The DeSoto, Texas food pantry operates all year, every year. On Wednesday we received an urgent email - - there were four slips from the angel tree that had not been returned, could we help? And it had to be done immediately, the party was scheduled for today.
Let me digress for a moment. When my own daughter was small, we were a military family and money wasn’t just tight, it was nearly non-existent. I never knew until recently that daughter’s one desire at Christmas every year was for a ballerina tutu. But she never included it on her list to Santa, because she realized, even at that tender age, that Christmas gifts had to consist of shoes, warm clothes, a winter jacket with sleeves long enough to cover growing arms. Twenty years later, when her own daughter came along, a pink tutu was one of the first things she bought for her, and whenever anybody asked, it headed the list. Daughter today is a Neo-Natal Intensive Care Nurse, with a recently earned BS degree (HOORAY!!!). Granddaughter graduates this year from the University of Houston, on track for a future as a PA.
And so, when the angel request came in this week, I responded that I wanted to buy for the 7-year-old girl who said she wanted “anything for a princess.” Yesterday I took a pink tiara to the Food Pantry, and handed it to chairman Suzanne Phillips. Another donor had only moments earlier brought in a “princess” doll for the child.
The need for food and clothes is always there, and we respond with donations each month throughout the year. But there are those of us who also recognize that a heart’s desire for the frivolous is sometimes just as important as the head’s need for the sensible. And today, that child, along with hundreds of others in our area, will have a reason to smile.
Information about DeSoto Food Pantry at link below.
http://www.pegasusnews.com/news/2008/oct/23/desoto-food-pantry-seeks-community-support/
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
memoriam
Attended by the caring and compassionate staff at DeSoto VCA, and in the arms of the one who loved him most, Faithful Companion and Friend, Ernie "Puppy" Thibodeau, 15 1/2 years old, passed peacefully this morning into a world where backyard bunnies play with friendly canines instead of running at their approach, where hind legs jump and run the way they did so long ago, where the weather is never too hot or too cold, where diets are not an issue and it's chunky sirloin burgers for every meal. Puppy was preceded in death by step-brother Burt and is survived by close-cousin Kitty. He will remain forever in the hearts of those who knew and loved him. We were blessed to have been his friends.
Part two
For several months we’d been on potty patrol every four hours. This last couple of weeks it was down to every two. Each time I’d open the garage door and turn on the light, I’d wonder if his eyes would be bright with greeting. At 4 am yesterday, I found Puppy huddled in the middle of the floor, whining, unable to get up. From the looks of the shredded newspaper and poop, it was evident that he had managed to crawl to the potty corner a couple of times even as I slept. But then he just couldn’t manage anymore, and so was in a heap, his belly saturated with urine and sweat. It took an hour of him whining and me crying, my snot mixing with his fur, to get him on his feet. Once he was up, he knew that he could not lay down again. I shut kitty in the bedroom, opened the back door and just let puppy stoically wander back and forth as he chose while I made phone calls. At 8:40, he stood and looked at me silently, not in reproach, but only as if to say please do something. I said I know, Buddy, and put the leash on his collar. He made it to the car, but could not get in. And then, even between the two of us, we couldn’t get him onto the back seat. And so he simply sat on the floor and rested his head on his blankets while I drove the long six miles. He literally fell out when we got to the vets. And had not taken two steps when he lost control again. I just stood and stroked his head and talked to him while he peed the parking lot. He rallied enough to get into the office, and remembering the routine walked to the floor scale, but no need to weigh him today, and so into exam one, the room with no windows. He stood trembling, but calm, quietly eating puppy treats from my hand. After a short wait, an attendant took him away for a catheter in his leg. They were back in a couple of minutes. She put a soft blanket on the exam table, and lifted him onto it. But by now the hind legs were totally gone, and it took both of us to get him situated. She murmured her condolence and quietly shut the door, leaving us to our last few moments together. I stood with my right arm locked around his rib cage and petted his gray head with my left. He did not whine, just seemed, finally, content. The doc came in and asked if we were ready. I answered he was ready six months ago but I was too selfish until now. She cleared the catheter, and then pumped in the lethal dose. He was totally silent. No gasping for breath, no whines, not a single sigh. He simply laid his muzzle on my left hand and closed his eyes. She listened for a heart beat in three different places, at three different times, then simply said, “He’s gone.” I nodded, because by then I, too, was mute. She said she’d tell the clerk, and that I could stay with him as long as I wanted. But there was no need to stay for more than a couple of minutes. From the day he and Burt chose me at the animal shelter and they became my friends, I’d said it all throughout the years, and a thousand times in the last five hours. I came away from that place knowing that the heroics and dignity of Puppy will stay with me forever.
Gave his blankets to the vet, they're always looking for some. After I got home I emptied and threw away his garage water bowl, then cleaned the floor. His toys and brush lay silent in their place. I will throw them away as soon as I can bring myself to gather them up, but not just yet. Sent an email asking Denise if they can use the 1 1/2 bags of kibbles n bits for Tony. There's this gargantuan dog house on the back patio that stands in silently mocking; it weighs more than me and Jim combined, and there’s no way to do anything with it because he's not here. He emailed that he wished he’d been there to scratch puppy behind the ears one more time.
I had to run out for one errand about 2 pm. I got home, walked in, locked the front door, and then from long months of habit immediately opened the garage door. But there was no puppy to greet me. The rest of the day, kitty never let me out of his sight. No whining, no demands for food, just keeping silent vigil as we got through the day. He laid down when I did, got up when I did, and matched me step for step.
I had supposed the worst would be today when I wake at my normal 4 am and realized there was no reason to get out of bed. But I don’t think I slept much. Several times during the night I woke to hear the echoes of a dog tag rattling against the metal loop on his red collar. At 3:30 I stood on the patio and looked for Sirius, confident that puppy saw and smiled. And then was overwhelmed with anger. Anger at Jim for not being here, anger at an economy that keeps him away from home. I am angry at a world where puppies do not live forever. But the anger was temporary. The pain of loss a little longer. And so I write, for this is how I have learned to deal with grief. And I will get through it. One silent dawn at a time.
Part two
For several months we’d been on potty patrol every four hours. This last couple of weeks it was down to every two. Each time I’d open the garage door and turn on the light, I’d wonder if his eyes would be bright with greeting. At 4 am yesterday, I found Puppy huddled in the middle of the floor, whining, unable to get up. From the looks of the shredded newspaper and poop, it was evident that he had managed to crawl to the potty corner a couple of times even as I slept. But then he just couldn’t manage anymore, and so was in a heap, his belly saturated with urine and sweat. It took an hour of him whining and me crying, my snot mixing with his fur, to get him on his feet. Once he was up, he knew that he could not lay down again. I shut kitty in the bedroom, opened the back door and just let puppy stoically wander back and forth as he chose while I made phone calls. At 8:40, he stood and looked at me silently, not in reproach, but only as if to say please do something. I said I know, Buddy, and put the leash on his collar. He made it to the car, but could not get in. And then, even between the two of us, we couldn’t get him onto the back seat. And so he simply sat on the floor and rested his head on his blankets while I drove the long six miles. He literally fell out when we got to the vets. And had not taken two steps when he lost control again. I just stood and stroked his head and talked to him while he peed the parking lot. He rallied enough to get into the office, and remembering the routine walked to the floor scale, but no need to weigh him today, and so into exam one, the room with no windows. He stood trembling, but calm, quietly eating puppy treats from my hand. After a short wait, an attendant took him away for a catheter in his leg. They were back in a couple of minutes. She put a soft blanket on the exam table, and lifted him onto it. But by now the hind legs were totally gone, and it took both of us to get him situated. She murmured her condolence and quietly shut the door, leaving us to our last few moments together. I stood with my right arm locked around his rib cage and petted his gray head with my left. He did not whine, just seemed, finally, content. The doc came in and asked if we were ready. I answered he was ready six months ago but I was too selfish until now. She cleared the catheter, and then pumped in the lethal dose. He was totally silent. No gasping for breath, no whines, not a single sigh. He simply laid his muzzle on my left hand and closed his eyes. She listened for a heart beat in three different places, at three different times, then simply said, “He’s gone.” I nodded, because by then I, too, was mute. She said she’d tell the clerk, and that I could stay with him as long as I wanted. But there was no need to stay for more than a couple of minutes. From the day he and Burt chose me at the animal shelter and they became my friends, I’d said it all throughout the years, and a thousand times in the last five hours. I came away from that place knowing that the heroics and dignity of Puppy will stay with me forever.
Gave his blankets to the vet, they're always looking for some. After I got home I emptied and threw away his garage water bowl, then cleaned the floor. His toys and brush lay silent in their place. I will throw them away as soon as I can bring myself to gather them up, but not just yet. Sent an email asking Denise if they can use the 1 1/2 bags of kibbles n bits for Tony. There's this gargantuan dog house on the back patio that stands in silently mocking; it weighs more than me and Jim combined, and there’s no way to do anything with it because he's not here. He emailed that he wished he’d been there to scratch puppy behind the ears one more time.
I had to run out for one errand about 2 pm. I got home, walked in, locked the front door, and then from long months of habit immediately opened the garage door. But there was no puppy to greet me. The rest of the day, kitty never let me out of his sight. No whining, no demands for food, just keeping silent vigil as we got through the day. He laid down when I did, got up when I did, and matched me step for step.
I had supposed the worst would be today when I wake at my normal 4 am and realized there was no reason to get out of bed. But I don’t think I slept much. Several times during the night I woke to hear the echoes of a dog tag rattling against the metal loop on his red collar. At 3:30 I stood on the patio and looked for Sirius, confident that puppy saw and smiled. And then was overwhelmed with anger. Anger at Jim for not being here, anger at an economy that keeps him away from home. I am angry at a world where puppies do not live forever. But the anger was temporary. The pain of loss a little longer. And so I write, for this is how I have learned to deal with grief. And I will get through it. One silent dawn at a time.
Friday, November 19, 2010
one day vacation
Driving to South Padre Island for lunch is not the strangest thing we've ever done. One year we went to Monument Valley just to see the sunrise. Another year it was a trip to see sunset at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Life is short and you take your cherished memories where and when you can find them.
This time of year Padre's public beach access #2 is almost deserted. Still so warm that we were sweating under our shirts but too cool for wading in the surf, as you can tell from Jim's "smile." The pic of what looks like an alien life form at the top of the page was a jelly fish drying/dying on the beach. Amazing, in colors from sky blue to sea green and turqoise in between, they were everywhere we looked. Jim was fascinated by this one in particular. The seagulls and crows were raucous, rude, and by the time we finished lunch there were so many of them it was like something out of Alfred Hitchcock. We skipped that photo op. All things considered, I loved every minute. And after 20 hours in the car, we're still speaking to each other.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Friday night lights on Thursday
By the middle of the second quarter at the game last night I was feeling real anguish for the kids on the field. And the first series of plays in the third quarter brought the score to 49 - 0, which is where it stayed, resulting in the Martin Warriors moving to the district winners circle.
Martin played hard and celebrated their win just as hard. I'm a Gramma who proudly wears red to all the games. And by the time the bands took the field to play their last half-time show of the regular season, I was in high cotton. The Warrior band saluted the graduating seniors and their parents. The Panther band saluted our Veterans, playing the musical themes for all the Services as members of the Armed Forces stood with pride in the stands. It was wonderful!!
In sports there are winners and there are losers. But the final score does not always tell the whole story. And so I want to take a minute to salute the Paschal team for their courage, their heart, their character, their true grit. Despite the pain, the Panthers continued to hit the line, and hit their spots, and they tried. Good Lord, how they tried. You know that by the beginning of the last quarter it was just almost too much to bear. But they did NOT lay down. They did NOT give up.
And so the story here is about a group of young men who, despite overwhelming odds, kept on keeping on. The final score on the board might not have been in their favor, but trust me, the Paschal players were winners last night. Every single one. And I salute them.
Martin played hard and celebrated their win just as hard. I'm a Gramma who proudly wears red to all the games. And by the time the bands took the field to play their last half-time show of the regular season, I was in high cotton. The Warrior band saluted the graduating seniors and their parents. The Panther band saluted our Veterans, playing the musical themes for all the Services as members of the Armed Forces stood with pride in the stands. It was wonderful!!
In sports there are winners and there are losers. But the final score does not always tell the whole story. And so I want to take a minute to salute the Paschal team for their courage, their heart, their character, their true grit. Despite the pain, the Panthers continued to hit the line, and hit their spots, and they tried. Good Lord, how they tried. You know that by the beginning of the last quarter it was just almost too much to bear. But they did NOT lay down. They did NOT give up.
And so the story here is about a group of young men who, despite overwhelming odds, kept on keeping on. The final score on the board might not have been in their favor, but trust me, the Paschal players were winners last night. Every single one. And I salute them.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
serendipity
Puppy loves his new blanket. So much so that when I opened the door and turned on the light this morning for reveille, he opened one eye, gave a single small whufff, and promptly closed it again. Durn. Dissed by a dog.
Kitty no longer sleeps on my feet at night, choosing instead the stack of big round throw cushions currently sitting on the bedroom floor. Just the perfect size for his snoozing, And ignoring my frequent ups and downs.
You see, last week the bedroom decor changed from the hues of August amber to September's cranberry. I had placed the throw pillows out of the way, on the floor, while I changed the bed linens.
But, between answering the phone to computer generated greetings (don't you just HATE those) and taking care of puppy desires, not to mention all the other little things that need doing of a morning around here, it was a couple of hours before I got back into the bedroom to put them in their normal place. And found kitty happily reclining atop the stack.
To say the least, he did not take kindly to my suggestion that he move. But a mistake on my part resulted in being able to stretch out my feet at night. Ahhhhhh, serendipity
Man, if I'd known a five dollar blanket and repositioning cushions was all it took to make the two of them sleep later, I'd have done it waaaaaaaaaaay sooner.
Kitty no longer sleeps on my feet at night, choosing instead the stack of big round throw cushions currently sitting on the bedroom floor. Just the perfect size for his snoozing, And ignoring my frequent ups and downs.
You see, last week the bedroom decor changed from the hues of August amber to September's cranberry. I had placed the throw pillows out of the way, on the floor, while I changed the bed linens.
But, between answering the phone to computer generated greetings (don't you just HATE those) and taking care of puppy desires, not to mention all the other little things that need doing of a morning around here, it was a couple of hours before I got back into the bedroom to put them in their normal place. And found kitty happily reclining atop the stack.
To say the least, he did not take kindly to my suggestion that he move. But a mistake on my part resulted in being able to stretch out my feet at night. Ahhhhhh, serendipity
Man, if I'd known a five dollar blanket and repositioning cushions was all it took to make the two of them sleep later, I'd have done it waaaaaaaaaaay sooner.
Friday, August 6, 2010
yoikes
Came home from council meeting the other night to see Jim sitting in his chair laughing at kitty who was frantically pawing at the bottom of one of the living room windows. Seems a lizard had gotten into the house, and Jim had sic'em'd.
I immediately flashed back to my encounter with the big horned daddy in the Sanctuary a couple of weeks ago. But this was a baby, relatively speaking.
Konan the Kat, however, is no respecter of size, and is equally intolerant of creepy crawlies both large and small. MOF, he's about as patient with lizards as I am snakes. And so we watched as curtains flew and claws flashed. Bet the meooooorrrwwwssss could be heard a block away.
A few minutes later my lil hero tired (or just simply lost interest), choosing a snooze on his comfy black and white bedroom cushion over continued combat with beigey gray critter.
Next morning, first thing, I looked for it, anticipating seeing leg-less remains scattered along the line where carpet meets wall. Imagine my surprise, there it was, making itself quite at home under the drapes, rapidly darting tongue assessing the current threat situation.
I guess we now have what my friends down under would call a lounge lizard.
I immediately flashed back to my encounter with the big horned daddy in the Sanctuary a couple of weeks ago. But this was a baby, relatively speaking.
Konan the Kat, however, is no respecter of size, and is equally intolerant of creepy crawlies both large and small. MOF, he's about as patient with lizards as I am snakes. And so we watched as curtains flew and claws flashed. Bet the meooooorrrwwwssss could be heard a block away.
A few minutes later my lil hero tired (or just simply lost interest), choosing a snooze on his comfy black and white bedroom cushion over continued combat with beigey gray critter.
Next morning, first thing, I looked for it, anticipating seeing leg-less remains scattered along the line where carpet meets wall. Imagine my surprise, there it was, making itself quite at home under the drapes, rapidly darting tongue assessing the current threat situation.
I guess we now have what my friends down under would call a lounge lizard.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
on the road again
North out of Greenville on roads I'd never traveled before Thursday. Tiny towns with intriguing names. Celeste. Kingston. Leonard. Trenton. Bells. One of them proudly proclaiming a population of 213 on the two city limit signs located about a mile apart. Lots of blue and white historical markers. Second-time-around shops in abundance, so many that if I'd stopped at each I'd not yet be home.
Along with the first sign for mileage to Durant I saw fields of corn "as high as a elephant's eye." Green and growing, no visible means of irrigation, evidence that the rain has, so far, come regularly this summer. The drought not quite so bad there as here.
And then the jewel in the crown. Beautiful Bonham. Barely fifteen minutes to drive from southern to northern limits. If your thing is fast food you're in good shape, but if your taste runs to anything other than Mickey D's you're not. Yes, there's a high school, but it seemed small in comparison with other little Texas towns. A relative dearth of industry and available employment, Not a video store in sight. No bowling alley. Not even a movie theater.
But there's a gorgeous State Park, not grandiose but still grand in scale. And the mail carrier walks from house to house, instead of depending solely on the red/white/blue truck. Gracious, unpretentious, old homes with generous yards. Townfolk not just approachable in nature but ready and willing to stop whatever they are doing and spend as much of their time as needed to help you out when you ask for directions. A place where a tourist is treated not as an imposition in life, but the reason for it.
I understand why the young ones would want so desperately to leave. But I also know deep in my heart why there are folks who want to return. And others who have, simply, always been content to stay in their home on this range. God bless them all.
Along with the first sign for mileage to Durant I saw fields of corn "as high as a elephant's eye." Green and growing, no visible means of irrigation, evidence that the rain has, so far, come regularly this summer. The drought not quite so bad there as here.
And then the jewel in the crown. Beautiful Bonham. Barely fifteen minutes to drive from southern to northern limits. If your thing is fast food you're in good shape, but if your taste runs to anything other than Mickey D's you're not. Yes, there's a high school, but it seemed small in comparison with other little Texas towns. A relative dearth of industry and available employment, Not a video store in sight. No bowling alley. Not even a movie theater.
But there's a gorgeous State Park, not grandiose but still grand in scale. And the mail carrier walks from house to house, instead of depending solely on the red/white/blue truck. Gracious, unpretentious, old homes with generous yards. Townfolk not just approachable in nature but ready and willing to stop whatever they are doing and spend as much of their time as needed to help you out when you ask for directions. A place where a tourist is treated not as an imposition in life, but the reason for it.
I understand why the young ones would want so desperately to leave. But I also know deep in my heart why there are folks who want to return. And others who have, simply, always been content to stay in their home on this range. God bless them all.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
celebration
And so another Fourth of July has come and gone. My favorite Holiday.
We won the Lions Club Bob Hughson Award for our entry in the Duncanville parade. Sure was fun, despite my poor feet. Sheila's big red truck was decorated so thoroughly you could barely see the color of the paint beneath the banners and ribbons and flags. Even the chairs in the back were appropriately colored. Regent Jo Ann Holt held the red white and blue trophy aloft for all to see as we wound our way through the town's main streets.
I noticed there were NO uniformed military personnel in the audience. Did see two elderly gentlemen wearing logo caps that proclaimed their Vet status. But what really got me was that as we marched I saw less than ten people who actually got out of their chairs and stood, hand over heart, as the National Standard, carried proudly and gloriously well by one of our newest Chapter members, went by.
Perhaps patriotism sleeps, but it has not died -- it is alive and well and living at First DeSoto. Sunday morning Kristi opened the proceedings for our class by singing the National Anthem. ALL of our people got out of their chairs and sang along. At noon the entire congregation stood at attention in the Life Center and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I get chills now just remembering.
"Oh thus be it ever when free men shall stand between their loved homes and the war's desolation; blessed with vict'ry and peace may the Heav'n rescued land praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a Nation."
As for me and mine, we care not for fashion, and less about political correctness, but more about honoring those who fought and died for our right to fly Our Flag. Not just on the 4th, but every day. Long may it wave!
We won the Lions Club Bob Hughson Award for our entry in the Duncanville parade. Sure was fun, despite my poor feet. Sheila's big red truck was decorated so thoroughly you could barely see the color of the paint beneath the banners and ribbons and flags. Even the chairs in the back were appropriately colored. Regent Jo Ann Holt held the red white and blue trophy aloft for all to see as we wound our way through the town's main streets.
I noticed there were NO uniformed military personnel in the audience. Did see two elderly gentlemen wearing logo caps that proclaimed their Vet status. But what really got me was that as we marched I saw less than ten people who actually got out of their chairs and stood, hand over heart, as the National Standard, carried proudly and gloriously well by one of our newest Chapter members, went by.
Perhaps patriotism sleeps, but it has not died -- it is alive and well and living at First DeSoto. Sunday morning Kristi opened the proceedings for our class by singing the National Anthem. ALL of our people got out of their chairs and sang along. At noon the entire congregation stood at attention in the Life Center and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I get chills now just remembering.
"Oh thus be it ever when free men shall stand between their loved homes and the war's desolation; blessed with vict'ry and peace may the Heav'n rescued land praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a Nation."
As for me and mine, we care not for fashion, and less about political correctness, but more about honoring those who fought and died for our right to fly Our Flag. Not just on the 4th, but every day. Long may it wave!
Monday, July 5, 2010
silent admiration
Saturday morning, sitting in my car in front of Charles and Elizabeth's house, ready to follow them to the parade, I had ten minutes all to myself.
Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted Jim is back home. In his absence I had time to read three books and enjoyed an all too infrequent bubble bath (despite kitty's propensity to stand on the side of the tub and swat at the foam). But there was a sense of urgency to those stolen minutes, as if my mind refused to shut down, driven to be doing something with my time.
Alone time is one thing. Alone and NOT DOING anything is an entirely different story.
Sitting there in the just becoming lightness, I turned off the engine, muted the radio, rolled down the windows, and listened in silent admiration to the delightful two-note etude of the little neighborhood doves.
Glanced over at the book in the passenger seat, but left it untouched. I have the utmost respect for the written word, and am deeply grateful for the salaries it provided me and mine throughout my formal working years, but a stale cold tome does not hold a candle to the sight of the sun rising on the horizon.
And the sound of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, while I am always awed by it, can in no way compare to nature's melody.
Sitting in a cathedral of trees, on bucket seat instead of pew, those few minutes were in no way a religious experience, but instead a deeply spiritual one. And, for me, on that gladsome glorious morning, it was the best kind.
Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted Jim is back home. In his absence I had time to read three books and enjoyed an all too infrequent bubble bath (despite kitty's propensity to stand on the side of the tub and swat at the foam). But there was a sense of urgency to those stolen minutes, as if my mind refused to shut down, driven to be doing something with my time.
Alone time is one thing. Alone and NOT DOING anything is an entirely different story.
Sitting there in the just becoming lightness, I turned off the engine, muted the radio, rolled down the windows, and listened in silent admiration to the delightful two-note etude of the little neighborhood doves.
Glanced over at the book in the passenger seat, but left it untouched. I have the utmost respect for the written word, and am deeply grateful for the salaries it provided me and mine throughout my formal working years, but a stale cold tome does not hold a candle to the sight of the sun rising on the horizon.
And the sound of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, while I am always awed by it, can in no way compare to nature's melody.
Sitting in a cathedral of trees, on bucket seat instead of pew, those few minutes were in no way a religious experience, but instead a deeply spiritual one. And, for me, on that gladsome glorious morning, it was the best kind.
Friday, June 18, 2010
father's day
Realized the other day that I send more father's day messages now than at any other time in my life.
There's my husband, who even tho he is not the actual father to my kids loves them as if he were.
And there's my son, father to three of the six best looking kids on the planet.
And there's my son-in-law, father to three of the six best looking kids on the planet.
And there's my father-in-law, who has been "Dad" for 17 years.
My brother. My nephews.
The husbands of my friends. The Dads at Church. And all the Dads on my email list.
I've heard it said that it takes only biology to make a man a father, but it takes love to make a man a Dad. I am truly blessed to have so many great Dads in my life. Happy Father's Day, y'all.
There's my husband, who even tho he is not the actual father to my kids loves them as if he were.
And there's my son, father to three of the six best looking kids on the planet.
And there's my son-in-law, father to three of the six best looking kids on the planet.
And there's my father-in-law, who has been "Dad" for 17 years.
My brother. My nephews.
The husbands of my friends. The Dads at Church. And all the Dads on my email list.
I've heard it said that it takes only biology to make a man a father, but it takes love to make a man a Dad. I am truly blessed to have so many great Dads in my life. Happy Father's Day, y'all.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
cranky
Jim working a 16-hour shift does not leave a lot of time for sleep. Puppy and kitty being used to getting up at 0345 leaves even less. And so this morning when the bark alarm sounded I was out of bed without hesitation. Don't ask me what happened to the extra fifteen minutes I had planned for meditation, because I was up and at it before the new alarm setting had time to activate.
Laundry done, two hours later it was off to wally world.
Our old gas container gave up the ghost last week, the part of the cap that screws down tight no longer does, with more fumes than my nose can stand, and so buying a replacement was first on the list.
Asked the clerk in hardware, he pointed me toward automotive. The clerk in automotive was enjoying a morning jaw with a customer. I politely waited my turn. When they finally noticed me standing there, the customer picked up his receipt, said, "see you later, man" to the clerk and walked off. I asked the clerk where to find a gas can. He said, "Four aisles over." I asked, "Could you please be a little more specific?"
From out of nowhere, customer appears, puts his hand on my back and begins to push me toward another part of the store. I stopped short and before I could say anything, miraculously, the clerk appeared and got in front of me while customer did an end run around us both. Standing at the head of an aisle, customer pointed south, and said, "I don't know why you couldn't see 'em, plain as day, there they are."
I grabbed a breath, thanked the clerk and then told customer, "You put your hands on me one more time I'll call security."
OMG. I ruined his good ole boy day. As I moved on down the aisle I could hear customer loudly proclaiming to all who were not listening about what strange people are in wally world at 0730 on Saturday.
I'm thinking, yeah, and you're one, too, buddy.
I didn't say what I was really thinking, that he had no right to touch me, that without my permission he should keep his hands to himself, that no matter how often he's in the store and how well he knows the merchandise I was not his to manipulate. And I also didn't tell the clerk to call the guard. Gas container in hand, I moved on to the rest of my list.
It's a good thing I don't carry a concealed weapon, because if I had, I wouldn't be sitting here right now in the comfort of my home writing this email.
I guess lack of sleep just makes me cranky.
Laundry done, two hours later it was off to wally world.
Our old gas container gave up the ghost last week, the part of the cap that screws down tight no longer does, with more fumes than my nose can stand, and so buying a replacement was first on the list.
Asked the clerk in hardware, he pointed me toward automotive. The clerk in automotive was enjoying a morning jaw with a customer. I politely waited my turn. When they finally noticed me standing there, the customer picked up his receipt, said, "see you later, man" to the clerk and walked off. I asked the clerk where to find a gas can. He said, "Four aisles over." I asked, "Could you please be a little more specific?"
From out of nowhere, customer appears, puts his hand on my back and begins to push me toward another part of the store. I stopped short and before I could say anything, miraculously, the clerk appeared and got in front of me while customer did an end run around us both. Standing at the head of an aisle, customer pointed south, and said, "I don't know why you couldn't see 'em, plain as day, there they are."
I grabbed a breath, thanked the clerk and then told customer, "You put your hands on me one more time I'll call security."
OMG. I ruined his good ole boy day. As I moved on down the aisle I could hear customer loudly proclaiming to all who were not listening about what strange people are in wally world at 0730 on Saturday.
I'm thinking, yeah, and you're one, too, buddy.
I didn't say what I was really thinking, that he had no right to touch me, that without my permission he should keep his hands to himself, that no matter how often he's in the store and how well he knows the merchandise I was not his to manipulate. And I also didn't tell the clerk to call the guard. Gas container in hand, I moved on to the rest of my list.
It's a good thing I don't carry a concealed weapon, because if I had, I wouldn't be sitting here right now in the comfort of my home writing this email.
I guess lack of sleep just makes me cranky.
Friday, May 14, 2010
red shoe
Driving home from dropping Jim off at California Crossing Thursday morning, I was feeling sorry for myself, thinking, yeah, here we are, another wedding anniversary he'll miss by virtue of the good ole Army Guard. One more day in a long string of birthdays, Christmases, and national holidays when he was gone and I was home. Alone. Lonely.
A few minutes later noticed that someone had lost a bag of clothes and shoes. The garments were spread randomly along the edge of the highway, one red high heel laying dead in the middle of southbound loop 12, not too far from the hole in the ground that used to be Cowboy stadium. Wondered what poor person would look for that bag when they reached their destination and find it gone.
And my thoughts turned to the things we lose accidentally and the things we throw away on purpose. Like lumpy bumpy mattresses. Towels and washcloths that have lost their oomph. Napless rugs. Broken dishes. Old lamps.
And then (don't ask me why because most times my thought processes are so convoluted even I can't understand the stretches and jumps) I started thinking about love. I heard a woman say recently, when speaking of divorcing her ex-husband, “He killed my love for him." Can love die? And if it dies, was it really love to begin with?
Do we throw love away because it no longer suits our desires? Do we tend to focus on the fact that our partner just somehow is not meeting all our needs? And does that inevitably lead to the thought that maybe someone else out there somewhere would not only meet those needs but also do it willingly, gladly, lovingly, and with a dash of panache?
So. ok, tomorrow is our anniversary and we won't be together, but in the end, what's that in the long-term scheme of life within a committed relationship? I can't, indeed won't, throw away sixteen years of marriage just because of one more day spent without him. No matter how important the day.
But I do intend to bake a lemon cake.
A few minutes later noticed that someone had lost a bag of clothes and shoes. The garments were spread randomly along the edge of the highway, one red high heel laying dead in the middle of southbound loop 12, not too far from the hole in the ground that used to be Cowboy stadium. Wondered what poor person would look for that bag when they reached their destination and find it gone.
And my thoughts turned to the things we lose accidentally and the things we throw away on purpose. Like lumpy bumpy mattresses. Towels and washcloths that have lost their oomph. Napless rugs. Broken dishes. Old lamps.
And then (don't ask me why because most times my thought processes are so convoluted even I can't understand the stretches and jumps) I started thinking about love. I heard a woman say recently, when speaking of divorcing her ex-husband, “He killed my love for him." Can love die? And if it dies, was it really love to begin with?
Do we throw love away because it no longer suits our desires? Do we tend to focus on the fact that our partner just somehow is not meeting all our needs? And does that inevitably lead to the thought that maybe someone else out there somewhere would not only meet those needs but also do it willingly, gladly, lovingly, and with a dash of panache?
So. ok, tomorrow is our anniversary and we won't be together, but in the end, what's that in the long-term scheme of life within a committed relationship? I can't, indeed won't, throw away sixteen years of marriage just because of one more day spent without him. No matter how important the day.
But I do intend to bake a lemon cake.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
expiration date
For the past several years I've maintained a supply of "just in case" items in the back closet. Canned meat, veggies, fruits, trail mix, crackers, hot sauce, single serving coffee packets, cases of bottled water, packages of cat and dog food, and lots of bathroom tissue.
You know, the kinds of things that if for some reason I can't get out and go to the store, at least we'll be able to survive for a few weeks.
I rotate the stock on a regular basis, and discovered last week that the canned corn had gone past its expiration date. What to do? Don't want to serve it here at home. Certainly can't give it to the food pantry, the liability issues there are too vast to comprehend.
Discovered that the birds in the back yard like it just fine. Especially the crows. And I don't worry about their digestion.
I'm glad there's no expiration date on my life. Well, ok, maybe there is. But it's not out there plain as day for me to read. And, yet, what if there was? What would I do if I knew the definite date for my last day on earth? How would I spend it?
I'd like to think that there would be time to see my children and grandchildren. Not to spend it in tears of sadness for what would soon be lost, but in gladness for memories, with a few moments to share joyous hopes for their future.
Time with my friends, to tell them how much their love and kindness and prayers and emails have meant to me.
Time enough to write emails and letters to far-flung cousins.
Time with my four-footed buddies. Once more 'round the yard, boys.
And time with Jim. Not to talk, for it's all been said and more than once, but just to be.
If you knew your expiration date, what would you do?
You know, the kinds of things that if for some reason I can't get out and go to the store, at least we'll be able to survive for a few weeks.
I rotate the stock on a regular basis, and discovered last week that the canned corn had gone past its expiration date. What to do? Don't want to serve it here at home. Certainly can't give it to the food pantry, the liability issues there are too vast to comprehend.
Discovered that the birds in the back yard like it just fine. Especially the crows. And I don't worry about their digestion.
I'm glad there's no expiration date on my life. Well, ok, maybe there is. But it's not out there plain as day for me to read. And, yet, what if there was? What would I do if I knew the definite date for my last day on earth? How would I spend it?
I'd like to think that there would be time to see my children and grandchildren. Not to spend it in tears of sadness for what would soon be lost, but in gladness for memories, with a few moments to share joyous hopes for their future.
Time with my friends, to tell them how much their love and kindness and prayers and emails have meant to me.
Time enough to write emails and letters to far-flung cousins.
Time with my four-footed buddies. Once more 'round the yard, boys.
And time with Jim. Not to talk, for it's all been said and more than once, but just to be.
If you knew your expiration date, what would you do?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
that thing in the sky
Bunny was NOT happy with Jim's choice of mowing the yard, and so went to greener pastures for a week. Finally saw her again yesterday afternoon, happily munching away at the new growth. And then suddenly a TV news and traffic helicopter appeared from the south, flight path directly over the house, headed north. About the time I looked up, bunny decided it was time to scoot. And wound up in a clump of clover right next to my feet. Guess she figured I was safer than that thing casting such a giant shadow. I didn't move, just stood there while she cowered, until it was gone and the sound had faded away. And then I slowly turned and went back inside. Thirty minutes later she was still there, but no longer in fright, just happy with the new surroundings.
Guess we could all take a lesson. Life hands us problems, things crop up that are totally beyond our understanding, and sometimes we have to run. But once we're safe, life resumes. And we find ourselves better off than before.
Is there a helicopter in your life today?
Guess we could all take a lesson. Life hands us problems, things crop up that are totally beyond our understanding, and sometimes we have to run. But once we're safe, life resumes. And we find ourselves better off than before.
Is there a helicopter in your life today?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
more about ice cream
After reading the replies from last week's blemail about rocky road, et al, I've discovered that evidently more of you are ready and willing to talk about ice cream than your dog or cat. Or your children. I bet there are more people who know the location of the nearest Braum's drive-thru than the nearest drive-thru bank.
One of you said ice cream is your anti-depressant. I see absolutely nothing wrong with that. As to claims that the sweet treat is addictive, I agree. No idea what's in it that makes it so, but evidently the industry knows our need and feels our pain because recently on the shelf at the local grocer I discovered: low sugar ice cream; no sugar ice cream; low fat content ice cream; lactose intolerant ice cream; Italian ice; and at least five different kinds of strawberry; all designed to continue our obsession with that frozen delight.
It's even worth the headache I get when it's too cold. Besides, I've never yet seen anybody pulled over for driving under the influence of raspberry cheesecake frozen yogurt. Or because they were drinking a lime sherbet 7-up float.
Some of you waxed rhapsodic about mint chocolate chip, cookies & cream, and anything Ben & Jerry's. Remember wavy gravy? Strange that no one mentioned plain chocolate.
Or peach. Oh, man, just the memories of turning that churn handle and adding more rock salt and turning that handle and then moving to the other side of the back steps so Daddy could take over when I got too tired, and then to sit and watch him carry on for me, even tho we both knew I'd eat the lion's share. And then to take off the cover and add the peaches Mom canned the previous summer, and then turning for the eternity of another ten minutes. I always saved the mason jar, and added the ice cream to the stray drops of juice as soon as it was declared ready to eat. Forget baseball and apple pie, but remember parents and peach ice cream.
But no, dear friend, ice cream does not qualify as a liquid diet. Unless it's plain vanilla.
One of you said ice cream is your anti-depressant. I see absolutely nothing wrong with that. As to claims that the sweet treat is addictive, I agree. No idea what's in it that makes it so, but evidently the industry knows our need and feels our pain because recently on the shelf at the local grocer I discovered: low sugar ice cream; no sugar ice cream; low fat content ice cream; lactose intolerant ice cream; Italian ice; and at least five different kinds of strawberry; all designed to continue our obsession with that frozen delight.
It's even worth the headache I get when it's too cold. Besides, I've never yet seen anybody pulled over for driving under the influence of raspberry cheesecake frozen yogurt. Or because they were drinking a lime sherbet 7-up float.
Some of you waxed rhapsodic about mint chocolate chip, cookies & cream, and anything Ben & Jerry's. Remember wavy gravy? Strange that no one mentioned plain chocolate.
Or peach. Oh, man, just the memories of turning that churn handle and adding more rock salt and turning that handle and then moving to the other side of the back steps so Daddy could take over when I got too tired, and then to sit and watch him carry on for me, even tho we both knew I'd eat the lion's share. And then to take off the cover and add the peaches Mom canned the previous summer, and then turning for the eternity of another ten minutes. I always saved the mason jar, and added the ice cream to the stray drops of juice as soon as it was declared ready to eat. Forget baseball and apple pie, but remember parents and peach ice cream.
But no, dear friend, ice cream does not qualify as a liquid diet. Unless it's plain vanilla.
Monday, April 19, 2010
bumper sticker 2
How green is your valley?
This one has double meaning.
Earth Day is this week. And while it seems to me that EVERY day should be Earth Day, I applaud the efforts of those who struggle to make us aware of what we can do to promote good stewardship of our resources.
Recycling is more than just a commendable idea, we should do it whenever we can. And I'm training a whole raft of cashiers about not using plastic bags for my purchases. Although I will admit that sometimes this causes a slight disconnect in their thought process. For example, the young woman recently who, when faced with the bags I had placed on the counter in front of my groceries, totally ignored what I'd said to her, twice, and told me she couldn't scan those bags because they didn't have bar coded tags. I repeated my request that those bags were for loading the items, not for buying. Took her a minute to figure it out. But then she calmly threw away the plastic bags I had brought with me to use for the freezer items, dropping them into nice new ones instead. Oh, well. Seven out of ten isn't bad.
We can use low flow devices and turn off the water while brushing our teeth or shaving. We can save energy by hanging laundry on a line or rack instead of using the dryer. Turning off the lights in a room when we leave it, no matter how long we're going to be gone, makes a big difference in the kW used column. And have you thought about disconnecting rarely used appliances? There are clocks in every room of my house, but the ones in the spare bedrooms are unplugged. And have you considered turning off the television for an hour so you can enjoy the quiet and actually hear the song of the birds now nesting in the trees?
Which brings me to part two.
There are more shades of green in a Texas spring than on any painter's palette. When we walk through the valley of life, even in the shadow of death, we can still stop, if only for a moment, look around, and glory in our surroundings. How sad that we do not take the time to do so, and that in our hurry to get from place to place we totally miss seeing the work of the greatest artist of them all.
How green is your valley today?
This one has double meaning.
Earth Day is this week. And while it seems to me that EVERY day should be Earth Day, I applaud the efforts of those who struggle to make us aware of what we can do to promote good stewardship of our resources.
Recycling is more than just a commendable idea, we should do it whenever we can. And I'm training a whole raft of cashiers about not using plastic bags for my purchases. Although I will admit that sometimes this causes a slight disconnect in their thought process. For example, the young woman recently who, when faced with the bags I had placed on the counter in front of my groceries, totally ignored what I'd said to her, twice, and told me she couldn't scan those bags because they didn't have bar coded tags. I repeated my request that those bags were for loading the items, not for buying. Took her a minute to figure it out. But then she calmly threw away the plastic bags I had brought with me to use for the freezer items, dropping them into nice new ones instead. Oh, well. Seven out of ten isn't bad.
We can use low flow devices and turn off the water while brushing our teeth or shaving. We can save energy by hanging laundry on a line or rack instead of using the dryer. Turning off the lights in a room when we leave it, no matter how long we're going to be gone, makes a big difference in the kW used column. And have you thought about disconnecting rarely used appliances? There are clocks in every room of my house, but the ones in the spare bedrooms are unplugged. And have you considered turning off the television for an hour so you can enjoy the quiet and actually hear the song of the birds now nesting in the trees?
Which brings me to part two.
There are more shades of green in a Texas spring than on any painter's palette. When we walk through the valley of life, even in the shadow of death, we can still stop, if only for a moment, look around, and glory in our surroundings. How sad that we do not take the time to do so, and that in our hurry to get from place to place we totally miss seeing the work of the greatest artist of them all.
How green is your valley today?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
remember
This is probably geared more to the woman in the house but a few of you guys might identify, too.
Spring break is over and the kiddies are back in school. Do you remember how much you looked forward to spring break when you were a kid? I bet you didn't realize how much your mother was looking forward to it being over.
The old joke goes: A Mom was asked what would be the first thing she'd do after the kids went back to school, and she answered, "Take a bath with the door open."
When my children were small, the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world was to be able to go to the bathroom and shut the door and not have anybody bother me. For just two minutes.
But invariably, the phone would ring, and while struggling to get myself together and reach the receiver the youngest would answer and say "hello" followed immediately with "bye-bye" and then a hang up. And back then we didn't have last number redial, so unless they called again, I had no clue who it was or what they wanted.
Also it seemed the only time one of the darlings ever broke a glass or a lamp (or an arm) was when the bathroom door was shut.
Oh, ok, it wasn't always that bad. Sometimes they just stood outside the door and had a conversation with me. They couldn't see me so they had to make sure I was really still there. And because for all they knew I was in an adjoining State, or on the moon, they had to compensate with a voice level somewhere around 80db.
And then of course they never had to "go" until I shut the door and two nanoseconds later there was the frantic knocking and their shrill little voice proclaiming NO I CAN'T HOLD IT I HAVE TO GO NOW.
The worst, of course, was when I KNEW they were up and about and had just settled myself on the throne and everything went suddenly totally horribly quiet.
These days I don't have any of those problems, because my children are way beyond that juvenile description.
No, these days if I go to the john and close the door, there are two little paws that creep underneath, reaching, reaching, reaching, batting the air. And if that doesn't persuade me to come out, then the door begins to move back and forth as KTT shoves against it, over and over and over, striving to get in.
I tried not closing the door, but then he joins me, and goes in and out and around my feet until I am ready to scream.
Bathroom privacy. It's a lost cause. Even with no kids in the house.
Spring break is over and the kiddies are back in school. Do you remember how much you looked forward to spring break when you were a kid? I bet you didn't realize how much your mother was looking forward to it being over.
The old joke goes: A Mom was asked what would be the first thing she'd do after the kids went back to school, and she answered, "Take a bath with the door open."
When my children were small, the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world was to be able to go to the bathroom and shut the door and not have anybody bother me. For just two minutes.
But invariably, the phone would ring, and while struggling to get myself together and reach the receiver the youngest would answer and say "hello" followed immediately with "bye-bye" and then a hang up. And back then we didn't have last number redial, so unless they called again, I had no clue who it was or what they wanted.
Also it seemed the only time one of the darlings ever broke a glass or a lamp (or an arm) was when the bathroom door was shut.
Oh, ok, it wasn't always that bad. Sometimes they just stood outside the door and had a conversation with me. They couldn't see me so they had to make sure I was really still there. And because for all they knew I was in an adjoining State, or on the moon, they had to compensate with a voice level somewhere around 80db.
And then of course they never had to "go" until I shut the door and two nanoseconds later there was the frantic knocking and their shrill little voice proclaiming NO I CAN'T HOLD IT I HAVE TO GO NOW.
The worst, of course, was when I KNEW they were up and about and had just settled myself on the throne and everything went suddenly totally horribly quiet.
These days I don't have any of those problems, because my children are way beyond that juvenile description.
No, these days if I go to the john and close the door, there are two little paws that creep underneath, reaching, reaching, reaching, batting the air. And if that doesn't persuade me to come out, then the door begins to move back and forth as KTT shoves against it, over and over and over, striving to get in.
I tried not closing the door, but then he joins me, and goes in and out and around my feet until I am ready to scream.
Bathroom privacy. It's a lost cause. Even with no kids in the house.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
beyond my ken
Have cut the grass six times already this year. Despite the snow and wind and rain and hail and everything else Nature has thrown our way since October, a bumper crop of clover rises steadily, stubbornly, in the back yard. But dismay over new growth gave way to wonder this morning, as I accompanied puppy out for reveille. Stood watching the clouds that alternated across the moon, could literally count the stars remaining in the predawn blackness, and suddenly saw my own personal Easter bunny, placidly crunching purple blooms. No fox, no eagle, no predator to disturb the morning calm, just puppy, bunny, and me. For reasons way above my pay grade, life goes on. In all its springtime glory. And for that I am truly thankful.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
woohoo!!
It never fails to amaze me that while the March Madness includes both men's and women's basketball teams 98% of the news coverage focuses on the guys. One channel this morning barely mentioned the Lady Bears latest win, and then hotfooted it right into the pros. Four times as much coverage for the guys. Short shrift for the gals.
Oh, well, what else is new. In the animal kingdom the males of the species have the most colorful plumage, the most luxurious coats, and by the way the loudest voices. Hmmmm. They're also the ones that most often get bagged. Insert your own conclusion at this point.
Anyhow, woohoo to the gals - - no matter what team they play for. Win or lose, they brighten our lives - - however briefly the media chooses to focus on them.
Oh, well, what else is new. In the animal kingdom the males of the species have the most colorful plumage, the most luxurious coats, and by the way the loudest voices. Hmmmm. They're also the ones that most often get bagged. Insert your own conclusion at this point.
Anyhow, woohoo to the gals - - no matter what team they play for. Win or lose, they brighten our lives - - however briefly the media chooses to focus on them.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
mea culpable
The shamrocks and Patty green have been relegated back to the decorator closet for another year. The living area decorations now are shades of pink, yellow, blue, and mauve. Crosses collected through the years hang in the front windows. A happy bunny door wreath welcomes all to our abode. The dining room tablecloth is a pastel egg design. Easter lilies shout the glad tidings from strategically placed vases. And cute little baskets of fake eggs adorn the stairs.
Well, at least it was that way when I went to bed last night. This morning was quite a different story. As I made my way from the kitchen with cuppa in hand, I noticed an egg peeping from underneath the coffee table. I didn't remember dropping one during the decorative process, but lack of memory is not an unusual occurrence around here these days, so I simply picked it up and headed for the stairs to put it back where it belongs.
The Easter baskets were empty.
You see, the little paper eggs have ribbon bows attached at one end, because they were originally designed to hang on an Easter tree. But this year there will be no grandchildren to hunt beneath the bushes, trample the hyacinth and daffodil, run squealing from place to place, cry when someone else finds more than they do, stuff their mouth with chocolate, and cry from resulting tummy aches. And so I didn't do a tree, choosing instead to place the little eggs in baskets.
I had carefully turned the eggs so the bows were down and out of sight. But the best laid plans and all that. Sometime during the night KTT had removed the eggs from their beds of cello-straw, either by mouth and bow, or paw scoop and swat. It looked like he had played soccer with them. All over the house.
The only egg he didn't move was the red one decorated with white carnations from Peking, China. And then probably only because that one is ceramic and too heavy, with no conveniently attached ribbon.
Why, you ask, didn't I hear the noise he must have made? Huge storms last night. Way too much lightning and thunder and driving rain and hail.
Perhaps that's the reason; he was just compensating his fear with activity. I've been known to do that, too; when I'm the most stressed I either bake or move the great room furniture.
Or maybe he was just being a cat, and doing what cats do.
But whatever his reason, it's really my own fault. I should have known better than to tempt him with such an easy mark.
I have not yet found all the eggs, but the ones I did find are back in the baskets. And the baskets are now grouped on the dining table instead of the stairs.
Not that the table top can't be reached with a single effortless bound from the floor, or a series of gravity-defying leaps from sofa back to buffet to table. But if he gets the eggs again, it won't be because they're just sitting there waiting for him, he'll have to work for the pleasure.
Well, at least it was that way when I went to bed last night. This morning was quite a different story. As I made my way from the kitchen with cuppa in hand, I noticed an egg peeping from underneath the coffee table. I didn't remember dropping one during the decorative process, but lack of memory is not an unusual occurrence around here these days, so I simply picked it up and headed for the stairs to put it back where it belongs.
The Easter baskets were empty.
You see, the little paper eggs have ribbon bows attached at one end, because they were originally designed to hang on an Easter tree. But this year there will be no grandchildren to hunt beneath the bushes, trample the hyacinth and daffodil, run squealing from place to place, cry when someone else finds more than they do, stuff their mouth with chocolate, and cry from resulting tummy aches. And so I didn't do a tree, choosing instead to place the little eggs in baskets.
I had carefully turned the eggs so the bows were down and out of sight. But the best laid plans and all that. Sometime during the night KTT had removed the eggs from their beds of cello-straw, either by mouth and bow, or paw scoop and swat. It looked like he had played soccer with them. All over the house.
The only egg he didn't move was the red one decorated with white carnations from Peking, China. And then probably only because that one is ceramic and too heavy, with no conveniently attached ribbon.
Why, you ask, didn't I hear the noise he must have made? Huge storms last night. Way too much lightning and thunder and driving rain and hail.
Perhaps that's the reason; he was just compensating his fear with activity. I've been known to do that, too; when I'm the most stressed I either bake or move the great room furniture.
Or maybe he was just being a cat, and doing what cats do.
But whatever his reason, it's really my own fault. I should have known better than to tempt him with such an easy mark.
I have not yet found all the eggs, but the ones I did find are back in the baskets. And the baskets are now grouped on the dining table instead of the stairs.
Not that the table top can't be reached with a single effortless bound from the floor, or a series of gravity-defying leaps from sofa back to buffet to table. But if he gets the eggs again, it won't be because they're just sitting there waiting for him, he'll have to work for the pleasure.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
ah-h-h-h-choo
Spring arrived and before the evening was over the snow started falling. Again. Waiting for puppy to complete his normal rounds on Sunday morning, it occurred to me that the reason I was sniffling and sneezing is because I'm allergic to more than just the spring pollen. I'm also allergic to snow.
Funny how I never used to equate north central Texas with snow. Ice, yes, and usually at least once every year, but snow? Not so much. Until this winter. The last time I saw this much white stuff in a single season was when we lived in Spokane, Washington. And we expected it up there. Heck, even the winter I spent in the DC area we didn't get this much.
Oh, it's beautiful, I'll grant you that, but only if I don't have to be out in it. Or wait by the phone until hubby is safely at work and sends a TM to let me know.
Frankly, I'm so over the whole winter thing. Especially when it happens AFTER March 21.
But I am reminded that when I first moved to Texas all these many eons ago a Native told me, "Don't put chyer winter clothes away 'til after Easter. No matter when that is!"
Funny how I never used to equate north central Texas with snow. Ice, yes, and usually at least once every year, but snow? Not so much. Until this winter. The last time I saw this much white stuff in a single season was when we lived in Spokane, Washington. And we expected it up there. Heck, even the winter I spent in the DC area we didn't get this much.
Oh, it's beautiful, I'll grant you that, but only if I don't have to be out in it. Or wait by the phone until hubby is safely at work and sends a TM to let me know.
Frankly, I'm so over the whole winter thing. Especially when it happens AFTER March 21.
But I am reminded that when I first moved to Texas all these many eons ago a Native told me, "Don't put chyer winter clothes away 'til after Easter. No matter when that is!"
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
spring
Spring, by the calendar, may be still a few days away yet, but it has already sprung down here in Suthren Country. How do I know?
Not because the pear trees for miles around are in riotous bloom, although they are.
Not because the neighborhood kids jostle and play in the early morning daylight as they wait for the school bus, although they do.
Not because the birds on the back patio are more raucous than ever as they fight for kibble 'n bits, even if it's true.
And not just because the mud puddle by the back door will be there for at least another month before the ubiquitous summer drought sets in. (I've already given up hope of keeping the carpet clean, because no matter how many throw rugs and towels I put down, puppy negotiates around each and steps only where his paw prints will show the most.)
But because of eyes that are matted shut each morning, and the profusion of used wadded up and discarded tissues in every trash can in the house.
Into each life some pollen must fall.
Not because the pear trees for miles around are in riotous bloom, although they are.
Not because the neighborhood kids jostle and play in the early morning daylight as they wait for the school bus, although they do.
Not because the birds on the back patio are more raucous than ever as they fight for kibble 'n bits, even if it's true.
And not just because the mud puddle by the back door will be there for at least another month before the ubiquitous summer drought sets in. (I've already given up hope of keeping the carpet clean, because no matter how many throw rugs and towels I put down, puppy negotiates around each and steps only where his paw prints will show the most.)
But because of eyes that are matted shut each morning, and the profusion of used wadded up and discarded tissues in every trash can in the house.
Into each life some pollen must fall.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
what we have lost
The approach of another birthday (thank you, God) started me thinking about the changes I have seen in my lifetime. And while I haven't been on the earth all that long, relatively speaking, some of them have been pretty awesome. Some are actually awe-inspiring. Others, not so much.
I have always lived in a home with electricity, but not always a telephone, or central heat, or indoor plumbing (now THERE's something to be grateful for, especially on a below-freezing winter night).
When my ancestors first went from sea to shining sea it took five months; the first time I drove from Carolina to California it took five days; now it takes five hours (not including the time spent circling the airport waiting for a landing slot and circling the parking lot for a spot for your car and standing in line to get through security).
Stockings for women are no longer considered required attire for work (except at DISD).
Women don't wear hats to church (Mom's hats and matching gloves in every imaginable color are stored in a box in the bottom of the closet, too bad there's not a genealogical society that would want them).
Men don't wear pocket handkerchiefs in their Sunday suit coats.
Pants still have belt loops but 99% of the time there's no belt in them (my Dad is rolling over in his grave about that one),
Thank you notes are still for sale but when's the last time you received one, or sent one? (This is excluding my granddaughter who ALWAYS sends one, Lord love her.)
Phone calls are out, forget writing letters, now it's all about email and blogs and twitter and facebook.
Photos are stored in cyber space or on removable drives instead of pasted in albums.
Books are online instead of on shelves.
I used to know the name of every family on our block; these days I know the name of only four out of sixteen (not because I don't care but because they move in and out so quickly I can't keep up).
Child abuse and spousal abuse have become the norm rather than the exception.
Welfare used to be a thing to be avoided at all costs; men would dig ditches and women would take in laundry, anything to avoid being "on the dole."
Teachers spend more time preparing their lunch than their lesson plans and worry more about a paycheck and tenure than learning (and then we wonder why our students are so woefully uneducated at graduation).
It used to be that only the top players got a trophy; these days everybody on the team gets one.
Preachers don't actually preach (too afraid of saying something that's not politically correct and perhaps offending a listener).
And when's the last time you actually trusted a politician to have your best interests at heart?
People not only spit on returning soldiers (a la Vietnam era), now they also scream curses and wave protest signs at their funerals.
I guess the only thing that hasn't changed is the worth of friendship. And I am so very grateful for yours.
I have always lived in a home with electricity, but not always a telephone, or central heat, or indoor plumbing (now THERE's something to be grateful for, especially on a below-freezing winter night).
When my ancestors first went from sea to shining sea it took five months; the first time I drove from Carolina to California it took five days; now it takes five hours (not including the time spent circling the airport waiting for a landing slot and circling the parking lot for a spot for your car and standing in line to get through security).
Stockings for women are no longer considered required attire for work (except at DISD).
Women don't wear hats to church (Mom's hats and matching gloves in every imaginable color are stored in a box in the bottom of the closet, too bad there's not a genealogical society that would want them).
Men don't wear pocket handkerchiefs in their Sunday suit coats.
Pants still have belt loops but 99% of the time there's no belt in them (my Dad is rolling over in his grave about that one),
Thank you notes are still for sale but when's the last time you received one, or sent one? (This is excluding my granddaughter who ALWAYS sends one, Lord love her.)
Phone calls are out, forget writing letters, now it's all about email and blogs and twitter and facebook.
Photos are stored in cyber space or on removable drives instead of pasted in albums.
Books are online instead of on shelves.
I used to know the name of every family on our block; these days I know the name of only four out of sixteen (not because I don't care but because they move in and out so quickly I can't keep up).
Child abuse and spousal abuse have become the norm rather than the exception.
Welfare used to be a thing to be avoided at all costs; men would dig ditches and women would take in laundry, anything to avoid being "on the dole."
Teachers spend more time preparing their lunch than their lesson plans and worry more about a paycheck and tenure than learning (and then we wonder why our students are so woefully uneducated at graduation).
It used to be that only the top players got a trophy; these days everybody on the team gets one.
Preachers don't actually preach (too afraid of saying something that's not politically correct and perhaps offending a listener).
And when's the last time you actually trusted a politician to have your best interests at heart?
People not only spit on returning soldiers (a la Vietnam era), now they also scream curses and wave protest signs at their funerals.
I guess the only thing that hasn't changed is the worth of friendship. And I am so very grateful for yours.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
checkers
Walking up the stairs this morning, paused for a minute and looked at the things there. Along the side next to the wall are pictures of family. Denise and Mike when they were still in high school. Jim's sons when they were pre-teens. Jim's father holding his firstborn son, Michael. A picture of his Mom in her uniform when she graduated from nursing school, standing next to her best friend. My parents. A battered picture of me standing next to my Dad, as far I know, the only one of me in uniform with family, because you know they were not at all happy with that decision, but that's another story and better not explored here and now. The only picture of Mother's mother that has survived the years, and an email print of her with her immediate family when she was about three. My Dad's parents standing solemnly proud, Grant Wood without the pitchfork, taken only months before grampa died. And of course various pictures all my grandchildren.
On the other side, next to the rail, are pretty decorator boxes. I rotate them according to the season and color scheme of the living room.
Also, there are two candy dishes that came from Mom's house, both in shades of sage, olive, and a green so dark it's almost black, one shaped very like a swan, the other with a neck turned back in upon itself. They don’t go with anything else in the house, since my decor is neither early American nor fifties kitsch, but I keep them there because they are simply lovely and I enjoy seeing them and I choose not to relegate them to a closet or the guest bedroom.
On the third step from the bottom is a tin box of checkers. I opened it the other day, just to make sure all the pieces are there. Yep. It's complete. And so they sit and wait for someone to take them out and place them on the board in its still vibrant hues of ruby and jet, and push them from block to block, jump them from one place to another, and place one on top of the other with the joyous cry of "king me!"
But no one who comes to my house these days is here long enough to play a game. Besides, the internet is much more alive. And more suited to the quixotic attention span of a gnat that the general populace seems to have adopted.
And that's my fault. Even when we lost the electricity the other night, we did not settle down to play a game. I picked up a book and read by candlelight. Not that there's anything wrong with reading. But even Jim fell victim, and the choice was made, instead, to run an extension cord to the computer so he could play solitaire.
The chess pieces have been put away, too. The wonderful huge set of ebony and ivory we received for a wedding present is bubble-wrapped and closed in a box and stored away, because it just catches dust and tantalizes the cat to walk where he should not.
I long for the days when, by the light of the fire, we sat down on the rug and played checkers. Or chess. And actually talked to each other.
On the other side, next to the rail, are pretty decorator boxes. I rotate them according to the season and color scheme of the living room.
Also, there are two candy dishes that came from Mom's house, both in shades of sage, olive, and a green so dark it's almost black, one shaped very like a swan, the other with a neck turned back in upon itself. They don’t go with anything else in the house, since my decor is neither early American nor fifties kitsch, but I keep them there because they are simply lovely and I enjoy seeing them and I choose not to relegate them to a closet or the guest bedroom.
On the third step from the bottom is a tin box of checkers. I opened it the other day, just to make sure all the pieces are there. Yep. It's complete. And so they sit and wait for someone to take them out and place them on the board in its still vibrant hues of ruby and jet, and push them from block to block, jump them from one place to another, and place one on top of the other with the joyous cry of "king me!"
But no one who comes to my house these days is here long enough to play a game. Besides, the internet is much more alive. And more suited to the quixotic attention span of a gnat that the general populace seems to have adopted.
And that's my fault. Even when we lost the electricity the other night, we did not settle down to play a game. I picked up a book and read by candlelight. Not that there's anything wrong with reading. But even Jim fell victim, and the choice was made, instead, to run an extension cord to the computer so he could play solitaire.
The chess pieces have been put away, too. The wonderful huge set of ebony and ivory we received for a wedding present is bubble-wrapped and closed in a box and stored away, because it just catches dust and tantalizes the cat to walk where he should not.
I long for the days when, by the light of the fire, we sat down on the rug and played checkers. Or chess. And actually talked to each other.
Monday, February 22, 2010
KTT no longer sleeps on the bed with us. It certainly couldn't be that he was no longer comfortable sleeping on my feet and making them go numb an hour after I lay down, so just figured it was because he was tired of me kicking him.
This morning I got up at 4 instead of the normal 5, thinking to spend an hour writing before the day kicks off with the barks from the garage and the television blaring to life. Came upstairs, not being particularly careful to stay quiet, but carpeted stairs and my cashmere-sock-clad feet didn't make much noise. Noticed that the door to the guest room was open, just a little.
Peeked in. And there was KTT, curled up on the bed next to the plush stuffed brown-and-white saint bernard. The one that used to live downstairs on the blanket chest at the foot of my bed. Before Jim decided he needed that space, too, for his clothes. (He'd already piled the chair so high you can't see the slipcover and I'm sure there's still a carpet on his bathroom floor but can't prove it.)
So either KTT got tired of having to negotiate the camouflage mountain to get onto the bed, or he missed his body buddy and decided to join him in the guest room.
Heck, if I'd known it would be that way, I'd have put that durn puppy upstairs months ago.
This morning I got up at 4 instead of the normal 5, thinking to spend an hour writing before the day kicks off with the barks from the garage and the television blaring to life. Came upstairs, not being particularly careful to stay quiet, but carpeted stairs and my cashmere-sock-clad feet didn't make much noise. Noticed that the door to the guest room was open, just a little.
Peeked in. And there was KTT, curled up on the bed next to the plush stuffed brown-and-white saint bernard. The one that used to live downstairs on the blanket chest at the foot of my bed. Before Jim decided he needed that space, too, for his clothes. (He'd already piled the chair so high you can't see the slipcover and I'm sure there's still a carpet on his bathroom floor but can't prove it.)
So either KTT got tired of having to negotiate the camouflage mountain to get onto the bed, or he missed his body buddy and decided to join him in the guest room.
Heck, if I'd known it would be that way, I'd have put that durn puppy upstairs months ago.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Sitting at the computer Saturday morning, looking out the 2nd story front windows, I watched the freezing fog roll in. Was thinking about the weather we've had this winter. An announcement on the Friday news said 49 of the 50 states had measurable snowfall, with only Hawaii not reporting. That's pretty strange, because the mountain peaks on the big Island were on that day unusually, freakishly, devoid of snow.
The government in DC was closed down for more than a week. Baltimore despairs of ever seeing the grass again. Mud slides in CA play havoc more than the norm with both traffic and homes. My poor friends in MA and NH and VT were days without power, along with more Texans than the visiting crews from OK and LA and AR could handle in less than a week.
The snowdrifts in my back yard were 16 inches deep, with a 13-inch layer solid across the rest. The only parts of puppy that could be seen when he went on patrol were his ears; quite freaky, that, to see a disembodied head popping up now and then across the landscape.
Today, a week later, there's still a line of snow out there, by the fence, where the sun doesn't reach, and a solitary clump in the street by the mailbox, distinctly gray in color, that probably fell off a car as it drove by. But it appears it ain't over yet. The weather forecasts for next week show a "wintry mix" in store for us.
I think next year, on February 1, someone should shoot that bloomin' groundhog.
The government in DC was closed down for more than a week. Baltimore despairs of ever seeing the grass again. Mud slides in CA play havoc more than the norm with both traffic and homes. My poor friends in MA and NH and VT were days without power, along with more Texans than the visiting crews from OK and LA and AR could handle in less than a week.
The snowdrifts in my back yard were 16 inches deep, with a 13-inch layer solid across the rest. The only parts of puppy that could be seen when he went on patrol were his ears; quite freaky, that, to see a disembodied head popping up now and then across the landscape.
Today, a week later, there's still a line of snow out there, by the fence, where the sun doesn't reach, and a solitary clump in the street by the mailbox, distinctly gray in color, that probably fell off a car as it drove by. But it appears it ain't over yet. The weather forecasts for next week show a "wintry mix" in store for us.
I think next year, on February 1, someone should shoot that bloomin' groundhog.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
blue dinosaur
Walking through wally world the second week in January, I was frankly overwhelmed at the amount of Valentine's Day items already on display. Stuffed animals of every ilk. Jewelry, both cheap and expensive. Heart-shaped candy dishes in clear glass or red plastic. Fake velvet and silk roses in pink, purple, and a red so deep it's almost black. Three aisles (count 'em, three) of cards. All geared toward a day that was over a month away.
I suppose it was to be expected. Christmas over, the only thing the retailers had to look forward to was the next holiday, and since January was sadly lacking (save for Three Kings Day) that meant February was the target.
But instead of buying something for decoration, I simply came home and opened the decorator closet. Took out three lengths of fabric, each with its own unique heart design, and created a display on the dining room table. There's the tiny brown puppy I care-mailed to Jim last year, that he so carefully packed and brought home, and the one to match that sat on the top of my computer for the month. A crazy blue dinosaur with red scales on its back, wearing yellow sunglasses, holding a red and white heart, that Jim gave me the first year we were married. A little curly red poodle, holding in its paws a fake flower, Lord knows where it came from. And, of course, the little heart valentine from my grandson that stays, the rest of the year, on the refrigerator, under the Chinese wedding couple magnet.
I'm not one to ask for flowers, they just die; or candy that after all is said and done is good for only an inch or two on the thighs. I buy my own jewelry, thank you very much. And while I do agree that it's the thought that counts, a card from Jim is mainly good for reading once or twice and then keeping in a drawer or scrapbook until the ink fades.
I do not expect anything from hubby on Valentine's Day. Because, you see, I have the greatest gift of all - a real heart. His.
I suppose it was to be expected. Christmas over, the only thing the retailers had to look forward to was the next holiday, and since January was sadly lacking (save for Three Kings Day) that meant February was the target.
But instead of buying something for decoration, I simply came home and opened the decorator closet. Took out three lengths of fabric, each with its own unique heart design, and created a display on the dining room table. There's the tiny brown puppy I care-mailed to Jim last year, that he so carefully packed and brought home, and the one to match that sat on the top of my computer for the month. A crazy blue dinosaur with red scales on its back, wearing yellow sunglasses, holding a red and white heart, that Jim gave me the first year we were married. A little curly red poodle, holding in its paws a fake flower, Lord knows where it came from. And, of course, the little heart valentine from my grandson that stays, the rest of the year, on the refrigerator, under the Chinese wedding couple magnet.
I'm not one to ask for flowers, they just die; or candy that after all is said and done is good for only an inch or two on the thighs. I buy my own jewelry, thank you very much. And while I do agree that it's the thought that counts, a card from Jim is mainly good for reading once or twice and then keeping in a drawer or scrapbook until the ink fades.
I do not expect anything from hubby on Valentine's Day. Because, you see, I have the greatest gift of all - a real heart. His.
Friday, February 12, 2010
small price
On Thursday around 10 am the satellite system went out. Just a little menu on the screen that said "SEARCHING FOR SATELLITE." After an hour of watching it go through all the satellites and all the spots, I decided to call the company. The nice lady told me to make sure the dish wasn't blocked.
Well, duh. Eight hours of snow had done just that. So, rather than risk his ire and climb the ladder myself, I woke Jim and told him the problem. Bless him, he got up, put on his heavy-duty coveralls, and took a broom and the small ladder outside. Two minutes later I heard a crash. The ladder had collapsed, sending him sprawling on the ground. After his conniption fit, he said, "Well, I'm glad there's five inches of snow out there, otherwise I'd have broken a hip." He came back in and got the big ladder. This time, I stood guard. Snow removed from the dish, he came back inside, got a cup of coffee and began to tell me how bad his hip hurt. He came over to where I was sitting on the sofa, pulled down his long-john bottoms, and said, "Is there a bruise there?" I said, "No." He said, "Well, kiss it anyway and make it better."
Oh, well, I figured I've kissed his ass for 15 years now, one more time wouldn't hurt. And so I planted a big sloppy one on his right cheek. He went back to bed, laughing out loud at the joke he’d played on me. At least I had my satellite coverage back. Small price to pay. Besides, it's not the first time I've been the butt of a joke.
By the way, from then on I let him sleep and used the dust mop with the extension handle, which is just exactly long enough to reach from my hand to the top of the dish.
Well, duh. Eight hours of snow had done just that. So, rather than risk his ire and climb the ladder myself, I woke Jim and told him the problem. Bless him, he got up, put on his heavy-duty coveralls, and took a broom and the small ladder outside. Two minutes later I heard a crash. The ladder had collapsed, sending him sprawling on the ground. After his conniption fit, he said, "Well, I'm glad there's five inches of snow out there, otherwise I'd have broken a hip." He came back in and got the big ladder. This time, I stood guard. Snow removed from the dish, he came back inside, got a cup of coffee and began to tell me how bad his hip hurt. He came over to where I was sitting on the sofa, pulled down his long-john bottoms, and said, "Is there a bruise there?" I said, "No." He said, "Well, kiss it anyway and make it better."
Oh, well, I figured I've kissed his ass for 15 years now, one more time wouldn't hurt. And so I planted a big sloppy one on his right cheek. He went back to bed, laughing out loud at the joke he’d played on me. At least I had my satellite coverage back. Small price to pay. Besides, it's not the first time I've been the butt of a joke.
By the way, from then on I let him sleep and used the dust mop with the extension handle, which is just exactly long enough to reach from my hand to the top of the dish.
The pic shows the roofline. The only reason there's not much snow next to the truck is because Jim was out there half the night fighting it, hoping to get to work. Didn't happen. Oh, and that's the mailbox, a foot deep in the white stuff. Just beyond it is the pasture across the street. Seems we've set a new record for snowfall down here in Suthren Country. I'd just as soon do without.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
a perspective on value
In the past few years there have been days, months even, when I wondered if things would ever again be right in my life. Deaths in the family. Reconstruction on the house. Son in a war zone. Then husband. And finally they were both home but hubby was unemployed. Some days it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. There seemed to be no value in getting up to face yet another day of disappointment. Anger. Panic attacks. Despair.
But the little dog that lives at my house never lost hope. Each morning he got up and demanded I join him. Day after day, whether I liked it or not, we two faced the dawn. And late each afternoon he again asked in no uncertain terms for my attention. Sitting on the back patio, brushing his black-going-gray coat while he rested his white muzzle and dozed on my feet was sometimes all I had to look forward to. Watching his antics as he rolled on his back, feet paddling the air, reveling in the fresh-cut grass, was sometimes the only laugh I got all week. His soft bark the only non-electronic sound I heard each day.
His cold little nose always knew exactly where to find my hand. And then he'd do that little flip, you know the one, to make it land on his head. The only living thing in the world that asked nothing more from me than my touch. And once a day, a bowl of food.
Some say you rent a cat, and you own a dog. But I tend to the contrary. I think my dog was loaned to me by a Higher Power who knew way back all those many years and miles ago that one day I'd need the comfort of shaggy warm fur, the steadfast devotion that never questioned why lean times brought a diet of only dry bagged food with water gravy and no treats, and the unquestioning, unwavering love that only a dog can give.
I no longer claim that it was I who rescued him. And while I do not think there will be another in this house when his time with me is at an end, I will not say never. I will always be grateful for the warmth of a paw, the trust of soulful brown eyes, the joy of a wagging tail, and the value of a little heart that touched mine in more ways than I can ever count.
I am not at all surprised that DOG is GOD spelled backwards.
But the little dog that lives at my house never lost hope. Each morning he got up and demanded I join him. Day after day, whether I liked it or not, we two faced the dawn. And late each afternoon he again asked in no uncertain terms for my attention. Sitting on the back patio, brushing his black-going-gray coat while he rested his white muzzle and dozed on my feet was sometimes all I had to look forward to. Watching his antics as he rolled on his back, feet paddling the air, reveling in the fresh-cut grass, was sometimes the only laugh I got all week. His soft bark the only non-electronic sound I heard each day.
His cold little nose always knew exactly where to find my hand. And then he'd do that little flip, you know the one, to make it land on his head. The only living thing in the world that asked nothing more from me than my touch. And once a day, a bowl of food.
Some say you rent a cat, and you own a dog. But I tend to the contrary. I think my dog was loaned to me by a Higher Power who knew way back all those many years and miles ago that one day I'd need the comfort of shaggy warm fur, the steadfast devotion that never questioned why lean times brought a diet of only dry bagged food with water gravy and no treats, and the unquestioning, unwavering love that only a dog can give.
I no longer claim that it was I who rescued him. And while I do not think there will be another in this house when his time with me is at an end, I will not say never. I will always be grateful for the warmth of a paw, the trust of soulful brown eyes, the joy of a wagging tail, and the value of a little heart that touched mine in more ways than I can ever count.
I am not at all surprised that DOG is GOD spelled backwards.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
weekend notes
While not quite "as high as a elephant's eye" the clover in the backyard looks like we've never had a winter at all around here. I need my bunny to come a'croppin, but haven't seen her for quite some time. For all I know she went to Oklahoma. If you see her, please send her home.
On Monday a young gentleman rang our bell and told Jim he was selling steaks. Two days later Jim answered the door to find a young man who said he was taking donations for the Red Oak High School Band. Friday it was Aid to Haiti. Said no thank you to all three. We don't question the spirit of entrepreneurship, nor the validity of the causes, but we do question how it is that every time, it was the same guy. We also found it strange that he seems to be totally on his own, with no support vehicle, and neither product nor paperwork in hand. Stay tuned.
And, finally, kudos to Kevin Bacon who won both Globe and SAG awards for his role in "Taking Chance." Told you guys from the beginning, it's a good one, and well worth your time. Probably won't see the Academy taking notice, but it’s nice to know that the people who really matter did.
Semper Fi, y'all.
On Monday a young gentleman rang our bell and told Jim he was selling steaks. Two days later Jim answered the door to find a young man who said he was taking donations for the Red Oak High School Band. Friday it was Aid to Haiti. Said no thank you to all three. We don't question the spirit of entrepreneurship, nor the validity of the causes, but we do question how it is that every time, it was the same guy. We also found it strange that he seems to be totally on his own, with no support vehicle, and neither product nor paperwork in hand. Stay tuned.
And, finally, kudos to Kevin Bacon who won both Globe and SAG awards for his role in "Taking Chance." Told you guys from the beginning, it's a good one, and well worth your time. Probably won't see the Academy taking notice, but it’s nice to know that the people who really matter did.
Semper Fi, y'all.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
fitting in
Was thinking the other morning about my high school days, and remembering the anguish of trying to fit in. Being in the school play instead of on the sidelines as a cheerleader did not give me the popularity I wanted so desperately. Being in the band gave way to being on the yearbook staff and a feature writer for the newspaper but those were small potatoes compared to strutting majorettes. And no, mother says, I don't care how popular it is to be in the art class, you are taking typing.
Dating? Not even talked about until my 16th birthday, with only one month remaining in my junior year. And then I was constrained by ten pm curfews and a father who conducted a mandatory 15-minute interview while I waited out of sight in the bedroom. If the young gentleman was in the least unacceptable, he was politely shown the shotgun and the door, in that order, and cordially not invited back to our premises.
No wearing shorts on the weekend, too revealing. No spaghetti strap dresses at any time, ditto reason. If everybody else jumped off the bridge of rolled-up-jeans that didn't give me the right to join their ranks.
When everybody else on our street got a gasoline-driven lawn mower, we powered ours with hands and legs alone. When all the other ladies in the neighborhood boasted electric clothes dryers, we just kept on hanging our laundry on the line. You say you're cold? Put on a sweater. Too hot? Here's a paper fan. Did I hear you say you're bored? Read a book. No, we're not getting a color TV, there's nothing wrong with the black and white one we have now. Think your life is horrible? Let me tell you about the Depression.
And do not, do not, repeat do not question those decisions. I wasn't raised in a household where backtalk of any kind was allowed, not even whispered under your breath. Parental edicts left no room for negotiation. None. You want to go somewhere on Sunday night? It better be to church. And ours, not his. No phone calls after 8 pm. Do NOT roll your eyes at me. I could go on but you get the idea.
Chemistry and physics and algebra and trig and geometry were a part of life when I was out there in the workforce, but not today.
It's been probably 40 years since I worried about "fitting in." I hang my clothes on a wooden rack in the back yard. I push a lawn mower that never saw a gallon of fuel. My house stays just warm enough and just cool enough to be comfortable without having to take out a loan to pay the utility bill.
Each day I say a prayer of thanks for parents who cared enough to make me learn how to iron a shirt, how to manage money, how to be a good citizen, how to vote, how to donate blood, how to live within the law, and how to live in a society where the "norm" changes daily but good Christian values never do.
I can't remember when it was that being popular and fitting in stopped being important to me. But I'm thankful it did. And every morning when I sit down at the computer I bless the teacher who taught me to type, and the Mother who insisted I learn.
Dating? Not even talked about until my 16th birthday, with only one month remaining in my junior year. And then I was constrained by ten pm curfews and a father who conducted a mandatory 15-minute interview while I waited out of sight in the bedroom. If the young gentleman was in the least unacceptable, he was politely shown the shotgun and the door, in that order, and cordially not invited back to our premises.
No wearing shorts on the weekend, too revealing. No spaghetti strap dresses at any time, ditto reason. If everybody else jumped off the bridge of rolled-up-jeans that didn't give me the right to join their ranks.
When everybody else on our street got a gasoline-driven lawn mower, we powered ours with hands and legs alone. When all the other ladies in the neighborhood boasted electric clothes dryers, we just kept on hanging our laundry on the line. You say you're cold? Put on a sweater. Too hot? Here's a paper fan. Did I hear you say you're bored? Read a book. No, we're not getting a color TV, there's nothing wrong with the black and white one we have now. Think your life is horrible? Let me tell you about the Depression.
And do not, do not, repeat do not question those decisions. I wasn't raised in a household where backtalk of any kind was allowed, not even whispered under your breath. Parental edicts left no room for negotiation. None. You want to go somewhere on Sunday night? It better be to church. And ours, not his. No phone calls after 8 pm. Do NOT roll your eyes at me. I could go on but you get the idea.
Chemistry and physics and algebra and trig and geometry were a part of life when I was out there in the workforce, but not today.
It's been probably 40 years since I worried about "fitting in." I hang my clothes on a wooden rack in the back yard. I push a lawn mower that never saw a gallon of fuel. My house stays just warm enough and just cool enough to be comfortable without having to take out a loan to pay the utility bill.
Each day I say a prayer of thanks for parents who cared enough to make me learn how to iron a shirt, how to manage money, how to be a good citizen, how to vote, how to donate blood, how to live within the law, and how to live in a society where the "norm" changes daily but good Christian values never do.
I can't remember when it was that being popular and fitting in stopped being important to me. But I'm thankful it did. And every morning when I sit down at the computer I bless the teacher who taught me to type, and the Mother who insisted I learn.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
shoulders
This is not the post I'd planned to write today. But sometimes there is a plan greater than mine and I must put it aside, if only for a while.
Great grandpa twice a POW in a northern hell, consigned to a life of pain from battle injuries, but it was still a life, and one to be cherished; he held no recriminations but praised the South and its people the rest of his days.
An Uncle toured England and France, seeing the sights from a gun turret during WWII while the bombs fell around him; came home to raise a family and suffer private demons that eventually drove him to his grave.
A cousin who won't talk about his time in Korea, but does speak now and then of a cold so pervasive no amount of blankets can ever warm the memories.
Two brothers who joined, one branch each, because it was the right thing to do.
A son who spent his formative years being a military brat, and is now only a few months short of retirement from his own Army career; lost a wife and a girlfriend somewhere along the way, but still dons his boots and saddles up in answer to the call.
A husband who has worn the uniform of more than one branch of service, patrolled foreign shores, sailed angry seas, and is now facing yet another deployment.
My own service seems miniscule in comparison. Yet I raise my flag each day with pride, for it IS my flag. I stand on the shoulders of these giants. The proud, the few. We happy few. This band of brothers, uncles, cousins, sisters, parents, husbands, sons both adopted and by blood, countless neighbors, cherished friends. I salute them one and all.
http://media.causes.com/611645?p_id=44185871
Great grandpa twice a POW in a northern hell, consigned to a life of pain from battle injuries, but it was still a life, and one to be cherished; he held no recriminations but praised the South and its people the rest of his days.
An Uncle toured England and France, seeing the sights from a gun turret during WWII while the bombs fell around him; came home to raise a family and suffer private demons that eventually drove him to his grave.
A cousin who won't talk about his time in Korea, but does speak now and then of a cold so pervasive no amount of blankets can ever warm the memories.
Two brothers who joined, one branch each, because it was the right thing to do.
A son who spent his formative years being a military brat, and is now only a few months short of retirement from his own Army career; lost a wife and a girlfriend somewhere along the way, but still dons his boots and saddles up in answer to the call.
A husband who has worn the uniform of more than one branch of service, patrolled foreign shores, sailed angry seas, and is now facing yet another deployment.
My own service seems miniscule in comparison. Yet I raise my flag each day with pride, for it IS my flag. I stand on the shoulders of these giants. The proud, the few. We happy few. This band of brothers, uncles, cousins, sisters, parents, husbands, sons both adopted and by blood, countless neighbors, cherished friends. I salute them one and all.
http://media.causes.com/611645?p_id=44185871
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
just a quick note
A big hooooooooahhhhhhh thank-you to the Texas Rangers for stepping in to help the Cedar Hill High School baseball team.
http://www.mlb.com/news/index.jsp?c_id=tex&partnered=rss_tex
And a big thank you to local merchants and national chains for the donation of equipment and money.
But a bigger thank you to the individuals of the community, and outside of it, who sent checks.
Just because it was the right thing to do.
http://www.mlb.com/news/index.jsp?c_id=tex&partnered=rss_tex
And a big thank you to local merchants and national chains for the donation of equipment and money.
But a bigger thank you to the individuals of the community, and outside of it, who sent checks.
Just because it was the right thing to do.
Monday, January 4, 2010
resolutions
Dear One:
Do you make New Year's Resolution? I seldom do. Not because there is nothing in my life I wish to change, for there are definitely habits I'd like to banish. And there are things I wish I had the ability to make happen. But wanting and doing are two separate things. And the wanting is sometimes less than what is necessary for the doing. I guess what it comes down to is "perspicacity."
Don't ask me the origin of that word, or an exact definition, I just remember it was one of Mom's favorites. She'd use it when she enumerated my transgressions. It came up in conversation quite a lot, for I was admittedly a willful child. She always wanted me to accomplish more, to be better, espousing the Olympic aim of higher, faster, longer, stronger. She was an “a-plus” kind of parent.
Dad was of a different mindset. He'd say "don't set yourself up for failure." Not that he meant I shouldn't try at all. He was simply realistic about life, and wanted to protect me from the pain and disillusion of non-achievement. He thought the grade of “c” was ok if you’d tried your best, and felt a “b” was perfectly acceptable. The only thing he ever demanded was the absolute truth in all things and at all times.
It was actually quite frustrating, living with two so radically divergent philosophies.
And so today I am stuck between the two. Do I want to make a resolution? Is the aim too high? Do I have the perspicacity to make it happen? Perhaps. Maybe. I don't know. Oh, fiddledeedee. I'll think about it tomorrow.
Love, Scarlett
Do you make New Year's Resolution? I seldom do. Not because there is nothing in my life I wish to change, for there are definitely habits I'd like to banish. And there are things I wish I had the ability to make happen. But wanting and doing are two separate things. And the wanting is sometimes less than what is necessary for the doing. I guess what it comes down to is "perspicacity."
Don't ask me the origin of that word, or an exact definition, I just remember it was one of Mom's favorites. She'd use it when she enumerated my transgressions. It came up in conversation quite a lot, for I was admittedly a willful child. She always wanted me to accomplish more, to be better, espousing the Olympic aim of higher, faster, longer, stronger. She was an “a-plus” kind of parent.
Dad was of a different mindset. He'd say "don't set yourself up for failure." Not that he meant I shouldn't try at all. He was simply realistic about life, and wanted to protect me from the pain and disillusion of non-achievement. He thought the grade of “c” was ok if you’d tried your best, and felt a “b” was perfectly acceptable. The only thing he ever demanded was the absolute truth in all things and at all times.
It was actually quite frustrating, living with two so radically divergent philosophies.
And so today I am stuck between the two. Do I want to make a resolution? Is the aim too high? Do I have the perspicacity to make it happen? Perhaps. Maybe. I don't know. Oh, fiddledeedee. I'll think about it tomorrow.
Love, Scarlett
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