A Long and Happy Life

The candles will be blown out and put away. The lights will be wrapped up and packed in a box. The Santa's, snowmen and angels will be tucked safely in tissue paper, high on a shelf in the attic. The tree will be set out for the birds to nest in.

The Christmas decorations are gone until next year.

But the image of the dozens of shoes lined up down the fifteen foot hall at my in-law’s house will stick in my mind all year long – a reminder of the long and happy life they have enjoyed. With seven children, four daughters-in-law and three sons-in-law, a foster daughter and her husband, eighteen grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren; amazingly, all but four were present over the Christmas holiday season.

Which explains the long, long row of boots and shoes in this picture – and why I have given this blog post its title.



A long and happy life.

When all is said and done, and we have to look back on the accomplishments in our life, we need look no farther.

May you have a long and happy life.

The Grandma Shirt

She wrinkles up her nose. She glares at me with eyes that spell out the word “eeww”.

No, Mickey doesn’t like the same clothes I like. And when I try to show her something classic, she makes the same face at me. “That looks like a grandma shirt,” she says.

I’m not in the dark about fashion. I know what people are wearing. I know what’s in and what’s out. But I also know what I like and don’t like. I don’t like shirts that are skin tight. I don’t like jeans that are so low cut that a person has to make sure they have coordinating undergarments on. After all, I grew up in the era where girls tried to make sure their bra straps didn’t show.

I do like the classic, uncomplicated clothes. Sweatshirts. Jeans. Cardigan sweaters and roomy t’s.

Last winter I found myself picking up and contemplating the purchase of an awesome navy blue sweatshirt with a snowman appliqué on it. After my inner voices wrestled back and forth with themselves about the shirt, my younger self won. I couldn’t force myself to buy it.

Because my mom wears shirts like that.

Yesterday I spotted a red sweatshirt with Christmas trees appliquéd on the front. I picked it up. I liked it. I put it back down. I walked around the store one more time.

I thought to myself, “You are a grandma, for heaven’s sakes. Buy the darn shirt.”

Yes, I have come to realize that you get to a point in your life where you finally admit to yourself that it’s okay to dress as you like, wear your hair as you like – and quit using the Loving Care.

I’m not quite there yet – but I can feel it coming.

And I’m kind of okay with that – kind of.

Trust Your Heart

The air was frigid. It was one of the coldest days so far this winter. As we got closer to the stop light, we saw two gentlemen standing by the curb, the wind chill literally taking their breath away. A piece of cardboard, cut from a box, had writing on it, scrawled with a black magic marker. The light turned red.

With my car slowly rolling to a stop, I was able to make out the words “Please, we need money for bus tickets,” and “God bless you”.

The driver in the car ahead of me opened his window and handed them money.

In an instant, I turned and grabbed for my purse. My thick, glove-covered hands pulled a ten dollar bill out of my wallet. By now the light had turned green. I glanced in my rear view mirror and could see about four cars behind me. Tugging on the window switch, it made its way down. At the same time, I slowly pulled ahead and thrust the ten dollar bill out of the window as my car neared one of the gentlemen.

He took the money and said “God bless you ma’am”. I nodded to him and drove off.

As we rounded the corner, Mickey turned to me and said, “Didn’t that feel good?” I agreed with her. It felt really good.

I don’t know how many of the subsequent cars behind me followed suit, but I know at least one did. I don’t know if these gentlemen really needed bus tickets or not, but I didn’t care.

Then turning back to Mickey I said, “It doesn’t really matter what they wanted the money for. What matters is that we trusted our heart.”

Muddy Footprints

“Make sure you tell Grandpa he doesn’t have to catch a turkey this year, because we have one in our freezer,” Chrissy says to me as we talk about what we like best about Thanksgiving.

Chrissy and Kaitlyn both agreed they like the turkey the best. And for the record, the ones I bake come from the grocery store.

The housecleaning is done as good as it will be this year. There are a few doors that will be shut - to hide the stray boxes leftover from the kitchen remodel that I haven’t the gumption to deal with.

More importantly, tonight I am relaxing with my little sweeties – savoring my Tuesday night with them while their mom is at class. We were sandwich artists tonight, the three of us up at the counter building ourselves each our own classic. After supper we got out our pencils and paper and wrote letters to Santa. After homework is done and we read a book or two, I’ll tuck them into their beds, listen to their prayers, and kiss them goodnight – sending them off to dream their sweet little dreams of Barbie houses, play makeup and Nintendo DS games.

While the house is quiet I think of all of us fretting to get everything on our lists done in time for Thanksgiving. I think of all the floors that are being scrubbed and vacuumed, and furniture being dusted. I think of all the trips to the grocery store for the special ingredients.

We clean and cook with love in our hearts for those we love the most.

And after the day is over, in much less time than it took to prepare, there will be muddy footprints on our freshly scrubbed floor, spilled gravy on the tablecloth, and half-full (or half-empty, depending on how you look at it) glasses of wine or punch scattered about the house. There will be loads of dishes to be washed and leftovers galore, jam-packed into the frig.

As you crash on the sofa after everyone is gone, let the muddy footprints be a sign that you have a family that loves you and loves to spend time with you.

I thank God for all the muddy footprints in my life.

This post was requested by a friend - who needed some inspiration as she gets ready for Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

The Secret Ingredient

My husband’s mother is mother to more than just him. She has six other children, a whole mess of grand and great-grandchildren, and has been married for over fifty years . Several years ago, she partnered with her husband running a 500 cow dairy farm in western Wisconsin. This brings me in a round-about way to the subject today.

First, I must elaborate a little more.

She has always cooked for a big family. She has always cooked for a table full of hired farm hands, plus her seven children and grand children. She cooked in quantity - seemingly effortlessly. On the farm, meat and potatoes were plentiful, a staple of the meal. She used a pressure cooker to tenderize less desirable cuts of meat. She served fresh vegetables from her garden. Yes, dinner was in the oven while she was milking cows.

My mother-in-law collects cookbooks. She cuts recipes out of magazines and newspapers. Her recipe cupboard is filled to the brim, the doors bursting at the seams – propped shut with a ruler slid between the pulls. My mother-in-law loves to get ideas from the recipes she collects.

She just doesn’t like to follow the recipes.

I remember one time there was an insurance salesman at the house. She offered him a slice of fresh peach pie. He loved it. He asked her for her recipe. She just laughed and changed the subject.

After he left, she told me that she added the morning’s leftover pancake batter in with the pie crust dough.

Yes, she adds this, and leaves that out. She doubles this and substitutes that. She doesn’t measure, she just knows.

And it all turns out. And even though we know this, we still ask her for her recipe. And she can’t give it to us, because she didn’t use one … exactly, anyway. But still we ask.

The subject today – the secret ingredient.

In preparing the turkey for our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to get the same delicious results that I’ve had eating turkey dinner that my mother-in-law has cooked. So I boldly asked her for her recipe, confident that whatever she told me would be good enough for me.

“I stuff the bird with chopped up carrots, onions and celery. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I must admit, it turned out delicious. But I didn’t write it down.

The next fall I called her again, pleading “Could you please give me that recipe again for turkey? I promise I’ll write it down this time.”

She is more than willing to share with me. “I stuff the bird with apples and dried apricots. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I finally figured it out. It really doesn’t matter how you cook it. As long as you use the secret ingredient, that is. Maple syrup.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage happens very gradually. It migrated in its entirety to me about five years ago.

When I was first married, which was in fact, ages ago, all I needed to do was show up for Thanksgiving Dinner at my mom and dad’s house. My grandmother was there, and her and my mom could be found bustling around getting that turkey ready for us to devour.

Gradually, and unbeknownst to me the rite of passage began.

Relish tray. “Could you bring a relish tray this year?” I could do that! After all, cutting up carrots and celery was virtually foolproof.

Jell-o. During the little-kids-under-my-feet years, the relish tray became my sister’s job and I was assigned jell-o. “Would you like to bring a bowl of jell-o this year?” Of course, I excitedly obliged. I had to go and buy a bowl first, though.

Scalloped corn. As the years flew by, I moved on to scalloped corn. This was my opportunity to try a few new recipes and really blossom in the creativeness category.

Pumpkin pie. My grandmother always brought the pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving Dinner. But after she passed away, Mom asked me “Would you bring the pumpkin pie this year?” I baked two pumpkin pies, thinking of Grandma as I checked to see if they were done, putting a knife into the center of each, making sure it came out clean.

As my mother grew older, somehow my sister and I just knew it was time.

Turkey time, that is.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage took place. Over the span of thirty years.

You will find me baking turkey again this Thanksgiving. And with my sister and brother's help, everything that goes along with it. Almost everything - except the jell-o.

My nineteen year old niece is bringing that.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.

The 8 x 10

I held the 8 x 10 in my hands, turning to her dad with a puzzled look and asked, “Where in the world does she get her beautiful looks from?” He agreed, and thought for a second. In a very politically correct manner he said, “I think she’s got a mixture of both of us.”

Mickey is a beautiful, almost 14 year old girl. She has a very sweet personality. Her sense of humor makes us laugh. And she is smart.

She was born 13 years after her brother, taking away his spot as the youngest. When people look at me with the “why did you have a child so late in life” look, I simply add, “She’s the icing on the cake.”

Because she is so sweet.

I had a piece of Mickey’s heart from the minute I knew she existed. Likewise, I know she has a piece of mine.

And now she wants to share the 8 x 10 with her friend. Her friend who is a boy.

It won’t be long and some boy will want to share her heart as well. And I know that I will have to let him.

But not the 8 x 10. That’s mine.

All That Remains

“They took everything but the kitchen sink.” No. That’s gone too. All that remains of my old kitchen stands here in this spot. The hot and cold water pipes.

Everything we own that was in our kitchen is boxed up, shelved, and otherwise scattered throughout the house. I feel like I am living in a pile of stuff. The milk is in the frig in the basement, down a flight of steps and sixty feet from where it is supposed to be. The cereal is on a shelf in the hallway next to the disposable bowls and spoons. The toaster is on a cart in the living room. It’s a challenge to eat breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter.

The picture of my new kitchen is engrained in my brain – and I call upon it frequently to keep my sanity.

Like last night when I was scraping the dried joint compound off the old floor to prep for the new floor. My back and feet were aching. My husband helped me carry a few things out of the room. Then he looked at me and said, “I think I’ll go hunting for awhile.”

Thank goodness I didn’t have a hammer in my hand or I would have killed him. Well, not literally …

He paced around the room for a minute. I whined for some more help. Then he made the mistake of opening his mouth one more time.

“Well, this was all your idea,” he said sort-of-under-his-breath as he walked into the living room.

Again, I have no hammer.

Deep breath …

I finished sweeping up the joint compound crumbs.

For those of you who are dying to know, did my husband go hunting?

No.

Twenty minutes later the electrician showed up and he helped him fish a couple wires up through the wall.

Then I handed him a hammer …

So he could take a couple staples out of the old floor that he missed the other night - when the light was too dim, and the old set of eyes he has had already checked out for the night.

My Life

A fellow blogger, Genny, at My cup 2 Yours, after reading the book One Month to Live by Kerry and Chris Shook, invited her readers to contribute a blog post on this subject. After getting past not wanting to think about this, and reading some other beautiful posts by other bloggers, I have mustered up enough courage to share my thoughts with you.

While all of us know that our time here is limited, none of us know exactly when we will leave the earth. I’m not sure if my Godmother knew how long she would be here with us, but nonetheless, she prepared for it. She prepared for it spiritually as well as physically. My Godmother never doubted her faith. She was a strong Christian woman, despite the trials and tribulations life sent her way. She looked to God for strength and courage as she lost her seventeen year old son in the early 1960s and her husband in the early 1970s. When her body was sickened by cancer in the late 1990s, she spent the remaining years of her life fighting this disease, and at the same time, making the most of her life, spending precious time with her family.

As for me, I don’t have any place in this world that I need to see. Take me down a road where the trees are framing the hillside in beautiful hues of red, orange, yellow and green and I will see the beauty of God’s creation. Take me to a valley where the snowflakes are gently fall from the sky, landing ever so quietly on the ground, one by one filling in all the brown with pure white and I will see the splendor of God’s creation. Take me to a lake where the water is as smooth as glass, and the ripples of a pebble quietly spread out in circles, gently washing up on the shore, and I will see the gentleness of God’s creation. As I soak in this beauty of God’s earth, with each day I am here, I have but a glimpse of what beauty lies beyond this, forever and ever.

From time to time, I have always thought that if I knew I would be leaving, I would write a letter to each of my children. An excerpt of it would go something like this.

Dear child of mine-

You were brought into this world because of the love your father and I have for each other. You are the greatest accomplishment in my life. You have made my life a worthwhile challenge, an exciting and enjoyable journey. I am far from perfect, and so are you. I didn’t do everything right, but I have loved you unconditionally all along the way, despite our human flaws.

I hope that you have learned from me. I have tried to teach you to treat others with love and respect. I have tried to teach you life skills that will take you far in this world. I’ve taught you by example that family sticks together through the tough times, and that these difficult times will only make you stronger. But most of all, I hope that you have learned that the most important thing in this world is to love God and to live a Christian life, asking God to help guide you when you are lost, and thanking Him always, for everything He has given you.

Never doubt that God has a place waiting for us which is so much more beautiful than any place here on earth. “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Heb. 11:1.

Love, Mom

The War Zone

After three months of do-it-almost-by-yourself remodeling, I am still working on my kitchen and laundry room. I greet guests at the door by saying, “Welcome to the war zone.”

The bank of cabinetry that housed the old range cook top, wall oven and refrigerator are gone - replaced by patched-in drywall, torn up flooring, re-routed venting and updated wiring in the wall.

My Tupperware is in a tote in the office. My pots and pans are on the bed in the guest room. My canned and boxed foods are on a bookshelf in the hallway. Cookbooks and other seldom used items from my cabinets are piled high on the dining room table. My baking pans are in a box on the dining room floor.

One day, I looked all afternoon for my blender. Giving up, I borrowed my mom’s.

When I opened the cabinet in the laundry room the other day, there was my blender.

My new refrigerator is parked in front of the window. The kitchen table is pushed up against the wall in front of another window. My new stove is sitting in the spot my refrigerator will eventually call home. My new dishwasher and micro/hood are still at the appliance store, waiting for me to pick them up.

Until the drywall is done, I have no lighting in my kitchen, other than the fixture over the table, a small plug-in night light by the stove, and our battery operated camp lantern.

Yes, I called in a favor from someone who does drywall. He works evenings, when he has time – and when he seems to need the ambition to show up at my door, I call him to pester him just a little. So far, I have been pretty patient.

Until Wednesday night.

Our plan was to strategically move around the kitchen and laundry room, never having to upset the apple cart just too much, moving everything back and forth. But that did not happen. Tuesday night he came and put up one corner bead, then left. Wednesday night he asked me to unload the upper and lower cabinets to the left of the sink so he could pull them out to work on a spot adjacent to them. He would cut the countertop to save my kitchen sink. Because I absolutely refuse to be without my sink for more than a week.

In an instant, the ball is now in my court.

So this morning I tackled the job. What a good job for Saturday morning, right? I moved the plates, bowls and mugs to the cabinet at the right of the sink. I moved the cereal and other pantry items to a tote and put it in the hallway. I cleaned out the cabinet with vases, funky glasses and Christmas plates. The silverware tray fit right on top of the microwave. Our paper plates, paper napkins and cups are in a box in the office. The phone books are on the dining room table. All that was left was the “dreaded cabinet.”

My dreaded cabinet was a catch all spot. I cleaned out all the other ones first. I did a couple loads of laundry. I swept the floor. Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the cabinet door. It was filled with wall calendars from 2004 – 2007, a few small containers of items I’ve collected through the years – nuts, bolts, spare change, a box of bb’s from the boys’ bb gun (which had spilled – of course), a couple of unclaimed chess pieces. An old phone and its cords, a couple candles, a pottery piece Jonathan made in art class, keys that belong to something. And a lot of junk. Most of it went in the trash.

Now the ball is in his court again.

And I suppose I will live in the war zone for another month.

Sometimes its nice when time flies.

Seventeen Years Ago

Time flies. We all know it. We’ve all said it. It’s the topic around the water cooler at work. Where did the time go? Once in a while something really hits you though. Where were you seventeen years ago? I asked myself that today.

Seventeen years ago …

… we were just putting a new floor in our kitchen – and here we are, doing it again.

… my boys were fighting over which one would sit in the front seat of the car – and now they have their own cars.

… I had shoulder length permed hair which I dyed for the fun of it – not to cover the gray.

… my oldest son was taking hunter safety class, had just started junior high school, and was still pudgy around the middle – his own kids are in school now (and he’s replaced the pudginess with muscles).

… my middle son was learning the saxophone and had a squeaky little voice which sounded just about the same as the saxophone did when he tried to hit the high notes – the saxophone is long gone, replaced by an electric guitar which doesn’t squeak, but rather, makes a loud, sometimes annoying sound.

… we were raising hogs on our farm – now our barn sits empty, with thick cobwebs in the corner of the ladder to the haymow.

… my husband and I stayed out until the wee hours of the a.m. with friends – now we wake up at the wee hours of the a.m. when those coming home race noisily down the road past our bedroom window.

… my daughter Mickey wasn’t even a thought in the back of my mind yet – now she is a real part of my life and in the front of my thoughts.

… I was 31 years old - I don’t even remember ever being 31 years old.

And get this -

… Survivor, one of the first television reality/game shows started its first season on national tv.

Can you believe it’s been on that long? I still don’t believe it.

The Education of Man

Hope you enjoy this from my August, 1999 journal -

All summer long I struggled trying to teach my (grown-up) guys where to put their dirty clothes. When out of the blue, I came up with an idea! I decided to make signs on my computer. After all, technology is the name of the game today.

I made a sign for each of the three hampers in the laundry room. The blue hamper read “dark colored work clothes in here”; the white hamper read “light colored work clothes in here” (seems logical, doesn’t it?). The green hamper read “good clothes of any color in here” (I’ll admit that might throw someone off).

I even opened the lids on the hampers.

Then, the most awesome thing happened. For the next twenty-four hours there were no dirty clothes on the floor in front of the hampers, no clothes on top of the closed hamper, and all the dirty clothes were where they belonged.

You can only imagine what this led to.

I thought to myself, “If they can read these signs, they can read other signs.”

I quickly fired up the ‘puter to make a sign for the hamper in the bathroom – “washcloths and towels in here”. I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop. A “nothing goes here” sign was attached to the wall in the bathroom, next to the hamper, visibly prohibiting anyone from putting their clothes on the floor next to the hamper. By the way, why do they do this?

For twenty-four more hours everything was where it belonged.

For a brief moment, my hopes were high. Visions of an orderly house were rampant in my mind. I even considered making signs for the bathroom vanity reading “contact solution in here’; “hairbrush in here” – the list in my mind went on and on.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it abruptly ended. My realm as queen of the orderly house was over. Reality set in quite rapidly and quite frankly, things went right back to normal.

The education of man. Short-lived.

My Sister

The study of birth order sparked my attention from the first day I learned about it in high school psychology class (which was just about as many years ago as Alfred Adler’s theory was old when I first heard of him.)

Many of these things – not all good – about me as the first born are true. I am a take charge person. I like to organize (not my closets, though) and put plans in motion. I like to have things my way (just ask my husband). I try to please people. I am reliable. I crave approval. I am a caregiver.

My sister is the middle child. Naturally, I tease her about it from time to time, often using it to jokingly explain something that has happened (well, she’s the middle child, what do you expect?). But seriously, as the middle child, my sister is a good friend. She has patience (even if she doesn’t think so). At times she can be slightly uptight. She is very diplomatic. She has a rebellious side (I’m remembering the teen years). She is creative.

Tales can be told of sisters. Tales of horror. Tales of love. Or, our tale.

When I am indecisive, my sister can help me decide.

When my sister is nervous, I can help her be calm.

When I am frustrated and confused, my sister can help me see straight.

When my sister is scared, I can help her feel safe.

When I am in tears, my sister can help comfort me.

When my sister is weak, I am strong.

When I need her, my sister is there.

When my sister needs me, I am there.

By ourselves, my sister and I are incomplete. What one of us lacks, the other one has. And sandwiched in the middle of us both, we share our heart.

Together we are whole, my sister and I.

Grandparents Day

Grandparents Day came a day early this year. I had the privilege of spending yesterday afternoon with my sweeties.

With fall leaves and cold winter days just around the corner, our summer is fading fast. It won't be long and this swing set will be covered with snow. And my sweeties will be all grown up.

When I look at this picture I realize that as the seasons change, so do the seasons of our lives.

Savor the days on the swing set.

Closed On Sunday

“Is the internet closed on Sunday?” asked my dad with a laugh in his voice, as he gave me the name of a web site he wanted me to look up for him.

“Of course not,” I said reassuringly – trying not to chuckle.

“Then I’ll be over this afternoon.”

My dad doesn’t own a computer. He doesn’t want to touch one. He knows you can do your bookwork on them. He knows you can write letters and play games and look at family photos on them.

And he knows there is a thing out there called the internet.

I know that my dad will never touch a computer. I know that because it took him five years to trust the microwave oven, and then only enough to warm up his ice cream for ten seconds.

I also know that because he gets awfully mad at his satellite dish when it freezes up, and then mostly because he knows he will have to pull the power cord and start over.

And I know that because he knows that all of his kids and grandkids will do the computing for him – if need be. That is, only if it can’t be done with a yellow legal pad, pen and a calculator. Because he’s a champ at that.

I know that he is amazed at what a computer can do. But I also know that he is satisfied just being amazed.

Dad got here at about 4:30. He and I sat down at the computer and I quickly typed in the web address. Click, click, click and I found the right page. Except it didn’t tell us what we wanted to know. FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL US AT... blah blah blah.

We tried a second web address. The page loaded displaying the following message:

“WE'RE SORRY OUR WEBSITE IS DOWN TODAY FOR MAINTENANCE. TRY AGAIN ANOTHER TIME.”

“I guess the internet is sometimes closed on Sunday”, I said to Dad as I pointed out the message.

He smiled.

I told him I would call them on the phone tomorrow.

Off to College

I saw a mom and her son college shopping for bed sheets the other day at Target. I can’t help but remember very well the day back in 1999 that our middle son went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room.

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s. That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones and instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About 29 miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot were still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along. I opened his top dresser drawer. I counted about 52 white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

P.S. My sadness was short lived. He eventually came back to visit, along with his dirty clothes. I’m convinced that its God’s way of preparing us for the day our children will leave home for good. Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

Something Else Much Greater

Letting go.

We do it all our lives.

We let go and are filled with excitement as we help our toddler take his first steps.

We let go and are reluctant as our five year old climbs onto her school bus for the first time.

We let go and are overjoyed as our daughter finally takes off on her bicycle, teetering back and forth until she finds her balance.

We let go and are filled with fear as our son drives out of the yard for the first time.

We let go and are filled with emptiness as we let our graduate pack his bags for college.

We let go and are filled with happiness as we send our son down the aisle to be married.

We let go and are filled with pride when we see our son become a father.

We let go because each time we do, it is because there is something else much greater to be found.

My sister and I held our mother’s hand tonight as she lay in bed, overcome with tears of disgust over her failing health. We cried with her.

I realized tonight that there will come a time when I will have to let go one more time. Because I know that my mother has something else much greater to be found.

And someday, when the time comes, with great sadness in my heart and tears streaming down my face, I will let go.

And desperately, I will try to remember something else much greater.

Empowering Youth

In my last post, Leap of Faith, I realized after-the-fact that I had just taught my nieces a valuable skill in life. How to paint. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s maybe not empowering them to become the next world leaders, but it’s the faith I had in them that matters.

I came to this conclusion because I’m currently reading the book, Empowering Youth: How to Encourage Young Leaders to Do Great Things and came across the term leap of faith. This book is written by Kelly Curtis from New Richmond, Wisconsin. Kelly’s book is filled with various tools and tips about how to empower our youth to become more socially responsible as adults and to reach their full potential.

Who is Kelly Curtis? Kelly Curtis, M.S., is a school counselor, a writer, a speaker, and the founder of Empowering Youth, Inc., which publishes positive youth development curricula. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines including Boy’s Life, All You, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Poetica Grandmatica.

And she is my first cousin. And she was the cutest little flower girl in my wedding.

If you get a chance, please visit her websites http://2passthetorch.com/my-book/ and http://www.empowering-youth.com to read about her book.

And if you decide you want to see it closer up, it’s available at Amazon.com.
That’s where I ordered mine from.

Leap Of Faith

I had a big job to do and not much time.

There were two weeks left to get my student rental ready for the new tenants. At last minute (such as most of my life goes) I decided that the rental was in dire need of new carpet and paint (two bedrooms, a hall and stairway, plus the dining and living rooms).

My sister listened intently to my self-inflicted feel sorry for myself since I’ve bit off more than I can chew and could use help attitude (with the rental, not with the lunch) while we ate. The girls giggled and chatted about teenage girl stuff.

All of a sudden, I thought – maybe they could help me paint. The girls. The fourteen year old girls.

“Have you ever painted before?”

“Just pictures”, they both answered.

My sister quickly processes where this conversation is going and I can see her cringe with thoughts of paint spattered floors, walls and girls.

“I can teach you. It’s not that hard.” I also added, “I would pay you.”

Eyes light up. Ears perk up. They both sit up straight in their chairs. “Yes, we’ll help you.”

We decide on a date and time. The plans are set. I instruct them, “Wear clothes you can get paint on.”

Because I am not entirely naïve, I go a couple days ahead and do the edging.

On painting day, and after a quick lesson in Painting 101, the girls take over. I stay in the house, but away from the paint tray.

Giggling warmed the house all day long. Tons of giggling.

And after five hours of rolling until their arms felt like rubber, I stood back to admire their work.

There were quite a few drips – which I showed them how to catch. And there were a few oops – which I showed them how to wipe. And there were some splatters on the floor – which would soon dry and be covered by new carpet.

And there were my two nieces, paychecks in hand – who saved me at least two days worth of painting.

All because I took a leap of faith.

For the Love of the Game

As I watched the Olympic 2008 opening ceremony the other night, I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the Olympic athletes.

In this day and age, when something so simple as a game is marred by talks of boycott and talks of illegal drug use, we tend to forget the meaning behind it all. Behind all the billions of dollars spent on the facilities, the advertising, the sponsorship and the festivities, we tend to forget the real reason most of these athletes are there.

For the love of the game.

Looking at their faces as they proudly paraded together, filling the stadium, I saw young men and women, much like their peers all over the world. These are young men and women who are not set apart by the color of their skin, the sound of their voice or the wealth of their families. I believe that most of these young men and women are there for one reason only.

For the love of the game.

Although I take great pride in watching our American athletes, I remember that each and every one of these athletes, no matter what country they come from, has a mother (or other person whom they are close to), cheering them on as well, bursting at the seams with pride, and wishing them the very best.

And as the gymnasts dust their hands with chalk or the swimmers adjust their goggles, I'll bet none of them are thinking about where they are. They are thinking about why they are there.

For the love of the game.

Waving to your mom in the stands is just something you do. And the gold medal is truly icing on the cake. Congratulations to our Olympic athletes!

Number Two Son

On Monday, my number two son will turn twenty-seven.

He came very quickly into this world - after twenty minutes of labor on a hot, August day, and just as quickly settled into the number two spot in our family.

My son survived his older brother’s antics – shaking the playpen while he was sleeping, fighting over toys, and fighting for the front seat of the car. He survived being removed from the spotlight as the baby of the family, as he was catapulted smack dab into the middle when his sister was born thirteen years later.

In fact, I truly believe that he is destined to be a survivor.

A tragic automobile crash in the early morning hours of January 18, 2004, left several dead and injured, and one young man fighting for his life – his family at his side. It was my son.

Thrust into the frightening world of torn neurons and axons, I – without question – have devoted over the past four years of my life to help him recover and become whole again. I was determined to embrace with my whole heart the life challenges my family had been given, as we began to understand the reality of the “invisible disability” that goes along with traumatic brain injury.

Looking deep inside him, I found bits and pieces of his personality still intact, amidst all the chaos, and I reveled in the fact that those certain things about him that I knew and loved remained true.

By not grieving for what had been lost, but celebrating what had been saved, I have been able to remain relatively positive in a very negative situation.

I believe that my son’s destiny in this journey is part of God’s master plan for him.

Yes, he did survive the crash, and he also has survived the difficult years following his accident. With our help in keeping him moving forward, he has finally begun on his own to rebuild his life – in spite of how terribly slow this journey has been.

And so on this day, I celebrate my number two son. Happy Birthday, Jonathan.

The Lord says, “I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

Love, Mom

Forty Dollar Toast

The toaster my mom and dad had when we were kids was the same one that they got for a wedding gift. It lasted forever. It was a silver toaster with black trim – kind of like this retro looking one I just got in May.

This is the first toaster I have purchased. Our wedding gift toaster (almost thirty-two years ago from my brother and sister-in-law) lasted about twelve years. The four or more subsequent toasters that I received from my kids for Christmas each had a useful life of about four years each. (Yes, I always ask for toasters for Christmas – it makes their shopping so easy – and you can get them almost anywhere, cheap!)

Back to the subject. Now if you do the math, you will realize that it doesn’t compute.

Yes, I’ve tricked you! I said “useful life”. Each of my toasters also had at least a year of “un-useful life” as well.

You’ve probably done it too. Pushing the lever down several times to make it stay down, cranking the darkness knob up more and more each time you used it to get the toast the color you wanted, or letting the toaster cool down between slices so it wouldn’t pop up right away again while the bread wasn’t even warm yet.

My new toaster was expensive in my books. It cost forty bucks. It has four push buttons for reheat, defrost, bagel and on/off. Although I don’t know what I would ever use the first two buttons for, the bagel button caught my eye. I quickly put the toaster in my cart before letting myself second-guess this expensive purchase.

The box and its directions (who needs directions for a toaster?) went unread and in the trash can and my new toaster found its home on the counter next to the refrigerator. I set the darkness dial in the middle and tried it out. Perfect!!

By now, Mickey has moved the darkness dial up and down from the center mark and I haven’t noticed. Until I hear my toast pop up and see with disgust just how dark it got. I put two more slices in and try again, this time moving the darkness dial a little towards the way I think it should go to make it lighter. The toast pops up and again I am disgusted! Still too dark. I am convinced that this toaster is a lemon.

Unless maybe I’m not reading the darkness dial right. Hmmm……

The little darkness dial has no words, just pictures. Two pictures, one of a piece of bread filled in with solid white, and one of a piece of bread outlined with white. With the directions long gone I decide to test my toaster.

I started with a piece of bread and the darkness dial all the way to the solid white. After almost four minutes, I smell burning toast. I pop it up and toss it.

Making sure to let the toaster cool down, I wait about twenty minutes and then try another piece of bread – this time with the darkness dial all the way to the outlined white. It pops up in less than two minutes with just barely warmed bread.

People always ask me what I am doing this summer since I have taken time off from work. I tell them I am working on my book and tearing my kitchen walls down for remodeling.

Now I can add wasting time playing with my new toaster to the list.

It sure is a nice toaster, though.

Direction

It’s not about going right or left. It’s not about going north or south.

It’s about guiding your children in their decision-making. It’s about asking“What do you think you should do?” instead of saying, “I think you should do this.”

But, instinct tells us to protect them and take care of them. So saying the latter is much harder – especially when you can see disaster coming.

For instance, relationship issues sure can tug at a mother’s heart. We see them happy in relationships and it warms our heart. While at the same time, we remember from our own youth just how devastating relationships can be when things go south. We mothers may even ending up gaining or losing a new found friend out of the deal whom we hold dear in our hearts as well.

The whole picture-

It’s so easy to get caught up in our children’s lives that we often forget that being a parent is about helping them see the whole picture so that they can make a good decision on their own. Or maybe a bad decision – in which case, would be one to learn from.

We need to ask questions like, “How does that make you feel?”, or “What do you think will happen if you do that?” And once in a while (if you have a grown boy, for instance) you might need to be pretty specific and say, “Here it is from a female perspective”, just to remind them that girls often think quite differently.

And in the end, we are always there to help pick up the pieces, get them back on their feet, brush themselves off and continue on with life – their own life. Hopefully – a bit wiser the next time around.

Hey, did you figure out that the "we" in this story might really be "me"?

Just For A Little Bit

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Each day is filled with routine. The nurse helps her use the bathroom. She gets dressed for breakfast. They wheel her down the hall to the dining area, where she waits patiently by her table for the tray. Will today’s tray be filled with something different from yesterday’s tray? Small talk is made at the table by those who can talk. “How are you today?” “Fine, thank you.” The lady next to her is cordial, but after a minute begins spreading grape jelly on her toast. This lady continues to spread the jelly, compulsively scraping every smidgen of it from the serving container. She spreads it back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again, never actually taking a bite.

Breakfast is done and the old woman is wheeled back to her room. The nurse helps her brush her teeth and she lay back in her bed, takes her medication and falls asleep for a nap. She awakens to the sound of the nurse in the room. After getting out of bed to use the bathroom, the old woman sits in her chair for a while. She hears children in the hall. They are here to visit someone. But not her.

The old woman tries to make small talk with her roommate. “What is your husband’s name?” “Where do you live?” Each of them has forgotten that they had this same conversation yesterday.

She chooses to eat lunch in her room today. The nurse brings in her tray and she sits up in bed to eat. It’s just easier than getting up and getting out. After lunch and help using the bathroom, the old woman again lays down to rest. The clock ticks, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the afternoon is long gone.

Supper is eaten and she goes back to her room.

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Having my mom stay at the nursing home for the last ten days for rehabilitation has given me a new perspective on aging. I wish I would have visited my Grandma more, but I was too busy. Go visit someone who is lonely today. Just for a little bit.

The Game of Risk

The game of risk. We play it every day.

The rows sustain our very lives and the hills that are the backdrop for these rows is our reward for the labor and the worry, the stress and the strain.

In winter’s snow and cold, we retreat to our house. As we sit by the fire, we watch the snow gradually cover last year’s rows – eventually to melt with spring’s rain, saturating the soil below. The soil will stockpile the moisture – hopefully long enough to sustain the rows through the hot summer months.

Spring brings with it the readying time, where much thought and energy is put into planning each and every row. The weather must cooperate for the rows to sprout and flourish. We must have sun to warm the soil, and rain to hydrate the seeds in the ground.

With the hot sun of July comes the threat of unwanted predators which may jeopardize the rows, and the lack of rain, which causes the rows to curl and burn while every bit of moisture reserve from the soil is evaporated.

We pray for rain. But not too much. It can rain on our picnic, we don’t care. Because we know that without rain, the rows will die and the hills will no longer belong to us. We pray for others in times of their misfortune – too much rain which drowns the rows – because we know that they are just as vulnerable as we are – and that they also have hills they are fighting to protect.

Finally fall harvest comes – it is an ending time, when we will at last determine the success of the rows and see our fate. As the evening comes more quickly, and the cool autumn air sends a welcome chill through us, we wash the soil of the rows from our hands until next spring.

When we will do it all over again.

The risk never goes away. It is there every day of the year – but the hills that are the backdrop for the rows remain – an ever beautiful sign of just why we take the risk again and again.

Does My Mascara Look Okay?

Two years ago, my husband and I were in town. The tire on our car looked low to him, so he had me pull over into the gas station to the air compressor. Being the manly man he is, he got out to put air in the tire. I’m tuning in the radio or something when all of a sudden I hear a knock on the window.

“Come here. I need you to look at the tire pressure tester and tell me what it says. I can’t see the numbers.” I got out, read the tester and told him just what I saw.

A year later, we’re in the pharmacy department looking for cold medicine or something. Perusing through the many brands to choose from on the shelves, we each pick up a package and turn them over to read the label. Neither of us can make out the writing. We put them down, I pushed the cart over to the reading glasses, and we picked out a pair that we could share.

In a few months we both realize that one pair isn’t enough. I pick up a pair to keep at my computer, while he gets some to keep in the kitchen where he sits to read the paper. By Christmas, I have purchased another pair for my desk at work and he gets some to keep in his truck.

It isn’t long and the power isn’t strong enough. We both need to up the magnification, with him needing just a tad more than I.

By now, I’ve added a pair in my purse, plus a magnifying mirror in the bathroom so I don’t go to work looking like I missed my eyelashes with the mascara.

Last week, we were working on the kitchen remodel, trying to read a tape measure, mark cut lines and run the table saw. Each of us wore our glasses, I flipped them up on my head when I had to walk from room to room so I didn’t trip, then back down again to measure and cut. Sometimes I’m too lazy to take them off, then I just get dizzy.

The eye doctor had no sympathy for me – he simply told me, “I can’t do anything about your age.” Gee thanks.

Years ago, my dad would buy reading glasses from the drug store – a whole display card at a time, about a dozen of them. Each pair was different, some were ladies styles, some men’s styles, some were fashionable and some were ugly. I never really understood, just tried not to laugh when he was wearing purple glasses with gold and diamonds on them. Until now.

Bargaining With the Tooth Fairy

Mickey had two permanent teeth pulled today to make room for some more. She is a real trooper – at age thirteen, she knew she would not enjoy it, but knew she had to do it. Seeing those huge teeth come home in a box as a souvenir of today’s braveness, my thoughts wandered …

She lost her first tooth back in 2002, in first grade. Sitting there deep in thought and not even aware of what she was doing, she would take her tongue and push the little tooth back and forth. While she was watching tv, she would take her fingers and manipulate the tooth even more. All the wiggling finally paid off – eventually causing the tooth to just hang there – as if by a thread.

“Mickey, you need to try and get that tooth to come out,” I said. “Come into the bathroom.”

Perched on a stool in front of the mirror, I handed her a dry wash cloth and showed her how to wrap the cloth around the tooth. I told her to pull on it and try to get it to come out.

After a few foiled attempts, I asked her to let me touch it. A quick vision of my dad telling me “just let me touch it” ran through my head. Because he touched it alright, he pulled it right out! It happened so quickly that I didn’t even realize it. And now, thirty-five years later, I found myself in those same shoes.

The tooth came out almost effortlessly; after all, it was hanging there by its very tiny baby sort of a root. There was a spot of blood, but biting on a cold, wet wash cloth soothed her little jaw in an instant. The tooth was ready to be put under the pillow, where it would anxiously await the Tooth Fairy’s arrival.

I tucked Mickey in that night, we said our prayers, and I thought about the tooth laying there under her pillow. I remember when she got that tooth. It was July. With the temperature well over 90° that day, along with unbearable humidity, I sat in my un-air conditioned house rocking a very fussy sixth month old baby. No matter which way I rocked her, or jiggled her on my lap, she was not happy. No matter which lullaby I sang to her, or which book I read to her, she was not happy. She was just plain crabby, crabby, crabby. Until the tooth finally erupted from her swollen gum.

I bargained with the Tooth Fairy that night to let me keep her first tooth, because as I looked at it, I realized that this was a part of her that I would never see again. A part of her life that she and I experienced together – as we sat in the rocking chair together on that hot July day … when she needed her mom to comfort her.

Just like she did today.

Attempting Green

Fifteen years ago I had a huge clothesline in the back yard. Dairy farming at the time, we generated a lot of dirty laundry! I remember one Saturday afternoon, after washing continuously all day, counting thirty-five t-shirts hanging on the line – plus fifteen pairs of jeans, twenty-five pairs of socks and a dozen towels.

Eventually the cows were sold, the boys grew up and moved away, and my huge clothesline was usually empty. Mickey told me, “I don’t like the smell of the clothes after you take them off the line. They smell like air.” My husband said, “My clothes are too stiff and scratchy when they come off the line.” I simply thought, “are they crazy, or what?”

But, after getting tired of avoiding the clothesline with the lawnmower and trimming with the weed eater around its frame, I eventually found a new home for it. A woman I work with, who lived on a dairy farm with her husband and her three boys took it ever so graciously out of my yard. The clothesline was finally gone … until this spring.

That’s when I decided I wanted to go green, but with a smaller version of the clothesline.

After much thought, I bought a little umbrella-style portable clothesline that I could fold up and put aside when I wasn’t using it. Eager to install it, but dismayed when the directions told me that I needed a bag of quick setting cement for the post, I had to wait until I went back to town. A week later, armed and ready, I finally convinced my husband to dig a hole for me. Three days later, he actually dug the nice, neat hole, and we added the cement. It set up quickly and I knew that the next morning I would be able finally use my clothesline!

Early Saturday morning I threw a load of jeans into the washer. As soon as they were done washing, I grabbed them and went out to the line. Oops, I realized that I forgot one important thing – clothes pins! I flopped the jeans over the line anyway.

An hour later … it started raining … and rained off and on all day.

I took them back off the line, and put them on again - twice.

Finally, I brought the jeans in and threw them into the dryer.

The River Of Life

Mom and Dad married on June 28, 1958. They began their journey on the river of life in a little house along the highway, one in which the five of us would end up spending a good chunk of life at, in our own circle of love – our family.

Through the years on this river of life, there were tears, laughter, sadness and joy – family, sharing, learning and loving.

In the tough times, we stuck together. Together we survived Dad’s bout with an infection that kept him hospitalized for over thirty days. Together we shared in the household chores – cooking and cleaning while Mom spent several times in the hospital herself, for various illnesses. As a family we held each other tight when we lost our grandparents and other special people – aunts and uncles, family and friends.

In the joyous times, we celebrated together. There were awesome birthday parties – home made cakes and sleepovers. There was a move to the farm – remodeling our bedrooms, with each of us picking a totally different theme. We celebrated weddings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and today – an anniversary.

When Mom and Dad look back on their life to list their accomplishments, they don’t have to look much farther than this family. They have raised three pretty decent children, with admittedly, a few family quirks, but nonetheless, decent children.

Accomplishments in life may mean giving birth to three children while wheelchair bound, stretching meals when times were tight, or pitching a tent in the back yard and roasting marshmallows for entertainment. Accomplishments may mean always providing for your family, working long days to make sure their needs were met, or spending time with them at the lake, not letting them know that you really hated fishing.

Mom and Dad continue to live their river of life as an example to us all.

Fifty years ago, he lovingly carried her over the threshold and today, he lovingly carries her out of bed into her chair. Fifty years ago, she lovingly cooked a special meal for his birthday, and today she lovingly puts a meal on the table for him when she can.

As this river flows, the caring and commitment is never ending, around the bends and turns, through the turbulence and calm waters, through the highs and lows of the tides. The river changes as it runs – sprouting forth new streams, each by themselves insignificant, but together – all a part of the mighty river of life.

The River of Life is a true journey – and we are all in it together – as a family.

Beautiful? Ugly?

It’s amazing how something so beautiful can turn into something so ugly. Take wallpaper, for instance. Fifteen years ago, with great exhilaration, I covered my mismatched off-white painted and wood paneled laundry room walls with beautiful wallpaper. It had a cream colored background, with blue vertical lacey stripes on either side of rows of country red stenciled apples. And better yet, I found it on the clearance rack at the hardware store! Finally, I could stand in the center of my laundry room, turn a complete circle and see only one continuous pattern of this beautiful wallpaper, no matter which way I turned.

Today, in continuation of the kitchen and laundry room remodel I started a couple weeks ago, I started removing the old wallpaper. The strips above the washer and dryer came off in big sheets. A little spray of water softened up the remaining paper backing and it peeled off in sheets almost as big. Rounding the corner towards the half bath, getting the peeling started was the hardest part. I found that if I held my putty knife at a slight angle, I could start tearing a section that also peeled off pretty easily. I also found that if I held it at too much of an angle, the point of the putty knife would dig into the drywall and make a hole. By now I was working up a sweat.

The last wall was where I really started hating this ugly wallpaper. This wall was built and covered with unpainted drywall.

I remember someone telling me once that you should always prime and paint new drywall before you cover it with wallpaper. That seemed like such a waste of money, time and effort to me. I guess that must be why I just wallpapered right over the new drywall. I certainly wasn’t thinking ahead fifteen years in the future when I might want to remove the wallpaper. After all, this wallpaper was so beautiful I must have planned on keeping it up forever.

The ugly wallpaper finally came off the unpainted drywall after an hour or more of scraping it inch by inch, re-soaking it with water from my spray bottle, and scraping some more. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and I was covered in little flecks of wallpaper gone wild.

My arms and legs are sore, my back and neck are aching. Yet, I’m celebrating the fact that I finally got rid of the ugly apple wallpaper.

Behind it I am looking at the off-white painted wall, leftover from years ago, and I’m thinking – isn’t it beautiful?

Strawberries, No Shortcake Please

‘Tis the season. The berries are ripe for picking. I prefer not to pick them, however. I buy them in a carton – already picked – from a local grower.

Today I purchased two quarts of ripe, red strawberries. This would be enough for a batch of strawberry shortcake. I made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home from work to pick up some whipped cream topping.

Feeling very domestic, I stirred together a recipe of shortcake and quickly put it into the oven. While the shortcake was baking I picked over the berries, added some sugar, stirred and put them in the refrigerator. I called my daughter-in-law and invited her and the girls over for dessert.

Next thing I heard was the sound of little footsteps. After greeting them in the hall, I quickly led them into the kitchen and asked, “Girls, do you like strawberry shortcake?”

“I don’t know, Grandma, what is it?”

I explained to Chrissy and Kaitlyn by asking each of them –

“Do you like cake?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like strawberries?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“Yes (Chrissy).”

“No (Kaitlyn).”

“But this is the fun kind of whipped cream,” I told them. “It comes in a squirt can.”

“Yes, we like whipped cream (in unison).”

Chrissy adds, “can we both squirt it on the cake?”

I reply, “sure”, and then happily show them each how to run the squirt can.

About one minute after both girls had their dishes full of cake, berries and whipped cream, Kaitlyn says, “Grandma, I don’t like this.”

Chrissy says, “I don’t either. Can we just have a dish of plain strawberries with some sugar to dip them in?”

I smiled and told them, “sure you can.”

After all – their Mom would be the one who had to take them home and get them off their sugar highs, right?

My Gene Pool

Apparently my love for the orange-handled crow bar is genetic. My dear Aunt E, upon reading my last post about how I tore down the paneled walls in my kitchen, informed me that my grandmother did a little demolition in her day, too. Grandma cut the “horns” off the wooden chairs and the “claw” feet off the side table to modernize things a little. More importantly, Aunt E told me that Grandma got so sick of looking at the wainscoting in her kitchen that one day she ripped it off. After all, if she didn’t do it – no one would. Truth be told, if I were living in Grandma’s farm house today, I would probably put the wainscoting back on. But nonetheless, it is delightfully awesome to find out why I love the crow bar so much.

Excerpts from the writing I did when Grandma passed away back in September of 2001 –

Grandma is still very much alive in my senses.

Thinking back to when I mowed her lawn, I can smell the flowers growing in Grandma’s yard - lilacs, snowballs and peonies. In spite of being deathly afraid of bees, I would cross my fingers and duck around each bush with the mower, being very careful not to nick one.

My mouth puckers when I remember Grandma’s home made dill pickles. In the cookie jar, I can taste Grandma’s cookies with butter frosting and her cake doughnuts rolled in sugar.

In Grandma’s bedroom on the farm, I can see Grandma’s big bed with the soft white blanket with roses on it. I can see her tiny shoes, neatly paired up under the chair in our living room. I can see Grandma’s garnet ring on her finger and her purple sweater lying over the chair. One last thing I can see and never will forget is the love in Grandma’s eyes, as she looked at my little girl.

I can feel the love in Grandma’s hands as she wiped the grease and grime from mine, standing behind me at the sink with her arms around me and holding my hands under the water with hers, rubbing with soap and then rinsing both of our hands together. Snuggling in bed with her, I can feel her soft, silvery gray hair.

I can hear her telling me about her life as a young girl. With sadness in her voice, I can hear Grandma tell me about her sister Christina, whom she lost when she was young. I can hear Grandma talking with great pride about Grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was. I can hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her Norwegian heritage. I can hear Grandma talking with pride about Dad, Aunt E and Aunt J, and in later years, about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And most recently, I can hear Grandma calling “take me home”.

Our family touches us and gives us a sense of belonging and a place in this world. Grandma and Grandpa began their own circle of life many years ago, and I am here today because I am a part of it.

This is what makes me who I am, orange-handled crow bar and all.

Tear Down

All winter long I have been dreaming of the day I could begin to remodel my kitchen. My original plans were drawn up last winter, when there was still at least a foot of snow in the yard. They were erased, redrawn, erased again, and in the end, pared down quite a bit. One thing remains true to the original plan – rip down the paneling that has two layers of wall paper glued to it and put some drywall up!

I had one request for my husband. “Can you get me a crow bar, please?”

Much to my surprise, he actually came back from the shop with two. One was terribly greasy and heavy – it looked like something that could do some serious damage. The one I chose was lighter in weight with a cool orange handle. I thought to myself – if you don’t just do this now, it will never get done. After all, I know very well how intended projects go in this household.

I called Mickey in from the living room. “Would you please carry these coats down to the basement and hang them on the coat hooks at the bottom of the stairs?” I took the coat rack down. I moved the storage cabinet and bench to the other side of the room.

The trim around the doorway was so loose, it practically fell off. The wooden wallpaper-laden paneling came down in nice big sheets, exposing the old exterior house wall. Hey, this eating area used to be a porch! Look, that’s probably where the front door was. And next to it, a window. A few scribbles of an old green color crayon decorated the old and well-worn wood. I wonder who left me this art? A little boy that lived here? Or a little girl? These mysteries of yester year entangle in my brain. I called to Mickey again, “Hey, come in here. See this? You should get a marker and sign your name on this board too, before we cover it up.” Her name … is now preserved in time.

Ripping off paneling and trim pretty quickly, and rounding the corner to the current exterior house wall – guess what? Underneath all that paneling was drywall. The excitement mounted. Could this be true? Nothing good like this ever happens to me! Awesome! As I try to piece together this puzzle of days gone by – how this used to look, why they covered it up like they did, I really find myself wondering – if there is drywall under here, why in the world did they cover it with paneling? Why not texture and paint it like the rest of the house? I was tempted to call the people we bought this place from to ask. But I didn’t.

Oh, and by the way, my husband helped me take the last two pieces down. If by chance, at that moment, you had stopped in to visit, I would imagine you would have seen him standing there with the crow bar in his hand and thought – it sure is nice of you to do that for your wife.

But now you know the real story.

My Number One

Today my number one child turns twenty-nine.

Being number one can be good – or not so good.

You get a lot of new clothes that no one else has worn. All of your toys are new. Your parents have tons of time to spend playing with you and holding you. The photo album is filled and bursting at the seams. Your baby book actually has things written in it. You have your own room. Grandma and Grandpa ask to have you over. You don’t have to share anything. And your parents will give in to just about everything.

On the flip side, you have to endure your mom changing those outfits 4 times a day, just to make sure they all get worn once before you grow out of them. You sometimes wish you had someone your age to play with. And probably the biggest disadvantage – you have to train your mom and dad how to be parents. Yes, the number one child has the disadvantage of inexperienced parents.

At age one, dad handed him an ice cream cone and he didn’t know what to do with it so it went “plop” on the floor of the car. At two, his mom gave him hard candy and he nearly choked. And then at three, when he was just potty trained, Mom let him stand in front of the toilet like a big boy and the lid came crashing down. Ow! When he was five his mom put him on the school bus and waved good-bye - she didn’t take him on the first day to make sure he found his classroom.

In spite of growing up with inexperienced parents, my number one found his way. He learned how to do things for himself. He became an intelligent and creative man. He learned responsibility and thoughtfulness. He turned out just fine in spite of his incredibly inexperienced parents.

However, from time-to-time, I do have to let my daughter-in-law know that "no, I didn't teach him to be that way", or sometimes admit, "yes, I'm so sorry, he got that from me."

Happy Birthday, Dear Child of Mine!

Love, Mom

42 cents and an old Oldsmobile

I got home from work today and lay down on the sofa to watch the news. The cool breeze was blowing in the living room window – it felt good, but I was compelled by a shiver to grab the afghan and pull it up over my shoulders. I tucked it in snugly around myself and it wasn’t long before the drone of the news was far off in the distance.

In the course of just under an hour, I found myself navigating our big old 1976 burgundy colored Oldsmobile (the one that my dad had back when I got my driver’s license). Going up and down some pretty steep bluff terrain, I struggled a bit to get the old car to stop. It was apparent that the brakes were not working completely. I coasted into the gravel driveway of someone’s trailer. Two big, fierce looking dogs rushed over to the car, barking and jumping up on my door. Because the brakes weren’t working, I was able to coast right on through the driveway, out the other side and back onto the bluff road. Again, I pushed the pedal in to the floor, as hard as I could with my dress shoes on.

Around the corner and just like that, I was in a public building. Maybe it was a school. Or maybe it was a library. No, there were no books. I was in a restroom. There were private facilities and facilities right out in the open, in front of the massive wall of windows. I guess you could choose where to sit. Someone must have told me that for a mere 42 cents, you could enter the private facilities. I dug through the change in my purse, trying to count out the exact amount of coins needed. Before I got the change counted, I was suddenly conversing with some young people outside on the sidewalk. As I made my way up the hilly path (on foot, not sure where the car was) … I heard the telephone ring.

Thank goodness this dream was over.

Isn’t the mind mysterious?

Please don’t offer me any explanations – it sounds to me like my head is a jumble of messed up thoughts today – and I don’t think I care to know its meaning.

Unless it has something to do with the cost of postage.

The Valley

We took a drive to check the crops on the 95 acre parcel of land we purchased from my husband’s parents. As our pickup truck ever so slowly maneuvers over the bumpy field terrain, my husband is looking to the ground, seeing the small plants just appearing, almost overnight. Scrutinizing the soybeans and corn, his eyes are like a microscope as he looks for the tiniest hint of weeds.

My eyes are not looking to the ground. I look up and see the beautiful valley in front of me. The valley is overwhelmingly green with a forest of tall hardwood trees surrounding it from all three sides. Where the hills meet the flat, tiny corn and soybeans plants are emerging from the soil, just starting to make the rows that wind around the bend and over the knolls. Separating the two fields from each other is a narrow road, flanked on the right with a pond which stays filled with water with runoff from the hills. Deer and other wildlife are abundant. The valley is beautiful - just about as close to God as one can get here on earth.

As we drive along the field road my thoughts retreat to thirty years before, when his family was actively farming this same land, spending many hot summer days baling and chopping hay, when the cattle grazed in the nearby pastures and the hustle and bustle of the busy farm life wore his family ragged – in a good way. They were hard times, but they were good times. We didn’t notice the beauty of the valley then - we were too busy. But memories were made from those times – children grew up, had families of their own and have since moved off the farm. My husband’s parents have just sold the last piece of the home farm – the house, barns and outbuildings. There is no hustle and bustle here anymore. Left now is just the immense peace and quiet, the beauty … and the memories.

Although my husband isn’t looking at what I am looking at on our drive today, I know that deep down in his heart he sees the same beauty of the valley, and treasures the memories made here.

To My Brother, With Love

My brother requested this post – indirectly – so I’d like to take this moment to share with you as well, this entry from my October, 1999 journal. Some of you might even remember this one.

It all started two years ago, this fall. I decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Prepping the room for the paper hanger, I removed all the light switch and outlet covers. The paper hanger came, did the work and left. All was well.

Except for the one outlet cover and tiny little screw left behind. I searched high and low throughout the kitchen to find an outlet without a cover. None were to be found. So I strategically placed the cover and its tiny little screw into protective custody on the countertop, behind the flour canister, in anticipation of the day when it would find its home.

Two winters have come and gone, with a third beckoning at the door. The outlet cover and its tiny little screw have traveled up and down the countertop, from behind the flour canister to behind the radio – and back.

Yesterday, I decided to thoroughly clean off the countertop, from end to end, from top to bottom. I pondered for a moment what to do with the outlet cover and its tiny little screw. Like the flash of a lightning bolt, all of a sudden it came to me. Why not search other rooms in the house for a missing outlet cover? Okay. It didn’t take long and I found one missing in the laundry room – by the dryer. I jumped for joy, rejoicing in the fact that finally, my outlet cover and its tiny little screw would have a home.

With a quick “pouf”, I blew the dust balls (yes, dust balls – imagine that …) off the outlet and the surrounding wall. They fell down behind the dryer, into the dust ball haven, safe and sound from my hap-hazard vacuuming. I proceeded to put the outlet cover in place and gently took the tiny little screw and lifted it into position. Wait – I should get a table knife to use as a screwdriver. Back from the kitchen, I ever so carefully again resumed my position - turning the tiny little screw into the hole.

It made one turn and fell out of the hole. The outlet cover, along with the tiny little screw, fell down – deep down into the pile of dust balls behind the dryer – never to be seen. At least until the Maytag repairman comes again - which, according to my experience, is seldom.

Enjoy The Mess

Who ever said boys and girls are similar, obviously never raised both. Raising two boys had its advantages – and its disadvantages, depending on your point of view. With the boys, there was no everlasting shower or bath, no hair curling and styling, no seven different outfits before you find the right one. With the boys, I could shout, “come on, let’s go!” and they were instantly calling “shotgun” for the front seat.

Yes, it has taken me quite a while, but I have finally learned that if we are going somewhere, Mickey needs an hour to get ready. That’s an hour after the hour long bath.

Sharing a bathroom with Mickey tests my unconditional love for her every day. Amidst the puddles of contact solution on the countertop, strands of foot-long hair wrap themselves round and round into never-ending circles, and every container in her basket lay open on the countertop, leaving the basket itself, empty. Two pairs of flip-flops, along with yesterday’s socks are scattered over the floor, strewn together with the nine million towels – some hung over the rods and some just laying limp on the floor. Her job is to clean the bathroom, and now you know why.

Driving past a nearby house, I think to myself. Their two girls are gone. Graduated from high school, college and moved on. I’ll bet their bathroom is as clean as a whistle.

So I take a deep breath and try to somehow enjoy the mess while I can.

The Little Red Tree

My son and I planted a tree the second summer after his best friend died.

Early in the spring of 2005, I asked Jonathan if he thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree to remember his friend, Kyle. He agreed. I asked Jonathan what kind of tree he thought we should plant. It didn’t take him long to decide. After just a split second, he replied, “a red one.”

His friend Kyle loved red tractors and red barns. A red tree would be perfect. Jonathan and his dad dug the hole in the back yard. Mickey and I added water and packed the dirt back into the hole, making sure the tree was in the ground straight. I watered the tree faithfully, protecting it from drought. I carefully pruned a few branches, sculpting its shape, ever so slightly. Each spring I marvel to see how the little red tree has survived the long, cold winter and I wait anxiously for the leaves to magically appear, almost overnight. The tree is filled with life, it’s is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

As the little red tree grows and transforms itself into a mighty maple, I am comforted by its beauty and its strength. This mighty maple will someday tower above us, have branches that will eventually shade us, and the wind through its branches will cool us from the hot summer sun.

Every single time I mow around the little red tree, I fondly remember Kyle spending quite a bit of time mowing this same lawn. He wasn’t very good about going around the trees without bumping into them. I remember gently reminding him to watch out for the trees. Thinking about him mowing, I quietly laugh just a little to myself and then wipe a tear from my eyes as I make another round past the little red tree, wishing Kyle was still here, offering to mow my lawn.

The little red tree points straight to heaven. And, as I make a final round past this special spot in my yard, I feel that Kyle is probably looking down on me as I mow – making sure I take care not to bump into the little red tree.

The little red tree - as reminder of how beautiful heaven is.

Like A Sponge

At age four, like a sponge, Mickey soaks in all the letters of the alphabet, the numbers to one hundred, colors, shapes and even beginning social skills. It is her first experience with preschool and I am amazed at how much she can learn. At age six, she can read a book. No longer is my Christmas list safe in my desk drawer. Like a sponge, at age eleven she learns the names of all the states and their capitals. At age twelve, about the world – the history of Egypt, Greece and Rome. This year at age thirteen, like a sponge, her brain sorts and stores information about the branches of the government, the election process; along with cells, vertebrates, and animal kingdoms, circle graphs and percents.

In my second trip around parenting, this time I am much more in awe of the learning process and how much my daughter really wants to learn (even if she doesn’t admit it). I realize now that the people she spends more time with than her parents indeed shape and mold her mind with every little speck of information they throw at her. They are a very important part of her life, because they are teaching her things that I can’t, things that she will someday pull from the catacombs of her mind for retrieval when her daughter asks her, “Mom, what does biological diversity mean?”

Like her mother, she probably won’t remember exactly, but she will know how to figure out the answer, and like a sponge, her daughter will soak it all in.

Kudos to all the teachers of our children.

My Thoughts Wander

As I drive past the neighbors, I see they are re-shingling their roof. My thoughts wander.
We re-shingled our roof over four years ago. I can remember debating on the color for months, driving around town looking at houses, riding across the creek on the 4-wheeler, gazing back towards the house from a distance, imagining different colors. I always feel like these kinds of decisions will be easy. Until the time comes to actually make the decision - then it’s always hard. Finally, I decided on green. My thoughts wander.
Back then, when I was worried about what color shingles to put on the roof, I had no idea that in the near future, life as I knew it would no longer exist. There would be twists, turns and detours. Hopes and dreams would be put on hold indefinitely. My thoughts wander.
Today there remains a true dividing line in my life, an instant in time if you will, in which every thought I have either happened before or after that time. My thoughts wander.
Over four years later, I wish I would have chosen charcoal shingles instead of green. Over four years later, I wish things could still be that simple and carefree.

The Best Mother's Day Gifts

Toast. I’m already awake but I lie in bed for just a while yet. I hear the slamming of the bread drawer, the sliding of the kitchen chair across the floor, and the click of the toaster as she pushes the lever down. The microwave is humming, most likely bringing a cold cup of water to warmth - just enough to dissolve the instant coffee crystals. I sit upright in bed and perch my head on the mounds of pillows. I look forward to this every year – and as Mickey gets just a little bit older, she adorns the tray with a few more fun things. I might get jelly on the toast this year, or maybe a small hand-picked bouquet of whatever flowers she can find outside – dandelions, violets, or maybe a tulip. I most likely will get a half-dozen “coupons” for free hugs and kisses, and maybe even one for a break from doing the dishes, and several “I love you"s. The youngest child, oh so special.

The bargain shopper. He thoughtfully picked out a pair of flowered garden gloves for me, added a bag of malted milk balls to his cart, and then at the last minute, waiting in the checkout line he tossed in a roll of duct tape just to make sure he had a decent sized gift. A couple years later he brought me a nice hanging geranium, boasting that he got it on clearance for $8.00, because he bought it on Mother’s Day morning. The middle child, oh so special.

Just hugs. A hug from his big, grown-up arms,laced with the gleam of love in his eyes, is plenty for me and always has been. His wife adds her personal touch with a beautiful card, signed by both of them – and the granddaughters too. The oldest child, oh so special.

Each of my children show their love for their mother in very different ways, and each of these are the best Mother’s Day gifts ever – because they all come from the heart, with love and devotion, and I truly cherish each one. I have everything I need.

Are You His Mother, Or What?

I just got back from a weekend trip to visit my son and his roommate, an old high school friend. Although both boys have grown up in the ten years following high school, I couldn’t help but reminisce to myself just a little bit.

From my June 14, 2000 journal -

Jonathan calls, “Mom, how does Cody go about going to the doctor?”

“What happened?”

“He hurt his foot at the rodeo.” (He was not participating – he was too old.)

“He was sliding down the tent pole and probably broke his ankle.” (At two a.m. - you do the math.)

“He should probably call his mother and find out if he has to go to a certain clinic, then call that clinic and tell them he needs to have an x-ray. Oh, and make sure you tell Cody to call into work and let them know what’s going on also.”

Cody is now in my basement 24 hours a day until the doctor says he can go back to work. Should I worry that he has only microwave popcorn to eat? Should I worry that he might need some movies to watch or something? Should I make sure there’s plenty of ice?

Last night I fed him broasted chicken and macaroni and cheese. Then I invited him upstairs for a change of scenery. He sat in the recliner for a while and watched tv with Mickey. I offered to get him a bag of ice for his foot. I asked him if he needed any ibuprofen.

Mickey says to me, “Are you his mother, or what?”

I shrugged off her question, but realized that there is an instinctive part inside all mothers to take care of anyone’s children, not just their own. Besides, this is how they learn!

The next day I fed him two BLT’s and a chocolate malt, to which Cody replied, “I tried to pick up my room a little today. It was kind of hard to do though, because I had to crawl on the floor to do it.”

Ten years later, Cody is now a successful manager at a large retail store – still going to rodeos almost every weekend. But these ones, he is participating in.