Men lie. Bottom line. It's an instinctive thing.
I have a closet full of clothes. Some of the clothes are too big. Some are too small. It's an ever-evolving thing. Trying to find an acceptable outfit to wear in public is grueling. I have, literally, spent hours looking for something to wear before. When I finally settle on something to try on, I need an outside opinion. Now, I have a husband and two boys. I try not to be an abusive mother, so I seek out my husband for fashion advice.
Men will not tell you the truth about how you look in an outfit. They are incapable. I am convinced that, over the years, men have lost the ability to process questions like, "How does this look?" or "Is this too tight?" or the dreaded, "Does this make me look fat?" Upon hearing any of those phrases and dozens more like them, the brain shifts into neutral and ceases to function. The mouth takes over and automatically spits out an answer. The man has no idea what he's said, because his brain doesn't even consider the question. I think it's an instinctive defense mechanism that takes over in order to avoid conflict.
I know men lie, because I have eyeballs that see. It doesn't matter what outfit I model to my husband, he's not going to tell me that I look like crap. However, I can see, and we own mirrors. That's not to say that mirrors can't lie, too, because they can. You don't think so? Just have someone take an unexpected photo of you sometime. You'll see what I'm talking about.
My usual routine would go something like this.... I walk in wearing the proposed outfit. I ask, "How does this outfit look? Is it too tight on me?" Before I can even spin around to show him the 360-degree view, an answer has popped out of his mouth. I've recently changed up my modeling routine to bypass this autopilot response thing from my husband. Now, I will approach him with two or three different outfits, modeling each one, and ask him to pick which one is best. I can't be certain, but I think, in this instance, his brain shifts into the mode used when you have a multiple choice question on a test and don't know the answer...."B"...??? I have reasons to doubt his choices. I've been known to throw in outfits that I KNOW don't look good just to see if he'll choose it. Mmmhmmm. Men lie.
All of that being said, I need to go find clothes for tonight. I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear!
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Monday, August 24, 2015
Now what?
"Life ain't always beautiful." That's a lyric from a song I love. It's a lyric that describes this particular season of my life. I'm having an identity crisis of sorts. I just don't know where I fit into this world of ours and what my role is, anymore.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a doctor. I was a smart kid. I was confident that I could be a doctor if I wanted to be one. I didn't want to be a nurse. I have the utmost respect for nurses, but I'm just not one. I don't possess the skills necessary for that job. Being a surgeon suited me more. I still love to watch medical procedures. I won't lie. There are a couple of things that gross me out. Seeing badly broken bones that twist limbs into unnatural positions creeps me out. Also, dealing with eyeballs would not be my cup of tea. Other than those two areas, I'm not affected too much by blood and gore.
Somewhere around high school, my focus shifted, though. I, like most girls at the time, began my search for the guy I would spend my life with. Along with that shift, came a longing to be a wife and mother. My desire to be a rich, successful doctor dissipated. A mom. That's what I wanted to be. Kids had always loved me, and I loved them. It just felt like the natural choice for me. Any plans to make a life centered around me and a profession were abandoned.
I had my first son when I was twenty-one. He truly was the perfect baby. Sure. I remember sleepless nights and a lot of overwhelming moments, but we really couldn't have asked for a better baby. He was rarely fussy. He could sleep anywhere you put him. He was just pleasant. He grew into the most adorable toddler, and we were inseparable. We spent our days watching Barney, reading books, going shopping, and just having fun. He would always tell me that he loved me and I was the best mommy in the world. Fulfilled? Yes, I was. When it came time for him to start Kindergarten, I was all alone. The 9/11 attacks happened that fall, and I was left wondering if having only one child was the right choice. You would think a terrible thing like that would make you rethink bringing children into this crazy world, but it had the opposite affect on me. It made me feel like our family was incomplete. My second son was born nine months later. Not to sound mean, but he was not the perfect baby. He cried and cried and cried some more. Four months I slept upright in a recliner with him on my chest. It was the only way he would sleep. I nearly lost my mind. Then, just like a switch had been flipped, he stopped. He's been a joy ever since. He's the total opposite of his brother but still such a good kid. In the blink of an eye, they're growing up, and you find yourself running from one activity to another. The motherhood role is now about logistics. Get from point A to point B on time. Feed them. Clothe them. Send them to school. Pick them up. Go here. Go there. It's exhausting but rewarding in its own way. They're happy. They're well-behaved. You're succeeding. You're still the most important girl in their lives. They depend on you.
Then, one day, one leaves. You've done your job. No more activities to juggle. No more meals to prepare. No more shopping for clothes. No more worrying about how their hair looks or if they washed behind their ears. Now, there's a new girl in their life whose opinion is the only one that matters. They aren't "yours," anymore. And every argument and harsh word you ever spoke to them haunts you. Did I do enough? I should have done differently. I should have made more happy memories while I could. It's too late. You know it's the natural progression of life. You know there will be new happiness in their adult accomplishments. Still, it hurts, and you mourn for the chance to go back and do things over.
Now, my days are spent alone. It's too late to become that doctor now. I feel like I should find a job, but I still have one teenager at home, and I'm not about to miss any of his activities. I guess I'll try to be a secretary or something like that with a daytime schedule. The only problem is I'm forty years old and have no recent work experience of any kind. I try for a couple of positions, thinking I can convince them that I'm still smart enough to do the job. It doesn't work. So, now what? Now what? That is the question of my life. When facing a crisis like this, every past and present failure rushes to the forefront of your mind. You question every choice you've ever made. It's a lonely place to be, alone with your thoughts.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a doctor. I was a smart kid. I was confident that I could be a doctor if I wanted to be one. I didn't want to be a nurse. I have the utmost respect for nurses, but I'm just not one. I don't possess the skills necessary for that job. Being a surgeon suited me more. I still love to watch medical procedures. I won't lie. There are a couple of things that gross me out. Seeing badly broken bones that twist limbs into unnatural positions creeps me out. Also, dealing with eyeballs would not be my cup of tea. Other than those two areas, I'm not affected too much by blood and gore.
Somewhere around high school, my focus shifted, though. I, like most girls at the time, began my search for the guy I would spend my life with. Along with that shift, came a longing to be a wife and mother. My desire to be a rich, successful doctor dissipated. A mom. That's what I wanted to be. Kids had always loved me, and I loved them. It just felt like the natural choice for me. Any plans to make a life centered around me and a profession were abandoned.
I had my first son when I was twenty-one. He truly was the perfect baby. Sure. I remember sleepless nights and a lot of overwhelming moments, but we really couldn't have asked for a better baby. He was rarely fussy. He could sleep anywhere you put him. He was just pleasant. He grew into the most adorable toddler, and we were inseparable. We spent our days watching Barney, reading books, going shopping, and just having fun. He would always tell me that he loved me and I was the best mommy in the world. Fulfilled? Yes, I was. When it came time for him to start Kindergarten, I was all alone. The 9/11 attacks happened that fall, and I was left wondering if having only one child was the right choice. You would think a terrible thing like that would make you rethink bringing children into this crazy world, but it had the opposite affect on me. It made me feel like our family was incomplete. My second son was born nine months later. Not to sound mean, but he was not the perfect baby. He cried and cried and cried some more. Four months I slept upright in a recliner with him on my chest. It was the only way he would sleep. I nearly lost my mind. Then, just like a switch had been flipped, he stopped. He's been a joy ever since. He's the total opposite of his brother but still such a good kid. In the blink of an eye, they're growing up, and you find yourself running from one activity to another. The motherhood role is now about logistics. Get from point A to point B on time. Feed them. Clothe them. Send them to school. Pick them up. Go here. Go there. It's exhausting but rewarding in its own way. They're happy. They're well-behaved. You're succeeding. You're still the most important girl in their lives. They depend on you.
Then, one day, one leaves. You've done your job. No more activities to juggle. No more meals to prepare. No more shopping for clothes. No more worrying about how their hair looks or if they washed behind their ears. Now, there's a new girl in their life whose opinion is the only one that matters. They aren't "yours," anymore. And every argument and harsh word you ever spoke to them haunts you. Did I do enough? I should have done differently. I should have made more happy memories while I could. It's too late. You know it's the natural progression of life. You know there will be new happiness in their adult accomplishments. Still, it hurts, and you mourn for the chance to go back and do things over.
Now, my days are spent alone. It's too late to become that doctor now. I feel like I should find a job, but I still have one teenager at home, and I'm not about to miss any of his activities. I guess I'll try to be a secretary or something like that with a daytime schedule. The only problem is I'm forty years old and have no recent work experience of any kind. I try for a couple of positions, thinking I can convince them that I'm still smart enough to do the job. It doesn't work. So, now what? Now what? That is the question of my life. When facing a crisis like this, every past and present failure rushes to the forefront of your mind. You question every choice you've ever made. It's a lonely place to be, alone with your thoughts.
Friday, August 7, 2015
I hate politics, but...
Here's a confession. I've never really cared about politics. I've been living in denial of the fact that I'm an adult and should care about the people chosen to lead our country and make decisions for us. This particular season in politics has piqued my interest, though. Donald Trump. Need I say more? Well, I'm going to say more, anyway.
When I first heard that "The Donald" was running for president, I am quite certain that I rolled my eyes. I've never been a fan. I've always thought he was a narcissistic blow hard. I thought he must be out of his mind to even suggest that the American public would give him a moment's consideration as a serious contender. Then, he started talking. Lots and lots of talking. And, while I may not have agreed with everything he had to say, I liked the way he said it.
Have you ever heard the saying, "Hurt me with the truth, but NEVER comfort me with a lie?" I think that's what is going on with Mr. Trump. People are so sick and tired of politicians that tip-toe around speaking their true feelings for fear of offending someone. We would rather know what kind of snake we're handling than to be surprised when we get bitten later. I, for one, respect a person who speaks their mind unapologetically. At least, then, I can make an informed decision as to whether I want to support you or not. So, yes. I've gained a new respect for Donald Trump.
I find it particularly entertaining to watch the liberal media having to admit that Donald Trump's bid for the candidacy is not just a joke. Every "journalist" I've seen talking about him on TV talks with clear disdain for the man. He has been endlessly mocked by not only comedians but also "real" newscasters. They've had to actually acknowledge that there is a considerable percentage of the American people that support him, despite his brash attitude. I happen to enjoy seeing the left-wing biased pundits knocked off of their high horses, even if just for a moment. You see, I long for the days when the news media simply delivered the news. I wish I could turn on the TV and see a journalist talk about the issues facing our country without feeling the undercurrent of an agenda being pushed onto the public. Anyone who is willing to stand up to their mind games and call them out publicly garners a bit more respect from me.
As I step down from today's soapbox, I just want to say that I'm not waving any banners from the Donald Trump corner just yet. I do, however, give the man credit for telling it like it is without fear of retribution. Now, if we could only convince the rest of the candidates to be so transparent, we might have a political race worth watching.
When I first heard that "The Donald" was running for president, I am quite certain that I rolled my eyes. I've never been a fan. I've always thought he was a narcissistic blow hard. I thought he must be out of his mind to even suggest that the American public would give him a moment's consideration as a serious contender. Then, he started talking. Lots and lots of talking. And, while I may not have agreed with everything he had to say, I liked the way he said it.
Have you ever heard the saying, "Hurt me with the truth, but NEVER comfort me with a lie?" I think that's what is going on with Mr. Trump. People are so sick and tired of politicians that tip-toe around speaking their true feelings for fear of offending someone. We would rather know what kind of snake we're handling than to be surprised when we get bitten later. I, for one, respect a person who speaks their mind unapologetically. At least, then, I can make an informed decision as to whether I want to support you or not. So, yes. I've gained a new respect for Donald Trump.
I find it particularly entertaining to watch the liberal media having to admit that Donald Trump's bid for the candidacy is not just a joke. Every "journalist" I've seen talking about him on TV talks with clear disdain for the man. He has been endlessly mocked by not only comedians but also "real" newscasters. They've had to actually acknowledge that there is a considerable percentage of the American people that support him, despite his brash attitude. I happen to enjoy seeing the left-wing biased pundits knocked off of their high horses, even if just for a moment. You see, I long for the days when the news media simply delivered the news. I wish I could turn on the TV and see a journalist talk about the issues facing our country without feeling the undercurrent of an agenda being pushed onto the public. Anyone who is willing to stand up to their mind games and call them out publicly garners a bit more respect from me.
As I step down from today's soapbox, I just want to say that I'm not waving any banners from the Donald Trump corner just yet. I do, however, give the man credit for telling it like it is without fear of retribution. Now, if we could only convince the rest of the candidates to be so transparent, we might have a political race worth watching.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Comparisons
"Comparison is the thief of joy." That's one of my favorite quotes. It's so true. You can be feeling on top of the world, but there will always be someone who does better than you, who looks better than you, who feels better about themselves than you. Next thing you know, there goes your joy! This is just one good reason to not concern yourself too much with what others are doing. You're only seeing the surface, anyway. They probably have issues, too.
The one exception to this comparison theory is the TV show "Hoarders." I am currently watching episode after episode of the show, and it makes me happy. These people really make me feel good about my housekeeping skills. I feel bad for them, most of them, anyway. Some of them are just so hateful. I do not have issues like theirs, though.
To be honest, I've not always been a good housekeeper. In recent years, I have gotten a handle on it. I no longer live in fear of someone showing up unexpectedly. My house is relatively presentable all of the time now, just don't look in my bedroom or bathroom. Earlier, I was feeling bad about the clean laundry that is folded and stacked in my room. I need to put it all away. Then, I turned on "Hoarders," and ta-da! I don't feel so bad, anymore! Comparison: the source of joy. It's all perspective.
The one exception to this comparison theory is the TV show "Hoarders." I am currently watching episode after episode of the show, and it makes me happy. These people really make me feel good about my housekeeping skills. I feel bad for them, most of them, anyway. Some of them are just so hateful. I do not have issues like theirs, though.
To be honest, I've not always been a good housekeeper. In recent years, I have gotten a handle on it. I no longer live in fear of someone showing up unexpectedly. My house is relatively presentable all of the time now, just don't look in my bedroom or bathroom. Earlier, I was feeling bad about the clean laundry that is folded and stacked in my room. I need to put it all away. Then, I turned on "Hoarders," and ta-da! I don't feel so bad, anymore! Comparison: the source of joy. It's all perspective.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Delete files.
Memory. It's a funny thing. As I am getting older, I am noticing my lack of memory more and more. I often wish there was a way to throw out the useless information that is stored up in my brain to make room for more important things.
How many phone numbers do you have stored in your instant recall? Five? Ten? More? Cell phones have been the ruination of phone number recall. If you lost your phone and needed to call someone for help, would you know anyone's number by heart? Chances are, you would remember a few people's numbers. They would most likely be the ones that have had the same phone number for many, many years... as in, before cell phones.
My brain has managed to retain phone numbers from my childhood that are useless to me now. For instance, my grandma's number ended in 3347. My close friend's number was 8664. Here's a sampling of just a few of the numbers I can recall from my childhood. If you've been in my life that long, you might recognize your number here.
6026
4331
4905
8339
9666
6242
7537
7417
4431
1240
3092
Those are just the ones that instantly come to mind for me. I could tell you the name associated with every one of those, too. Some of them are the most random people. Now, ask me to list five of my friends' current phone numbers. I couldn't do it.
Wouldn't it be nice if there was a delete button for our brains? I could go in and delete these useless old phone numbers and maybe remember why I came into the room.
And these are the random ramblings of my brain for today. :)
How many phone numbers do you have stored in your instant recall? Five? Ten? More? Cell phones have been the ruination of phone number recall. If you lost your phone and needed to call someone for help, would you know anyone's number by heart? Chances are, you would remember a few people's numbers. They would most likely be the ones that have had the same phone number for many, many years... as in, before cell phones.
My brain has managed to retain phone numbers from my childhood that are useless to me now. For instance, my grandma's number ended in 3347. My close friend's number was 8664. Here's a sampling of just a few of the numbers I can recall from my childhood. If you've been in my life that long, you might recognize your number here.
6026
4331
4905
8339
9666
6242
7537
7417
4431
1240
3092
Those are just the ones that instantly come to mind for me. I could tell you the name associated with every one of those, too. Some of them are the most random people. Now, ask me to list five of my friends' current phone numbers. I couldn't do it.
Wouldn't it be nice if there was a delete button for our brains? I could go in and delete these useless old phone numbers and maybe remember why I came into the room.
And these are the random ramblings of my brain for today. :)
Monday, July 13, 2015
When you know the goodbye is coming.
I've never been sure if I would want to know that the end of my life was nearing. There are pros and cons. You can live with a new kind of intention when you truly feel your own mortality. Most of us don't live like our days are numbered. We know they're numbered, but we assume that the number is still a pretty big number. There's not a sense of urgency to life. In some ways, that's a nice thing. I don't know if my mind could bear the weight of such knowledge.
I mowed the yard this evening. I really dislike the heat, the dirt, and the bugs of mowing, but I'm learning to love the solitude of it. When I mow, I plug into my music and my thoughts. It's one of those rare occasions that I embrace my thoughts. I usually spend a good amount of time praying, too. I don't know. It's just a good time to be alone. The dull roar of the motor behind the eclectic mix of tunes in my earbuds makes for a strangely relaxing mood.
Tonight, my thoughts turned to a dear friend that is facing a very poor cancer prognosis. I'm sure he's feeling the gravity of the ticking clock. I'm sure he's wishing he felt well enough to really enjoy the moments he has left on this earth. I have a desire to go and take some pictures of him and with him while I can. I started to reflect tonight on the fact that I don't have a memory of life without him in it. He and his family have been a part of my life since before I have memories. When I think of that, the tears fall unbidden down my cheeks. Free-flowing tears. I'm realizing that I may have to know life without him much sooner than I had ever imagined. And like a little girl, I cry. I'm not ready to lose him.
As most moments in my life do, this one brings to mind a song. Patty Loveless released this song many years ago. It made me cry then for the general emotion of the song. It makes me cry now for the preparation to say goodbye to a loved one. "It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry...."
How Can I Help You Say Goodbye? by Patty Loveless
Through the back window of our '59 wagon
I watched my best friend Jamie slippin' further away
I kept on wavin' till I couldn't see her
And through my tears I asked again why we couldn't stay
Mama whispered softly, "Time will ease your pain
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same."
And she said, "How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry.
Come let me hold you, and I will try.
How can I help you to say goodbye?"...........
........
Sittin' with Mama, alone in her bedroom
She opened her eyes and then squeezed my hand
She said, "I have to go now. My time here is over."
And with her final words she tried to help me understand.
Mama whispered softly, "Time will ease your pain.
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same."
And she said, "How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry.
Come let me hold you, and I will try.
How can I help you to say goodbye?"
Listen to the full song here.
I mowed the yard this evening. I really dislike the heat, the dirt, and the bugs of mowing, but I'm learning to love the solitude of it. When I mow, I plug into my music and my thoughts. It's one of those rare occasions that I embrace my thoughts. I usually spend a good amount of time praying, too. I don't know. It's just a good time to be alone. The dull roar of the motor behind the eclectic mix of tunes in my earbuds makes for a strangely relaxing mood.
Tonight, my thoughts turned to a dear friend that is facing a very poor cancer prognosis. I'm sure he's feeling the gravity of the ticking clock. I'm sure he's wishing he felt well enough to really enjoy the moments he has left on this earth. I have a desire to go and take some pictures of him and with him while I can. I started to reflect tonight on the fact that I don't have a memory of life without him in it. He and his family have been a part of my life since before I have memories. When I think of that, the tears fall unbidden down my cheeks. Free-flowing tears. I'm realizing that I may have to know life without him much sooner than I had ever imagined. And like a little girl, I cry. I'm not ready to lose him.
As most moments in my life do, this one brings to mind a song. Patty Loveless released this song many years ago. It made me cry then for the general emotion of the song. It makes me cry now for the preparation to say goodbye to a loved one. "It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry...."
How Can I Help You Say Goodbye? by Patty Loveless
Through the back window of our '59 wagon
I watched my best friend Jamie slippin' further away
I kept on wavin' till I couldn't see her
And through my tears I asked again why we couldn't stay
Mama whispered softly, "Time will ease your pain
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same."
And she said, "How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry.
Come let me hold you, and I will try.
How can I help you to say goodbye?"...........
........
Sittin' with Mama, alone in her bedroom
She opened her eyes and then squeezed my hand
She said, "I have to go now. My time here is over."
And with her final words she tried to help me understand.
Mama whispered softly, "Time will ease your pain.
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same."
And she said, "How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry.
Come let me hold you, and I will try.
How can I help you to say goodbye?"
Listen to the full song here.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Being important is not so important.
I've noticed something disturbing. Most everyone these days fancies themselves a person of importance. Don't get me wrong. I know each and every person is important in their own way. I just think we all think we're way too important. My opinion is important. Validation from others tells me so.
Last night, I logged off of Facebook. I wanted to actually deactivate my account, but that would have meant losing my business page, too, and I didn't want to go that far. I typed up a post to let my "friends" know that I wouldn't be on there for a while. I don't know how long I'll stay off. I admit that I want to go on and see if anyone has commented on or liked that post. I've done this in the past, and it usually doesn't last more than a week or so. It's a good test of one's priorities, though.
You wouldn't believe how many times in the last 24 hours I have had an urge to post a thought or what I'm doing. How ridiculous is that?!? Am I really so important as to think others are waiting to hear what I have to say? Am I really so insecure as to need someone to comment or agree with what I have to say? When did I become so needy? That's not at all who I am. I am determined to stay off until this urge to share isn't so second-nature.
You might say, "Well, what do you think a blog is?" and that's a valid point. The difference is I have about two followers on here, and I rarely get a comment. And I'm okay with that. This is more of an outlet for me. That's a healthy thing for my busy brain.
I enjoy many things about "social" media. I use that term very loosely, since I believe it makes us decidedly less social in real life. I enjoy catching up with friends and family that I would otherwise not see. I like seeing everyone's personal pictures. I'm a picture lover. I do enjoy hearing what people are up to. I'm just tired of seeing the same old "memes" making their rounds. For anyone that doesn't know what a meme is, it's a picture with some kind of phrase on it. Right now, you can find hundreds about the confederate flag, gay marriage, and a countless list of other hot topics. There are ones in favor and against all issues. Honestly, I like some people better when I don't know where they fall on certain issues. I know that's a terrible way to be, but it's how I am. I don't want to judge them. That's easier done when I know less of their personal beliefs. My newsfeed is also full of recipes. I love a good recipe, but that's why I have Pinterest. Okay. So Facebook just isn't working for me, anymore.
I think it's important to look at why I want to share my life with others, especially the casual observers that aren't actually my friends in real life. I think it's an easy way to make yourself think you have friends that aren't really friends. If so-and-so likes my post, they must like me, too. Right? Wrong. Again, I'm just not that important.
It's time to figure out what is really important to me. Being important isn't important.
Last night, I logged off of Facebook. I wanted to actually deactivate my account, but that would have meant losing my business page, too, and I didn't want to go that far. I typed up a post to let my "friends" know that I wouldn't be on there for a while. I don't know how long I'll stay off. I admit that I want to go on and see if anyone has commented on or liked that post. I've done this in the past, and it usually doesn't last more than a week or so. It's a good test of one's priorities, though.
You wouldn't believe how many times in the last 24 hours I have had an urge to post a thought or what I'm doing. How ridiculous is that?!? Am I really so important as to think others are waiting to hear what I have to say? Am I really so insecure as to need someone to comment or agree with what I have to say? When did I become so needy? That's not at all who I am. I am determined to stay off until this urge to share isn't so second-nature.
You might say, "Well, what do you think a blog is?" and that's a valid point. The difference is I have about two followers on here, and I rarely get a comment. And I'm okay with that. This is more of an outlet for me. That's a healthy thing for my busy brain.
I enjoy many things about "social" media. I use that term very loosely, since I believe it makes us decidedly less social in real life. I enjoy catching up with friends and family that I would otherwise not see. I like seeing everyone's personal pictures. I'm a picture lover. I do enjoy hearing what people are up to. I'm just tired of seeing the same old "memes" making their rounds. For anyone that doesn't know what a meme is, it's a picture with some kind of phrase on it. Right now, you can find hundreds about the confederate flag, gay marriage, and a countless list of other hot topics. There are ones in favor and against all issues. Honestly, I like some people better when I don't know where they fall on certain issues. I know that's a terrible way to be, but it's how I am. I don't want to judge them. That's easier done when I know less of their personal beliefs. My newsfeed is also full of recipes. I love a good recipe, but that's why I have Pinterest. Okay. So Facebook just isn't working for me, anymore.
I think it's important to look at why I want to share my life with others, especially the casual observers that aren't actually my friends in real life. I think it's an easy way to make yourself think you have friends that aren't really friends. If so-and-so likes my post, they must like me, too. Right? Wrong. Again, I'm just not that important.
It's time to figure out what is really important to me. Being important isn't important.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
A piece of my heart.
If you know me really well, you know that I have a tender heart. I'm a deeply compassionate person. The pain and struggles of others affects me. It's not always convenient or pleasant, but I wouldn't want to be any other way.
My previous post was inspired by a song by Joey & Rory. In finding that song, I found a blog by Rory, the husband in this singing duet. I knew of them before, but I knew little about them. I'm wishing now that I had found them long ago. The most recent entries in his blog chronicle Joey's relapse of cancer. It's heart-breaking and inspiring. I am so touched when a man can freely share his emotions like Rory does. I'm in awe of their relationship with each other and God.
When I find something that grabs my heart like this couple's story, I feel compelled to share it. I think it would be selfish not to share it. If it can affect me in such a way to make me hurt and pray and hope for strangers, it might do the same for you. And that, my friends, is called being a part of this human race. We should feel for one another and share in each other's trials and triumphs.
Join me in praying for this little family. Listen to a beautiful song written by the couple here. And read Rory's blog here.
My previous post was inspired by a song by Joey & Rory. In finding that song, I found a blog by Rory, the husband in this singing duet. I knew of them before, but I knew little about them. I'm wishing now that I had found them long ago. The most recent entries in his blog chronicle Joey's relapse of cancer. It's heart-breaking and inspiring. I am so touched when a man can freely share his emotions like Rory does. I'm in awe of their relationship with each other and God.
When I find something that grabs my heart like this couple's story, I feel compelled to share it. I think it would be selfish not to share it. If it can affect me in such a way to make me hurt and pray and hope for strangers, it might do the same for you. And that, my friends, is called being a part of this human race. We should feel for one another and share in each other's trials and triumphs.
Join me in praying for this little family. Listen to a beautiful song written by the couple here. And read Rory's blog here.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Does anyone have a soapbox handy??
Sometimes, a song comes into your life, and its impact is felt immediately. So it was when I heard this song for the first time yesterday. My parents did not ever use a belt on me, but there was always the chance that they might resort to that if the behavior called for it. I respected and feared them for that. The Bible was taught to me from such an early age that I cannot remember life without it. My parents read scripture and a devotion to us every night before bed. The Daily Bread. The three of us kids would be in our beds with our lights out, and my parents would stand in the hallway between our rooms with the hall light on. My mother would read the devotion, and my dad would pray when she was done. We feared the Lord and trusted that His word was The Truth.
I watch a lot of court shows. Call it a guilty pleasure of mine. I've actually learned quite a bit over the years. There seems to be a recurring theme among many of the cases, though. There's a lack of taking responsibility for one's actions. Time after time, litigants will argue that something is not their fault. They cast the blame off onto someone else or just flatly deny wrongdoing. The most alarming pattern I've seen is parents making excuses for their children's bad behavior. Gee, I wonder why the kids are behaving badly in the first place? If my parents had been willing to shift blame off onto someone else every time I did something wrong, I would have tried to get away with all kinds of nonsense. Why not?
Our world is becoming filled with people willing to accept any excuse for someone's bad choices. How can we ever expect to be respected and feared, as a country, if we allow lame excuses to rule public sway? We need to declare what we stand for and stick to it if we are to be the great country we once were. We cannot be swayed by every group with an agenda that gets offended by the convictions upon which our country was founded.
Okay. You can have your soapbox back....for now.
Click here to listen to this wonderful song.
A Bible and A Belt by Joey & Rory
They were both made of leather
both black and frayed and worn
I was brought up to respect them
since the day that I was born
One came here from England
it's been handed down for years
The other one was ordered
from a catalog at Sears
One my momma read to me
'til I was well into my teens
And I thought all the other one was for
was to hold up Daddy's jeans
'Til I told a lie and learned
it had another purpose too
out behind the shed my Daddy said
"This'll hurt me more than you."
Cause one had my daddy's name on it
The other said "King James"
With love they taught us lessons
but we feared them both the same
One led us to Heaven
and the other left a welt
Those were the days when kids were raised
with a Bible and a belt.
I remember when I was twelve
I stole a dime store comic book
and how Momma read where the scripture said
to take back what I took
When I refused, my daddy grabbed
my arm and said, "Come on"
I needed more, he knew, than just
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Well sometimes they made me cry
Sometimes they made me fightin' mad
and I'd wish I'd been raised without them
like some other children had
But now I'm grown with kids of my own
and I know just how they felt
You know, it seems to me what the world still needs
is a Bible and a belt
Cause one had my daddy's name on it
The other said "King James"
With love they taught us lessons
but we feared them both the same
One led us to Heaven
and the other hurt like Hell
Those were the days when kids were raised
with a Bible and a belt.
I watch a lot of court shows. Call it a guilty pleasure of mine. I've actually learned quite a bit over the years. There seems to be a recurring theme among many of the cases, though. There's a lack of taking responsibility for one's actions. Time after time, litigants will argue that something is not their fault. They cast the blame off onto someone else or just flatly deny wrongdoing. The most alarming pattern I've seen is parents making excuses for their children's bad behavior. Gee, I wonder why the kids are behaving badly in the first place? If my parents had been willing to shift blame off onto someone else every time I did something wrong, I would have tried to get away with all kinds of nonsense. Why not?
Our world is becoming filled with people willing to accept any excuse for someone's bad choices. How can we ever expect to be respected and feared, as a country, if we allow lame excuses to rule public sway? We need to declare what we stand for and stick to it if we are to be the great country we once were. We cannot be swayed by every group with an agenda that gets offended by the convictions upon which our country was founded.
Okay. You can have your soapbox back....for now.
Click here to listen to this wonderful song.
A Bible and A Belt by Joey & Rory
They were both made of leather
both black and frayed and worn
I was brought up to respect them
since the day that I was born
One came here from England
it's been handed down for years
The other one was ordered
from a catalog at Sears
One my momma read to me
'til I was well into my teens
And I thought all the other one was for
was to hold up Daddy's jeans
'Til I told a lie and learned
it had another purpose too
out behind the shed my Daddy said
"This'll hurt me more than you."
Cause one had my daddy's name on it
The other said "King James"
With love they taught us lessons
but we feared them both the same
One led us to Heaven
and the other left a welt
Those were the days when kids were raised
with a Bible and a belt.
I remember when I was twelve
I stole a dime store comic book
and how Momma read where the scripture said
to take back what I took
When I refused, my daddy grabbed
my arm and said, "Come on"
I needed more, he knew, than just
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Well sometimes they made me cry
Sometimes they made me fightin' mad
and I'd wish I'd been raised without them
like some other children had
But now I'm grown with kids of my own
and I know just how they felt
You know, it seems to me what the world still needs
is a Bible and a belt
Cause one had my daddy's name on it
The other said "King James"
With love they taught us lessons
but we feared them both the same
One led us to Heaven
and the other hurt like Hell
Those were the days when kids were raised
with a Bible and a belt.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Living in bizarro world.
I'm an animal lover. Mammals. Not bugs. Not reptiles. Cute, fuzzy, warm animals. We recently started seeing more and more bugs around here. I drew the line at a black widow and brown recluse within a 24-hr period. A call to the exterminator was made. They came and sprayed the house, inside and out, on June 3rd. Around about June 5th, I noticed a smallish spider that had taken up residence in the window above my kitchen sink. It had a small web in one of the corners. I didn't kill it immediately, and that was my mistake.
I am now living with said spider and its rather large web in my kitchen window. I don't know what is wrong with me! It's a spider! I hate spiders. For some bizarre reason, I just can't bring myself to kill it.
I did, however, destroy its web one day last week, thinking it would just move on. I hadn't seen it that day and hoped that it had just crawled off and died somewhere. The next morning, I reached for the dimmer switch to the light above the sink and found my fingers in a sticky web. Needless to say, I jumped back. That particular outlet/light switch doesn't have a switch plate over it. I grabbed the flashlight, only to see two tiny eyes glowing back at me from deep in the receptacle. I told Reuben that was it. He needed to kill it. He laughed at me and refused. Okay. I don't need to turn on that light. Ever.
By the end of the day, the spider was back in its comfy corner with a little web to call home. The web grows a little more every day. Reuben felt bad for the poor spider having lost its web and food supply, so he went in search of some food for it. I admit it. I also went hunting when he came back saying he couldn't find a single bug anywhere. It was crazy. There wasn't a bug to be found anywhere around our house. Good but weird. Reuben went hunting for a bug, again, later and finally found a tiny beetle under something by the dog pen. He delivered it to the spider, and it pounced on it.
That was Sunday. He brought it TWO such bugs yesterday. As I walked to the sink this morning to wash my hands, that not-so-tiny-now spider had the nerve to jump out on its web. I told Reuben it needs to go. It's getting aggressive. His reply? "It's hungry. It thinks you're going to feed it." WHAT?!? I have clearly lost my mind and am living in a bizarro world! (It's a Seinfeld reference, for those that are wondering.)
A POSTSCRIPT TO THIS STORY:
Our resident spider finally met her demise on July 10th. She had grown into a rather largish spider and had taken to killing her own kind in her sticky window web. I had made a couple of attempts to smash her, but she was successful at retreating into the crevices of the window frame. Her final moments were marked by her presence in my kitchen sink when I went to wash my hands. She made a quick move in my direction, and I let out a squeal telling Reuben to kill it! Now, my world is back in order. No pet spiders. :)
I am now living with said spider and its rather large web in my kitchen window. I don't know what is wrong with me! It's a spider! I hate spiders. For some bizarre reason, I just can't bring myself to kill it.
I did, however, destroy its web one day last week, thinking it would just move on. I hadn't seen it that day and hoped that it had just crawled off and died somewhere. The next morning, I reached for the dimmer switch to the light above the sink and found my fingers in a sticky web. Needless to say, I jumped back. That particular outlet/light switch doesn't have a switch plate over it. I grabbed the flashlight, only to see two tiny eyes glowing back at me from deep in the receptacle. I told Reuben that was it. He needed to kill it. He laughed at me and refused. Okay. I don't need to turn on that light. Ever.
By the end of the day, the spider was back in its comfy corner with a little web to call home. The web grows a little more every day. Reuben felt bad for the poor spider having lost its web and food supply, so he went in search of some food for it. I admit it. I also went hunting when he came back saying he couldn't find a single bug anywhere. It was crazy. There wasn't a bug to be found anywhere around our house. Good but weird. Reuben went hunting for a bug, again, later and finally found a tiny beetle under something by the dog pen. He delivered it to the spider, and it pounced on it.
That was Sunday. He brought it TWO such bugs yesterday. As I walked to the sink this morning to wash my hands, that not-so-tiny-now spider had the nerve to jump out on its web. I told Reuben it needs to go. It's getting aggressive. His reply? "It's hungry. It thinks you're going to feed it." WHAT?!? I have clearly lost my mind and am living in a bizarro world! (It's a Seinfeld reference, for those that are wondering.)
A POSTSCRIPT TO THIS STORY:
Our resident spider finally met her demise on July 10th. She had grown into a rather largish spider and had taken to killing her own kind in her sticky window web. I had made a couple of attempts to smash her, but she was successful at retreating into the crevices of the window frame. Her final moments were marked by her presence in my kitchen sink when I went to wash my hands. She made a quick move in my direction, and I let out a squeal telling Reuben to kill it! Now, my world is back in order. No pet spiders. :)
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Just glimpses.
How well do you think you know your family? Your friends? Acquaintances? I bet you feel like you know at least some people very well. I also bet you don't really know anyone completely. We are all untold stories.
I don't know about you, but my mind is a constant rolodex of random thoughts and subjects. My brain is always on and always scrolling through this rolodex of things to consider or worry over or plan for or whatever. I have very certain feelings about myself. I know things about me that no one else on this earth knows. A very few people know me pretty well, but most only know what I want them to know.
Take Facebook, for instance. Some people, like me, post a lot on there. I post only the things I don't mind others knowing about me and my life. Occasionally, you might get a glimpse of struggles I'm facing, but you will never read the deepest, darkest truths about me there. Similarly, most of us walk around with a facade that we consider acceptable for public viewing. We let down some walls around close friends and family, but we don't tell our complete story to many people, if any.
Then, you have the people who share way too much publicly. They're always airing their dirty laundry, only to crawl back into the same dirty old clothes time and time again. Then, they wonder why so many people judge them. Ummm.... didn't you just tell me what a scumbag that guy is? Now, you're living happily ever after... for today? Have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? Yeah. I'm not coming running when I hear you complain, anymore. Those people also have an untold story. They may not even realize it themselves, but there's a deeper story and disconnect there somewhere.
My point is, we only know what people want us to know. We aren't seeing the full picture with most people. For that reason, we should be slow to judge and quick to listen when they want to open up to us.
I don't know about you, but my mind is a constant rolodex of random thoughts and subjects. My brain is always on and always scrolling through this rolodex of things to consider or worry over or plan for or whatever. I have very certain feelings about myself. I know things about me that no one else on this earth knows. A very few people know me pretty well, but most only know what I want them to know.
Take Facebook, for instance. Some people, like me, post a lot on there. I post only the things I don't mind others knowing about me and my life. Occasionally, you might get a glimpse of struggles I'm facing, but you will never read the deepest, darkest truths about me there. Similarly, most of us walk around with a facade that we consider acceptable for public viewing. We let down some walls around close friends and family, but we don't tell our complete story to many people, if any.
Then, you have the people who share way too much publicly. They're always airing their dirty laundry, only to crawl back into the same dirty old clothes time and time again. Then, they wonder why so many people judge them. Ummm.... didn't you just tell me what a scumbag that guy is? Now, you're living happily ever after... for today? Have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? Yeah. I'm not coming running when I hear you complain, anymore. Those people also have an untold story. They may not even realize it themselves, but there's a deeper story and disconnect there somewhere.
My point is, we only know what people want us to know. We aren't seeing the full picture with most people. For that reason, we should be slow to judge and quick to listen when they want to open up to us.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Let's talk about food!
So, this post might explain a lot about who I am. I've reminisced about grade school, family, friends, etc. Now, I will talk about my love affair with food.
My Grandma Horn was a phenomenal cook! There were no shortcuts, no microwaves. She had three meals each day. She and my uncle sat down at the kitchen table for each meal. It was never just sandwiches, either. She cooked fresh meals or reheated leftovers on the stove. We did often have cereal for breakfast, though. Rice Krispies with lots of sugar and fresh cream. Yes. I said cream. Heavy cream. Don't judge. It was heavenly! They had a dairy farm, so the milk and cream were always super fresh. When I'm feeling really indulgent, I still will buy some heavy cream to put on Rice Krispies. Grandma was faithful in keeping me supplied with my absolute favorite of hers for lunch. Macaroni and meat with fresh tomato sauce. Elbow macaroni, fresh ground beef, and fresh tomato sauce. YUM! I've tried and tried to replicate it, but I've never gotten it quite right. Hers was special. While I'm confessing some strange eating habits, I will tell you that I loved to scrape the sides of the ice cream box. You know the sticky, gooey stuff that sticks to the sides? Yeah. I loved it! I will admit that it was weird. It grosses me out now.
My mom also had a knack for cooking. I could never list all of my favorites that she made. And many of the things I remember fondly were boxed foods. Sadly, they just don't make them anymore! For starters, let's talk about what we called dumplings. They were actually a wide egg noodle in a chicken flavoring. Yellow. Yummy. Again, I've tried to recreate these using egg noodles and chicken bouillon cubes. It's good but not as good.
Then, there was this taco casserole thing with chips on top. I loved it. It came in a box. The chips would turn all chewy in the baking process. Mmmm.
My mom only used packaged brown gravy for one meal. It was a loaf of meat with mashed potatoes. It wasn't meatloaf. It was a frozen loaf of fresh ground beef, cooked like a roast in the oven. She would slice it up and serve it with mashed potatoes and packaged brown gravy. I've yet to try this one. I just can't bring myself to stick a frozen cylinder of beef in a roasting pan.
A favorite of mine was my mom's meatballs. She rarely made them. Occasionally, she would make them with spaghetti, but I preferred them just plain. She'd make a batch of fried meatballs, and we'd eat them with fondue forks. It was fun. I actually made meatballs for supper tonight, which is what brought about these food memories. Mine are almost as good as hers, not quite.
One last yummy memory of my childhood is lemon strudel cake. It was a super moist lemon bundt cake with crunchy bits of lemony goodness in the center of each piece. I've found a wonderful lemon bundt cake recipe, but it's missing those crunchy treasures.
So, to summarize, these are just a few of the reasons that I love food today. I have such fond memories of happy times around the table. Thanks, Mom and Grandma, for being such wonderful cooks!
My Grandma Horn was a phenomenal cook! There were no shortcuts, no microwaves. She had three meals each day. She and my uncle sat down at the kitchen table for each meal. It was never just sandwiches, either. She cooked fresh meals or reheated leftovers on the stove. We did often have cereal for breakfast, though. Rice Krispies with lots of sugar and fresh cream. Yes. I said cream. Heavy cream. Don't judge. It was heavenly! They had a dairy farm, so the milk and cream were always super fresh. When I'm feeling really indulgent, I still will buy some heavy cream to put on Rice Krispies. Grandma was faithful in keeping me supplied with my absolute favorite of hers for lunch. Macaroni and meat with fresh tomato sauce. Elbow macaroni, fresh ground beef, and fresh tomato sauce. YUM! I've tried and tried to replicate it, but I've never gotten it quite right. Hers was special. While I'm confessing some strange eating habits, I will tell you that I loved to scrape the sides of the ice cream box. You know the sticky, gooey stuff that sticks to the sides? Yeah. I loved it! I will admit that it was weird. It grosses me out now.
My mom also had a knack for cooking. I could never list all of my favorites that she made. And many of the things I remember fondly were boxed foods. Sadly, they just don't make them anymore! For starters, let's talk about what we called dumplings. They were actually a wide egg noodle in a chicken flavoring. Yellow. Yummy. Again, I've tried to recreate these using egg noodles and chicken bouillon cubes. It's good but not as good.
Then, there was this taco casserole thing with chips on top. I loved it. It came in a box. The chips would turn all chewy in the baking process. Mmmm.
My mom only used packaged brown gravy for one meal. It was a loaf of meat with mashed potatoes. It wasn't meatloaf. It was a frozen loaf of fresh ground beef, cooked like a roast in the oven. She would slice it up and serve it with mashed potatoes and packaged brown gravy. I've yet to try this one. I just can't bring myself to stick a frozen cylinder of beef in a roasting pan.
A favorite of mine was my mom's meatballs. She rarely made them. Occasionally, she would make them with spaghetti, but I preferred them just plain. She'd make a batch of fried meatballs, and we'd eat them with fondue forks. It was fun. I actually made meatballs for supper tonight, which is what brought about these food memories. Mine are almost as good as hers, not quite.
One last yummy memory of my childhood is lemon strudel cake. It was a super moist lemon bundt cake with crunchy bits of lemony goodness in the center of each piece. I've found a wonderful lemon bundt cake recipe, but it's missing those crunchy treasures.
So, to summarize, these are just a few of the reasons that I love food today. I have such fond memories of happy times around the table. Thanks, Mom and Grandma, for being such wonderful cooks!
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Mine's Best!
There's a children's book called, "Mine's Best." It's about two kids boasting about whose balloon is the best. As I read through my Facebook timeline this morning (Father's Day,) that book came to mind. So many friends are boasting about having the best dad in the world. It makes me happy. Each and every one of those who feel that they have the best dad should be thanking God today. Not everyone is so lucky.
I couldn't help but think of the ones who I know that will most definitely not be boasting of their wonderful dads today. Sadly, not all grow up with loving, nurturing dads. I think it's important to think of those on this Father's Day. They don't know the true meaning of celebrating fathers. This is what I have to say to those...girls, marry the kind of man that you want as a father for your kids... guys, be the kind of dad you always wished you had. Give yourself a reason to celebrate this day in the future.
I happen to be one of the lucky ones. My dad is the best! I grew up with a very present, very involved dad. He was a professional guy, a principal and preacher. Yep. I know. Their kids are always the worst! I've heard it thousands of times. Anyway, my dad got up every morning and put on dress clothes and held a position of authority in our community. I often took some abuse from others because of this, but I didn't care. I was proud of him and proud to be his daughter. He's never been a mechanically inclined guy. If a vehicle broke down, it was off to the shop. If the house needed a repair, he called someone. That's okay. Those skills are not the measure of a man. Faith. Compassion. Integrity. Work ethic. Those are the types of attributes that make a man, and I can boast loudly and proudly that my dad is a living example of all of those.
I also am lucky enough to have married a man that is an awesome father. Reuben and I have had our share of ups and downs over the years. There have been times that I've questioned the depth of his love for me. Then, I watch him father our boys, and I know that he couldn't possibly love our boys this much if he didn't love me, too. They are part of me, a part of my heart that's living, breathing, and walking this earth. I thank God for giving my children such a wonderful father. I pray that they will follow in his footsteps.
There's another kind of father that I want to acknowledge today... the ones that didn't have to be father figures but choose to be, anyway. My father-in-law is one such man. He married my mother-in-law when she was very young with two very little kids. Their birth father was also very young and not involved with their lives. Robert chose to be their dad, not their step-dad but their dad. He has been the dad in every way ever since. Reuben will tell you that he only ever had one dad, and that is Robert. Men like these deserve a special recognition on this day.
So, as I prepare to go to church and celebrate all of the special men that play the role as dad, I am thanking God for putting such great examples of fathers in my life. Mine really is best!!
I couldn't help but think of the ones who I know that will most definitely not be boasting of their wonderful dads today. Sadly, not all grow up with loving, nurturing dads. I think it's important to think of those on this Father's Day. They don't know the true meaning of celebrating fathers. This is what I have to say to those...girls, marry the kind of man that you want as a father for your kids... guys, be the kind of dad you always wished you had. Give yourself a reason to celebrate this day in the future.
I happen to be one of the lucky ones. My dad is the best! I grew up with a very present, very involved dad. He was a professional guy, a principal and preacher. Yep. I know. Their kids are always the worst! I've heard it thousands of times. Anyway, my dad got up every morning and put on dress clothes and held a position of authority in our community. I often took some abuse from others because of this, but I didn't care. I was proud of him and proud to be his daughter. He's never been a mechanically inclined guy. If a vehicle broke down, it was off to the shop. If the house needed a repair, he called someone. That's okay. Those skills are not the measure of a man. Faith. Compassion. Integrity. Work ethic. Those are the types of attributes that make a man, and I can boast loudly and proudly that my dad is a living example of all of those.I also am lucky enough to have married a man that is an awesome father. Reuben and I have had our share of ups and downs over the years. There have been times that I've questioned the depth of his love for me. Then, I watch him father our boys, and I know that he couldn't possibly love our boys this much if he didn't love me, too. They are part of me, a part of my heart that's living, breathing, and walking this earth. I thank God for giving my children such a wonderful father. I pray that they will follow in his footsteps.
There's another kind of father that I want to acknowledge today... the ones that didn't have to be father figures but choose to be, anyway. My father-in-law is one such man. He married my mother-in-law when she was very young with two very little kids. Their birth father was also very young and not involved with their lives. Robert chose to be their dad, not their step-dad but their dad. He has been the dad in every way ever since. Reuben will tell you that he only ever had one dad, and that is Robert. Men like these deserve a special recognition on this day.
So, as I prepare to go to church and celebrate all of the special men that play the role as dad, I am thanking God for putting such great examples of fathers in my life. Mine really is best!!
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
All that glitters....
We've all heard the saying, "all that glitters is not gold." That is true. Some of the shiniest rings will turn your finger green before they tarnish and find themselves headed for the trash. Looks and feelings can be deceiving.
Ladies, have you ever been so upset with your husband that you go to bed hours earlier than usual, only to find yourself simmering mad while you lie there in wait? You know your husband is eventually going to make his way to the bed, and you are not going to say a single WORD! You wish you could just fall asleep and show him, but that frustration is working your brain overtime. So you lie there. Very still. Very quietly. Waiting. Waiting. Did I really go to bed THAT early?!? Just wait! I will make him think he's really made me mad enough to go to bed at 7pm and fall asleep without even talking it out with him. Finally, you hear the TV shut off in the living room and lights being switched off. Footsteps. You are sure to be lying on your side, facing away from him, when he gets in the bed. You are certain he will try to speak to you, kiss you goodnight, check to make sure you're still breathing...but nothing. He crawls into the bed, and you hear snoring before his head hardly hits the pillow. How dare he?!? Doesn't he know I've just sacrificed hours of my life to get a reaction out of him?
Marriage. It can be difficult at times. We all handle problems differently. Some people can let go of an issue as soon as it's over. Others hold onto the angst as long as they can, with plans of using it as ammunition in some future confrontation. Some people need the confrontation in order to feel closure on the subject. That's me. I want to have it out right now and get it over with, because you can bet that I won't forget about it! It will only be worse if I hang onto it and let it fester. My husband, on the other hand, is the quiet type. Who knows if he's still mad, ever was mad, or will be mad later? He's mysterious that way. It's caused problems on more than one occasion, this difference in handling conflicts.
The plain fact is that all marriages and relationships will face turmoil at one time or another. Most will even wonder if they made the right decision in being with that person. Some will be faced with major obstacles and will have to decide if they can get past them or throw in the towel. I feel like so many people are throwing in the towel without much thought as to whether the relationship is salvageable or not. There's a big ol' pile of towels out there!
My marriage hasn't been perfect. I feel stress, doubt, anger, hurt, and regret more often than I care to admit. I'm still hanging onto my towel, though. I know that we have our glittering moments, as well as our green finger moments. I also know that the ring on my finger is, indeed, gold, and I'm not planning on going anywhere!
Ladies, have you ever been so upset with your husband that you go to bed hours earlier than usual, only to find yourself simmering mad while you lie there in wait? You know your husband is eventually going to make his way to the bed, and you are not going to say a single WORD! You wish you could just fall asleep and show him, but that frustration is working your brain overtime. So you lie there. Very still. Very quietly. Waiting. Waiting. Did I really go to bed THAT early?!? Just wait! I will make him think he's really made me mad enough to go to bed at 7pm and fall asleep without even talking it out with him. Finally, you hear the TV shut off in the living room and lights being switched off. Footsteps. You are sure to be lying on your side, facing away from him, when he gets in the bed. You are certain he will try to speak to you, kiss you goodnight, check to make sure you're still breathing...but nothing. He crawls into the bed, and you hear snoring before his head hardly hits the pillow. How dare he?!? Doesn't he know I've just sacrificed hours of my life to get a reaction out of him?
Marriage. It can be difficult at times. We all handle problems differently. Some people can let go of an issue as soon as it's over. Others hold onto the angst as long as they can, with plans of using it as ammunition in some future confrontation. Some people need the confrontation in order to feel closure on the subject. That's me. I want to have it out right now and get it over with, because you can bet that I won't forget about it! It will only be worse if I hang onto it and let it fester. My husband, on the other hand, is the quiet type. Who knows if he's still mad, ever was mad, or will be mad later? He's mysterious that way. It's caused problems on more than one occasion, this difference in handling conflicts.
The plain fact is that all marriages and relationships will face turmoil at one time or another. Most will even wonder if they made the right decision in being with that person. Some will be faced with major obstacles and will have to decide if they can get past them or throw in the towel. I feel like so many people are throwing in the towel without much thought as to whether the relationship is salvageable or not. There's a big ol' pile of towels out there!
My marriage hasn't been perfect. I feel stress, doubt, anger, hurt, and regret more often than I care to admit. I'm still hanging onto my towel, though. I know that we have our glittering moments, as well as our green finger moments. I also know that the ring on my finger is, indeed, gold, and I'm not planning on going anywhere!
I prefer a storm window.
If the rain was blowing sideways and the thunder and lightning cracking right and left, would you prefer a storm window or a screen window as your protection? I, for one, would pick the storm window. It's solid and sure to keep the water out. Well, guess what? We're living in a storm of epic proportions, and most people seem to be content with a screen or no window at all.
The "news" of late has me feeling more than a bit distressed. The world is singing the praises of sin from the mountaintops, and all too many "Christians" are poking holes in the Truth of the Bible to allow more and more sinful nature to become acceptable. Sin is hiding under the disguise of "tolerance and acceptance," and God's Truth is being labeled as "hate and intolerance." Believe me when I say that I can separate the person from their sin. I don't hate the people that are being placed on pedestals. I hate the behavior that is putting them there. I hate that this crazy world that we live in worships the sin and condemns anyone who is brave enough to speak up and point it out.
I had a dear relative that was gay. No one ever sat me down and told me so, I just knew it instinctively. He was a wonderful man, and I loved him, regardless of his lifestyle. Yet, if asked to defend his lifestyle in order to avoid hurting his feelings, I would not have. Sin is sin. I loved him and never let his life choices affect that. I didn't look down upon him, because I was no higher than he. We are all sinful creatures. He just chose to live a perpetually sinful life without any effort to repent and change his ways.
There are far too many "Christians" today that jump on their soapboxes against sin and end up barking hate toward the persons sinning. I have no patience for that. I know it's a fine line. How do you preach God's truth, which plainly states certain things as sin, without pointing judging fingers at the sinner? It's difficult, and many end up hating the person. I am ever aware of this and try my best to avoid that. It's easier to point those judging fingers at a sin that we would NEVER commit ourselves. But how about the "lesser" sins? Wait! There's no such thing, folks! God doesn't rank sins in order of atrocity.
If you're thinking you can't separate a person from their sin, consider someone with a different type of sin. If your child became addicted to drugs, would you hate them or hate the drugs? You'd hate the drugs, of course. Try to see past the type of sin and remember that Jesus is a friend of sinners. He loves us all, sinners that we are.
Now, all of that being said, we do NOT have to love the sin in order to love the sinner. I can still read God's word and recognize certain sin when I see it. I do NOT have to hold you in high regard because of your willingness to wear your sin in public, unashamedly. In fact, I should not herald you a hero just because you are willing to flaunt your sin in God's face.
I will not take down my storm window to allow more sin to flow through the screen of today's world. It's time to put on our armor, friends. We are in a battle like none before, and it's life or death. Now is not the time to be taking off your armor.
The "news" of late has me feeling more than a bit distressed. The world is singing the praises of sin from the mountaintops, and all too many "Christians" are poking holes in the Truth of the Bible to allow more and more sinful nature to become acceptable. Sin is hiding under the disguise of "tolerance and acceptance," and God's Truth is being labeled as "hate and intolerance." Believe me when I say that I can separate the person from their sin. I don't hate the people that are being placed on pedestals. I hate the behavior that is putting them there. I hate that this crazy world that we live in worships the sin and condemns anyone who is brave enough to speak up and point it out.
I had a dear relative that was gay. No one ever sat me down and told me so, I just knew it instinctively. He was a wonderful man, and I loved him, regardless of his lifestyle. Yet, if asked to defend his lifestyle in order to avoid hurting his feelings, I would not have. Sin is sin. I loved him and never let his life choices affect that. I didn't look down upon him, because I was no higher than he. We are all sinful creatures. He just chose to live a perpetually sinful life without any effort to repent and change his ways.
There are far too many "Christians" today that jump on their soapboxes against sin and end up barking hate toward the persons sinning. I have no patience for that. I know it's a fine line. How do you preach God's truth, which plainly states certain things as sin, without pointing judging fingers at the sinner? It's difficult, and many end up hating the person. I am ever aware of this and try my best to avoid that. It's easier to point those judging fingers at a sin that we would NEVER commit ourselves. But how about the "lesser" sins? Wait! There's no such thing, folks! God doesn't rank sins in order of atrocity.
If you're thinking you can't separate a person from their sin, consider someone with a different type of sin. If your child became addicted to drugs, would you hate them or hate the drugs? You'd hate the drugs, of course. Try to see past the type of sin and remember that Jesus is a friend of sinners. He loves us all, sinners that we are.
Now, all of that being said, we do NOT have to love the sin in order to love the sinner. I can still read God's word and recognize certain sin when I see it. I do NOT have to hold you in high regard because of your willingness to wear your sin in public, unashamedly. In fact, I should not herald you a hero just because you are willing to flaunt your sin in God's face.
I will not take down my storm window to allow more sin to flow through the screen of today's world. It's time to put on our armor, friends. We are in a battle like none before, and it's life or death. Now is not the time to be taking off your armor.
"Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.
Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil." Ephesians 6:10&11
Friday, May 22, 2015
Fireworks and summer vacation!
Back in the early to mid 80s my family had a fireworks stand. This was before everyone had the big tent stands. At that time, there was only one big tent, and it was run by the Reason family. It was way on the other side of town from us. Our stand was a little wooden...well, box, basically. The front was taller than the back so that the roof had a slant to it. There was a door on one end and two large hinged windows on the front that could be closed and locked at night. The back wall was lined with shelves. Our stand was painted yellow, school bus yellow. Dad had used stencils to paint, "Fireworks" on it in red paint. It seems like there was even a rocket or two painted on it. Our friends, the Whitesides, let us set it up at their gas station. All of us worked in it. We didn't sell big huge fireworks. People didn't do their own big displays back then. Mostly, we sold a lot of fountains, sparklers, bottle rockets, and firecrackers. I loved it when we'd get a new kind in, because we'd get to set them off to see what they did. My absolute favorite was the Chinese lantern. It hung by a string from a tree limb. When you lit the fuse, it would start to spin wildly and spit out sparks. At the end, it would make one last burst of flame and split open into a pretty paper lantern. Those were so cool. The money made from the fireworks stand would go towards our yearly family vacation at Three Oaks Resort on Lake Norfork.
Lake Norfork was just about an hour from our house then. That doesn't sound like much of a vacation to some, but it was paradise to us! Three Oaks was a small resort owned by Ken and Trudy Lien. They were an older couple. Ken was so handy and could fix anything. Trudy was very friendly and spoke with a strong accent. I'm thinking it was German. Their house was connected to the resort office/shop. The resort consisted of about six small cabins that overlooked the lake and a larger townhouse up on a hill. They had tennis courts, a boat dock, and a large pool. The townhouse was fairly modern and overlooked the pool and large pavilion area. The cabins were pretty bare. The walls were covered with wood paneling, and the floors were covered in dark, shiny, school-type floor tile. The refrigerators were the old kind that had the handles that latched closed. And the bathroom was tiny. None of this mattered, though. There was a screened-in porch that overlooked the lake, cable TV inside, and no telephones. That made the cabins the perfect family getaway for us.
The resort sat up on a bluff overlooking the lake, so to get to the boat dock, one had to either trek down a long rock stairway or ride on the electric cable trolley car. We opted for the trolley. It was slow-moving and took forever to get to the top if it happened to be at the bottom when you wanted to ride down. The bottom landing for the trolley would be in different places from year to year, depending upon the lake level. At the bottom, there were two docks. One was a larger dock with boat slips on both sides and a large deck area to sit and fish at the railing. At night, there were lights in the water around the front edge, and you could watch fish flock to the lights. I can't remember for sure, but it seems like the fish that were always in abundance there were called chubs and weren't worth trying to catch. They were fun to watch, though. On occasion, Ken and Trudy would bring their dog, Gypsy, down to the dock, and she would swim in the lake. One year, my dad borrowed a friend's boat, and kept it in the smaller dock off to the side. To get to that dock, you had to walk along a narrow rock ledge from the trolley landing across to another set of steps. I remember walking along it one day with my dad when we heard a rattling noise ahead. We looked to find a small rattlesnake curled up on a rock just ahead of us. I'm pretty sure we abandoned our boating plans that day.
The in-ground pool was far and away my favorite part of the vacation. I couldn't wait to get in it in the morning and had to be forced out of it in the evenings. There was a shallow end and a deep end. The deep end had a small diving board, and the two ends were divided by a blue and white nylon rope with buoys spaced out along it. I loved doing flips over that rope, attempting handstands in the shallow end, and perfecting my cannonball off of the diving board. I've always tanned easily, so I looked like a hispanic child by mid summer. The bottom of the pool had a rough concrete texture that made my feet sore, and the sidewalk around the pool also had a rough texture that would ruin every bathing suit I ever wore from sitting on the sides of the pool. It didn't matter, though. I loved every minute in the water!
When I was forced to take a break from the pool, another favorite spot of mine was a large hammock. We'd lay our beach towels on it to avoid the scratchy rope and lay there in the shade until we dried off from swimming. I probably even fell asleep there a time or two.
From our fireworks sales, my dad would fill a bank money bag with dimes to take on vacation. The office had a freezer stocked with ice cream bars, and each of us kids had a daily allotment to buy. When you entered the shop, it would sound a bell into Ken and Trudy's house, and their dog would start barking. They'd come to the shop to help with whatever you needed to buy. Thinking back now, we probably drove them crazy with our ice cream purchases. Another special treat that was doled out on a daily basis was fried apple pies that my mom would make before we left home. She wrapped them in foil individually, and we were each allowed just one per day. There were just enough to get us through the week.
This type of vacation was truly family time at its best. We weren't all always together every minute of the day, but we knew where everyone was, and we gathered for all of our meals. Dad enjoyed the tennis courts with whoever would play with him. Mom always had a huge jigsaw puzzle set up on the screened porch, and we would all take turns helping put it together. It was a goal to get it done by the end of the week.
It all sounds so simple now. Many might even say boring, but the memories we made there are some of the sweetest of my life. The outside world ceased to exist for those seven days. All the stresses of work and household chores melted away. It's something that couldn't be recaptured in today's world. We wouldn't think of leaving our cell phone behind for a WHOLE week! Perish the thought! I still think the world would be a much better place if we did shut ourselves off from the outside and recharge every once in a while.
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| Mom and Dad outside of cabin #1 circa 1985 |
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| Ken & Trudy |
The resort sat up on a bluff overlooking the lake, so to get to the boat dock, one had to either trek down a long rock stairway or ride on the electric cable trolley car. We opted for the trolley. It was slow-moving and took forever to get to the top if it happened to be at the bottom when you wanted to ride down. The bottom landing for the trolley would be in different places from year to year, depending upon the lake level. At the bottom, there were two docks. One was a larger dock with boat slips on both sides and a large deck area to sit and fish at the railing. At night, there were lights in the water around the front edge, and you could watch fish flock to the lights. I can't remember for sure, but it seems like the fish that were always in abundance there were called chubs and weren't worth trying to catch. They were fun to watch, though. On occasion, Ken and Trudy would bring their dog, Gypsy, down to the dock, and she would swim in the lake. One year, my dad borrowed a friend's boat, and kept it in the smaller dock off to the side. To get to that dock, you had to walk along a narrow rock ledge from the trolley landing across to another set of steps. I remember walking along it one day with my dad when we heard a rattling noise ahead. We looked to find a small rattlesnake curled up on a rock just ahead of us. I'm pretty sure we abandoned our boating plans that day.
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| Me, Mom, Shelley, & Brian in the pool |
When I was forced to take a break from the pool, another favorite spot of mine was a large hammock. We'd lay our beach towels on it to avoid the scratchy rope and lay there in the shade until we dried off from swimming. I probably even fell asleep there a time or two.
From our fireworks sales, my dad would fill a bank money bag with dimes to take on vacation. The office had a freezer stocked with ice cream bars, and each of us kids had a daily allotment to buy. When you entered the shop, it would sound a bell into Ken and Trudy's house, and their dog would start barking. They'd come to the shop to help with whatever you needed to buy. Thinking back now, we probably drove them crazy with our ice cream purchases. Another special treat that was doled out on a daily basis was fried apple pies that my mom would make before we left home. She wrapped them in foil individually, and we were each allowed just one per day. There were just enough to get us through the week.
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| Brian & Dad on the tennis court |
This type of vacation was truly family time at its best. We weren't all always together every minute of the day, but we knew where everyone was, and we gathered for all of our meals. Dad enjoyed the tennis courts with whoever would play with him. Mom always had a huge jigsaw puzzle set up on the screened porch, and we would all take turns helping put it together. It was a goal to get it done by the end of the week.
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| Mom, me, & Dad with one of our finished puzzles |
The resort is still in business, though run by new owners now. You can find them on the web at http://www.3oaksresort.com/.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Memories of grade school.
If you've read my blog much at all, you've probably noticed that I spend a little too much time walking down memory lane. I can't help it. I loved my childhood. I don't dislike my life now. Who knows? I may walk down the memories of today in another twenty years or so. The start of summer break has me thinking back to my grade school days and how much I loved summer time. I thought I'd touch on a few highlights of my younger schooling years.
I think I've probably mentioned before that my parents both worked in education. My dad was the principal at a rural K-8 school, and my mom taught second grade at another rural K-8 school. The rural schools didn't offer preschool back then, so I stayed with my Grandma Horn and Uncle Gene until I reached school age.
When it came time to start Kindergarten, my parents decided to send me to Fairview, where my mom taught. Their Kindergarten program was a half day. I would go to the afternoon class. I spent my mornings at Grandma's farm, and Uncle Gene would drive me to the Moose Lodge to meet the noon bus to school. Just a couple of memories about this... Uncle Gene's truck smelled of dirt, hay, and cow crap, but I loved riding with him. There was always some old baling twine laying around in the seat, and he had an old bluish green coin purse that hung from the rearview mirror. It had a creepy kind of face on it. In the glove box, you would find a wide assortment of band-aids, mostly Curad brand. We didn't care about seatbelts and rode with the windows down and my hand, or even head, hanging out to feel the wind. My teacher's name was Mrs. Renfrow, and I liked her very much. I had a problem pronouncing the letter "s" and had to take speech classes with Miss Parker. I can remember having to read stories about Sis the snake. One day, Michael Wilkerson brought me a bouquet of dandelions. I hated nap time and couldn't wait until snack time, chocolate milk and graham crackers. I'd end my day by going to my mom's room. She had a great group of kids that year, and they were all so nice to me. I remember Robbie Crites, Jimmy Hatten, Denise Brentlinger, Katy Holstein, Tina Summers, Suzanna Hand, and many more. I still know many of them today.
First grade brought about my move to Glenwood, where my dad worked. Mrs. DeShazo was my teacher. I'm just being honest when I say that I didn't like her much. I grew to like her when I got older, but she was no Mrs. Renfrow in my book back then! She didn't smile much, and I thought she didn't like me. I remember very little about that year. Only a couple of things stand out in my memory. Matt Day's Dolly Pops. They were these little hard plastic dolls whose clothes could be changed by popping them off and on. Us girls loved playing with his Dolly Pops. I remember them going missing once and being found behind a toilet in the girls' bathroom. I never did know who put them there. Somewhere around the summer between first and second grades, I remember going to swim at Bidwell Point with my family. The cutest boy in my class was there with his family. There were three boys in the family, and they had a little bitty motorcycle that they were riding around down there. I can remember Chad being a little freaked out when my brother took his leg off to get in the water. I think he thought it was kinda cool and kinda scary all at once. It was no big thing to me. I'd never known any other way.
I loved second grade! Mrs. Bridges was awesome. I always did like a teacher that could be strict but fun, too. She was also beautiful. She had the longest shiny hair. I can remember her telling us that she used beer to rinse her hair every once in a while. She taught us about con-quack-tions with little paper ducks on the door to the room. People misusing contractions still drives me crazy to this day. I think it's because she taught us how to use them so well, and I think everyone should know how. Mrs. Bridges contacted my mom that year to tell her that I was spending too much time staring at a certain boy in class. What can I say? I've always liked boys. I never had an aversion to them. Since my mom taught second grade at Fairview, and I was in second grade at Glenwood, we started a pen pal exchange between the two classes. I would deliver the letters between the two teachers. At the end of the year, my class went to Fairview to meet the kids we'd been writing to all year. The two classes kept up this tradition for many years to follow. My dad resigned as principal the year before and took a job as the remedial reading teacher, so Mr. Walden was our principal. He had suffered with polio as a kid and had one arm that was much smaller than the other.
Third grade brought about the rehiring of my dad as the principal. Miss McCoy was our teacher. She was a stern teacher, and I loved her, even if I did receive my one and only C+ that year in Science. She had lived all over the world and told the most fascinating stories about all of the places she'd been. Every kid looked forward to third grade for one main reason, the circus! The third grade always got to go to Springfield and watch the circus. Now, I never was a big fan of the circus, but I loved a field trip. I'll never forget my friend, Cindy, asking if a quarry along the way was Mt. Rushmore! Ummm, no. I remained close to Miss McCoy. Two friends and I went to stay the night with her a couple of years later. We had so much fun at her house! I think we played like we were the characters from Miami Vice. No, Miss McCoy didn't play with us.
Mr. Bridges was my only male teacher in grade school, and everyone thought he was the coolest cat around. He drank pop all of time (Pepsi) and loved to play games. What kid wouldn't love that? We played eraser tag, heads up 7 up, and did a little dance to learn that 6 times 7 is 42. No kid that ever had him as a teacher could forget that. We were always rewarded with pop, and he'd even let kids burp the alphabet while drinking soda. Everyone called him Mr. B., and he called all of us by our last names...Miss Arnold, Miss Easter, Mr. Collins, Mr. Fisher, etc. He was entertaining. Tragedy struck our school that year, though. A seventh grader was accidentally shot and killed while deer hunting. It was awful. Blake Gunter. He lived not far from me. I'd spent the night with his sister a few times. He was a super smart boy and wanted to work for NASA. He'd even been to Space Camp!
Fifth grade was a little unsettled. I loved our teacher, Mrs. Newton, but she was sick a lot that year and missed several weeks. Mrs. Joy filled in for her and was also nice. Her son, Nick, was in the grade above us. Two things stand out from this particular year. Mrs. Newton awarded tickets all through the year for various good behavior and accomplishments. At the end of the year, she had a white elephant sale. We could shop with our tickets for all kinds of odds and ends. I loved it! A much sadder memory from that year came in January 1986. The Challenger space shuttle exploded with a teacher, Christa McAuliffe, on board. I remember watching it.
Sixth grade is probably the least memorable of all for me. I've sat here trying to think of anything remarkable from that year and can't come up with anything. Our teacher, Mrs. Cash, had a baby and missed several weeks of school. I will say that the summer between sixth and seventh grades was awesome! I spent every day at my friend, Diane's, house. My mom was taking courses in Springfield to complete her master's degree, so my dad would take me to work with him so that I could walk over to see Diane. We ate plain macaroni with butter and grilled cheese sandwiches every day. We were boy crazy and fearless. We spent hours and hours talking on her red phone to boys we knew and boys we didn't know. KKDY was always playing on the radio, and we were recording mix tapes right and left. Our friend, Stephanie, joined in at least a few days every week, too. Diane's mom was very easily swayed and took us just about anywhere we wanted to go. For some reason, I just remembered her mom singing Chantilly Lace. Oh, Francie was a hoot!
Mrs. Scherff made seventh grade quite memorable for several reasons. First, she had this trick knee that was liable to pop out of place at any given moment. That made for a couple of interesting times in class. Secondly, she was a "hands on" science teacher. This meant that kids could bring in just about any kind of critter they found to share with the class. I can remember tarantulas roaming freely and jumping from desk to desk. I also remember a black snake being allowed to slither around on the floor while we all sat in the floor to form a circle. Seems like it started to crawl up one kid's pant leg, even. Mrs. Scherff also was a big game player. I can remember one geography game where we had to stand at the front of the room with the big map pulled down and had to locate a certain place on the map as fast as possible. Jamalee successfully found whatever mountain range she was given, but Blake couldn't find his place. He announced to the class that he knew where Jamalee's mountains were! We all got a big laugh out of that. Mrs. Scherff was also my cheerleading coach, and I loved everything about cheering that year. Marilyn and I spent countless hours practicing and inventing different stunts to do. The last thing that stands out about Mrs. Scherff was her singing. Anytime we were on a bus for any reason, she would sing. My favorite was Sippin' Cider. She had a beautfiul voice.
Eighth grade concluded my years at Glenwood. Mrs. Waggoner was our teacher. I also went to church with her, so I'd known her for years. I think our class was very challenging to her. We had a few troubled boys that would have driven any sane person crazy. I remember that she had a quote in her room that read, "Good, better, best. Never let it rest, until your good is better, and your better is best." By this point in school, all I could think about was getting to high school. I loved my class of eighteen, but I was ready to meet new people and get out from under the watchful eye of my dad (no offense, of course.) I think it's sad now. If only I could have seen with the eyes I have now, I wouldn't have wished away those years for anything. Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? Adulthood is WAY overrated. I know it's natural for kids to want to grow up fast, but I would give just about anything to go back and be that little kid, again. Every once in a while, when the days are warm and windows open, I get a whiff of something in the air that takes me right back to those cherished days with my friends. I couldn't explain the scent if I had to, and it's always fleeting, but I feel it most often around the time of year when school is ending and summer begins.
I think I've probably mentioned before that my parents both worked in education. My dad was the principal at a rural K-8 school, and my mom taught second grade at another rural K-8 school. The rural schools didn't offer preschool back then, so I stayed with my Grandma Horn and Uncle Gene until I reached school age.
When it came time to start Kindergarten, my parents decided to send me to Fairview, where my mom taught. Their Kindergarten program was a half day. I would go to the afternoon class. I spent my mornings at Grandma's farm, and Uncle Gene would drive me to the Moose Lodge to meet the noon bus to school. Just a couple of memories about this... Uncle Gene's truck smelled of dirt, hay, and cow crap, but I loved riding with him. There was always some old baling twine laying around in the seat, and he had an old bluish green coin purse that hung from the rearview mirror. It had a creepy kind of face on it. In the glove box, you would find a wide assortment of band-aids, mostly Curad brand. We didn't care about seatbelts and rode with the windows down and my hand, or even head, hanging out to feel the wind. My teacher's name was Mrs. Renfrow, and I liked her very much. I had a problem pronouncing the letter "s" and had to take speech classes with Miss Parker. I can remember having to read stories about Sis the snake. One day, Michael Wilkerson brought me a bouquet of dandelions. I hated nap time and couldn't wait until snack time, chocolate milk and graham crackers. I'd end my day by going to my mom's room. She had a great group of kids that year, and they were all so nice to me. I remember Robbie Crites, Jimmy Hatten, Denise Brentlinger, Katy Holstein, Tina Summers, Suzanna Hand, and many more. I still know many of them today.
First grade brought about my move to Glenwood, where my dad worked. Mrs. DeShazo was my teacher. I'm just being honest when I say that I didn't like her much. I grew to like her when I got older, but she was no Mrs. Renfrow in my book back then! She didn't smile much, and I thought she didn't like me. I remember very little about that year. Only a couple of things stand out in my memory. Matt Day's Dolly Pops. They were these little hard plastic dolls whose clothes could be changed by popping them off and on. Us girls loved playing with his Dolly Pops. I remember them going missing once and being found behind a toilet in the girls' bathroom. I never did know who put them there. Somewhere around the summer between first and second grades, I remember going to swim at Bidwell Point with my family. The cutest boy in my class was there with his family. There were three boys in the family, and they had a little bitty motorcycle that they were riding around down there. I can remember Chad being a little freaked out when my brother took his leg off to get in the water. I think he thought it was kinda cool and kinda scary all at once. It was no big thing to me. I'd never known any other way.
I loved second grade! Mrs. Bridges was awesome. I always did like a teacher that could be strict but fun, too. She was also beautiful. She had the longest shiny hair. I can remember her telling us that she used beer to rinse her hair every once in a while. She taught us about con-quack-tions with little paper ducks on the door to the room. People misusing contractions still drives me crazy to this day. I think it's because she taught us how to use them so well, and I think everyone should know how. Mrs. Bridges contacted my mom that year to tell her that I was spending too much time staring at a certain boy in class. What can I say? I've always liked boys. I never had an aversion to them. Since my mom taught second grade at Fairview, and I was in second grade at Glenwood, we started a pen pal exchange between the two classes. I would deliver the letters between the two teachers. At the end of the year, my class went to Fairview to meet the kids we'd been writing to all year. The two classes kept up this tradition for many years to follow. My dad resigned as principal the year before and took a job as the remedial reading teacher, so Mr. Walden was our principal. He had suffered with polio as a kid and had one arm that was much smaller than the other.
Third grade brought about the rehiring of my dad as the principal. Miss McCoy was our teacher. She was a stern teacher, and I loved her, even if I did receive my one and only C+ that year in Science. She had lived all over the world and told the most fascinating stories about all of the places she'd been. Every kid looked forward to third grade for one main reason, the circus! The third grade always got to go to Springfield and watch the circus. Now, I never was a big fan of the circus, but I loved a field trip. I'll never forget my friend, Cindy, asking if a quarry along the way was Mt. Rushmore! Ummm, no. I remained close to Miss McCoy. Two friends and I went to stay the night with her a couple of years later. We had so much fun at her house! I think we played like we were the characters from Miami Vice. No, Miss McCoy didn't play with us.
Mr. Bridges was my only male teacher in grade school, and everyone thought he was the coolest cat around. He drank pop all of time (Pepsi) and loved to play games. What kid wouldn't love that? We played eraser tag, heads up 7 up, and did a little dance to learn that 6 times 7 is 42. No kid that ever had him as a teacher could forget that. We were always rewarded with pop, and he'd even let kids burp the alphabet while drinking soda. Everyone called him Mr. B., and he called all of us by our last names...Miss Arnold, Miss Easter, Mr. Collins, Mr. Fisher, etc. He was entertaining. Tragedy struck our school that year, though. A seventh grader was accidentally shot and killed while deer hunting. It was awful. Blake Gunter. He lived not far from me. I'd spent the night with his sister a few times. He was a super smart boy and wanted to work for NASA. He'd even been to Space Camp!
Fifth grade was a little unsettled. I loved our teacher, Mrs. Newton, but she was sick a lot that year and missed several weeks. Mrs. Joy filled in for her and was also nice. Her son, Nick, was in the grade above us. Two things stand out from this particular year. Mrs. Newton awarded tickets all through the year for various good behavior and accomplishments. At the end of the year, she had a white elephant sale. We could shop with our tickets for all kinds of odds and ends. I loved it! A much sadder memory from that year came in January 1986. The Challenger space shuttle exploded with a teacher, Christa McAuliffe, on board. I remember watching it.
Sixth grade is probably the least memorable of all for me. I've sat here trying to think of anything remarkable from that year and can't come up with anything. Our teacher, Mrs. Cash, had a baby and missed several weeks of school. I will say that the summer between sixth and seventh grades was awesome! I spent every day at my friend, Diane's, house. My mom was taking courses in Springfield to complete her master's degree, so my dad would take me to work with him so that I could walk over to see Diane. We ate plain macaroni with butter and grilled cheese sandwiches every day. We were boy crazy and fearless. We spent hours and hours talking on her red phone to boys we knew and boys we didn't know. KKDY was always playing on the radio, and we were recording mix tapes right and left. Our friend, Stephanie, joined in at least a few days every week, too. Diane's mom was very easily swayed and took us just about anywhere we wanted to go. For some reason, I just remembered her mom singing Chantilly Lace. Oh, Francie was a hoot!
Mrs. Scherff made seventh grade quite memorable for several reasons. First, she had this trick knee that was liable to pop out of place at any given moment. That made for a couple of interesting times in class. Secondly, she was a "hands on" science teacher. This meant that kids could bring in just about any kind of critter they found to share with the class. I can remember tarantulas roaming freely and jumping from desk to desk. I also remember a black snake being allowed to slither around on the floor while we all sat in the floor to form a circle. Seems like it started to crawl up one kid's pant leg, even. Mrs. Scherff also was a big game player. I can remember one geography game where we had to stand at the front of the room with the big map pulled down and had to locate a certain place on the map as fast as possible. Jamalee successfully found whatever mountain range she was given, but Blake couldn't find his place. He announced to the class that he knew where Jamalee's mountains were! We all got a big laugh out of that. Mrs. Scherff was also my cheerleading coach, and I loved everything about cheering that year. Marilyn and I spent countless hours practicing and inventing different stunts to do. The last thing that stands out about Mrs. Scherff was her singing. Anytime we were on a bus for any reason, she would sing. My favorite was Sippin' Cider. She had a beautfiul voice.
Eighth grade concluded my years at Glenwood. Mrs. Waggoner was our teacher. I also went to church with her, so I'd known her for years. I think our class was very challenging to her. We had a few troubled boys that would have driven any sane person crazy. I remember that she had a quote in her room that read, "Good, better, best. Never let it rest, until your good is better, and your better is best." By this point in school, all I could think about was getting to high school. I loved my class of eighteen, but I was ready to meet new people and get out from under the watchful eye of my dad (no offense, of course.) I think it's sad now. If only I could have seen with the eyes I have now, I wouldn't have wished away those years for anything. Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? Adulthood is WAY overrated. I know it's natural for kids to want to grow up fast, but I would give just about anything to go back and be that little kid, again. Every once in a while, when the days are warm and windows open, I get a whiff of something in the air that takes me right back to those cherished days with my friends. I couldn't explain the scent if I had to, and it's always fleeting, but I feel it most often around the time of year when school is ending and summer begins.
Listen to Sippin' Cider here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSgHpAOOYR4
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
...and then, pink peonies.
It's no secret that I've been an emotional basket case for the last few weeks. I would have trouble trying to think of the last day that I haven't cried for one reason or another. It might just be a sappy commercial on TV, or it might be something much more. However, there are always plenty of blessings to be counted, even in these rough patches of life.
Last week, right in the middle of my weepy phase, my peony bushes decided to bloom out. Peonies are my favorite flower. I love their sweet smell. It reminds me of my Grandma Horn's house. She always had peonies along the front of her house. Peonies don't last long, though, especially if it rains hard. Well, it did rain hard just a couple of days after the peonies bloomed out. I found them laying over on the ground, looking all tired and beaten down. Funny enough, that's kind of how I felt, too. I was sad to see their already short lives shortened even more so by the rain. I was already feeling a little sad about the fact that I only had white and the palest of pink blooms this year. Don't get me wrong. They still smell fantastic, but I love the deeper vibrant pinks even more. Yeah. These peonies were a metaphor of how I had been feeling. I shouldn't complain. They blossomed. They smelled good. However, I was focused on the disappointments.
So often in my life, I find myself focused on what isn't going right. I really should be taking a few steps back and seeing the bigger picture. I have many things for which to be thankful. The few things that are bringing me down are relatively trivial and shouldn't cloud my entire outlook.
This morning, I stopped and realized that I was feeling quite content. It was the simplest things that had me in such a good mood, too.
There was nothing on TV to interest me, so I put on one of my favorite movies, "You've Got Mail." I have watched that movie more times than I could begin to guess. It makes me happy. I know the lines by heart, but I don't even care.
I rummaged around the kitchen to find something to eat for breakfast/lunch. I settled on a bologna and cheese sandwich. Again, something so simple was making me happy. I love bologna and cheese sandwiches. I have the good bologna and the good cheese from Dennis's Meat Market. It makes all the difference. It has always and will always be my favorite kind of sandwich.
I have some new wax melts to make the house smell good. I put a Lemon Drop Cookie one in this morning, and my house smells heavenly. During the warmer months, I love the smell of lemons. I love the taste of lemons. I just love lemons. Another simple pleasure.
The thing that really made my morning was pink peonies, though. As I left home last night to go to a graduation, I saw beautiful, bright, vibrant pink peonies blooming in my peony bush. I couldn't believe it! I thought my peonies were done. The pale and white ones had come and gone. I had no hopes of seeing my favorite kind this year, but there they were. I couldn't wait to get down there this morning to take a couple of pictures and pick a couple of blooms.
See? I just thought my peonies had failed me this year. I was focused on the disappointment and assumed the remaining buds would also prove disappointing. I was wrong. Just when I was feeling like I could take a swim in my own tears,...PINK PEONIES! A reason to smile.
All of this had me thinking of a song I love from "The Sound of Music." It's called, "My Favorite Things." It's a song about the simple pleasures in life. If you had to list the simple things that make you happy, what would be on your list? Mine would be too long to list here, but the things I mentioned above would make that list. Pink peonies would be near the top for sure. You can listen to the song at the link below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IagRZBvLtw
Last week, right in the middle of my weepy phase, my peony bushes decided to bloom out. Peonies are my favorite flower. I love their sweet smell. It reminds me of my Grandma Horn's house. She always had peonies along the front of her house. Peonies don't last long, though, especially if it rains hard. Well, it did rain hard just a couple of days after the peonies bloomed out. I found them laying over on the ground, looking all tired and beaten down. Funny enough, that's kind of how I felt, too. I was sad to see their already short lives shortened even more so by the rain. I was already feeling a little sad about the fact that I only had white and the palest of pink blooms this year. Don't get me wrong. They still smell fantastic, but I love the deeper vibrant pinks even more. Yeah. These peonies were a metaphor of how I had been feeling. I shouldn't complain. They blossomed. They smelled good. However, I was focused on the disappointments. So often in my life, I find myself focused on what isn't going right. I really should be taking a few steps back and seeing the bigger picture. I have many things for which to be thankful. The few things that are bringing me down are relatively trivial and shouldn't cloud my entire outlook.
This morning, I stopped and realized that I was feeling quite content. It was the simplest things that had me in such a good mood, too.
There was nothing on TV to interest me, so I put on one of my favorite movies, "You've Got Mail." I have watched that movie more times than I could begin to guess. It makes me happy. I know the lines by heart, but I don't even care.
I rummaged around the kitchen to find something to eat for breakfast/lunch. I settled on a bologna and cheese sandwich. Again, something so simple was making me happy. I love bologna and cheese sandwiches. I have the good bologna and the good cheese from Dennis's Meat Market. It makes all the difference. It has always and will always be my favorite kind of sandwich.
I have some new wax melts to make the house smell good. I put a Lemon Drop Cookie one in this morning, and my house smells heavenly. During the warmer months, I love the smell of lemons. I love the taste of lemons. I just love lemons. Another simple pleasure.
The thing that really made my morning was pink peonies, though. As I left home last night to go to a graduation, I saw beautiful, bright, vibrant pink peonies blooming in my peony bush. I couldn't believe it! I thought my peonies were done. The pale and white ones had come and gone. I had no hopes of seeing my favorite kind this year, but there they were. I couldn't wait to get down there this morning to take a couple of pictures and pick a couple of blooms. See? I just thought my peonies had failed me this year. I was focused on the disappointment and assumed the remaining buds would also prove disappointing. I was wrong. Just when I was feeling like I could take a swim in my own tears,...PINK PEONIES! A reason to smile.
All of this had me thinking of a song I love from "The Sound of Music." It's called, "My Favorite Things." It's a song about the simple pleasures in life. If you had to list the simple things that make you happy, what would be on your list? Mine would be too long to list here, but the things I mentioned above would make that list. Pink peonies would be near the top for sure. You can listen to the song at the link below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IagRZBvLtw
Friday, May 8, 2015
I have another amazing grandma, too! Grandma Arnold
So, I went on and on about my Grandma Horn yesterday. Can you imagine that I was fortunate enough to have TWO amazing grandmas?? My Grandma Arnold was also a woman molded in the image of Proverbs 31. Oma Vacie Daily Arnold. A funny name for a spunky, fun-loving lady.
Both of my grandmas lost their husbands in their early 60s, while they still had many years of life left to live as widows. Sadly, I never got to know either of my grandfathers, but the love of my grandmas made up for it.
When I was little, Grandma Arnold lived in Thayer with her sister, Sylvie. They shared a small trailer house next to Sylvie's daughter, Burrelene, and her husband, Lewis. I remember that trailer so vividly. It had a smell that I just can't even put into words. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. It's a smell that I associate with propane and old people, probably on account of it reminding me of those two ladies. It was very dark in their trailer.
Grandma had the little room (she wouldn't have had it any other way.) I remember a curtain of hanging plastic pink and orange beads that rattled when you walked through them. My first stop in the house was always at Grandma's jewelry box. My Grandma Arnold loved her jewelry. It wasn't fancy, either. We're talking plastic, gaudy, costume jewelry. Oh, how I loved it all! I inherited most of those "valuables" when she passed away, and I still get them out and sniff of the boxes for a quick trip down memory lane.
In the living room, Aunt Sylvie had her recliner. She was always sitting in that chair sewing or knitting something. I can remember sitting down in that chair, on one of the rare occasions when she wasn't in it, and feeling the pokes of what seemed like dozens of needles on my arms. Aunt Sylvie liked to use the arm of her chair as a pin cushion!
The kitchen was small and dark. I can remember these cups that Grandma had. They were brightly colored aluminum and made a lot of noise with ice in them. They kept your drink really cold, but the feeling of my teeth hitting that metal always sent a kind of shiver down my spine.
We didn't usually spend much time inside the trailer. Everyone would congregate on the concrete porch out front. They had this old metal glider that was covered with a cushion. It squeaked something terrible, but I loved sitting in it. I have looked and looked for one like it for myself, but those things are costly today! I want an old, rusty one, too. Grandma's was black and white and faced out toward the front yard and highway.
There were Martin houses in the front yard. I can remember Grandma talking about the Martins. She would say, "the Martins are back for the summer," and I honestly thought she was talking about some friends of hers. It was many years later that I realized the Martins were birds and not her friends or one of the families she cleaned for.
Another great thing about visiting Grandma Arnold was getting to go to Burrelene and Lewis's house. They had what I thought was the most amazing house in the world! Their kitchen was ROUND! Yes. A circle. The back half of the circle was a wall that housed the appliances and cabinetry. The front half of the circle was the biggest bar you can imagine in a home. From the kitchen side of the bar, there was a countertop and work space. From the living room side of the bar, was a line of bar stools that went on and on and on. The whole thing was open to a huge living/family/dining room. The front of this massive room came to a point, like the bow of a ship, and it was floor to ceiling glass doors and windows, with a balcony. Over in the dining area of the room was a huge grandfather clock. I attribute my love of chiming clocks to that old grandfather clock of theirs.
I've wandered a bit from the subject of my grandma. Forgive me. Back to Grandma... We really didn't go and visit at her home much. My dad would go and pick my grandma up and bring her to stay at our home for a week or so at a time. She couldn't drive, so wherever she went was where she stayed, until she had someone to drive her somewhere else. Us kids LOVED Grandma's visits. Unlike my Grandma Horn, Grandma Arnold didn't sew. She had a lot of eye troubles, so she didn't sit and read much, either (though she read from her Bible faithfully.) Grandma Arnold was a gamer. She played games. She taught every one of us kids how to play Canasta at an early age. We'd take turns playing cards with Grandma when she was staying with us. We had an old brown plastic card tray that swiveled and slick, plastic playing cards that were aqua and magenta colored. You had to use both decks for Canasta. I'm sure Grandma took it easy on us a lot of the time, but I can remember her holding a hand of cards that was so full she could barely contain it with both hands. You see, in Canasta, you can choose to hold your cards in hopes of laying them all down at once and "going out" on your opponent. Grandma liked to do that. So, if her hand was getting big and out of control, you had better be laying down whatever cards you had pretty quick! Before I was old enough to learn Canasta, Grandma taught me Crazy 8s and Books. She would always find a way to include me in the fun with her.
Back at home, she and Aunt Sylvie stayed pretty active. They frequented their Senior Center, Fun & Friends, and participated in most of their activities. Aunt Sylvie was able to drive and took them to these outings. Grandma was always playing cards with friends and family, wherever she went.
More than anyone I've ever met, my grandma had a mind sharper than a tack! She never forgot a name. She never forgot a story. I sure wish now that I had picked her brain for more family stories back then. Her paternal grandfather's branch of my family tree is barren, and there's no one left to ask about filling in the blanks.
Everyone that called our house knew when Grandma was visiting. Of course, we only had the old rotary phones back then. In the kitchen, it was yellow and hung on the wall near the windows. For some reason, Grandma would hold the part you speak into upward, pointing to the ceiling almost. And she was LOUD. She'd answer with "Yellloo!" Yep. Yello, with a "Y."
As I said, Grandma couldn't see well enough to do a lot of reading or crafting with her hands. She spent her afternoons "resting her eyes" or "catnapping." She could doze off just about anywhere. She deserved the rest, though. She worked hard much of her life.
My grandpa had polio as a child and was crippled for life. He also suffered horribly with psoriasis. All of the stories I've heard tell of how Grandma cared for him. She graduated high school as class valedictorian years after marrying and having children. She took in people's laundry. She worked as a waitress and dishwasher. She was a housekeeper for many families over the years. She wasn't much for cooking. Aunt Sylvie was a wonderful cook. Sylvie cooked. Grandma cleaned. They were a perfect pair. She didn't mind washing up dishes.
Dad tells how, when he was a kid, they'd have chicken. Grandma would always eat the neck. As a kid, he assumed she just liked the neck. Later in life, he realized that Grandma was being generous and letting her family have the choice pieces of the chicken. That's just how Grandma was. There wasn't a selfish bone in her body. She found great delight in being helpful to others, especially her family.
I could really go on and on about how much I loved my Grandma and why. She had the sweetest little laugh and smile that made her eyes wrinkle around the edges. She was never without a Kleenex tucked into some part of her clothing or her watch band. She would put her hand to her forehead when she was trying to think of something, as if it might help to pull the information out. She enjoyed life and didn't mind traveling to visit with loved ones. She would spend most of the summer with my Uncle Glen and his family in Texas. She even visited them when he was stationed in Germany. She would go and stay with my Aunt Mary and her family for weeks at a time on their dairy farm in Nixa. No matter the length of her stay, it was never long enough, and she never wore out her welcome. Grandma brought light and laughter wherever she went.
Yes. I had two vastly different ladies as grandmas, one quiet and one not-so-quiet. Each was a treasure, so different but so much the same, too. Both were Godly women who put the Lord first in their lives and family a very close second. I am so thankful that my parents loved their mothers so dearly and moved them both into a trailer on their property when they needed a place to go. Grandma Horn couldn't hear well, but she could see. Grandma Arnold couldn't see well, but she could hear. In their own way, they were a perfect pair, and I miss them both every day.
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| Grandma's surprise 80th birthday at Mary's house. |
Both of my grandmas lost their husbands in their early 60s, while they still had many years of life left to live as widows. Sadly, I never got to know either of my grandfathers, but the love of my grandmas made up for it.
When I was little, Grandma Arnold lived in Thayer with her sister, Sylvie. They shared a small trailer house next to Sylvie's daughter, Burrelene, and her husband, Lewis. I remember that trailer so vividly. It had a smell that I just can't even put into words. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. It's a smell that I associate with propane and old people, probably on account of it reminding me of those two ladies. It was very dark in their trailer.
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| My great-grandma Daily, my dad, and me in Grandma Arnold's trailer house. 1975 |
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| Aunt Sylvie (seated) Aunt Rosemary, Uncle Bob, Grandma, and Uncle Burl (Many years after that little old trailer house) |
The kitchen was small and dark. I can remember these cups that Grandma had. They were brightly colored aluminum and made a lot of noise with ice in them. They kept your drink really cold, but the feeling of my teeth hitting that metal always sent a kind of shiver down my spine.
 |
| ^^THESE!^^ |
We didn't usually spend much time inside the trailer. Everyone would congregate on the concrete porch out front. They had this old metal glider that was covered with a cushion. It squeaked something terrible, but I loved sitting in it. I have looked and looked for one like it for myself, but those things are costly today! I want an old, rusty one, too. Grandma's was black and white and faced out toward the front yard and highway.
There were Martin houses in the front yard. I can remember Grandma talking about the Martins. She would say, "the Martins are back for the summer," and I honestly thought she was talking about some friends of hers. It was many years later that I realized the Martins were birds and not her friends or one of the families she cleaned for.
 |
| Dad pulling us kids in a wagon in Grandma's front yard. |
Another great thing about visiting Grandma Arnold was getting to go to Burrelene and Lewis's house. They had what I thought was the most amazing house in the world! Their kitchen was ROUND! Yes. A circle. The back half of the circle was a wall that housed the appliances and cabinetry. The front half of the circle was the biggest bar you can imagine in a home. From the kitchen side of the bar, there was a countertop and work space. From the living room side of the bar, was a line of bar stools that went on and on and on. The whole thing was open to a huge living/family/dining room. The front of this massive room came to a point, like the bow of a ship, and it was floor to ceiling glass doors and windows, with a balcony. Over in the dining area of the room was a huge grandfather clock. I attribute my love of chiming clocks to that old grandfather clock of theirs.
 |
| Grandma sitting in one of the bar stools at Burrelene's house and waiting her turn to play cards. |
I've wandered a bit from the subject of my grandma. Forgive me. Back to Grandma... We really didn't go and visit at her home much. My dad would go and pick my grandma up and bring her to stay at our home for a week or so at a time. She couldn't drive, so wherever she went was where she stayed, until she had someone to drive her somewhere else. Us kids LOVED Grandma's visits. Unlike my Grandma Horn, Grandma Arnold didn't sew. She had a lot of eye troubles, so she didn't sit and read much, either (though she read from her Bible faithfully.) Grandma Arnold was a gamer. She played games. She taught every one of us kids how to play Canasta at an early age. We'd take turns playing cards with Grandma when she was staying with us. We had an old brown plastic card tray that swiveled and slick, plastic playing cards that were aqua and magenta colored. You had to use both decks for Canasta. I'm sure Grandma took it easy on us a lot of the time, but I can remember her holding a hand of cards that was so full she could barely contain it with both hands. You see, in Canasta, you can choose to hold your cards in hopes of laying them all down at once and "going out" on your opponent. Grandma liked to do that. So, if her hand was getting big and out of control, you had better be laying down whatever cards you had pretty quick! Before I was old enough to learn Canasta, Grandma taught me Crazy 8s and Books. She would always find a way to include me in the fun with her.
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| Me and Grandma |
More than anyone I've ever met, my grandma had a mind sharper than a tack! She never forgot a name. She never forgot a story. I sure wish now that I had picked her brain for more family stories back then. Her paternal grandfather's branch of my family tree is barren, and there's no one left to ask about filling in the blanks.
 |
| Grandma and her kids, Glen, Mary, and Bob outside of Burrelene's home. |
As I said, Grandma couldn't see well enough to do a lot of reading or crafting with her hands. She spent her afternoons "resting her eyes" or "catnapping." She could doze off just about anywhere. She deserved the rest, though. She worked hard much of her life.
 |
| Brian, Shelley, Grandma, Mom, & Me |
My grandpa had polio as a child and was crippled for life. He also suffered horribly with psoriasis. All of the stories I've heard tell of how Grandma cared for him. She graduated high school as class valedictorian years after marrying and having children. She took in people's laundry. She worked as a waitress and dishwasher. She was a housekeeper for many families over the years. She wasn't much for cooking. Aunt Sylvie was a wonderful cook. Sylvie cooked. Grandma cleaned. They were a perfect pair. She didn't mind washing up dishes.
Dad tells how, when he was a kid, they'd have chicken. Grandma would always eat the neck. As a kid, he assumed she just liked the neck. Later in life, he realized that Grandma was being generous and letting her family have the choice pieces of the chicken. That's just how Grandma was. There wasn't a selfish bone in her body. She found great delight in being helpful to others, especially her family.
I could really go on and on about how much I loved my Grandma and why. She had the sweetest little laugh and smile that made her eyes wrinkle around the edges. She was never without a Kleenex tucked into some part of her clothing or her watch band. She would put her hand to her forehead when she was trying to think of something, as if it might help to pull the information out. She enjoyed life and didn't mind traveling to visit with loved ones. She would spend most of the summer with my Uncle Glen and his family in Texas. She even visited them when he was stationed in Germany. She would go and stay with my Aunt Mary and her family for weeks at a time on their dairy farm in Nixa. No matter the length of her stay, it was never long enough, and she never wore out her welcome. Grandma brought light and laughter wherever she went.
Yes. I had two vastly different ladies as grandmas, one quiet and one not-so-quiet. Each was a treasure, so different but so much the same, too. Both were Godly women who put the Lord first in their lives and family a very close second. I am so thankful that my parents loved their mothers so dearly and moved them both into a trailer on their property when they needed a place to go. Grandma Horn couldn't hear well, but she could see. Grandma Arnold couldn't see well, but she could hear. In their own way, they were a perfect pair, and I miss them both every day.
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| Grandma Horn and Grandma Arnold at my wedding in 1994. |
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