will shine for brief moments and if you're lucky, you might catch a glimpse of blue sky before the clouds close in. Our grass has never been so green. Seriously. That's the plus side of our rain-soaked forecast. The down side? It's almost impossible to get that green grass mowed. Oh, and if your job happens to involved the outdoors, like the husband's... well, that just throws another curve into the already curvy road of life and bills.Typically at this juncture of July I would be complaining about the heat.

I know. Some people are just never happy, huh?

Speaking of bills and never being happy, I'm thinking of taking my education to the next level. I figure I've got student loans that aren't going anywhere anytime soon, the rates (for new loans) just shot up anyway,  and hey, who knows what might be around the next corner.  I keep thinking there's got to be something more.

Which makes me think of a song that brings me to this video.

Don't worry. I have no plans of hitchhiking or running away and I am happy, but if I ever do pack a suitcase, I'm taking my mom with me.

Right, Mom? ;)

What If It Was You On That Corner? What If It Were Me?

I woke up dreaming about football.

I seriously have no idea what is wrong with me.

Maybe it's hormonal.
Maybe it's lack of anything to look forward to.
Maybe I'm just weird like that.

And yes, the last option, well... maybe the first one, too... is most likely the correct choice. To say I have nothing to look forward to would be to say there is nothing going on in my life and that would be a lie. Today, for example, I have little smokies and meatballs and hopefully some chicken wings to look forward to. Tomorrow, I have a half-a-day of work to look forward to. Next week, I'll have a paycheck to look forward to. Next month, we've got a Can't Wait To See How The Lord's Gonna Pull This One Off moment to look forward to.

There's plenty going on. Plenty to look forward to. Plenty to pray about.

We are in The Land of Plenty.

Anyway.

Yesterday I took the youngest out so she could spend her hard-earned babysitting money. At one particular stoplight, we noticed a ragged-looking old man walking from car to car as he held up his cardboard sign for the passerby's to see. On our way out of the shopping center, we were waiting in the same intersection for the light to change. He was on our side, a sight we see far too often.

Different person. Different crossing. Same sign.

I was pretty sure I had a dollar and as it turned out, there was two. Rolling down the window, I handed it to my daughter who in turn handed it to him. He smiled with stained, crooked teeth while thanking and blessing us profusely. The light changed and he stepped back to wait for the next line of cars.

The girl and I talked about that man as we drove away. How do you know he'll use the money he gets for food? You don't. Simple as that. The husband will often recall the time he was at a convenience store picking up trash and dug deep into his pockets to give a man (who asked) his last $1.47 only to see the guy walk straight into the store to purchase a single can of beer. The time was eight in the morning. He, the husband, was so mad that he stopped the guy as stepped outside and popped the top. I won't repeat here the exchange of words.

So the only thing I could say to my girl was this,

But for the grace of God, that is not us on the corner.

Not your dad, hoping to bring something home. Not me, wondering what we'll do tomorrow. Not you kids, looking for a place to sleep. What that man does with any money he collects is between him and the Lord. Period.

He was on my mind, though, when I crawled into bed last night. I don't know why his face stayed with me. In our area, you see the homeless all the time. Under the bridges, pushing their carts, lined up by The Salvation Army. It's a sight so common, it's easy to grow immune to it, but that guy... that old man with the stained, crooked teeth smiling and thanking and blessing us profusely... he's a sight I won't soon forget.

I wonder what the Lord's got in mind now.

I'm not where I want to be, but I'm not where I was...  He's still working on me.

I Could Be Something Great (If I Ever Got Out Of Bed)

I do some of my best writing at night.

In bed.
In my mind.

Complete essays. Deep insight. Intriguing theories.

Introduction.
Body.
Conclusion.

I can picture the written word clearly. I visualize the paragraphs, use good transitional sentences, and correct my grammar. I think of different opening lines and optional closing remarks. I convince myself that I'll remember it all in the morning and eventually drift off to sleep.

Then I wake up and remember nothing.

Oh, I remember tidbits here and there. It's like catching a glimpse of something great, like maybe the sun trying to peek through dark curtains on a dreary day, but never quite grasping the full, glorious picture. Such a mental block climbs beyond frustration. I really should get up when inspiration strikes, but that bed is too darn warm.

Such is the price of laziness.

Last night's masterpiece included a response to a recent blog I read via Pinterest. The young author presented her ten (or maybe fourteen?) surefire steps to a happy, healthy marriage. This female optimist has been married for three (or maybe five?) years and has no children. Judging from the pictures that accompanied her post, she and her husband are fresh out of college, attractive as in that athletic way, and in love with the world and everyone around them.

And if you know me, you can only imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind.

Well, okay... my thoughts were not that dire. I'm all for optimistic love. Really. I was there once, too. I'm still in love with the man and with the hope that never ends and with the knowledge that my God says it will all work out in the end. Life has a way of throwing those curve balls at you, though. Things you never saw coming. Things that if you had saw coming you might have cashed it in then for fear that you would never make it out alive.

But you do make it out. A little more beat up. Maybe some bruises. Definitely a scar or two. A war story all your own.

The husband says he thinks things are about to change for us. Maybe the tide is turning. He's been deep in his Bible of a night. Maybe he's reading about the end times. Maybe he's reading about Job. I don't ask. That's between him and the Lord and a direct violation of Optimistic Young Wife's Advice in Tip Number Seven (or maybe Tip Number Nine?). According to her, I'm suppose to ask him his thoughts on a daily basis.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

She'll learn and she'll tweak her own tips as the years progress and babies come and money goes. I should know. I tweak my own internal advice on a daily basis. I expect the unexpected.

And I've not been disappointed.

Now if I'd only get out of bed and transfer those nighttime writings from my mind to paper, I might actually get somewhere... and make a whole lot more sense in the process.

The Curse of the Opossum

I am thankful for the husband every day, but I'm especially thankful for his presence any time there's an insect problem or a backed-up sewage system or an uncooperative vehicle. As of last night, I have one more interesting item to add to the list.

A renegade opossum.

We had just went to bed when the middle knocked on our door with the unusual announcement of a opossum on the back porch. The back screened-in porch. Where the cats were. Yeah... that got our attention real quick.

He was right. As we looked out our back door, there was the freakish-looking, always-creeps-me-out, blood-red eyes of the uninvited guest looking back at us. His (her?) focus was on the cheap, dry cat food I had just put out for the cats. When the weather is nice, we will sometimes leave the indoor cats on the protected (or so we thought) back porch. Of course, there's that pesky hole that's been in the bottom of the screen door for forever, but that shouldn't have been a problem, right?

Wrong.

You can only appreciate the humor that followed if you have been there before or have a good imagination or know our family. The husband grabbed his .22 while the middle rescued the indifferent cats from whatever tragedy might have been waiting. The opossum took one look at the now-armed man and scurried through the hole by which he (she?) entered. In no time, this stealer-of-the-cat-food was cornered, angered, and was no more (and we'll interrupt this description to excuse those of you who might be horrified at the thought of one less opossum on this earth).

What was funny is the fact that just as the shot was fired, I was headed to the room of the youngest to tell her not to panic. About that time, she met me with big, questioning eyes. All I offered was a simple explanation:  Dad. Opossum. Back porch. She shrugged her shoulders in acknowledgement and headed back to bed. That made me laugh. Evidently nothing is surprising in this family. The middle assisted in the burial, the mystery of the recent trash can scavenger was solved, and we all went to bed.

Where I dreamed I was a friend of Barack Obama and a University of Georgia football fan.
And now you know why I called this little tale The Curse of the Opossum.

Horrible, horrible dreams.

My Dream Baby

So if I dreamed that we adopted a teeny, tiny little baby girl that we found, what does that mean? That I long to have another baby? I don't think so. Maybe something new is coming along in our life? I would like that. Whatever it meant, I was at Walmart with this teeny, tiny little bundle in one arm while putting diapers and formula and bottles into a cart. There was not any discussion about what we should do (unlike the previous storm entry). It was simply the husband saying, Look. A little baby and nobody wants her. And me saying, Hand her over.

Of course, it could have also been the pepperoni pizza and the chocolate pie and coffee I had around eight o'clock last night, but if that's the case, I think I'll have the same thing again tonight. I just love little babies... even if they're only in my dreams.



Add one more baby to the pile and you'd have the whole crew. Late Autumn, 1996.



Smelly Choice Of Words

Everybody loves the cat, but nobody wants to clean up the crap.

That was my first thought of the day... well, my first thought when I walked into the kitchen anyway. I was going to use that for a title, but then thought the complete lack of tastefulness might be too much for an otherwise beautiful Sunday (not to mention un-pleasing to my mother). We all love our little (fat) kitty-cats full of fur and sunshine. Unfortunately, I'm the only one~ And I Do Mean The ONLY One ~that makes use of the litter scoop.

Yeah... that's probably more about my life than you need to know.

My actual first thought when I woke up was What is up with these dreams? For the last week or so, I have been having pretty consistent dreams about being in a classroom. In all of them, I am cleaning up or preparing stuff or doing something just to get things ready. Do you think that's a sign? Oh, and I'm usually giving someone a lecture about what they should be doing. Ha! That makes me laugh. Things might be weird or different in my dreams, but I am always true to myself.

Whatever the reason, my daily thought is Come on, Lord. Move somebody out of my way. No, I'm not asking for anyone to be sick or removed tragically or otherwise displaced, but face it... we all know that there comes a time for people to move on, and sometimes those people have a hard time moving (been there, done that). If He is preparing that way for me to move in somewhere, then He has to be preparing to move someone out. Or add something new. I am not going to get caught up in the details.

I've got enough crap to clean up on my own.

Sorry, Mom.  I couldn't resist.

How'd we end up with all these cats anyway?