When my children first learned to talk, our conversations were limited to them asking, "what is it?" and my answer. Over and over and over, they'd point to some object and say the inevitable. They never tired of the questions. I sometimes despaired of the never-ending need for answers.
As they grew, the question changed to "why?" No longer content with just one or two words, their thirst for knowledge expanded from simple to complex and the answers required more time and effort to formulate. I don't think they always heard the answer, they just asked the same question again. And again. And again. A one-word song.
When they were older, they went through a time when they wanted me to do more than name things. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold up a shoe with lace hanging loose. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold up a bottle of bubble soap and blower. "Teach me," they'd say, and hold out a book of arithmetic.
As they grew, one of the things they learned was that if it was broken, you went to Mom for help. The days were filled with "fix it, please" requests. A little glue and patience could fix an ashtray broken by a football thrown carelessly across the living room. A little love and hot chocolate could soothe a bruised knee. A lot of love, a hug and a kiss could even mend a broken heart.
All too soon they graduated to "I can do it myself." It's only natural, inevitable, and yes, right, that they relished newly found independence, developed into free thinkers, and became their own person. But there were times when I'd watch as they rode away on their bike or skated solo down the sidewalk, and actually missed the struggles. More, I missed them asking my help.
There are so many things in life today that I do not understand. So often that I wish I had someone tall and strong that I could run to with my problems and say "fix it" or hold up an unknown and say "what is this and why is it in my life?" or hand my bruised heart and say "kiss it" and know that all would be well.
Oh, Lord, this is a hard lesson. I know you can fix anything. So tell me that all my effort is not in vain. Teach me to dream of better times. Help me to trust. Please.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
the day after
The wreath on the front door has changed. No longer made of plaid bows and apples and evergreen sprays, now it’s twisted grapevine and tiny silvery blue star lilies. There is nothing any sadder than a Christmas tree with no presents, and so every year on Christmas afternoon I dismantle and pack and before I go to bed that night all the Holiday decorations are snug in their boxes and back in the attic. This year it went much quicker, thanks to my darling man who didn’t gripe at all about climbing the folding stair to take them down on the first and then put them away on the 25th. Guess it just goes to show what a year in Iraq can do to your mindset.
This morning, the calendar says December 26, but I’m not ready for “Christmas” to be over. I’m like my wonderful nephew who wanted to know how come you had to put Jesus in a box and take him out for only one month each year.
I said all the decorations were packed away. But that’s not true, because one remains. On top of the bookcase in the office is a tiny nativity scene. It sits there all year long. Every year. To remind me that it’s not about candy canes and pumpkin pie. It’s not about ham for dinner. Or Kwanzaa candles or Three Kings Day cakes. It's not about Christmas trees or presents with silver paper and golden ribbon. Or what you wanted and didn't get. Or what you got that you wondered oh man what were they thinking. Or what you have to take back today to swap for the right size.
It’s about love. And what we do with the spirit of Christmas in February. And April. And June. And August.
This morning, the calendar says December 26, but I’m not ready for “Christmas” to be over. I’m like my wonderful nephew who wanted to know how come you had to put Jesus in a box and take him out for only one month each year.
I said all the decorations were packed away. But that’s not true, because one remains. On top of the bookcase in the office is a tiny nativity scene. It sits there all year long. Every year. To remind me that it’s not about candy canes and pumpkin pie. It’s not about ham for dinner. Or Kwanzaa candles or Three Kings Day cakes. It's not about Christmas trees or presents with silver paper and golden ribbon. Or what you wanted and didn't get. Or what you got that you wondered oh man what were they thinking. Or what you have to take back today to swap for the right size.
It’s about love. And what we do with the spirit of Christmas in February. And April. And June. And August.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
veritas
Read: Mark 4:38; Luke 2:9; John 14:27.
There were shepherds in the fields, guarding their flocks by night. And the angel of the Lord came down and the glory of the Lord was all about them, and they were afraid. Not an exact quote, but you get the idea. The shepherds had no knowledge of a heavenly king, only an earthly one who took their wages without regard to their families and kept them on the bottom rung of the work force ladder. The celestial display that filled their eyes with light and their ears with sound also filled their hearts with terror.
Thirty years later, the disciples were caught out on the lake in a vicious storm. Jesus was in the stern of the boat, his head on a pillow, sound asleep. The disciples were so afraid for their lives that they woke Jesus, asking him, “Master, we’re dying here and you’re sleeping like nothing’s going on, don’t you care what happens to us?” Again, not an exact quote, but close enough.
The common denominator of these two stories is that ordinary men were caught in extraordinary circumstances, and the response was the same: fear. Why? It’s not like the shepherds had never been out in the night before, because that’s what shepherds did. Seeing a shooting star was nothing new to them, hearing a wolf’s call or a lion’s roar were commonplace, but the visions and sounds from Heaven on that one night caused them to lose their cool. And it’s not like the disciples were not used to being out on the lake fishing, both daytime and nighttime, for that was the way they earned their living. And they had been caught, I’m sure, in other storms. But when confronted with waves higher than any they’d ever before seen, and the circumstance of a rapidly deteriorating future state, their response was fear.
I have a leopard-print throw that I put around my shoulders when I accompany puppy out for his business each morning. Usually, only the three of us are up before dawn. But one morning last week I stepped back into the house and glanced into the kitchen just in time to see Jim toss a fresh coffee filter and its contents up into the air. He hadn’t known I was outside. And when he saw a flash of spots from the corner of his eye it was so out of the ordinary that he reacted with the fight or flight response. He looked at me sheepishly as I shrugged off the throw and placed it on the back of the sofa, said, “You scared me” and then went for the broom.
We are always faced with unknowns, but today, we are confronted with fear at almost every turn in life and with a magnitude unbelievable in scope.
A loved one has died, and we are faced with the prospect of pushing through the pain and grief of a life without them. Layoffs are plentiful but jobs are scarce. Homes are lost to foreclosure. Utility bills go unpaid and are eventually shut off. Never mind buying Christmas presents because putting food on the table seems an insurmountable task, and not every family has the luxury of a Friday backpack sent home from school. Let’s don’t even talk about how to keep enough money at hand for transportation just in case you’re called for a job interview. Fear runs rampant throughout our lives.
Soldiers are being deployed to combat zones, many of them for the third or forth or fifth time in less than ten years. Firefighters and police respond each shift to calls that would send most of us cowering in a corner with our hands over our ears and hats pulled down over our eyes. Fear of the unknown is a part of their daily life, yet the soldiers and the first responders go forward anyway. For when you have trained so often that your response to danger is second nature, and done without thinking, you simply just get on with it.
Heroes are not people without fear, they are simply people who do the next right thing in spite of it. I challenge you today to be a hero to yourself. Listen with your whole heart to the song of the angels, and fear not. Hear the words of the Master, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And rejoice in the truth of a message for the ages: never trade the fear of what you know for the wonder of what you don’t.
Never give up. Never give up. Never, never, never, never, never give up. Sing with me the words of faith: “I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand.” And then listen to the celestial response as a host of angels join us in our praise.
There were shepherds in the fields, guarding their flocks by night. And the angel of the Lord came down and the glory of the Lord was all about them, and they were afraid. Not an exact quote, but you get the idea. The shepherds had no knowledge of a heavenly king, only an earthly one who took their wages without regard to their families and kept them on the bottom rung of the work force ladder. The celestial display that filled their eyes with light and their ears with sound also filled their hearts with terror.
Thirty years later, the disciples were caught out on the lake in a vicious storm. Jesus was in the stern of the boat, his head on a pillow, sound asleep. The disciples were so afraid for their lives that they woke Jesus, asking him, “Master, we’re dying here and you’re sleeping like nothing’s going on, don’t you care what happens to us?” Again, not an exact quote, but close enough.
The common denominator of these two stories is that ordinary men were caught in extraordinary circumstances, and the response was the same: fear. Why? It’s not like the shepherds had never been out in the night before, because that’s what shepherds did. Seeing a shooting star was nothing new to them, hearing a wolf’s call or a lion’s roar were commonplace, but the visions and sounds from Heaven on that one night caused them to lose their cool. And it’s not like the disciples were not used to being out on the lake fishing, both daytime and nighttime, for that was the way they earned their living. And they had been caught, I’m sure, in other storms. But when confronted with waves higher than any they’d ever before seen, and the circumstance of a rapidly deteriorating future state, their response was fear.
I have a leopard-print throw that I put around my shoulders when I accompany puppy out for his business each morning. Usually, only the three of us are up before dawn. But one morning last week I stepped back into the house and glanced into the kitchen just in time to see Jim toss a fresh coffee filter and its contents up into the air. He hadn’t known I was outside. And when he saw a flash of spots from the corner of his eye it was so out of the ordinary that he reacted with the fight or flight response. He looked at me sheepishly as I shrugged off the throw and placed it on the back of the sofa, said, “You scared me” and then went for the broom.
We are always faced with unknowns, but today, we are confronted with fear at almost every turn in life and with a magnitude unbelievable in scope.
A loved one has died, and we are faced with the prospect of pushing through the pain and grief of a life without them. Layoffs are plentiful but jobs are scarce. Homes are lost to foreclosure. Utility bills go unpaid and are eventually shut off. Never mind buying Christmas presents because putting food on the table seems an insurmountable task, and not every family has the luxury of a Friday backpack sent home from school. Let’s don’t even talk about how to keep enough money at hand for transportation just in case you’re called for a job interview. Fear runs rampant throughout our lives.
Soldiers are being deployed to combat zones, many of them for the third or forth or fifth time in less than ten years. Firefighters and police respond each shift to calls that would send most of us cowering in a corner with our hands over our ears and hats pulled down over our eyes. Fear of the unknown is a part of their daily life, yet the soldiers and the first responders go forward anyway. For when you have trained so often that your response to danger is second nature, and done without thinking, you simply just get on with it.
Heroes are not people without fear, they are simply people who do the next right thing in spite of it. I challenge you today to be a hero to yourself. Listen with your whole heart to the song of the angels, and fear not. Hear the words of the Master, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And rejoice in the truth of a message for the ages: never trade the fear of what you know for the wonder of what you don’t.
Never give up. Never give up. Never, never, never, never, never give up. Sing with me the words of faith: “I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand.” And then listen to the celestial response as a host of angels join us in our praise.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
ribbons and bows
Seeing someone open a present is infinitely gratifying, but the actual wrapping is something I dread and put off until the last minute. It's one of those two-edge sword kinda things, as painful as using an old razor but as satisfying as gingerbread fresh from the oven (thank you, John).
First there's picking out the rolls of paper, because the boxes they are shipped in do not allow you to see them, you have to pick up each one and look at it, and then put it back when it’s unacceptable, then pick up another and after fifteen rolls try to remember if you already looked at something identical.
And then there's standing in line to make the purchase. It doesn't matter if you buy in August or January, there's always a line.
Then there's trying to make that yard-long bag fit in the trunk of the car. On top of the stuff I bought at the other six stores.
Then there's getting the package open after I'm home and ready to wrap. Do not know who designs the plastic container, but it's so tough I have to use scissors. I bet it could be used as a heat shield on the space shuttle.
And then there's tape. Why in the world does it stick to everything except the thing I want it to stick to, and anywhere except where I want it to be? I even have trouble with that so-called hands-free device from 3M.
Ribbon bows? Don't go there. I have five thumbs.
And then there's the cat. I learned the hard way that using the kitchen table as a wrapping station was not a good idea, because he springs from floor to chair to table and sprawls on the paper, refusing to move. Don't even think about using the floor. And so I normally go in the guest room, shut the door, and spread things out on the bed. The entire time I'm in there KTT is batting at the door and making the most awful moaning sounds. Poor poor pitiful kitty. You'd think someone was pelting him with hot chestnuts.
So this year I cheated. The presents were swaddled in sparkly tissue paper, placed in gift bags, and then pre-made red velvet bows were tied quick as can be one two three to the handles. They’re beautiful, and I don't think anyone will mind that I didn't use wrapping paper this year.
Except KTT.
I can live with that.
First there's picking out the rolls of paper, because the boxes they are shipped in do not allow you to see them, you have to pick up each one and look at it, and then put it back when it’s unacceptable, then pick up another and after fifteen rolls try to remember if you already looked at something identical.
And then there's standing in line to make the purchase. It doesn't matter if you buy in August or January, there's always a line.
Then there's trying to make that yard-long bag fit in the trunk of the car. On top of the stuff I bought at the other six stores.
Then there's getting the package open after I'm home and ready to wrap. Do not know who designs the plastic container, but it's so tough I have to use scissors. I bet it could be used as a heat shield on the space shuttle.
And then there's tape. Why in the world does it stick to everything except the thing I want it to stick to, and anywhere except where I want it to be? I even have trouble with that so-called hands-free device from 3M.
Ribbon bows? Don't go there. I have five thumbs.
And then there's the cat. I learned the hard way that using the kitchen table as a wrapping station was not a good idea, because he springs from floor to chair to table and sprawls on the paper, refusing to move. Don't even think about using the floor. And so I normally go in the guest room, shut the door, and spread things out on the bed. The entire time I'm in there KTT is batting at the door and making the most awful moaning sounds. Poor poor pitiful kitty. You'd think someone was pelting him with hot chestnuts.
So this year I cheated. The presents were swaddled in sparkly tissue paper, placed in gift bags, and then pre-made red velvet bows were tied quick as can be one two three to the handles. They’re beautiful, and I don't think anyone will mind that I didn't use wrapping paper this year.
Except KTT.
I can live with that.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
happiness is a foot warmer
Winter arrived weeks early in North Texas, and with a vengeance. Standing outside in the pre-dawn hours this week waiting for ADD to make his morning call, I could hear the puppy across the back fence, crying pitifully. What a shame, to buy a dog for Christmas and then make it stay outside in an open dog pen, no light bulb for warmth, no body to cuddle.
When he came to bed last night, Jim said, through jittering teeth, "Where's your foot warmer?"
And so I got up and put it in the microwave for two minutes, per the instructions, brought it back and shoved it under the bedcovers for both of us to enjoy. Guess you know who wound up with it. HA!!
We may have left behind an entire previous life and several of our possessions when we moved here from NC, but that foot warmer was one of the first things packed, plainly labeled, and unpacked very quickly once we got to this house. It's one of the best presents I ever received. And in this season of remembrance, I celebrate the thoughtfulness of the pal in California who sent it so many years ago. Thank you, Sally.
When he came to bed last night, Jim said, through jittering teeth, "Where's your foot warmer?"
And so I got up and put it in the microwave for two minutes, per the instructions, brought it back and shoved it under the bedcovers for both of us to enjoy. Guess you know who wound up with it. HA!!
We may have left behind an entire previous life and several of our possessions when we moved here from NC, but that foot warmer was one of the first things packed, plainly labeled, and unpacked very quickly once we got to this house. It's one of the best presents I ever received. And in this season of remembrance, I celebrate the thoughtfulness of the pal in California who sent it so many years ago. Thank you, Sally.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
How Santa Gets Around In The Desert
At the brigade party on Sunday we stood outside in the wind and rain, waiting for the chow line to move forward. I was regretting wearing only two pairs of socks under my boots, and wishing for the warmth and comfort of home.
But it was only the civilians like me in line who griped about the conditions. The soldiers just moved along in silence, big grins on their faces, cuddling the wives and children who huddled close to share a warmth that had nothing to do with socks or coats or the outside temperature. Please say a prayer for those still over there.
If you have someone overseas this year, better get that package in the mail today. And just in case you wondered, this is how Santa gets around in the desert.
http://www.kluv.com/12-15-2009/5897148
Scroll down to the Christmas soldier video by Jody Dean, containing many pictures of our local troops. We salute them all.
But it was only the civilians like me in line who griped about the conditions. The soldiers just moved along in silence, big grins on their faces, cuddling the wives and children who huddled close to share a warmth that had nothing to do with socks or coats or the outside temperature. Please say a prayer for those still over there.
If you have someone overseas this year, better get that package in the mail today. And just in case you wondered, this is how Santa gets around in the desert.http://www.kluv.com/12-15-2009/5897148
Scroll down to the Christmas soldier video by Jody Dean, containing many pictures of our local troops. We salute them all.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Just A Note
Jake was telling me yesterday at Sunday School about a friend of his (we'll call him Good Neighbor Sam) who happened to come home from work one afternoon last week just as a gentleman stepped off the porch next door, with FedEx box in hand. GNSam went up to him and asked what the guy was doing. Guy said something unintelligible. Sam took the box, looked at the address, and saw it was indeed intended for the folks next door. Sam asked if the guy had recently changed his name. Guy ran off. Sam kept the box until folks came home, then delivered it after making a telephone call to the owners. Now, GNSam is a big burly intimidating guy, and I'm not. So while I applaud his actions, it makes me want to ask that all y'all out there take caution this season, and don't get into something you can't easily get out of.
Trying to get ready for the day's scheduled events and and out the door last Saturday morning was a real pain. The doorbell kept ringing. Luckily, I can see out but no one can see in. Tales from the general populace such as Jake's about other encounters this time of year have made me wary. I didn't mind opening the door to the neighbor kids asking me to please throw their ball back over the fence. And I didn't mind talking to the sweet young things out selling pretty papers and pretty ribbons for the high school band, although I didn't need to buy their wares. But I drew the line at answering when I looked out and saw three husky hoodie-clad gentlemen of indeterminate status standing ready to shove their way inside if I had opened the door. I don't care what they were selling or even if their collection cause was a good one, they didn't get to talk to me. Heck, even the guys walking around carrying Bibles don't get an opening. Hubby has the right idea, he answers the door armed and ready.
But then anyone who regularly looks at our house would have known he wasn't home that day, because the car was gone. And I have no idea who might be watching, or when. Because when I got up at 3:30 Sunday morning and walked into the kitchen for a wake-up-cup, I noticed the living room was brighter than normal. But not from lamps in our house, it was from a spot light, and someone trying to look into my home. Before I could react and dial 911 the light was off and they were gone.
These are desperate times, guys. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Don't take anything for granted. Keep ALL your doors locked, and that includes the one from the garage to the inside of the house. Look out to see if anyone is lurking on the street before you open the door to go out for the mail. And for pete's sake, don't be a hero. Good intentions are worth nothing if the result is you getting hurt.
Hugs, peace, and joy.
Trying to get ready for the day's scheduled events and and out the door last Saturday morning was a real pain. The doorbell kept ringing. Luckily, I can see out but no one can see in. Tales from the general populace such as Jake's about other encounters this time of year have made me wary. I didn't mind opening the door to the neighbor kids asking me to please throw their ball back over the fence. And I didn't mind talking to the sweet young things out selling pretty papers and pretty ribbons for the high school band, although I didn't need to buy their wares. But I drew the line at answering when I looked out and saw three husky hoodie-clad gentlemen of indeterminate status standing ready to shove their way inside if I had opened the door. I don't care what they were selling or even if their collection cause was a good one, they didn't get to talk to me. Heck, even the guys walking around carrying Bibles don't get an opening. Hubby has the right idea, he answers the door armed and ready.
But then anyone who regularly looks at our house would have known he wasn't home that day, because the car was gone. And I have no idea who might be watching, or when. Because when I got up at 3:30 Sunday morning and walked into the kitchen for a wake-up-cup, I noticed the living room was brighter than normal. But not from lamps in our house, it was from a spot light, and someone trying to look into my home. Before I could react and dial 911 the light was off and they were gone.
These are desperate times, guys. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Don't take anything for granted. Keep ALL your doors locked, and that includes the one from the garage to the inside of the house. Look out to see if anyone is lurking on the street before you open the door to go out for the mail. And for pete's sake, don't be a hero. Good intentions are worth nothing if the result is you getting hurt.
Hugs, peace, and joy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blue Monday
First of all, I pay tribute to those who gave the ultimate gift on this date in 1941. And then I celebrate two of the unsung Soldiers in my life: Annie Benecke, ATC, and Noreen Arao, DI. Wish I knew where they are. I’d send them thanks for enriching my life.
All the troops from our brigade are home now, and will enjoy a Christmas with their loved ones and a tree in their own home instead of the tiny plastic ones we wives shipped that could not lift their spirits very much but spread as much cheer as possible in the tiny tents and trailers on that sand-blown patch of ground.
Sitting at the party yesterday, I asked Jim about his tree. He said he decorated the tiny green plastic thing with the tiny multi-colored plastic ornaments I had sent. The guys in his shop enjoyed it, but mostly in silence, sometimes just lightly running a loving finger over the white plastic star on the top, not saying anything, for to give voice to thoughts is to make them real. After the season was over, Jim stowed it away in his trailer. But when he was packing up his stuff to ship home, he again set the tree on a table in the shop, leaving it for the troops that were replacing his unit. I suppose it sits there today, doing nothing to warm their feet, but maybe warming their hearts just a little.
After we got home yesterday afternoon, Jim shed his uniform and quickly was back into sweats, then assumed the position on the living room chair, cup of coffee in one hand, paperback book in the other. Within an hour, he was snoozing away. A few minutes later, I noticed KTT, on the rug just in front of the coffee table, batting around what looked like either a very little snake or a very long worm. When I tried to get it, he refused to let go, burying it under his paws and daring me to move a step closer. So I took Jim's shoe, which was conveniently located on the floor next to the ottoman, and playfully distracted him long enough for me to pick up the green thing.
Neither snake nor worm. Evidently kitty had gone into Jim's bathroom and seen the pile of dirty uniforms on the floor, along with all the other military accessories, and found a boot blouser.
I retrieved the other one from the floor, and placed the two of them on the counter, ready for the next drill weekend. Came back to the living room to see KTT's nose buried in the shoe, trying to find the "toy." He may not be very smart, but he is quite observant. And, come to think of it, quite logical.
The flag that flew over their Iraqi base is now in a wooden case hanging proudly in full view on the wall just under the stairs. The awards and certificates signed by President Bush are stowed carefully in the plastic box with all the other awards and certificates earned during Jim’s long military career. And there's still the pile of dirty uniforms on the bathroom floor, his boots are under the bedroom chair, and his fleece and watch cap are still on the ottoman, where he threw them last night. But that’s ok.
The first Monday in December may be a Blue Monday for some, but for me it is the best. Because this year my Soldier is home. With me.
All the troops from our brigade are home now, and will enjoy a Christmas with their loved ones and a tree in their own home instead of the tiny plastic ones we wives shipped that could not lift their spirits very much but spread as much cheer as possible in the tiny tents and trailers on that sand-blown patch of ground.
Sitting at the party yesterday, I asked Jim about his tree. He said he decorated the tiny green plastic thing with the tiny multi-colored plastic ornaments I had sent. The guys in his shop enjoyed it, but mostly in silence, sometimes just lightly running a loving finger over the white plastic star on the top, not saying anything, for to give voice to thoughts is to make them real. After the season was over, Jim stowed it away in his trailer. But when he was packing up his stuff to ship home, he again set the tree on a table in the shop, leaving it for the troops that were replacing his unit. I suppose it sits there today, doing nothing to warm their feet, but maybe warming their hearts just a little.
After we got home yesterday afternoon, Jim shed his uniform and quickly was back into sweats, then assumed the position on the living room chair, cup of coffee in one hand, paperback book in the other. Within an hour, he was snoozing away. A few minutes later, I noticed KTT, on the rug just in front of the coffee table, batting around what looked like either a very little snake or a very long worm. When I tried to get it, he refused to let go, burying it under his paws and daring me to move a step closer. So I took Jim's shoe, which was conveniently located on the floor next to the ottoman, and playfully distracted him long enough for me to pick up the green thing.
Neither snake nor worm. Evidently kitty had gone into Jim's bathroom and seen the pile of dirty uniforms on the floor, along with all the other military accessories, and found a boot blouser.
I retrieved the other one from the floor, and placed the two of them on the counter, ready for the next drill weekend. Came back to the living room to see KTT's nose buried in the shoe, trying to find the "toy." He may not be very smart, but he is quite observant. And, come to think of it, quite logical.
The flag that flew over their Iraqi base is now in a wooden case hanging proudly in full view on the wall just under the stairs. The awards and certificates signed by President Bush are stowed carefully in the plastic box with all the other awards and certificates earned during Jim’s long military career. And there's still the pile of dirty uniforms on the bathroom floor, his boots are under the bedroom chair, and his fleece and watch cap are still on the ottoman, where he threw them last night. But that’s ok.
The first Monday in December may be a Blue Monday for some, but for me it is the best. Because this year my Soldier is home. With me.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Saturday's child
Labor started on Friday but I was too young and stupid to know that's what it was. Hubby was working swing/afternoon/morning/mids. Sent him off to work and spent the afternoon alternately walking the hall, trying to sit but could not, discovered laying down was definitely not an option, instead stood at the kitchen counter doing crossword puzzles to pass the time.
He slept that night. I did not. Saturday morning we were hospital-bound at 6:30 AM.
She was born less than two hours later. The labor and delivery personnel at the base hospital were all amazed at the quick, easy birth.
Their words, not mine.
And that was probably the last easy thing involved for this darling girl.
Saturday's child works hard for a living. And she definitely has.
Spent the first year of her life just fighting to survive. The medical community wrote books about her.
Had her first job at nine, a daily babysitting gig after she got home from school, for a family of nurses in the neighborhood. Grammy dropped him off and Mommy picked him up a couple of hours later, after she finished her shift, and bought her groceries, and did whatever else she had to do between work and home that was better done without a toddler at her side.
Next job was at the local beauty shop. Every Saturday for two years she swept hair from the floor and laundered towels. The staff was so impressed by her work ethic that they gave her a small scholarship to help with her college tuition.
Then came pizza waitress during high school, which gave way to pharmacy clerk after she got her first car, then it was on to software sales while she worked her way through college.
Marriage and a baby followed, with jobs at various places one right after another, no letup, while still going to school, and making great grades. Because she had a vision.
And it has stood her in good stead. When layoffs happen, she just knuckles down and goes at it even harder, working 16-hour shifts and weekends, keeping her family fed, clothed, shod, and in church.
She embodies both the Saturday's child works hard for a living and the Sunday's child ideals of bonny, blythe, and fair.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
He slept that night. I did not. Saturday morning we were hospital-bound at 6:30 AM.
She was born less than two hours later. The labor and delivery personnel at the base hospital were all amazed at the quick, easy birth.
Their words, not mine.
And that was probably the last easy thing involved for this darling girl.
Saturday's child works hard for a living. And she definitely has.
Spent the first year of her life just fighting to survive. The medical community wrote books about her.
Had her first job at nine, a daily babysitting gig after she got home from school, for a family of nurses in the neighborhood. Grammy dropped him off and Mommy picked him up a couple of hours later, after she finished her shift, and bought her groceries, and did whatever else she had to do between work and home that was better done without a toddler at her side.
Next job was at the local beauty shop. Every Saturday for two years she swept hair from the floor and laundered towels. The staff was so impressed by her work ethic that they gave her a small scholarship to help with her college tuition.
Then came pizza waitress during high school, which gave way to pharmacy clerk after she got her first car, then it was on to software sales while she worked her way through college.
Marriage and a baby followed, with jobs at various places one right after another, no letup, while still going to school, and making great grades. Because she had a vision.
And it has stood her in good stead. When layoffs happen, she just knuckles down and goes at it even harder, working 16-hour shifts and weekends, keeping her family fed, clothed, shod, and in church.
She embodies both the Saturday's child works hard for a living and the Sunday's child ideals of bonny, blythe, and fair.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday's child
Friday's child is loving and giving. And in that, I would say that all children are, in spirit if not in fact, a Friday's child. For despite the self-centeredness of preservation, it is the very nature of a human child to love unconditionally.
Child abuse runs rampant in our world. We may not see it in the children we know from our neighborhood, or the ones we see at Church, for they are less likely to suffer; but those the counselors see at school are too often merely players on the stage of adult ignorance and rage.
Too often these little ones come to the police station wearing ragged shirts, pants grown way too short flapping over bony ankles, shoes that fit two years ago now rundown at the back by heels that stick over, and usually clutching the hand of a younger child, who they know stands no chance in life without intervention by someone who can show love in a manner that does not include the back of a hand or a wielded belt.
And so they come, more and more each day, to stand quietly just inside the door, until someone notices them. They will clutch a stuffed bear given them by the volunteer at the front desk, and grasp a piece of candy, unwrapped because they know they'll need it later, and wait while adults they've never seen before decide their fate.
They try not to shuffle around, doing their best to remain soundless, invisible, trusting that this step was the right one, that eventually all will be well, that someone will care.
All they ask is a bed not on a cold floor, a blanket big enough to cover both feet and neck at the same time, and a world where there are no slaps in the face and no harsh words that sere their soul.
And so this day I celebrate the front-desk volunteers, the police who gently grasp little hands, the firemen who take up the unwanted child left carelessly behind and carry it to safety, emergency room personnel who find it first and alert authorities, and the teachers and counselors, the people who care daily as much for someone else's child as they do their own.
Child abuse runs rampant in our world. We may not see it in the children we know from our neighborhood, or the ones we see at Church, for they are less likely to suffer; but those the counselors see at school are too often merely players on the stage of adult ignorance and rage.
Too often these little ones come to the police station wearing ragged shirts, pants grown way too short flapping over bony ankles, shoes that fit two years ago now rundown at the back by heels that stick over, and usually clutching the hand of a younger child, who they know stands no chance in life without intervention by someone who can show love in a manner that does not include the back of a hand or a wielded belt.
And so they come, more and more each day, to stand quietly just inside the door, until someone notices them. They will clutch a stuffed bear given them by the volunteer at the front desk, and grasp a piece of candy, unwrapped because they know they'll need it later, and wait while adults they've never seen before decide their fate.
They try not to shuffle around, doing their best to remain soundless, invisible, trusting that this step was the right one, that eventually all will be well, that someone will care.
All they ask is a bed not on a cold floor, a blanket big enough to cover both feet and neck at the same time, and a world where there are no slaps in the face and no harsh words that sere their soul.
And so this day I celebrate the front-desk volunteers, the police who gently grasp little hands, the firemen who take up the unwanted child left carelessly behind and carry it to safety, emergency room personnel who find it first and alert authorities, and the teachers and counselors, the people who care daily as much for someone else's child as they do their own.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday's child
Thursday's child has far to go. And it is definitely true of this one. A military wife, moving from pillar to new post, making a house into a home in minimum time, even when the curtains she bought for the last place don't fit any of the windows in the new one, because it seems no two architects ever had the same idea about windows in the huts and apartments charitably called "base housing."
But life as a Navy wife was good. Right up until the day he breathed his last and she became a widow, left to raise the children on her own. Later, she smiled bravely and watched her sons go off to war, just like their Dad. Death is difficult, but at least it's final. Waiting at home for word from the front was the hardest thing she ever did, for it just went on and on, with no end to the tears, no respite for the prayers, no let-up on the fears. She learned that when a nightmare woke her, the best thing to do was get up and do something else, anything else, for to go back to sleep too quickly only meant the return of the dream and its horror.
And so, to pass the days, she went to work and made HR her mission. And to pass the midnights, she began to research the family she had not only joined by marriage but had taken to her heart. And became so enthralled with genealogy that she began to take vacations to LDS in Salt Lake City, early on spending days sitting at tables looking through books of records, then when technology caught up, in front of computers, searching for names and dates, and finding wills and deeds and marriage notices from centuries past.
These days she's retired, delivering food each week to the elderly of the community. She still goes to LDS at least twice a year, new husband in tow, for that would have been a deal-breaker, if he had not shared her passion.
And so on this day I celebrate this dear sweet cousin, whose birthday happens to be on Thursday this year, who has gone so far so many times, and made my own journey so much easier.
Likewise, I celebrate the members of the HR community who, despite decreased available corporate funding, work long hours to search for and find just the right person for the right job.
And the meals on wheels volunteers who, despite dwindling funds and increased costs, continue to travel far and wide to feed the hungry.
All the Thursday's children around this great Nation, who may have far to go, but gladly travel the extra mile, with a smile, and a prayer.
But life as a Navy wife was good. Right up until the day he breathed his last and she became a widow, left to raise the children on her own. Later, she smiled bravely and watched her sons go off to war, just like their Dad. Death is difficult, but at least it's final. Waiting at home for word from the front was the hardest thing she ever did, for it just went on and on, with no end to the tears, no respite for the prayers, no let-up on the fears. She learned that when a nightmare woke her, the best thing to do was get up and do something else, anything else, for to go back to sleep too quickly only meant the return of the dream and its horror.
And so, to pass the days, she went to work and made HR her mission. And to pass the midnights, she began to research the family she had not only joined by marriage but had taken to her heart. And became so enthralled with genealogy that she began to take vacations to LDS in Salt Lake City, early on spending days sitting at tables looking through books of records, then when technology caught up, in front of computers, searching for names and dates, and finding wills and deeds and marriage notices from centuries past.
These days she's retired, delivering food each week to the elderly of the community. She still goes to LDS at least twice a year, new husband in tow, for that would have been a deal-breaker, if he had not shared her passion.
And so on this day I celebrate this dear sweet cousin, whose birthday happens to be on Thursday this year, who has gone so far so many times, and made my own journey so much easier.
Likewise, I celebrate the members of the HR community who, despite decreased available corporate funding, work long hours to search for and find just the right person for the right job.
And the meals on wheels volunteers who, despite dwindling funds and increased costs, continue to travel far and wide to feed the hungry.
All the Thursday's children around this great Nation, who may have far to go, but gladly travel the extra mile, with a smile, and a prayer.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wednesday's child
Perhaps it's true that Wednesday's child is full of woe. He certainly filled that bill, and has seen more than his fair share of misery and war. He is a father who missed many Christmases and other "special" days.
Those of us at home tend to focus mainly on being left behind, but there is another side to the tale. He recalls standing watch on the bridge of a ship at sea on Christmas Day, flying a tired old transport airplane through the dark and starry night on Christmas Eve, eating mess hall/ward room turkey surrounded by a bunch of sad and gloomy male faces, and finally crashing on a lonely bunk in some far away place and wondering what it was like for the family back home.
But he never questioned why he was there, doing what he did. As he tells me, we are the land of the free only because first and foremost we are the home of the brave.
On this snowy morning I am aware that many of Point's finest who listened to the speech last night will soon deploy into harm's way. I am convinced that they are not "the enemy camp" but are those referenced by George Orwell when he said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
And so I am grateful for this rough and ready man, this Wednesday's child, and those like him, who go, in spite of fear, into the unknown of battle, who run toward the gunfire instead of away, who march with faith into the land of a people who not only do not love you but also seek your death in the most horrible of ways, and those who discover ultimately that hearts are the same all over the world, that all parents want the same future for their children, that it does not matter the day or holiday, that what is done with unconditional love is never done in vain.
Those of us at home tend to focus mainly on being left behind, but there is another side to the tale. He recalls standing watch on the bridge of a ship at sea on Christmas Day, flying a tired old transport airplane through the dark and starry night on Christmas Eve, eating mess hall/ward room turkey surrounded by a bunch of sad and gloomy male faces, and finally crashing on a lonely bunk in some far away place and wondering what it was like for the family back home.
But he never questioned why he was there, doing what he did. As he tells me, we are the land of the free only because first and foremost we are the home of the brave.
On this snowy morning I am aware that many of Point's finest who listened to the speech last night will soon deploy into harm's way. I am convinced that they are not "the enemy camp" but are those referenced by George Orwell when he said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
And so I am grateful for this rough and ready man, this Wednesday's child, and those like him, who go, in spite of fear, into the unknown of battle, who run toward the gunfire instead of away, who march with faith into the land of a people who not only do not love you but also seek your death in the most horrible of ways, and those who discover ultimately that hearts are the same all over the world, that all parents want the same future for their children, that it does not matter the day or holiday, that what is done with unconditional love is never done in vain.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday's Child
Sometimes it's hard to see that a Tuesday's child is full of grace. The baby that had been so placid for her first few weeks suddenly became a terror. Daytime fussiness was a way of life, she seemed to be always hungry but wouldn't eat for more than a minute or two. Nights were filled with pitiful cries for no apparent reason, disturbing the neighbors so often they called CPS. But investigation showed a home that was tastefully decorated and filled with love, no signs of physical trauma to the child, and parents who had tried everything they knew, to no avail.
It was a CASA volunteer, also coincidentally born on a Tuesday, who wondered about it for prayer-filled days and sleepless nights after the visit, and asked the family to make an appointment with a particular pediatric specialist, who noticed a slight, almost inaudible sound in her ears when she listened to the little heart. A valve had not closed after birth, as it should have. The baby's plaintive cries were simply a fight to try to get air into the tiny lungs.
Surgery took care of the problem. And finally the Tuesday's child began to thrive. Tantrums after that were simply a result of the terrible twos, and dealt with in appropriate fashion.
Two years later, the little family invited the CASA volunteer to their home for Christmas Eve dessert. Over homemade pie, Mom wrestled the little one from left to right arm and back again, and said, "I never got a chance to ask you before, do you have medical training? Is that what led you to suspect the heart problem?"
"No," the petite blond answered with a sweet smile, "but I serve the Great Physician. I approach every case with the same first step: I pray, and I ask God to show me the right thing to do, and then I wait for His answer. It doesn't matter whether the scenario is complicated or straight-forward, I simply believe it is a matter of faith to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves."
And so today I celebrate CPS and CASA volunteers; pediatricians; surgeons; NICU and surgical nurses; all those who solve the puzzle of a child in distress, and make it right, on a Monday, or a Tuesday, or any other day of the week.
It was a CASA volunteer, also coincidentally born on a Tuesday, who wondered about it for prayer-filled days and sleepless nights after the visit, and asked the family to make an appointment with a particular pediatric specialist, who noticed a slight, almost inaudible sound in her ears when she listened to the little heart. A valve had not closed after birth, as it should have. The baby's plaintive cries were simply a fight to try to get air into the tiny lungs.
Surgery took care of the problem. And finally the Tuesday's child began to thrive. Tantrums after that were simply a result of the terrible twos, and dealt with in appropriate fashion.
Two years later, the little family invited the CASA volunteer to their home for Christmas Eve dessert. Over homemade pie, Mom wrestled the little one from left to right arm and back again, and said, "I never got a chance to ask you before, do you have medical training? Is that what led you to suspect the heart problem?"
"No," the petite blond answered with a sweet smile, "but I serve the Great Physician. I approach every case with the same first step: I pray, and I ask God to show me the right thing to do, and then I wait for His answer. It doesn't matter whether the scenario is complicated or straight-forward, I simply believe it is a matter of faith to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves."
And so today I celebrate CPS and CASA volunteers; pediatricians; surgeons; NICU and surgical nurses; all those who solve the puzzle of a child in distress, and make it right, on a Monday, or a Tuesday, or any other day of the week.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Monday's Child
It was a lonely time. Husband was in Korea. The OB Doc said be at the hospital by noon. So I parked my car in the long-term section, and carried my little paper bag of clothes inside. As I checked myself in, I thought about what life might be like if I was married to someone who wasn't always off somewhere saving the world. Two injections later I went to sleep, thinking about my husband, wondering when he'd get to see his child. I woke hours later with someone holding my hand, and just for a minute dreamed that it was him, but opened my eyes to see a face I did not know, a military nurse, and heard her mantra, "You're OK, your son is fine. You're OK, your son is fine."
I had a son. But I'd been expecting a girl, and I had no name prepared. Within minutes they came from the nursery with him. I set Baby down on the bed, unwrapped the blanket, counted fingers and toes, eyebrows, nose. Yep, all there. I looked at him, thought of the old nursery rhyme, and told my new best friend that I thought this Monday’s child was not so very fair of face, but instead looked like a miniature Teddy Roosevelt, with his rough-rider expression.
Lt. Sugden laughed, said "Well, considering what his father does for a living, that's not far off." We smiled at each other. And then she went away to do other nurse-ly things.
I named him Brady Theodore. Not after anyone in the family, but because I decided he needed a name all his own. If there was to be a nickname in his future at least it wouldn't be 'junior' or worse, 'trip.' His dad came home two months later, held his son, and pronounced him “The Bear.”
The solitary delivery pretty much just continued the tone already set for the marriage. There was always some country or some person who needed him and his time more than we. Even when hubby was home he wasn't present, he was either coming down off the last assignment or putting on his game face and gearing up for the next one. I lost my cool so many times, focusing on what we did not have rather than what we did. T-Bear did not have that problem. When the door opened and his Daddy walked in, the world held room for only two. There was not much in the way of quantity, but it was definitely quality time when it came to Daddy and his son.
In the next five years Daddy was home for the holidays only twice. Each Christmas, T-Bear and I decorated the tree. When he was old enough, I'd hand him the little unbreakable ones and he'd hang them on the lower branches. Each Christmas Eve we’d pile up cushions and blankets and drowse by the tree, waiting, praying, hoping the front door would open. I taught T-Bear to sing Silent Night.
Last year, we stood in the cold November rain and were handed a flag and heard the pro forma empty words of a Nation’s grateful thanks. I hugged my son and tried not to cry. It didn't work.
Mom invited us to her house for Christmas. We drove down the night before, and stayed just two days. I was tired, and more short-tempered than normal. But Brady loved it. (We no longer called him T-Bear, for he had announced a few weeks earlier that at six he was a big boy and wanted a big boy name.) And I was grateful for not spending yet another Holiday alone.
Mom had a little plastic Nativity scene on her coffee table. About six inches high, with star and angel permanently attached to the stable roof. There was a little plastic Mary to sit by the manger that held a tiny baby with arms outstretched, a Joseph to stand in the background, three kings to kneel at the front in adoration, one cow, one donkey, two bales of fake hay, and three plastic palm trees. Brady spent hours arranging the little people, marching the cow and donkey round and round, humming a Christmas carol only he knew. Mom packed it up and sent it home with us.
Back at home, Brady stayed mostly in his room, playing with games that moved and had sound effects. I packed two more boxes, and placed them in the slowly growing pile by the door, along with the box of Christmas decorations. Housing only gives you so much time to clear out after you become ex-military, no matter the circumstances of how you become an ex, and we had only one more month to live there. It was chicken fingers and french fries for dinner. Again. But it was quick, and what Brady liked, and one of the few things he would eat without pressure from me.
We moved to this house, near family, and I found a job. But there's no military base within easy driving distance. I miss my friends. And the commissary.
Last week I took the box of decorations down from the attic. It won't be our first Christmas without him, but this year it's different, you know? This year there's no chance he'll walk through the door to surprise us.
After we trimmed the tree, we set the little Nativity scene on the floor underneath. Brady played with it for a little while, then went on about his business. Sometimes I think he spends too much time in his room, alone, but our counselor says to give him time, he’ll find his own way.
Yesterday I glanced at the Nativity scene and noticed the statue of Joseph was missing. I checked the floors, and all around, but it was not there.
When I put him to bed last night, I said, "Hey, Brae, do you know what happened to the little Joseph?"
"Oh, yeah" he answered, pulled it out from under his pillow and handed it to me. "But it's OK, Mom,” he said, rubbing sleepy eyes, “Jesus said since I don't have a Daddy I could borrow his."
I kissed him, handed him back the statue, tucked the comforter around his neck, and went out of the room. It was not the first night I cried myself to sleep, nor will it be the last, I’m sure. But life is what it is. And we will go on.
So on this day I celebrate all the men who give a father's love to children not their own, and my Monday's child, who learned the hard way to appreciate life, and how to never take for granted time spent with those we love.
I had a son. But I'd been expecting a girl, and I had no name prepared. Within minutes they came from the nursery with him. I set Baby down on the bed, unwrapped the blanket, counted fingers and toes, eyebrows, nose. Yep, all there. I looked at him, thought of the old nursery rhyme, and told my new best friend that I thought this Monday’s child was not so very fair of face, but instead looked like a miniature Teddy Roosevelt, with his rough-rider expression.
Lt. Sugden laughed, said "Well, considering what his father does for a living, that's not far off." We smiled at each other. And then she went away to do other nurse-ly things.
I named him Brady Theodore. Not after anyone in the family, but because I decided he needed a name all his own. If there was to be a nickname in his future at least it wouldn't be 'junior' or worse, 'trip.' His dad came home two months later, held his son, and pronounced him “The Bear.”
The solitary delivery pretty much just continued the tone already set for the marriage. There was always some country or some person who needed him and his time more than we. Even when hubby was home he wasn't present, he was either coming down off the last assignment or putting on his game face and gearing up for the next one. I lost my cool so many times, focusing on what we did not have rather than what we did. T-Bear did not have that problem. When the door opened and his Daddy walked in, the world held room for only two. There was not much in the way of quantity, but it was definitely quality time when it came to Daddy and his son.
In the next five years Daddy was home for the holidays only twice. Each Christmas, T-Bear and I decorated the tree. When he was old enough, I'd hand him the little unbreakable ones and he'd hang them on the lower branches. Each Christmas Eve we’d pile up cushions and blankets and drowse by the tree, waiting, praying, hoping the front door would open. I taught T-Bear to sing Silent Night.
Last year, we stood in the cold November rain and were handed a flag and heard the pro forma empty words of a Nation’s grateful thanks. I hugged my son and tried not to cry. It didn't work.
Mom invited us to her house for Christmas. We drove down the night before, and stayed just two days. I was tired, and more short-tempered than normal. But Brady loved it. (We no longer called him T-Bear, for he had announced a few weeks earlier that at six he was a big boy and wanted a big boy name.) And I was grateful for not spending yet another Holiday alone.
Mom had a little plastic Nativity scene on her coffee table. About six inches high, with star and angel permanently attached to the stable roof. There was a little plastic Mary to sit by the manger that held a tiny baby with arms outstretched, a Joseph to stand in the background, three kings to kneel at the front in adoration, one cow, one donkey, two bales of fake hay, and three plastic palm trees. Brady spent hours arranging the little people, marching the cow and donkey round and round, humming a Christmas carol only he knew. Mom packed it up and sent it home with us.
Back at home, Brady stayed mostly in his room, playing with games that moved and had sound effects. I packed two more boxes, and placed them in the slowly growing pile by the door, along with the box of Christmas decorations. Housing only gives you so much time to clear out after you become ex-military, no matter the circumstances of how you become an ex, and we had only one more month to live there. It was chicken fingers and french fries for dinner. Again. But it was quick, and what Brady liked, and one of the few things he would eat without pressure from me.
We moved to this house, near family, and I found a job. But there's no military base within easy driving distance. I miss my friends. And the commissary.
Last week I took the box of decorations down from the attic. It won't be our first Christmas without him, but this year it's different, you know? This year there's no chance he'll walk through the door to surprise us.
After we trimmed the tree, we set the little Nativity scene on the floor underneath. Brady played with it for a little while, then went on about his business. Sometimes I think he spends too much time in his room, alone, but our counselor says to give him time, he’ll find his own way.
Yesterday I glanced at the Nativity scene and noticed the statue of Joseph was missing. I checked the floors, and all around, but it was not there.
When I put him to bed last night, I said, "Hey, Brae, do you know what happened to the little Joseph?"
"Oh, yeah" he answered, pulled it out from under his pillow and handed it to me. "But it's OK, Mom,” he said, rubbing sleepy eyes, “Jesus said since I don't have a Daddy I could borrow his."
I kissed him, handed him back the statue, tucked the comforter around his neck, and went out of the room. It was not the first night I cried myself to sleep, nor will it be the last, I’m sure. But life is what it is. And we will go on.
So on this day I celebrate all the men who give a father's love to children not their own, and my Monday's child, who learned the hard way to appreciate life, and how to never take for granted time spent with those we love.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Black Friday
The day after Thanksgiving. Not a shopping day for me, can't stand the thought of fighting the crowds and spending on price-jacked items. Besides my spending ban during December, all is bought and wrapped and (thank you God) paid for.
Today I chose to decorate our home for Christmas.
And so the big white turkey platter sits shiny clean again on the breakfront shelf, the orange candles are relegated back into the decorator closet, and the bedroom decor has changed from cheery cranberry and faux fall floral to mad-about-plaid and Rudolph nose red. The ubiquitous garland drapes the stairs, there are wreaths on all the doors, bells hang from knobs, a snowman skates on the chair by the desk, there's a Christmas bear in the rocking chair, brass horns and stockings adorn the mantle, and angels deck the walls.
But there is no tinseled tree in the living room, nor one in the upstairs office. Somehow, this year, it seems more fitting to put the little soldier tree on the library table, and Mom's ceramic green one on the window sill.
This year I remember those who are not here to see. Those who will spend the Season in cold sand and blowing gritty snow, driving on, hugging love letters from home instead of loved ones who wait there. Those who look not to ghosts of Christmas past, but to a present with no IEDs, and forward, to happier times, and a Christmas yet to be.
God bless our Troops
Hold them gently In Your Hands
Give them Rest when They can find it
And Peace throughout the Land.
Today I chose to decorate our home for Christmas.
And so the big white turkey platter sits shiny clean again on the breakfront shelf, the orange candles are relegated back into the decorator closet, and the bedroom decor has changed from cheery cranberry and faux fall floral to mad-about-plaid and Rudolph nose red. The ubiquitous garland drapes the stairs, there are wreaths on all the doors, bells hang from knobs, a snowman skates on the chair by the desk, there's a Christmas bear in the rocking chair, brass horns and stockings adorn the mantle, and angels deck the walls.
But there is no tinseled tree in the living room, nor one in the upstairs office. Somehow, this year, it seems more fitting to put the little soldier tree on the library table, and Mom's ceramic green one on the window sill.
This year I remember those who are not here to see. Those who will spend the Season in cold sand and blowing gritty snow, driving on, hugging love letters from home instead of loved ones who wait there. Those who look not to ghosts of Christmas past, but to a present with no IEDs, and forward, to happier times, and a Christmas yet to be.
God bless our Troops
Hold them gently In Your Hands
Give them Rest when They can find it
And Peace throughout the Land.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
serves me right
Got up this morning, grabbed a cup of wake-up, and came upstairs to check the email.
Minutes later heard the most awful crash, then KTT came streaking upstairs and retreated under the desk, cowering at my feet.
When he moves that fast, it bodes no good.
I have a table runner in cheery red, gold, green, blue, and white plaid that goes well with both Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations. It has been on the library table in the living room for several weeks now. But for some reason, one of the gold tassels on the edge had come untucked and was obviously hanging down.
In plain sight of KTT.
Who decided it was meant specifically for him. Oh, joy, a new toy!!
And so everything that had been on the table was suddenly and in one fell swipe in disarray on the living room rug. Books open and upside down, candles strewn about, brass bells laying haphazardly next to nail clippers, and liquid potpourri dripping dripping dripping from the crystal bowl that rolled in slow motion on its side.
Well, I guess it serves me right.
There are three rules in life.
Never do anything in private you'll have to explain in public.
Never write anything you wouldn't want to see published in the Dallas News.
And never tempt a cat with a gold tassel.
Minutes later heard the most awful crash, then KTT came streaking upstairs and retreated under the desk, cowering at my feet.
When he moves that fast, it bodes no good.
I have a table runner in cheery red, gold, green, blue, and white plaid that goes well with both Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations. It has been on the library table in the living room for several weeks now. But for some reason, one of the gold tassels on the edge had come untucked and was obviously hanging down.
In plain sight of KTT.
Who decided it was meant specifically for him. Oh, joy, a new toy!!
And so everything that had been on the table was suddenly and in one fell swipe in disarray on the living room rug. Books open and upside down, candles strewn about, brass bells laying haphazardly next to nail clippers, and liquid potpourri dripping dripping dripping from the crystal bowl that rolled in slow motion on its side.
Well, I guess it serves me right.
There are three rules in life.
Never do anything in private you'll have to explain in public.
Never write anything you wouldn't want to see published in the Dallas News.
And never tempt a cat with a gold tassel.
Monday, November 16, 2009
More Adventures of KTT and ADD
Now that the mornings are cooler, I do my baking when I first get up. I do the prep work the night before, and then move the dish from refrigerator to oven, and while it's cooking, check the email. Made tuna casserole on Thursday, crushed potato chip topping and all, ready for Friday dawn. Popped it in the oven on the middle shelf, with a pork roast in the old blue-speckled covered pan right next to it, and because I am a frugal person and hate to waste a warm oven, added a tray of biscuits and a pan of corn bread to the top shelf.
Brought puppy into the kitchen for his breakfast. But instead of eating his food and then moving right along to the back yard, he refused to leave.
Discovered I had dropped some potato chips, and evidently KTT had soccered them into the far corner. I saw them right about the same time ADD did, but too late to swoop. He decided after inhaling that there just had to be more somewhere. So suddenly there was this bloodhound sniffing the entire kitchen, licking up any stray crumb he found, and begging for more chips.
Sigh. Out came the mop.
Oh, well, at least the floor was clean. Even if it was a day earlier than my normal schedule.
(p.s. My gal pal Sal says her dog likes to lick the floor, too. He also likes to lick feet. She says not all her friends appreciate it. Thanks, Sally, the visual kept me laughing all day!!)
Brought puppy into the kitchen for his breakfast. But instead of eating his food and then moving right along to the back yard, he refused to leave.
Discovered I had dropped some potato chips, and evidently KTT had soccered them into the far corner. I saw them right about the same time ADD did, but too late to swoop. He decided after inhaling that there just had to be more somewhere. So suddenly there was this bloodhound sniffing the entire kitchen, licking up any stray crumb he found, and begging for more chips.
Sigh. Out came the mop.
Oh, well, at least the floor was clean. Even if it was a day earlier than my normal schedule.
(p.s. My gal pal Sal says her dog likes to lick the floor, too. He also likes to lick feet. She says not all her friends appreciate it. Thanks, Sally, the visual kept me laughing all day!!)
otra vez
I've never owned a sofa that didn't belong to someone else first. The one we've had for the past 15 years was Mom's. Not my choice in color, not a great fabric, but it's serviceable and it's a queen pullout, and so it sits in the living room with a nice stretch-to-fit cover. And it does me just fine.
There's a tiny little child's chair in my dining room. I found it at a yard sale about 40 years ago. The marks on the top back slat are from Michael's teething. The little bear that sits in it was also a yard-sale find, from about 13 years ago. Bear's little scruffy stuffed arms are always stretched out ready for a hug. Around his neck he wears a yellow ribbon, he wears a yellow ribbon til the troops come home.
The desk by the front door was sitting next to a pile of trash at my boss's house when I spied it. Of course, once I asked if I could have it, boss lady decided it was very dear to her, but then said she could let it go for fifty dollars. It's almost a hundred years old, the finish has taken on a patina you get only after a near-century of love and polishing, but the drawers still pull without sticking and the fold down top makes the neatest writing table. It's full of odds and ends, mostly stuff that Jim has brought in from the garage or truck and wanted handy for the next time. And then forgot he put there.
My dog was in the please take me home puppy park before I found him fifteen years ago. One of the ladies who worked there had adopted him but brought him back when she found out she was preggers and so the new baby won out over a new puppy. But his little spotted tongue was always so ready to lick a friendly face, and he didn't know he was a cast-off. When I saw him I fell in love. Still am.
My cat belonged to someone else, too, but as soon as he was old enough to be wrenched from his mother's side, his owners drove up into our yard one dark night and threw him out the car door, then sped away into the black. We found him the next morning, shivering in the damp cold dawn, frightened, mewling for help. Jim said he was allergic to cats and I could keep it, but only if it stayed outside. Within a month Jim was crawling around on the great room floor, teaching kitty to chase and pounce on a string. Fourteen years later, kitty's still with us, but these days he prefers a bed that doesn't move to playing with a bug that does.
Heck, even Jim was someone else's husband before he was mine. Stupid woman. But I thank God every day she decided she'd rather not be a Marine Corps wife.
Second hand doesn't necessarily mean used up and ready for the trash heap. Sometimes it means being given a second chance at life. I get one every morning. And for that I am truly grateful.
There's a tiny little child's chair in my dining room. I found it at a yard sale about 40 years ago. The marks on the top back slat are from Michael's teething. The little bear that sits in it was also a yard-sale find, from about 13 years ago. Bear's little scruffy stuffed arms are always stretched out ready for a hug. Around his neck he wears a yellow ribbon, he wears a yellow ribbon til the troops come home.
The desk by the front door was sitting next to a pile of trash at my boss's house when I spied it. Of course, once I asked if I could have it, boss lady decided it was very dear to her, but then said she could let it go for fifty dollars. It's almost a hundred years old, the finish has taken on a patina you get only after a near-century of love and polishing, but the drawers still pull without sticking and the fold down top makes the neatest writing table. It's full of odds and ends, mostly stuff that Jim has brought in from the garage or truck and wanted handy for the next time. And then forgot he put there.
My dog was in the please take me home puppy park before I found him fifteen years ago. One of the ladies who worked there had adopted him but brought him back when she found out she was preggers and so the new baby won out over a new puppy. But his little spotted tongue was always so ready to lick a friendly face, and he didn't know he was a cast-off. When I saw him I fell in love. Still am.
My cat belonged to someone else, too, but as soon as he was old enough to be wrenched from his mother's side, his owners drove up into our yard one dark night and threw him out the car door, then sped away into the black. We found him the next morning, shivering in the damp cold dawn, frightened, mewling for help. Jim said he was allergic to cats and I could keep it, but only if it stayed outside. Within a month Jim was crawling around on the great room floor, teaching kitty to chase and pounce on a string. Fourteen years later, kitty's still with us, but these days he prefers a bed that doesn't move to playing with a bug that does.
Heck, even Jim was someone else's husband before he was mine. Stupid woman. But I thank God every day she decided she'd rather not be a Marine Corps wife.
Second hand doesn't necessarily mean used up and ready for the trash heap. Sometimes it means being given a second chance at life. I get one every morning. And for that I am truly grateful.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
In Praise of Veterans
Today I honor the soldiers in my life.
Some were wounded, came home, lived out their lives with pain an everyday reminder of where they'd been and what they'd done. They rest in gardens of stone. Grant them peace, Lord.
Some made the ultimate sacrifice. Hold them gently, Lord.
Some fight even now, their days focused not on the threat of an unheard fatal bullet, but on the value of each and every single human life. Guard and guide them, Lord.
Some are back home, living quiet lives unheralded by the world, but secure in the knowledge that we few, we happy few, are indeed a band of brothers and sisters. Heal our hearts, Lord.
Some were wounded, came home, lived out their lives with pain an everyday reminder of where they'd been and what they'd done. They rest in gardens of stone. Grant them peace, Lord.
Some made the ultimate sacrifice. Hold them gently, Lord.
Some fight even now, their days focused not on the threat of an unheard fatal bullet, but on the value of each and every single human life. Guard and guide them, Lord.
Some are back home, living quiet lives unheralded by the world, but secure in the knowledge that we few, we happy few, are indeed a band of brothers and sisters. Heal our hearts, Lord.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Not just brag - fact
I sat down this morning to write about my granddaughter. Remembered that the first time she was put into my arms, I fell in love, and knew then and there that I had the best reason in the world for being grateful on that Thanksgiving Day in Texas.At three, she visited me in North Carolina. She came down the hall toward my bedroom the first morning and saw the collection of brass bells and figurines on the shelves. But rather than touch anything, she called her Mom and pointed them out. No crying even when she was tired, no tantrums over anything. I’d never known a little one to be so well behaved. It was almost scarily unreal.
Through the years she has surpassed any expectation I ever had, and way more than fulfilled every dream.
Beauty, for sure. Brains, without doubt. Caring, definitely. Faithful, to the highest ideals. Loving, to an almost unbelievable degree.
After a few minutes I realized that even if I used all the positive adjectives in the world and wrote for days I would not even scratch the surface. And so, rather than enumerate, I’ll just sum up. She is everything I wish I had been at her age.
Cherished Hayes, I am so very, very proud to be your grandmother. Thank you for being you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
frosh football
And so the 2009 football season for the Martin Warrior Frosh is over. We had games cancelled due to lightning, games that were not cancelled even though the entire hour was played in the rain, fields so muddy nobody could hold onto the ball, wind so strong it knocked the ball off the kickoff tee, a couple of losses, a majority of wins, some completely happy players, some not so happy but promising to work on it, missed tackles that resulted in a score by the other guys, interceptions that set up scores by our guys, kickoff runbacks, recovered fumbles, quarterback sacks, highlights and lowlights.
Many thanks to the Arlington PD, whose presence was not only comforting but also personable. Their smiles after a win were just as big as those on the faces of the parents and grandparents who crowded the stands for every game. And we all stood at the gate and applauded as our young men came off the gridiron, no matter the score.
Didn't see a single penalty due to violent behavior or un-sportsman-like conduct. And most important, nobody got hurt. Grandson called it "Thursday Night Lights." I'd call it a pretty good season. Ya done good, guys. I’m proud of you all.
Many thanks to the Arlington PD, whose presence was not only comforting but also personable. Their smiles after a win were just as big as those on the faces of the parents and grandparents who crowded the stands for every game. And we all stood at the gate and applauded as our young men came off the gridiron, no matter the score.
Didn't see a single penalty due to violent behavior or un-sportsman-like conduct. And most important, nobody got hurt. Grandson called it "Thursday Night Lights." I'd call it a pretty good season. Ya done good, guys. I’m proud of you all.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
remember, remember
How many of you remember studying about Guy Fawkes Day in school?
You don't? I'm not surprised. After all, it happened in 1605. It was all about blowing up a building to set right the perceived wrongs imposed on the populace by a tyrannical government. The lyric poem starts, "Remember, remember, the fifth of November." Thirty years later my ancestors (on Dad's side) came to this country. I doubt that one had anything to do with the other. Sir Robert and his family were no doubt motivated more by royal land grant greed than any ideal of freedom. A hundred and forty years later this country fought a war for independence from that same government. Three hundred twenty years after the event that country stood alone, while the rest of the world looked on, as its soldiers flew and bombed and marched and fought and died for freedom from another kind of tyrant, and the most abhorrent evil kind of tyranny.
Today we find the methods of Fawkes and his not-so-merry band just as reprehensible as the torture used to obtain the "confession." Today the Fifth of November is lauded as Counter-terrorism Day. Today soldiers from that country join ours on battlefields far from home, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for freedom from tyranny in other little countries, for people with lifestyles so very different from ours but dreams and ideals so very similar.
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Whether you attribute that quote to Edmund Burke, Friedrich Nietzsche, George Washington, Harry Truman, or Ronald Reagan, the import is still the same.
"Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it." Sir Winston Churchill.
"I find it hard to believe that nobody in your government knows where they are and couldn't get them if they really wanted to." Hillary Clinton.
"If you're not willing to fight and die for freedom, it will inevitably and quickly no longer be yours to enjoy." Pat Thibodeau.
Remember, remember, the 5th of November. And the 11th of September. And the 19th of April, the 26th of February, and the month of October, 2009.
You don't? I'm not surprised. After all, it happened in 1605. It was all about blowing up a building to set right the perceived wrongs imposed on the populace by a tyrannical government. The lyric poem starts, "Remember, remember, the fifth of November." Thirty years later my ancestors (on Dad's side) came to this country. I doubt that one had anything to do with the other. Sir Robert and his family were no doubt motivated more by royal land grant greed than any ideal of freedom. A hundred and forty years later this country fought a war for independence from that same government. Three hundred twenty years after the event that country stood alone, while the rest of the world looked on, as its soldiers flew and bombed and marched and fought and died for freedom from another kind of tyrant, and the most abhorrent evil kind of tyranny.
Today we find the methods of Fawkes and his not-so-merry band just as reprehensible as the torture used to obtain the "confession." Today the Fifth of November is lauded as Counter-terrorism Day. Today soldiers from that country join ours on battlefields far from home, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for freedom from tyranny in other little countries, for people with lifestyles so very different from ours but dreams and ideals so very similar.
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Whether you attribute that quote to Edmund Burke, Friedrich Nietzsche, George Washington, Harry Truman, or Ronald Reagan, the import is still the same.
"Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it." Sir Winston Churchill.
"I find it hard to believe that nobody in your government knows where they are and couldn't get them if they really wanted to." Hillary Clinton.
"If you're not willing to fight and die for freedom, it will inevitably and quickly no longer be yours to enjoy." Pat Thibodeau.
Remember, remember, the 5th of November. And the 11th of September. And the 19th of April, the 26th of February, and the month of October, 2009.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
on y va
Every January, when the greeting cards go on sale, I buy a box and put them in the desk drawer. I don't figure anybody will mind, or even know, the design is a year old by the time I mail them. But noticed on October 30 that woodyworld had already moved all the hallowe'en and fall stuff to one small aisle. Nothing discounted yet, but that probably happened at 12:01 AM the first of November.
There were five aisles of Christmas ornaments and employees were moving merchandise to make room for more. Trees galore. Stockings hanging from the rafters. Sparkly ribbons to decorate home and package abound. Wreaths of every type adorn all the end displays. Saw a young mother standing in the toy aisle, and put my hands over my ears to block the sound of the child in the basket screeching for an immediate purchase. DON'T WANT LAYAWAY WANT DOLLY NOW!
Television ads that have Christmas music in the background started running on Sunday afternoon. Poor Thanksgiving. The forgotten holiday.
I buy presents all year long. When I see something that I KNOW someone will like, I buy it right then and bring it home and store it in the holiday closet. MOF, not only is everything purchased well in advance, but I usually have it all wrapped and ready to put under the tree the first weekend in December when I decorate the house.
Today on the news I heard that this is expected to be the worst shopping season in history due to decreased spending. But I hear the same scare tactics every year. I'm sick of the annual dire economic forecasts, and tired of retailers who try to bully me. So this year I'm going to make it a point to NOT buy any gift between the last day of November and the first day of January. I'm sure my lack of purchase won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things. And I doubt that any of the economic gurus will notice, even if a bunch of us do it. But that's my suthren-country-tail and I'm sitting on it.
There were five aisles of Christmas ornaments and employees were moving merchandise to make room for more. Trees galore. Stockings hanging from the rafters. Sparkly ribbons to decorate home and package abound. Wreaths of every type adorn all the end displays. Saw a young mother standing in the toy aisle, and put my hands over my ears to block the sound of the child in the basket screeching for an immediate purchase. DON'T WANT LAYAWAY WANT DOLLY NOW!
Television ads that have Christmas music in the background started running on Sunday afternoon. Poor Thanksgiving. The forgotten holiday.
I buy presents all year long. When I see something that I KNOW someone will like, I buy it right then and bring it home and store it in the holiday closet. MOF, not only is everything purchased well in advance, but I usually have it all wrapped and ready to put under the tree the first weekend in December when I decorate the house.
Today on the news I heard that this is expected to be the worst shopping season in history due to decreased spending. But I hear the same scare tactics every year. I'm sick of the annual dire economic forecasts, and tired of retailers who try to bully me. So this year I'm going to make it a point to NOT buy any gift between the last day of November and the first day of January. I'm sure my lack of purchase won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things. And I doubt that any of the economic gurus will notice, even if a bunch of us do it. But that's my suthren-country-tail and I'm sitting on it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
I'm Such a Sucker
One of the joys of being retired is that I don't have to keep to any particular schedule. More storms were scheduled to hit on Thursday so last week I did my shopping on Wednesday.
First stop drug store. As I drove across the Boxcar Willie Memorial Bridge (yeah, I know, nowhere but Texas) just out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple of people standing on the northeast side. Not an uncommon experience, to see pedestrians. But they had a dog with them. And that's not common.
Purchases made, I was back on the road. Looked for the peds, not there.
However, around the curve and just before the entrance to the interstate, there they stood. He and she pinch-faced in the cold damp wind, wearing no-logo lightweight blue hoodies. He was holding a sign that stated, "Stranded, trying to get wife and puppy back home to Idaho. Any help appreciated." The dog was indeed a puppy. A solid black lab. Bright blue collar. Tattered rope leash, which she held tightly in her grip.
And I caved.
I don't normally carry cash but I remembered that when I bought the hamburgers for Austin's birthday on Saturday I had paid with a twenty, and there had been several singles plus coins in change. I pulled over, and dug in my wallet, then hit the button to lower the front passenger window. Held up the dollars. She came running to the car, puppy scampering to keep up with her.
I handed her the bills and said, "That's all I have, I'm sorry I don't have more." She smiled, said, "God bless you," took the cash, and then quickly stepped back from the car. I put the window up and drove away knowing it's true. God does bless me. In more ways than I realize. And, quite frankly, I don't know whether they were really stranded or not, don't care if they're headed to Idaho or Itaska or even just down the road to their real residence.
It was the dog that got me. I just hope they feed it good, because it's the best beard I've seen in a long, long time.
First stop drug store. As I drove across the Boxcar Willie Memorial Bridge (yeah, I know, nowhere but Texas) just out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple of people standing on the northeast side. Not an uncommon experience, to see pedestrians. But they had a dog with them. And that's not common.
Purchases made, I was back on the road. Looked for the peds, not there.
However, around the curve and just before the entrance to the interstate, there they stood. He and she pinch-faced in the cold damp wind, wearing no-logo lightweight blue hoodies. He was holding a sign that stated, "Stranded, trying to get wife and puppy back home to Idaho. Any help appreciated." The dog was indeed a puppy. A solid black lab. Bright blue collar. Tattered rope leash, which she held tightly in her grip.
And I caved.
I don't normally carry cash but I remembered that when I bought the hamburgers for Austin's birthday on Saturday I had paid with a twenty, and there had been several singles plus coins in change. I pulled over, and dug in my wallet, then hit the button to lower the front passenger window. Held up the dollars. She came running to the car, puppy scampering to keep up with her.
I handed her the bills and said, "That's all I have, I'm sorry I don't have more." She smiled, said, "God bless you," took the cash, and then quickly stepped back from the car. I put the window up and drove away knowing it's true. God does bless me. In more ways than I realize. And, quite frankly, I don't know whether they were really stranded or not, don't care if they're headed to Idaho or Itaska or even just down the road to their real residence.
It was the dog that got me. I just hope they feed it good, because it's the best beard I've seen in a long, long time.
Monday, November 2, 2009
rock star
AP classes require a lot of homework, especially when you maintain a stellar grade point average, but after it’s done, most evenings you’ll find him in his room practicing the euphonium. I’m pretty sure I’d never seen a euphonium, much less heard of it, until his Mom told me he was playing.
He started his music lessons with the piano but soon graduated to the more sophisticated element. He’s been at it for only a few months but has already made first chair. Besides, he says, you just don’t see that many pianos on the field at halftime, so the decision was a no-brainer.
When he’s not dazzling listeners with the euphonium, he’s having fun with Guitar Hero. Several of his friends join in. And then the guys across the street start and first thing you know it’s weekend-rock-star-wars in Arlington.
But whatever he plays, any field he studies, he approaches it all with the same elegant determination – simply to be the best. He succeeds way beyond my wildest dreams. Mark my words, you’ll hear his name again someday. Either as the inventor of something marvelous for mankind, the winner of some internationally prestigious prize, or wowing a crowd with his musical brilliance. Slater Matthew, my star.
He started his music lessons with the piano but soon graduated to the more sophisticated element. He’s been at it for only a few months but has already made first chair. Besides, he says, you just don’t see that many pianos on the field at halftime, so the decision was a no-brainer.
When he’s not dazzling listeners with the euphonium, he’s having fun with Guitar Hero. Several of his friends join in. And then the guys across the street start and first thing you know it’s weekend-rock-star-wars in Arlington.
But whatever he plays, any field he studies, he approaches it all with the same elegant determination – simply to be the best. He succeeds way beyond my wildest dreams. Mark my words, you’ll hear his name again someday. Either as the inventor of something marvelous for mankind, the winner of some internationally prestigious prize, or wowing a crowd with his musical brilliance. Slater Matthew, my star.
gramma's brag book
The center snaps the ball. The quarterback hands off to the running back. The running back takes three steps to the side. Who-a--o-o-m-m-p!!!!! Martin High Warrior freshman middle linebacker Garrett Persons makes the stop. WOOHOO 64!!!
And that's pretty much the way it went the whole game. Wet field. Running backs slipping and sliding in the mud. Wet ball. Quarterbacks losing the skin all over the place. Fumble recoveries on both sides. Our guys blocking the two PATs.
An hour of heart-stopping action, especially the last 30 seconds when the opposing team's final drive ended inches away from the goal line. And then the refs put two seconds back on the clock.
The twenty cheerleaders went wild with high kicks. The band in the practice field next to the stadium played louder. Both stands were full of people on their feet, screaming, SCREAMing, SCREAMING.
Again the MARTIN WARRIOR DEFENSE held 'em down!!!!!! And it was over with another game chalked to the win column.
The two teams met in the middle of the field and shook hands down the line, coaches thanking the refs and congratulating each other for a good clean (despite the mud) game, then slapping players hands as they ran off the field together.
Man!! I can't think of a better way to spend a Thursday night!! (Took hours for my feet to thaw out. Two pairs of socks and a red and black blanket are ready for this week.)
We caught up with Garrett after the game. His Dad, a little more fleet of foot than we girls, got there first and hugged him with the pride that only a father can have, and is allowed to show. His Mom, through her grin, said, "I'll hug you later." Bless her. It's ok for a Dad to hug a warrior, but Moms need to wait for the privacy of home and kitchen.
I wasn't sure what to do, not wanting to cause him the slightest feeling of unease, so just held up my hand for a high five. He slapped my palm, but then wrapped his whole big muddy hand around my thumb and held on for several seconds as he thanked me for being there. "Good job!" I told him. His answering smile said it all.
OK, I never heard a winner say "It doesn't matter if you win or lose it's how you play the game that counts." But a gramma is allowed to say "It doesn't matter to me if you win or lose" and then add the unspoken wish, "just please don't get hurt."
And that's pretty much the way it went the whole game. Wet field. Running backs slipping and sliding in the mud. Wet ball. Quarterbacks losing the skin all over the place. Fumble recoveries on both sides. Our guys blocking the two PATs.
An hour of heart-stopping action, especially the last 30 seconds when the opposing team's final drive ended inches away from the goal line. And then the refs put two seconds back on the clock.
The twenty cheerleaders went wild with high kicks. The band in the practice field next to the stadium played louder. Both stands were full of people on their feet, screaming, SCREAMing, SCREAMING.
Again the MARTIN WARRIOR DEFENSE held 'em down!!!!!! And it was over with another game chalked to the win column.
The two teams met in the middle of the field and shook hands down the line, coaches thanking the refs and congratulating each other for a good clean (despite the mud) game, then slapping players hands as they ran off the field together.
Man!! I can't think of a better way to spend a Thursday night!! (Took hours for my feet to thaw out. Two pairs of socks and a red and black blanket are ready for this week.)
We caught up with Garrett after the game. His Dad, a little more fleet of foot than we girls, got there first and hugged him with the pride that only a father can have, and is allowed to show. His Mom, through her grin, said, "I'll hug you later." Bless her. It's ok for a Dad to hug a warrior, but Moms need to wait for the privacy of home and kitchen.
I wasn't sure what to do, not wanting to cause him the slightest feeling of unease, so just held up my hand for a high five. He slapped my palm, but then wrapped his whole big muddy hand around my thumb and held on for several seconds as he thanked me for being there. "Good job!" I told him. His answering smile said it all.
OK, I never heard a winner say "It doesn't matter if you win or lose it's how you play the game that counts." But a gramma is allowed to say "It doesn't matter to me if you win or lose" and then add the unspoken wish, "just please don't get hurt."
the cheerleader
He was a football player and she was a cheerleader. High school years were marvelous for them. They shared moments both on and off the field, on and off the bus. When he went away to college, she went, too. No longer a cheerleader on the field, she concentrated on grades and getting a degree, but still managed to be at every game. Each time he suffered a crushing tackle, her heart stopped, and didn't beat again until he got up and walked back to the huddle. Each time he scored a touchdown she felt her heart soar and her screams of joy could be heard in the next county. He was her heart, her hero, her everything, and she was his cheerleader.
Graduation came, they found jobs, he in telecom, she in quality. Six months later they walked down the aisle and pledged their love, saying vows in front of God and family, and started their life together as husband and wife. Later, when babies blessed their union, she gave up her job and stayed home to raise them. Her family became her reason to cheer, and she did it every day, in every way.
When the children brought home those crazy little off-kilter ashtrays from school she proudly displayed them on the bookcase in the den. Every handmade Christmas decoration was lovingly hung on the tree, and then wrapped in tissue and saved each year. The refrigerator door was papered with tests marked 'A'. She was still a cheerleader at heart, she just had a smaller audience.
Each time husband got a promotion, she fixed a special dinner. When times got hard and the job got harder, she suffered in sympathetic silence as he wondered at his choices, but rubbed his back and smoothed his temples and told him how much she believed in him, that anything he did was fine with her. For he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader at heart,
The children entered high school, but college tuition increased every year, and the economy was not looking all that great, so she went back to work. The concrete floors played havoc with her feet and knees, but she never said anything, just went about her business and cheered at every game, every gymnastic event, every track meet. Hubby's jobs came and went, but she cheered all his pursuits.
And then came his heart attack. Sitting at his bedside in ICU, she never cried, just cheered for his recovery with her smiles. Rehab was tough for him, but not as bad as the alternative. Going to work each day and coming home to fix dinner, she listened to him recount the details of each session and cheered each accomplishment. She learned to manage her time so she could do the shopping on her way home from work, laundry, housework and mowing the yard on Saturday. And when he was ready, she drove them to Sunday School. Because recovery is a multi-faceted endeavor, and getting him out of the house for some fun was as important as physical therapy. When he stood at the podium in front of the class and told everyone he was glad to be back, hers was the biggest smile in the room. Because he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader at heart.
But rehab couldn't fix everything, and he couldn't go back to work. Paperwork for disability claims was a nightmare, but she kept at it until it was done. And kept on going to work every day. Despite the pain in her knees that seemed almost more than she could bear at times. Because she was a cheerleader at heart.
And so they settled into a routine. He would do the minor housekeeping chores while she was at work. She cheered him on, said thank you for every one, and then quietly did the heavy lifting on the weekends.
The children graduated from college, but even with the decreased financial outgo, she kept on going to work. Because while he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader, she was also realistic enough to know that it was her job to prepare for their future.
She got laid off when her company went under. But her cheerleader spirit stood her in good stead, and she quickly found another job. Not in her chosen field, but still with concrete floors. Her pain increased, but she never said a word, just kept on keeping on.
Until the day she woke, and showered, and dressed, but discovered that the pain was so great she could not bend her knees to tie her shoes.
She cried.
He found her there, in the bedroom chair. Hearing her explanation, he wiped her tears, and kneeling at her feet, tied the laces on her sneakers. She apologized for no longer being able to do everything by herself.
But as he sat on the floor and cradled her foot tenderly in his huge hands, he looked up at her with the biggest smile and said, "For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live." Then he took a small piece of much-folded time-stained paper from his wallet, and said, "Your Dad gave me this the day you and I wed. He said the only promise he wanted from me was that I should read it every day and take it to heart. And I have. And now I want to share it with you.” And he began to read to her, in his once big voice now made gentle through years and circumstance.
"When God created man and placed him in the Garden of Eden, He saw that it was not good for man to live alone. So God prepared a helper and a companion for man - woman. In this act of creation, God didn't take the woman from man's head, lest she should try to rule over him, not from his feet, lest he should trample on her, but from his side, that she should be equal with him, and from close to his heart, that he should love, cherish, and honor her. God presented woman to man that each might be the other's helper and companion. Marriage is God's gift to deliver us from our isolation and loneliness. It is our opportunity to give each other the gifts of God and to receive the gifts of God from each other. Marriage is a commitment to life - to the best that two people can find and bring out in each other. It offers opportunities for sharing and growth that no other human relationship can equal, a physical and emotional joining that is promised for a lifetime. Within the circle of its love, marriage encompasses all of life's most important relationships. A wife and a husband are each other's best friend, confidant, lover, teacher, listener, and critic. Marriage deepens and enriches every facet of life. There may come times when one partner is heartbroken or ailing, and the love of the other may resemble the tender caring of a parent for a child, but this is as it should be. Marriage is a promise made in the hearts of two people who love, a potential that takes a lifetime to fulfill."
He put the paper on the floor, and with tears running down his big loving face said, "There is no one in life I admire more than you. I haven't always told you so but I know your spirit is what has kept us going through the years. You have always been my heart, my hero. Now let me be your cheerleader, too."
Graduation came, they found jobs, he in telecom, she in quality. Six months later they walked down the aisle and pledged their love, saying vows in front of God and family, and started their life together as husband and wife. Later, when babies blessed their union, she gave up her job and stayed home to raise them. Her family became her reason to cheer, and she did it every day, in every way.
When the children brought home those crazy little off-kilter ashtrays from school she proudly displayed them on the bookcase in the den. Every handmade Christmas decoration was lovingly hung on the tree, and then wrapped in tissue and saved each year. The refrigerator door was papered with tests marked 'A'. She was still a cheerleader at heart, she just had a smaller audience.
Each time husband got a promotion, she fixed a special dinner. When times got hard and the job got harder, she suffered in sympathetic silence as he wondered at his choices, but rubbed his back and smoothed his temples and told him how much she believed in him, that anything he did was fine with her. For he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader at heart,
The children entered high school, but college tuition increased every year, and the economy was not looking all that great, so she went back to work. The concrete floors played havoc with her feet and knees, but she never said anything, just went about her business and cheered at every game, every gymnastic event, every track meet. Hubby's jobs came and went, but she cheered all his pursuits.
And then came his heart attack. Sitting at his bedside in ICU, she never cried, just cheered for his recovery with her smiles. Rehab was tough for him, but not as bad as the alternative. Going to work each day and coming home to fix dinner, she listened to him recount the details of each session and cheered each accomplishment. She learned to manage her time so she could do the shopping on her way home from work, laundry, housework and mowing the yard on Saturday. And when he was ready, she drove them to Sunday School. Because recovery is a multi-faceted endeavor, and getting him out of the house for some fun was as important as physical therapy. When he stood at the podium in front of the class and told everyone he was glad to be back, hers was the biggest smile in the room. Because he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader at heart.
But rehab couldn't fix everything, and he couldn't go back to work. Paperwork for disability claims was a nightmare, but she kept at it until it was done. And kept on going to work every day. Despite the pain in her knees that seemed almost more than she could bear at times. Because she was a cheerleader at heart.
And so they settled into a routine. He would do the minor housekeeping chores while she was at work. She cheered him on, said thank you for every one, and then quietly did the heavy lifting on the weekends.
The children graduated from college, but even with the decreased financial outgo, she kept on going to work. Because while he was still her hero and she was still a cheerleader, she was also realistic enough to know that it was her job to prepare for their future.
She got laid off when her company went under. But her cheerleader spirit stood her in good stead, and she quickly found another job. Not in her chosen field, but still with concrete floors. Her pain increased, but she never said a word, just kept on keeping on.
Until the day she woke, and showered, and dressed, but discovered that the pain was so great she could not bend her knees to tie her shoes.
She cried.
He found her there, in the bedroom chair. Hearing her explanation, he wiped her tears, and kneeling at her feet, tied the laces on her sneakers. She apologized for no longer being able to do everything by herself.
But as he sat on the floor and cradled her foot tenderly in his huge hands, he looked up at her with the biggest smile and said, "For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live." Then he took a small piece of much-folded time-stained paper from his wallet, and said, "Your Dad gave me this the day you and I wed. He said the only promise he wanted from me was that I should read it every day and take it to heart. And I have. And now I want to share it with you.” And he began to read to her, in his once big voice now made gentle through years and circumstance.
"When God created man and placed him in the Garden of Eden, He saw that it was not good for man to live alone. So God prepared a helper and a companion for man - woman. In this act of creation, God didn't take the woman from man's head, lest she should try to rule over him, not from his feet, lest he should trample on her, but from his side, that she should be equal with him, and from close to his heart, that he should love, cherish, and honor her. God presented woman to man that each might be the other's helper and companion. Marriage is God's gift to deliver us from our isolation and loneliness. It is our opportunity to give each other the gifts of God and to receive the gifts of God from each other. Marriage is a commitment to life - to the best that two people can find and bring out in each other. It offers opportunities for sharing and growth that no other human relationship can equal, a physical and emotional joining that is promised for a lifetime. Within the circle of its love, marriage encompasses all of life's most important relationships. A wife and a husband are each other's best friend, confidant, lover, teacher, listener, and critic. Marriage deepens and enriches every facet of life. There may come times when one partner is heartbroken or ailing, and the love of the other may resemble the tender caring of a parent for a child, but this is as it should be. Marriage is a promise made in the hearts of two people who love, a potential that takes a lifetime to fulfill."
He put the paper on the floor, and with tears running down his big loving face said, "There is no one in life I admire more than you. I haven't always told you so but I know your spirit is what has kept us going through the years. You have always been my heart, my hero. Now let me be your cheerleader, too."
misery is optional
"Old wood to burn, old books to read, old wine to drink, old friends to trust." And I will add old TV shows to inspire. Since Jim's return from Iraq, he's been catching up on episodes that aired while he was gone. USA network has graced us with hours and hours of one of his favorites, NCIS (the original). Some of them I've seen, but that's ok, I watch along with him. Early this morning, as he lay there beside me, he was watching another one. I drifted between nod and doze and didn't pay much attention until the last three minutes, when the song they played made me sit up and listen.
The episode ended, Jim pressed delete, turned off the screen, and snuggled 'neath the down to sleep, finally.
But I could not. The words were gone and the room was quiet, but the message echoed in my mind. I got up, fed kitty, brewed a pot, and hit the search bar. "All We Are" by Matt Nathanson. It was another one of those serendipity moments that crowd my life.
"It's hard to change the way you lose
If you think you've never won...
And in the end the words won't matter
In the end nothing stays the same
And in the end dreams just scatter and fall like rain
'Cause all we are we are
All we are we are
And every day's a start of something beautiful, something real."
Rather than dwell on days and nights long gone, instead of focusing on things that can never be, refusing to be a slave to past hurts, I choose life today, and the sure and certain hope of better memories to come.
True learning almost always involves pain. But misery is optional. Loss is an inevitable part of life. It's what we do afterwards that counts.
The episode ended, Jim pressed delete, turned off the screen, and snuggled 'neath the down to sleep, finally.
But I could not. The words were gone and the room was quiet, but the message echoed in my mind. I got up, fed kitty, brewed a pot, and hit the search bar. "All We Are" by Matt Nathanson. It was another one of those serendipity moments that crowd my life.
"It's hard to change the way you lose
If you think you've never won...
And in the end the words won't matter
In the end nothing stays the same
And in the end dreams just scatter and fall like rain
'Cause all we are we are
All we are we are
And every day's a start of something beautiful, something real."
Rather than dwell on days and nights long gone, instead of focusing on things that can never be, refusing to be a slave to past hurts, I choose life today, and the sure and certain hope of better memories to come.
True learning almost always involves pain. But misery is optional. Loss is an inevitable part of life. It's what we do afterwards that counts.
warm thoughts
The rain is gone for a while. The house creaks in protest at the blissfully cool air of the pre-dawn hours.
Poopster puppy's clock is on snooze.
Kitty The Traitor no longer sleeps at my feet as I read the morning email, choosing instead the plush warmth of the down comforter and his place on the bed at Jim's feet.
MOF, KTT doesn't bother with me much at all anymore, unless the treat bowl is empty. He still herds me to the litter box after a deposit, but for the most part he has forgiven the prolonged absence and resumed his chosen station in life as Jim's biggest fan. So funny to see the two of them curled together in the living room chair-and-a-half, snoozing through the afternoon.
And so I am left to my own devices, just me and the light from the computer screen and a now-tepid cuppa, pleased with the weekend's football scores, looking forward to an uneventful week, chicken baking in the oven, and warmed by my thoughts of you.
Poopster puppy's clock is on snooze.
Kitty The Traitor no longer sleeps at my feet as I read the morning email, choosing instead the plush warmth of the down comforter and his place on the bed at Jim's feet.
MOF, KTT doesn't bother with me much at all anymore, unless the treat bowl is empty. He still herds me to the litter box after a deposit, but for the most part he has forgiven the prolonged absence and resumed his chosen station in life as Jim's biggest fan. So funny to see the two of them curled together in the living room chair-and-a-half, snoozing through the afternoon.
And so I am left to my own devices, just me and the light from the computer screen and a now-tepid cuppa, pleased with the weekend's football scores, looking forward to an uneventful week, chicken baking in the oven, and warmed by my thoughts of you.
fit fare
Got up this morning and decided to bake. Shortly thereafter a pan of biscuits was in the oven on the center rack. And not to waste a warm oven, a loaf pan of banana bread and a bundt pan of gingerbread soon occupied the top rack. Cream cheese frosting at the ready for when the treats cooled.
Realized there was no one home to lick the spoon. Oh, I could have done it myself, and believe you me I was tempted, but I heard Mama's voice in my head say "a minute on the lips five millenia on the hips." And batter batter batter is fare fit for neither KTT nor The Poopster.
So I simply filled the empty mixing bowl with water and added the spoon, then sat back to wait for the timer to chime at the requisite 35 minutes.
My house smells like November. Wish it smelled like children.
Realized there was no one home to lick the spoon. Oh, I could have done it myself, and believe you me I was tempted, but I heard Mama's voice in my head say "a minute on the lips five millenia on the hips." And batter batter batter is fare fit for neither KTT nor The Poopster.
So I simply filled the empty mixing bowl with water and added the spoon, then sat back to wait for the timer to chime at the requisite 35 minutes.
My house smells like November. Wish it smelled like children.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
powerful things
This is a day for memories.
Like the morning I witnessed the test firing of the Atlas rocket. Dad and Sonny and I stood on a hill a mile from the blockhouse at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. The rocket was clamped to a tower. The noise, oh, the noise! Dad was standing right next to me, yelling in my ear. I could see his mouth move, but I couldn't hear or understand anything he said. It was much worse than the earthquake a couple of years before that shook us out of our beds. The test-firing didn't last long but it was long enough to convince me that the rocket was the most powerful thing on earth.
I was about ten years old one evening when Dad and I stood in the backyard in Birmingham, watching a tornado form in the southwestern sky. He said a tornado sounds like a train. As we stood there I couldn't imagine how a train whistle could sound like a storm. But that's not what he meant. That rumbly, deep, growly, angry-bear sound, that's what he meant. We would have stayed out longer but Mother got nervous and made us come into the basement. The tornado hit Hall's Chapel. Next day I looked at pictures of the devastation in the news. I thought a tornado must be the most powerful thing on earth.
Or the day I walked out of the courthouse, divorce papers in hand. I could have stayed in the relationship, but after seven years the tears far outweighed the laughter. I had once considered young love the most powerful thing on earth. But that day, right then, the most powerful thing on earth, for me, was the right to choose.
Priorities change with circumstance. And so do my opinions. And that’s ok. Through this journey of life, I’ve learned that the most powerful force is not the Army, or prison walls. It’s not love, young or any other kind. Not death, not grief. Not rockets, not tornadoes, not earthquakes. It’s neither indifference nor forgiveness. And it’s not memory, mine or anybody else’s. It’s not even, as I once thought, freedom of choice. Today I know that the most powerful thing on earth is unconditional love.
Like the morning I witnessed the test firing of the Atlas rocket. Dad and Sonny and I stood on a hill a mile from the blockhouse at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. The rocket was clamped to a tower. The noise, oh, the noise! Dad was standing right next to me, yelling in my ear. I could see his mouth move, but I couldn't hear or understand anything he said. It was much worse than the earthquake a couple of years before that shook us out of our beds. The test-firing didn't last long but it was long enough to convince me that the rocket was the most powerful thing on earth.
I was about ten years old one evening when Dad and I stood in the backyard in Birmingham, watching a tornado form in the southwestern sky. He said a tornado sounds like a train. As we stood there I couldn't imagine how a train whistle could sound like a storm. But that's not what he meant. That rumbly, deep, growly, angry-bear sound, that's what he meant. We would have stayed out longer but Mother got nervous and made us come into the basement. The tornado hit Hall's Chapel. Next day I looked at pictures of the devastation in the news. I thought a tornado must be the most powerful thing on earth.
Or the day I walked out of the courthouse, divorce papers in hand. I could have stayed in the relationship, but after seven years the tears far outweighed the laughter. I had once considered young love the most powerful thing on earth. But that day, right then, the most powerful thing on earth, for me, was the right to choose.
Priorities change with circumstance. And so do my opinions. And that’s ok. Through this journey of life, I’ve learned that the most powerful force is not the Army, or prison walls. It’s not love, young or any other kind. Not death, not grief. Not rockets, not tornadoes, not earthquakes. It’s neither indifference nor forgiveness. And it’s not memory, mine or anybody else’s. It’s not even, as I once thought, freedom of choice. Today I know that the most powerful thing on earth is unconditional love.
November
From the comfort of his easy chair Jim watched as I traipsed up and down the stairs, placing luscious-colored leaves and flowers, scarecrows and pumpkins, into display position on the front porch and around the living room and dining room.
After my third trip he said, "honey, what are you doing?" I replied, "it’s November."
He sat for a minute, then said, "You're kidding. Where has the time gone?"
He'd been futzing around with the DVD player, mumbling about how it's gone bad. He'd already gotten out the cleaner disk, and spent a few minutes on that. But he was still grumbling about our DVD player being shot, not worth a bladabladablady.
I asked if he had tried to play that particular DVD in the bedroom. He glared at me, said, "Are you trying to tell me my diagnostic skills are lacking?" I didn't offer my opinion that perhaps a DVD he brought back from Iraq might not have been manufactured with American quality standards. I just said, “no, but if the DVD won't play in the bedroom, too, then we're sure of the nature of the problem.
As he went off to the bedroom I heard him say, sotto voce, "I KNOW the nature of the problem."
An hour later, I went into the bedroom. He was asleep. The DVD player was off. The DVD was in the trashcan next to the bed. I didn't hear another word about the player. Which, by the way, worked just fine the rest of the day. I will look for another copy of the DVD this morning at wally world, and if it's not there, will order one online.
But this morning, during my mediation, I realized that there was more to the incident than the surface issues of DVDs and players. In life there's usually more than one way to look at almost everything. But sometimes I jump to conclusions. The actual circumstance doesn't matter. I have something so deep in my head that another opinion makes no sense to me and I disregard it automatically because it's not MY opinion.
Perhaps I'm so bull-headed that I simply will pay no attention to what someone else thinks. While rational thinking says there MAY BE another way of looking at it I'm so dead set that it's my way or the gunny highway that I'm unwilling to even listen to another option.
Sometimes I listen but I do not hear. I allow the cacophony of worldly cares to drown out the whisper of what really matters. And so today I will listen to the crows, but also hear the sparrows.
After my third trip he said, "honey, what are you doing?" I replied, "it’s November."
He sat for a minute, then said, "You're kidding. Where has the time gone?"
He'd been futzing around with the DVD player, mumbling about how it's gone bad. He'd already gotten out the cleaner disk, and spent a few minutes on that. But he was still grumbling about our DVD player being shot, not worth a bladabladablady.
I asked if he had tried to play that particular DVD in the bedroom. He glared at me, said, "Are you trying to tell me my diagnostic skills are lacking?" I didn't offer my opinion that perhaps a DVD he brought back from Iraq might not have been manufactured with American quality standards. I just said, “no, but if the DVD won't play in the bedroom, too, then we're sure of the nature of the problem.
As he went off to the bedroom I heard him say, sotto voce, "I KNOW the nature of the problem."
An hour later, I went into the bedroom. He was asleep. The DVD player was off. The DVD was in the trashcan next to the bed. I didn't hear another word about the player. Which, by the way, worked just fine the rest of the day. I will look for another copy of the DVD this morning at wally world, and if it's not there, will order one online.
But this morning, during my mediation, I realized that there was more to the incident than the surface issues of DVDs and players. In life there's usually more than one way to look at almost everything. But sometimes I jump to conclusions. The actual circumstance doesn't matter. I have something so deep in my head that another opinion makes no sense to me and I disregard it automatically because it's not MY opinion.
Perhaps I'm so bull-headed that I simply will pay no attention to what someone else thinks. While rational thinking says there MAY BE another way of looking at it I'm so dead set that it's my way or the gunny highway that I'm unwilling to even listen to another option.
Sometimes I listen but I do not hear. I allow the cacophony of worldly cares to drown out the whisper of what really matters. And so today I will listen to the crows, but also hear the sparrows.
flights of fancy
Heard the rain this morning. Got pretty heavy for a while. I was glad I didn't have to be out in it. It will probably stop before time to leave for Sunday School. And thank you, God, for a good roof.
Next thought was "oh, rats, I shoulda put the grill in the garage yesterday when I was thinking about it." Flipped on the light switch and shot a quick glance to the back patio. Yep, sodden. Oh, well. I'll dry it off and bring it in this afternoon.
Spied the lawn chairs, folded up and leaning rigidly against the patio table. I think I'll leave them out for a few more days. Weather in Texas being the way it is, there are perhaps twenty days in a year that I can actually sit on the patio, and drink coffee laced with delicious morning air.
Also saw the leaves, still for the most part green, but advancing yellow and red becoming a part of the landscape. And wondered about why leaves change color in the fall. Did a quick internet search and came up with thousands of sites where people have expounded on the various chemicals in trees and which ones cause leaves to turn red, or yellow, or brown.
Also saw that the amount of rainfall, the amount of sun and clouds during the day, and the temperature at night all contribute to whether we have a glorious autumn display or not. But could not find anybody who had written a definitive answer for the question of why.
"While scientists understand what causes the leaves to change color, they know virtually nothing about why they change. What role does this phenomenon play in nature's broad scheme of things? The answer may be none at all. In his book Leaves: Their Amazing Lives and Strange Behavior, researcher James Poling writes: 'This is both surprising and puzzling, since nature seldom wastes energy to no purpose. Yet as far as botanists can determine, the chemical energy that goes into the painting of a leaf is of no benefit at all to the plant. The colors seem merely to herald the end of a leaf's life cycle.' "
I think I know something they don't. How marvelous that the creator, with infinite wisdom, gave us something with no purely scientific reason. It just is.
Flights of fancy abound.
Mine, and yours, to enjoy the result of the Great Painter's brush.
Next thought was "oh, rats, I shoulda put the grill in the garage yesterday when I was thinking about it." Flipped on the light switch and shot a quick glance to the back patio. Yep, sodden. Oh, well. I'll dry it off and bring it in this afternoon.
Spied the lawn chairs, folded up and leaning rigidly against the patio table. I think I'll leave them out for a few more days. Weather in Texas being the way it is, there are perhaps twenty days in a year that I can actually sit on the patio, and drink coffee laced with delicious morning air.
Also saw the leaves, still for the most part green, but advancing yellow and red becoming a part of the landscape. And wondered about why leaves change color in the fall. Did a quick internet search and came up with thousands of sites where people have expounded on the various chemicals in trees and which ones cause leaves to turn red, or yellow, or brown.
Also saw that the amount of rainfall, the amount of sun and clouds during the day, and the temperature at night all contribute to whether we have a glorious autumn display or not. But could not find anybody who had written a definitive answer for the question of why.
"While scientists understand what causes the leaves to change color, they know virtually nothing about why they change. What role does this phenomenon play in nature's broad scheme of things? The answer may be none at all. In his book Leaves: Their Amazing Lives and Strange Behavior, researcher James Poling writes: 'This is both surprising and puzzling, since nature seldom wastes energy to no purpose. Yet as far as botanists can determine, the chemical energy that goes into the painting of a leaf is of no benefit at all to the plant. The colors seem merely to herald the end of a leaf's life cycle.' "
I think I know something they don't. How marvelous that the creator, with infinite wisdom, gave us something with no purely scientific reason. It just is.
Flights of fancy abound.
Mine, and yours, to enjoy the result of the Great Painter's brush.
thirty watts
When Jim was in Iraq he slept in a small trailer-like habitat just large enough for two bunks and a footlocker for each soldier. Everything he owned had to fit into that small area. And everything I mailed him had to be viewed with the limited personal space issue in mind.
Because he enjoys reading, one of the things I sent at the beginning of his tour was a small wrought iron lamp with collapsible shade and several of the new corkscrew-shaped energy-saving bulbs that give off light but not heat. And so he could have light when he needed it, without heating up the area, and then just reach over and turn it off when it was time to sleep.
He likes a dark room when he sleeps. Contrary to me, the one who likes a light on at night so I don't trip over the cat if I have to get up to make a trip to the necessary in the wee small hours.
The week before he came home we had talked about his belongings, and decided that anything he left in Iraq could be replaced. Some of the sheets were pretty worn from the effects of field laundry, and the comforters were more sand than down, so they stayed behind. But when he unpacked five weeks ago I was surprised to see that he had brought home the little lamp. Not having a place to use it immediately, and not knowing anyone who needed it, I set it on the desk in the guest room. And forgot about it.
Yesterday I was in the guest room, just checking on things in general, and happened to spy the lamp. Moved it to the counter in the upstairs bathroom. Last night, before I went to bed, I turned the switch. Barely enough to dress by, and certainly not enough for applying makeup, the lamp still gives off a pleasant glow, and so I left it on.
This morning when I started my daily pre-dawn routine, I was gratified at the decision. Thirty watts in a lighted room is negligible, but thirty watts in a dark house is just enough to see to climb the stairs.
I have traveled the world, snapped pictures of shrines and statues, gasped at the ruinous power of hurricane-driven surf, been amazed by temples and tori gates, awed by country-long rivers, humbled by giant sequoia forests, outraged at the heartbreaking poverty of an occupied shanty, numbed by the display of wealth in a palace, inspired to write by powder snow and geyser steam, struck dumb by glaciers and alpine meadows in bloom, and moved to tears by purple mountain majesties and dead sea valleys. But when you come right down to it, nothing holds a candle to the light in my own home. Even if it's only thirty watts.
Because he enjoys reading, one of the things I sent at the beginning of his tour was a small wrought iron lamp with collapsible shade and several of the new corkscrew-shaped energy-saving bulbs that give off light but not heat. And so he could have light when he needed it, without heating up the area, and then just reach over and turn it off when it was time to sleep.
He likes a dark room when he sleeps. Contrary to me, the one who likes a light on at night so I don't trip over the cat if I have to get up to make a trip to the necessary in the wee small hours.
The week before he came home we had talked about his belongings, and decided that anything he left in Iraq could be replaced. Some of the sheets were pretty worn from the effects of field laundry, and the comforters were more sand than down, so they stayed behind. But when he unpacked five weeks ago I was surprised to see that he had brought home the little lamp. Not having a place to use it immediately, and not knowing anyone who needed it, I set it on the desk in the guest room. And forgot about it.
Yesterday I was in the guest room, just checking on things in general, and happened to spy the lamp. Moved it to the counter in the upstairs bathroom. Last night, before I went to bed, I turned the switch. Barely enough to dress by, and certainly not enough for applying makeup, the lamp still gives off a pleasant glow, and so I left it on.
This morning when I started my daily pre-dawn routine, I was gratified at the decision. Thirty watts in a lighted room is negligible, but thirty watts in a dark house is just enough to see to climb the stairs.
I have traveled the world, snapped pictures of shrines and statues, gasped at the ruinous power of hurricane-driven surf, been amazed by temples and tori gates, awed by country-long rivers, humbled by giant sequoia forests, outraged at the heartbreaking poverty of an occupied shanty, numbed by the display of wealth in a palace, inspired to write by powder snow and geyser steam, struck dumb by glaciers and alpine meadows in bloom, and moved to tears by purple mountain majesties and dead sea valleys. But when you come right down to it, nothing holds a candle to the light in my own home. Even if it's only thirty watts.
That Extra Hour
So what did you do with your extra hour today? Just before I fell asleep last night I made some plans for how to spend mine.
I fully intended to get up when my body clock said it was 0430, despite the numbers displayed on the bedside digital.
Maybe I'd spend the hour practicing today's hymn on the piano. Lord knows I can use it.
Maybe I'd go out early and pick up the inevitable candy wrappers in the yard. And I definitely needed to hang the November wreath on the door.
Or maybe I'd just stay in bed, kick KTT to the other side of the comforter so I could stretch out my legs, then meditate, and pray.
Did none of those. Grabbed a cuppa and came upstairs to the computer. Yep, my email addiction won out.
Inbox showed 15. Deleted the one from UH, because having listened to it with heart in mouth, I already knew the score for yesterday's game. Deleted the one from the History Channel because I'm not in the market right now for DVDs. Without hesitation moved to the spam directory the one with the subject "Beloved In Christ."
And then scanned the senders of the other 12. The first one I actually opened included a link. Followed it to find awesome creativity, deeply moving words of inspiration, and much needed motivation. I am shamed by my own daily drivel and meager attempts to describe life. It was without doubt the best hour I have spent in a long, long time.
http://www.timechangesmythinking.blogspot.com/
I fully intended to get up when my body clock said it was 0430, despite the numbers displayed on the bedside digital.
Maybe I'd spend the hour practicing today's hymn on the piano. Lord knows I can use it.
Maybe I'd go out early and pick up the inevitable candy wrappers in the yard. And I definitely needed to hang the November wreath on the door.
Or maybe I'd just stay in bed, kick KTT to the other side of the comforter so I could stretch out my legs, then meditate, and pray.
Did none of those. Grabbed a cuppa and came upstairs to the computer. Yep, my email addiction won out.
Inbox showed 15. Deleted the one from UH, because having listened to it with heart in mouth, I already knew the score for yesterday's game. Deleted the one from the History Channel because I'm not in the market right now for DVDs. Without hesitation moved to the spam directory the one with the subject "Beloved In Christ."
And then scanned the senders of the other 12. The first one I actually opened included a link. Followed it to find awesome creativity, deeply moving words of inspiration, and much needed motivation. I am shamed by my own daily drivel and meager attempts to describe life. It was without doubt the best hour I have spent in a long, long time.
http://www.timechangesmythinking.blogspot.com/
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