Sunday, April 10, 2005
Phrase Thesaurus - ideas generator for writers
The Phrase Thesaurus is an interesting website. This service is available to subscribers only, but gives a few samples to whet your whistle. You can enter in any phrase and it will give you alternatives to replace that cliche. Or, you can enter in any word or pair of words and it will give you phrases that include those words. Looks like a promising tool for writers!
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Have You or Do You Use Sonlight?
If you have or currently use Sonlight, I'd love to hear your opinions. I've seen a lot of Sonlight users around the blogosphere lately. I appreciate our current curricula choices, eclectic with a few workbooks and a dose of Switched On Schoolhouse by Alpha Omega, plus lots and lots of hands-on and organic learning, but I have relied on SOS for the bulk of our academics and I'm pretty fed up with it. It frustrates me because of the many errors and glitches in the grading system, plus our dependence on the computer is hampered by its constant crashes and incompatibilities.
So, I'm up for suggestions. I just perused the Sonlight webpage for a few minutes, but I'd like to hear more from people who've actually used it.
Thoughts?
So, I'm up for suggestions. I just perused the Sonlight webpage for a few minutes, but I'd like to hear more from people who've actually used it.
Thoughts?
I'm Never Wearing All Black Again
We headed out for the square dance late. I didn't really think it would be that big of a deal. My birthday's in two days, and I figured that, if nothing else came about, I would have a night on the town with the ones I love.
I tried to convince my fourteen-year-old son Houdin that it really was cool to dance, that girls would fall all over him if he learned how, but he wasn't convinced. Either that, or he's not ready to be interested in falling girls just yet. Regardless, he wouldn't come.
But fifteen-year-old Bard was in, as was my husband Bohemian and soon-to-be-six-year-old Sweetheart (in case you didn't figure it out, these are not my family members' real names. They're pseudonyms I use to refer to them in this blogosphere).
So I dressed in black. All black. Black socks, black skort, black flouncy skirt over the skort to give extra bounce during the dancing, black camisole and a black flouncy shirt with swoopy sleeves to give extra bounce during the dancing. I even stopped at the local Stuff*Mart to get a new pair of shoes, as my black shoes are third generation hand-me-downs that wouldn't have lasted through the evening. Well, okay. They would have. But it's a nice excuse for new shoes. Anyway, I thought black would be dramatic. And besides, the only flouncy clothes I have are black. Actually, half of my wardrobe is black.
When we arrived at the Grange Hall where the dance was to be held, I knew that it was a bad thing to see the caller getting into her car. That's never a good sign. She saw us just as we pulled in and let us know that the dance had been cancelled due to a shortage of dancers--there weren't enough to make a square, even with our three. But we were welcome to go in and listen to the band, she said, apologizing again before she left us for the night.
The music from the Grange Hall drew us in. Strains of "You Are My Sunshine," "She'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain" and "Redwing" kept us entertained. I implored Bo to take a swing at playing the upright bass--a very unique "naval bass" made of aluminum. I was proud to watch him play and wish with all my heart that I could buy him an upright. I'd listen to him all the days. Maybe I should just send him to this website and have him build one of these.
After a few numbers, we bid the band adieu and headed for Coccia House for pizza. It came very highly recommended, and we're always up for a good pizza, especially since I'm soaking this pre-birthday thing for all it's worth. Soon to be six-year-old daughter Sweetheart happened to mention the birthday thing out loud, because her birthday is two days after mine, and the waitress came to our table carrying our pizza which was boasting two birthday candles. Sweetheart and I puckered up and blew out the flames, though Sweetheart claims that I blew them both out. She's probably right.
Coccia House was probably the most interesting and surreal restaurant experience I've ever had. We walked in the back door and through the restaurant, which really is a huge house, and it just kept going on and on and on and on. It was like a funhouse restaurant, with rooms off of rooms off of more rooms. We happened to seat ourselves next to a very happy drunkard who took pleasure in informing us that you have to take your bill to the register, not wait for your waitress to take it. He spent several minutes trading apologies with the waitress for not knowing this fact and then proceeded to knock over his chair, almost knocking over himself in the process.
Even though the menu said the pizza was fresh made so it takes longer, it didn't take longer. This is because it was the wrong pizza. And, silly me, I didn't notice that it had too many pieces and too few toppings to be our pizza, so we ate half of it before the waitress realized what had happened. I felt badly, like I had purposely stolen the pizza. But I didn't. Really. I promise.
Bo noticed that the waitress looked very much like Michelle Pfeifer. No joke. She really did. When he mentioned this to her, she rolled her eyes. "You're tired of hearing that?" I asked. "Yeah," she answered. Sheesh.
The pizza was okay. Wasn't as good as Luigi's in Akron or Tomasetti's in Wooster. Just okay.
On the drive home, Bard lobbied emphatically for a trip to the coffeehouse, but Bo and I took pleasure in our cruelty and denied her the privilege. She told me to write that previous line.
And now, it's time for bed.
I tried to convince my fourteen-year-old son Houdin that it really was cool to dance, that girls would fall all over him if he learned how, but he wasn't convinced. Either that, or he's not ready to be interested in falling girls just yet. Regardless, he wouldn't come.
But fifteen-year-old Bard was in, as was my husband Bohemian and soon-to-be-six-year-old Sweetheart (in case you didn't figure it out, these are not my family members' real names. They're pseudonyms I use to refer to them in this blogosphere).
So I dressed in black. All black. Black socks, black skort, black flouncy skirt over the skort to give extra bounce during the dancing, black camisole and a black flouncy shirt with swoopy sleeves to give extra bounce during the dancing. I even stopped at the local Stuff*Mart to get a new pair of shoes, as my black shoes are third generation hand-me-downs that wouldn't have lasted through the evening. Well, okay. They would have. But it's a nice excuse for new shoes. Anyway, I thought black would be dramatic. And besides, the only flouncy clothes I have are black. Actually, half of my wardrobe is black.
When we arrived at the Grange Hall where the dance was to be held, I knew that it was a bad thing to see the caller getting into her car. That's never a good sign. She saw us just as we pulled in and let us know that the dance had been cancelled due to a shortage of dancers--there weren't enough to make a square, even with our three. But we were welcome to go in and listen to the band, she said, apologizing again before she left us for the night.
The music from the Grange Hall drew us in. Strains of "You Are My Sunshine," "She'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain" and "Redwing" kept us entertained. I implored Bo to take a swing at playing the upright bass--a very unique "naval bass" made of aluminum. I was proud to watch him play and wish with all my heart that I could buy him an upright. I'd listen to him all the days. Maybe I should just send him to this website and have him build one of these.
After a few numbers, we bid the band adieu and headed for Coccia House for pizza. It came very highly recommended, and we're always up for a good pizza, especially since I'm soaking this pre-birthday thing for all it's worth. Soon to be six-year-old daughter Sweetheart happened to mention the birthday thing out loud, because her birthday is two days after mine, and the waitress came to our table carrying our pizza which was boasting two birthday candles. Sweetheart and I puckered up and blew out the flames, though Sweetheart claims that I blew them both out. She's probably right.
Coccia House was probably the most interesting and surreal restaurant experience I've ever had. We walked in the back door and through the restaurant, which really is a huge house, and it just kept going on and on and on and on. It was like a funhouse restaurant, with rooms off of rooms off of more rooms. We happened to seat ourselves next to a very happy drunkard who took pleasure in informing us that you have to take your bill to the register, not wait for your waitress to take it. He spent several minutes trading apologies with the waitress for not knowing this fact and then proceeded to knock over his chair, almost knocking over himself in the process.
Even though the menu said the pizza was fresh made so it takes longer, it didn't take longer. This is because it was the wrong pizza. And, silly me, I didn't notice that it had too many pieces and too few toppings to be our pizza, so we ate half of it before the waitress realized what had happened. I felt badly, like I had purposely stolen the pizza. But I didn't. Really. I promise.
Bo noticed that the waitress looked very much like Michelle Pfeifer. No joke. She really did. When he mentioned this to her, she rolled her eyes. "You're tired of hearing that?" I asked. "Yeah," she answered. Sheesh.
The pizza was okay. Wasn't as good as Luigi's in Akron or Tomasetti's in Wooster. Just okay.
On the drive home, Bard lobbied emphatically for a trip to the coffeehouse, but Bo and I took pleasure in our cruelty and denied her the privilege. She told me to write that previous line.
And now, it's time for bed.
Visions
Inaugural Art Class at The Sprouted Acorn, featuring artist Fred del Guidice
For many years, I have held onto the dream of building a house in the country, a place for the gathering of family, friends, good food and fine music. We've had many hopeful signs, and many devastating heartbreaks, but we held fast to our dream. Years of prayer often felt worthless. After all, many people have no home at all. How could I be so myopic as to believe that God would grant me a big house on a hill in the country somewhere? Yet it was a desire of my heart, and I continued to pray for God's will in my life. If there were a place for us, I would be willing to go, whether that was in the city or in the country. And then, an injection of inspiration came that I could not ignore...
During a concert in Wheaton, IL in July of 2001, one of my favorite musicians, David Wilcox, David shared this word picture:
"Imagine an acorn planted in a paper cup. It's a seedling. You say to yourself, "It's an oak tree. It's the strongest of trees. It's an oak tree." And somebody looks at it and says, "Oh, come on! That's no oak tree! Look at that! That's an acorn with a sprout!" And you say, "Yeah, well. I'm...I'm taking care of it. It's gonna grow." "Oh, yeah. Where you gonna plant it? It's nothing but parking lot and broken glass! Have you looked outside? Have you seen this world?" And you say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah." You don't show it to everybody. Sometimes you keep the dream tucked inside your coat when it's cold. But's it there. And it's growing close to your heart. You find yourself a little garden. You call it a garden. It's a square foot of ground. It's a place to call home. The dream's gotta be planted. It's gotta have a place to dig in. And you clear a little more as you have time. A lot of time goes by and sure enough, the dream can grow. Grow right where you are. Right in your little town, in your little street, in your little home. And it grows. In those scorching hot summer days that used to feel like there was nothin' but pavement and broken glass, you got shade. What is that shade from? What is that great, green shade from? Oh, that's an acorn, in a paper cup. Well, and...time. Yeah. Take care of that dream. "
You have to understand...I'm a gardener. I love anything that grows. Even as we speak, I'm trying to nurture a couple of hormworms that I found devouring my tomato plants. Most people kill them, but I learned that they turn into very cool and very interesting hummingbird moths, creatures that amaze me as they flutter from one brightly colored herb to another, helping to pollinate my garden.
You also have to understand that I'm a treehugger. I don't love all trees more than I love all people, but there are SOME trees that I love more than SOME people (nods to Jane Goodall).
Finally, you have to understand that I have some family members who are *not* gardeners, or tree-lovers, or dreamers. As a matter of fact, a particular family member can be downright discouraging. If I didn't have people like my husband, and David, and other musicians, I would be pretty despondent a lot of the time.
Usually, when some exciting dream comes into my life, it just bubbles out of me. I share it with those I love. Including my discouraging family member. And most often, this person fills my ears and my heart with discouragement.
But as David spoke that night in Wheaton, I closed my eyes and I saw...I mean it, I *saw* our house on the hill. I saw it as clearly as if it were right there, right there in front of me! I could *see* a room full of people, loving and enjoying music, in my home, up on my hill, in a beautiful country community. Music is a big part of my life (my husband and children are musicians...I'm just the groupie) and a coffeehouse is something I had dreamed of for a very long time, but never, NEVER before had I been given a true vision of it. Actually, I'm not sure I've ever had a clear vision about anything. I was smitten. And inspired.
That was the beginning of a realization of a dream.
After the house concert, I was able to speak with David for just a few minutes. I told him about my dream of a paramusic career, how his story inspired me, how clearly that vision of our future home came to my mind, and I handed him my journal to sign. Here's what he wrote:
"To Denice:
It's an Oak Tree
(all it needs is a place to grow and time--
because all it needs to know is inside)
It's inevitable.
David Wilcox"
I've held that dream, that little tree in a cup, close to my heart and shielded it from those who would discourage me and laugh at my fragile sprouted acorn. I've shared it with those, including my husband, who could say, "Yes! Let me help you water that! I know a place where you can plant it!"
Shortly thereafter, by the grace of God, we were able to purchase a beautiful piece of property which included a gorgeous hilltop that commands quite a view. And, indeed, our little acorn has begun to grow. That's not to say there haven't been times of drought along the way, but all the roots grow deeper when it's dry, don't they?
The Sprouted Acorn has been my working title. I have even found the most amazing photograph by photographer Dan Suzio, of a sprouting acorn. It stands in our piano room as a reminder of that little dream and how it grew.
And the house on the hill...it stands, too, just as I envisioned it that night in Wheaton.
We've just begun hosting an art class in our home, and I hope that it's the first of many events and activities this house will see.
"Imagine an acorn planted in a paper cup. It's a seedling. You say to yourself, "It's an oak tree. It's the strongest of trees. It's an oak tree." And somebody looks at it and says, "Oh, come on! That's no oak tree! Look at that! That's an acorn with a sprout!" And you say, "Yeah, well. I'm...I'm taking care of it. It's gonna grow." "Oh, yeah. Where you gonna plant it? It's nothing but parking lot and broken glass! Have you looked outside? Have you seen this world?" And you say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah." You don't show it to everybody. Sometimes you keep the dream tucked inside your coat when it's cold. But's it there. And it's growing close to your heart. You find yourself a little garden. You call it a garden. It's a square foot of ground. It's a place to call home. The dream's gotta be planted. It's gotta have a place to dig in. And you clear a little more as you have time. A lot of time goes by and sure enough, the dream can grow. Grow right where you are. Right in your little town, in your little street, in your little home. And it grows. In those scorching hot summer days that used to feel like there was nothin' but pavement and broken glass, you got shade. What is that shade from? What is that great, green shade from? Oh, that's an acorn, in a paper cup. Well, and...time. Yeah. Take care of that dream. "
You have to understand...I'm a gardener. I love anything that grows. Even as we speak, I'm trying to nurture a couple of hormworms that I found devouring my tomato plants. Most people kill them, but I learned that they turn into very cool and very interesting hummingbird moths, creatures that amaze me as they flutter from one brightly colored herb to another, helping to pollinate my garden.
You also have to understand that I'm a treehugger. I don't love all trees more than I love all people, but there are SOME trees that I love more than SOME people (nods to Jane Goodall).
Finally, you have to understand that I have some family members who are *not* gardeners, or tree-lovers, or dreamers. As a matter of fact, a particular family member can be downright discouraging. If I didn't have people like my husband, and David, and other musicians, I would be pretty despondent a lot of the time.
Usually, when some exciting dream comes into my life, it just bubbles out of me. I share it with those I love. Including my discouraging family member. And most often, this person fills my ears and my heart with discouragement.
But as David spoke that night in Wheaton, I closed my eyes and I saw...I mean it, I *saw* our house on the hill. I saw it as clearly as if it were right there, right there in front of me! I could *see* a room full of people, loving and enjoying music, in my home, up on my hill, in a beautiful country community. Music is a big part of my life (my husband and children are musicians...I'm just the groupie) and a coffeehouse is something I had dreamed of for a very long time, but never, NEVER before had I been given a true vision of it. Actually, I'm not sure I've ever had a clear vision about anything. I was smitten. And inspired.
That was the beginning of a realization of a dream.
After the house concert, I was able to speak with David for just a few minutes. I told him about my dream of a paramusic career, how his story inspired me, how clearly that vision of our future home came to my mind, and I handed him my journal to sign. Here's what he wrote:
"To Denice:
It's an Oak Tree
(all it needs is a place to grow and time--
because all it needs to know is inside)
It's inevitable.
David Wilcox"
I've held that dream, that little tree in a cup, close to my heart and shielded it from those who would discourage me and laugh at my fragile sprouted acorn. I've shared it with those, including my husband, who could say, "Yes! Let me help you water that! I know a place where you can plant it!"
Shortly thereafter, by the grace of God, we were able to purchase a beautiful piece of property which included a gorgeous hilltop that commands quite a view. And, indeed, our little acorn has begun to grow. That's not to say there haven't been times of drought along the way, but all the roots grow deeper when it's dry, don't they?
The Sprouted Acorn has been my working title. I have even found the most amazing photograph by photographer Dan Suzio, of a sprouting acorn. It stands in our piano room as a reminder of that little dream and how it grew.
And the house on the hill...it stands, too, just as I envisioned it that night in Wheaton.
We've just begun hosting an art class in our home, and I hope that it's the first of many events and activities this house will see.
Tripping On Air
Tripping on air
Heels kicking of their own accord
My own clumsy limbs
are not themselves
I know for a fact that the foot in the red shoe
is no longer my own
for my feet can't handle normal walking,
for my feet can't handle normal walking,
let alone dancing.
Dancing!
The word hardly does justice to the feeling.
The word hardly does justice to the feeling.
I feel like flying!
I feel like singing!
I am flying.
I swing
breathlessly
from partner to partner,
forgetting that my face is probably purple;
forgetting not to smile because I hate my smile;
forgetting to be shy because I don't know the boy whose arm is around
forgetting everything but the rhythm I feel;
And it's good.
Very good.
I feel like singing!
I am flying.
I swing
breathlessly
from partner to partner,
forgetting that my face is probably purple;
forgetting not to smile because I hate my smile;
forgetting to be shy because I don't know the boy whose arm is around
forgetting everything but the rhythm I feel;
And it's good.
Very good.
~By Bard, April 2nd, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
That Was Nice
I had just walked out of the store and was heading toward my van, feeling just a bit guilty that I had parked at such a strange angle. I was within the yellow lines, though, so it really wasn't bad that I parked weird; it was just messy looking, careless, like I don't know how to park or was in too much of a hurry to do it right. These kinds of thoughts nag at me, are part of my desire to be the poster child for good Christians, large families, homeschoolers. I have to be careful. I have to make a good impression. Can't let someone make me the example over the dinner table. "This lady, called herself a Christian, but you shoulda seen the way she parked. Them Christians don't care about nobody but themselves..."
This is what I was thinking about when I heard a voice calling from nearby.
"Ma'am!" The voice said. I inwardly cringed at the chastising I was about to receive. My bumper was too close to her bumper. My front door was too close to her front door. I should be more careful. I should be less selfish. Was this my paint on the body of her car? Regardless of the lack of real fault on my part, I've seen those kinds of arguments unfold, and they aren't pretty. I heard the voice call again and looked around. The voice was coming from behind me, from the next aisle over.
"Could you get my walker for me? It's in the trunk of the car." The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. She was seated in the driver's seat of a white Lincoln Towncar, her feet swung out onto the pavement of the parking lot. I must have been dazed. I had to switch the gears in my head. I think she repeated herself, or maybe she just explained.
"I should have had my kids get it out before they went in the store, but I didn't. Could you get it for me?"
"Sure!" I answered, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I walked across the aisle and looked into the trunk where I saw a wheelchair on top of a silver walker. I pulled the wheelchair aside to wrestle the walker from its place. It felt strange. I felt like I wanted to do more, not just pull the walker out and hand it to her. While she may have felt that she was imposing on me, that I was doing her some big favor, I felt just the opposite. I felt honored, priviliged. I felt...needed.
As I handed her the walker, she thanked me. That was it. Just a pure, sincere thanks. I resisted the urge to help her into the store, to follow her around and help her with her shopping. This "feeling needed" was good, but it could definitely go too far, turn quickly into being a pest. Me, not her. I settled for, "Would you like me to close the trunk?"
"Yes, if you would, please!" She responded. And I did. I made sure to close it just right. And while I've probably closed hundreds of car trunks hundreds of times, I was very aware of how I should close this one, kind of like when you're driving along familiar roads carrying a passenger that you barely know or want to impress. Suddenly it all slows w-a-a-a-y down and you want to make sure that you take every curve, every turn, ever stop just precisely, exactly right.
And do you know that I thought I messed it up? It didn't look to me like the trunk was completely closed. I pushed on it a couple more time, vaguely aware of the woman's presence a few feet away from me closing her car door.
"Did I do that right?" I asked stupidly. She assured me that I did, that it was indeed closed.
I crossed back to my crookedly parked van, nearly getting run over by an oncoming vehicle who was gracious enough to stop for me. My thirteen-year-old son, Houdin, was still standing beside the van.
"That was nice," he said, echoing the thoughts in my head. Yes, it was nice.
But I'm really not sure if he was referring to what I did for the woman with the walker, or what she did for me.
Acts 20:35 (The Message)
In everything I've done, I have demonstrated to you how necessary it is to work on behalf of the weak and not exploit them. You'll not likely go wrong here if you keep remembering that our Master said, "You're far happier giving than getting.'"
The Message (MSG) Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson
This is what I was thinking about when I heard a voice calling from nearby.
"Ma'am!" The voice said. I inwardly cringed at the chastising I was about to receive. My bumper was too close to her bumper. My front door was too close to her front door. I should be more careful. I should be less selfish. Was this my paint on the body of her car? Regardless of the lack of real fault on my part, I've seen those kinds of arguments unfold, and they aren't pretty. I heard the voice call again and looked around. The voice was coming from behind me, from the next aisle over.
"Could you get my walker for me? It's in the trunk of the car." The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. She was seated in the driver's seat of a white Lincoln Towncar, her feet swung out onto the pavement of the parking lot. I must have been dazed. I had to switch the gears in my head. I think she repeated herself, or maybe she just explained.
"I should have had my kids get it out before they went in the store, but I didn't. Could you get it for me?"
"Sure!" I answered, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I walked across the aisle and looked into the trunk where I saw a wheelchair on top of a silver walker. I pulled the wheelchair aside to wrestle the walker from its place. It felt strange. I felt like I wanted to do more, not just pull the walker out and hand it to her. While she may have felt that she was imposing on me, that I was doing her some big favor, I felt just the opposite. I felt honored, priviliged. I felt...needed.
As I handed her the walker, she thanked me. That was it. Just a pure, sincere thanks. I resisted the urge to help her into the store, to follow her around and help her with her shopping. This "feeling needed" was good, but it could definitely go too far, turn quickly into being a pest. Me, not her. I settled for, "Would you like me to close the trunk?"
"Yes, if you would, please!" She responded. And I did. I made sure to close it just right. And while I've probably closed hundreds of car trunks hundreds of times, I was very aware of how I should close this one, kind of like when you're driving along familiar roads carrying a passenger that you barely know or want to impress. Suddenly it all slows w-a-a-a-y down and you want to make sure that you take every curve, every turn, ever stop just precisely, exactly right.
And do you know that I thought I messed it up? It didn't look to me like the trunk was completely closed. I pushed on it a couple more time, vaguely aware of the woman's presence a few feet away from me closing her car door.
"Did I do that right?" I asked stupidly. She assured me that I did, that it was indeed closed.
I crossed back to my crookedly parked van, nearly getting run over by an oncoming vehicle who was gracious enough to stop for me. My thirteen-year-old son, Houdin, was still standing beside the van.
"That was nice," he said, echoing the thoughts in my head. Yes, it was nice.
But I'm really not sure if he was referring to what I did for the woman with the walker, or what she did for me.
Acts 20:35 (The Message)
In everything I've done, I have demonstrated to you how necessary it is to work on behalf of the weak and not exploit them. You'll not likely go wrong here if you keep remembering that our Master said, "You're far happier giving than getting.'"
The Message (MSG) Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
It's An Obsession
So, I went to Wal*Mart today. I bought new shorts and t-shirts and cleats for Monet. He started baseball today, see, and really needs summer clothes to go with his brand spankin' new summer haircut. And while I was there, I bought Monet and Houdin each their swim trunks for the summer. It felt really good to get that stuff into my cart, into my van, into my house and into the closets.
So, I went to The Thrift Shop today and dropped off a huge garbage bag of stuff. I'm trying to declutter as much as I can, but it never seems to get done. In addition, we have renters in our cabin who are apparently trying to declutter, too, so they're bringing our cabin stuff up to the house and I'm trying to find room for it all. Much of it will go to The Thrift Shop. But even once I get it sorted and into a pile, it takes me forever to get it into a bag. Once I get it into a bag, it takes me a while to get it to the van. Once I get it to the van, it's a good week until I get it to The Thrift Shop. So, it felt really good to get that big garbage bag of stuff out of my house, out of my van, out of my life.
Wait a minute.
There are two things that make me feel really good. Well, more than two, but two that give me that "Wow. I've just accomplished something" feeling. Bringing stuff home and getting rid of stuff.
I guess the best thing for me would be to go to Wal*Mart, buy a bunch of stuff, bring it home, wash it and fold it, put it in a garbage bag and take it to The Thrift Shop.
I'll bet the kids' clothes would even last longer that way.
So, I went to The Thrift Shop today and dropped off a huge garbage bag of stuff. I'm trying to declutter as much as I can, but it never seems to get done. In addition, we have renters in our cabin who are apparently trying to declutter, too, so they're bringing our cabin stuff up to the house and I'm trying to find room for it all. Much of it will go to The Thrift Shop. But even once I get it sorted and into a pile, it takes me forever to get it into a bag. Once I get it into a bag, it takes me a while to get it to the van. Once I get it to the van, it's a good week until I get it to The Thrift Shop. So, it felt really good to get that big garbage bag of stuff out of my house, out of my van, out of my life.
Wait a minute.
There are two things that make me feel really good. Well, more than two, but two that give me that "Wow. I've just accomplished something" feeling. Bringing stuff home and getting rid of stuff.
I guess the best thing for me would be to go to Wal*Mart, buy a bunch of stuff, bring it home, wash it and fold it, put it in a garbage bag and take it to The Thrift Shop.
I'll bet the kids' clothes would even last longer that way.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
What I Haven't Told You About
Sounds like a really juicy title...but actually, it's just about the things I've done in the past week and a half that I haven't blogged, namely:
- Seeing my new niece for the first time and a whirlwind visit from my inlaws;
- Piano lessons;
- Art lessons
- Houdin's first soccer practice
- The trip to MAPS with pics
- Our first art class!
- Creative writing class
- Contra-dancing
See? Doesn't that sound like fun?
I'll get to it. I hope.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Reforming Hollywood
Yesterday Bard asked if she and I could have a movie night, just the two of us. Since I try not to plan anything on Sundays, our day was open and I thought it would be a great idea. I asked Bo if he was up for taking Sweetheart, Monet and Houdin bowling, and he was so inclined.
So Bard and I headed to the only things we really have near us: Movie Gallery and Wal*Mart. We have a local grocery, too, that rents DVDs for .99, but you can only keep them one day and the selection is pretty limited. Alas, life in a small town. If these Amish would just get gas-powered DVD players, the demand would increase and we'd have better selections.
We loaded up on all of the nasty snacks we'd need: Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos and whatever other "O" junk we could find. IBC Rootbeer, which doesn't end in "O" but Bard likes it, and some nacho cheese sauce.
But here's the thing: to have a movie night for girlies, it's essential to have a good movie or two. Can I just say that such a thing is quite rare? We scanned the racks of the Movie Gallery and found pretty much nothing.
I don't understand this.
We walked around the store twice before we decided on Little Black Book and First Daughter. I wasn't exactly comfortable with Little Black Book, but since I'd seen it, I at least knew what to expect. I haven't seen First Daughter.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the biggest blockbuster hits the ones that whole families can enjoy, like Secondhand Lions, Shrek, and Robots? Aren't those the ones that families flock to see, buy all of the action figures and purchase their own copies when they come out of DVD? Aren't those the universally appealing films? The most popular? The highest grossing?
Isn't this why movies like Napolean Dynamite, which is a very low-budget film, end up gaining such national attention? Because it appeals to everyone? Well, okay. Not everyone. I do know some unenlightened people who don't "get it," but I'm still praying for them. ;-)
So why are these family-friendly movies so few and far between?
"I don't get it," I told my Bard as we headed home. "You would think there would be more universally appealing movies, more family-friendly films with real meaning and less nudity, language and sexual references. I mean, after all, who wants to sit in the room with their mom and watch naked butts?"
"Well, when I grow up," Bard said, "I'm going to reform the movie industry. I'll become a director and make more family-friendly movies."
I realize that not everyone DOES sit in a room with their mom to watch movies. I understand the appeal of movies that are more gritty, and I can even justify a few of them, but overall, it seems that high-quality films can be made without the grit.
So here's to the next generation, to kids like Bard who don't want to shove garbage into their heads, who want parables that leave them feeling better, braver, more encouraged. Here's to my daughter and her hope for the future, her goal of taking integrity into Hollywood.
I, for one, am pulling for her.
So Bard and I headed to the only things we really have near us: Movie Gallery and Wal*Mart. We have a local grocery, too, that rents DVDs for .99, but you can only keep them one day and the selection is pretty limited. Alas, life in a small town. If these Amish would just get gas-powered DVD players, the demand would increase and we'd have better selections.
We loaded up on all of the nasty snacks we'd need: Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos and whatever other "O" junk we could find. IBC Rootbeer, which doesn't end in "O" but Bard likes it, and some nacho cheese sauce.
But here's the thing: to have a movie night for girlies, it's essential to have a good movie or two. Can I just say that such a thing is quite rare? We scanned the racks of the Movie Gallery and found pretty much nothing.
I don't understand this.
We walked around the store twice before we decided on Little Black Book and First Daughter. I wasn't exactly comfortable with Little Black Book, but since I'd seen it, I at least knew what to expect. I haven't seen First Daughter.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the biggest blockbuster hits the ones that whole families can enjoy, like Secondhand Lions, Shrek, and Robots? Aren't those the ones that families flock to see, buy all of the action figures and purchase their own copies when they come out of DVD? Aren't those the universally appealing films? The most popular? The highest grossing?
Isn't this why movies like Napolean Dynamite, which is a very low-budget film, end up gaining such national attention? Because it appeals to everyone? Well, okay. Not everyone. I do know some unenlightened people who don't "get it," but I'm still praying for them. ;-)
So why are these family-friendly movies so few and far between?
"I don't get it," I told my Bard as we headed home. "You would think there would be more universally appealing movies, more family-friendly films with real meaning and less nudity, language and sexual references. I mean, after all, who wants to sit in the room with their mom and watch naked butts?"
"Well, when I grow up," Bard said, "I'm going to reform the movie industry. I'll become a director and make more family-friendly movies."
I realize that not everyone DOES sit in a room with their mom to watch movies. I understand the appeal of movies that are more gritty, and I can even justify a few of them, but overall, it seems that high-quality films can be made without the grit.
So here's to the next generation, to kids like Bard who don't want to shove garbage into their heads, who want parables that leave them feeling better, braver, more encouraged. Here's to my daughter and her hope for the future, her goal of taking integrity into Hollywood.
I, for one, am pulling for her.
Isabella!
I am SO thrilled to announce the arrival of Isabella! I just received these photos from my mother-in-law who will have to remind me of the details. She weighed over ten pounds and was born at home with my sister-in-law as the midwife. Congratulations Eener and Bunny! I can't wait to hold her, buy her stuff and feed her pancakes and hershey's kisses!
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Team Fox is ON THE MOVE!
Four years ago, our family attended a fundraising banquet and, I'll be honest, the goal was to get a good meal. A neighbor had invited us to a local Amish-style restaurant that was hosting an awareness dinner for Cystic Fibrosis. At the time, I really didn't know anything about C.F. and neither did my family, but I took Bard and Houdin.Wow. We learned a lot. A couple from the church we were attending were at the banquet and we learned that they have two children who suffer from Cystic Fibrosis. After meeting Eva and her brother Christian and learning from their mother what a nightmare C.F. is and how frightening it is to wake up in the middle of the night to a child who can't breathe, we decided to get involved. We're not alone. I'm amazed how this community rallies around Eva, Christian, their family and the many others in our community who suffer from or have lost children to C.F.
I've mentioned before that my eldest son, Houdin, could ask for money from anyone. It's just a gift he has; he has no inhibitions and holds the belief that people generally want to be of help. When Houdin found out that there would be a fundraiser for Cystic Fibrosis called the Great Strides Walk for a Cure, he was all over it. I turned my head in embarrassment every time he asked a stranger for money, but, somehow, people just believe in him and he almost always gains their support.
Within days of setting out, Houdin had asked everyone he knew for a donation. He walked the streets of our local town and asked businesses to contribute. By the end of his fundraising campaign, he had raised over $500 for a cure for Cystic Fibrosis.That was four years ago. Last year, Houdin decided to form his own walking team, Team Fox. We had twelve walkers and he met his fundraising goal due to the generous donations from friends and family, AND the team walked six miles in the rain!
This year, Houdin is again forming a team, but he has tripled his fundraising goals and doubled his team goals. This year, by May 8th, Houdin would like to raise $1500 and have twenty four walkers on his team. It's a big goal, but I believe he can do it. I believe that in encouraging him to continue his fundraising efforts, we are encouraging Houdin's gifts and talents.
If you would like to donate to Houdin's efforts, you can do so through the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation webpage. You can access Houdin's fundraising page by going here. Any little bit will help and every dollar will not only work towards a cure for Cystic Fibrosis, but will also help to boost Houdin's confidence.For more information about Cystic Fibrosis in an easy-to-read kids' presentation, please visit this site.
Thanks for your support!
Scenes from NASA
Here's a way mobie cool collage of the day we spent at NASA Glenn Research Center in Cleveland. Click on the collage for a larger image.
Migration Sensation
So, I was actually a bit disappointed in the Migration Sensation today. I'm sure if I were a woman who had no kids and really liked slide-accompanied lectures in dark rooms, I'd have enjoyed it. But I didn't enjoy it as much as I had hoped.
That's not to say the topics weren't interesting. They were! But when compared to years previous, with speakers like Amish farmer, conservationist and author David Kline and owl expert and enthusiast Paul Boyd, this year's speakers didn't really hold my attention.
This is the third year we've attended the Migration Sensation in Shreve, Ohio. The past couple of years were better, but not by much. I guess I just figure that they have an awesome draw--the wetlands around Shreve are some of the best for observing migratory birds and wildlife--they may as well do it right. The children's programs were a nice effort, but interaction would be much better than lecture. The lunch was very sad--overcooked, cold coney dogs for $2.75 each. It only cost us $15.00 to attend the event and all of the lectures, but it cost us $27.00 to eat lunch of soup and hot dogs, and everyone was still hungry. And since it snowed (!) today, it was too cold and wet to go observe the wildlife in the bog. Aside from that, the event begings at 7:00 A.M., and just TRY keeping a teenager interested in ANYTHING but sleep at 7:00 A.M. Next year, we hope to take our own food, hike even if it's raining, and maybe even try to help the organizers create better kids' programs.
But there were a few cool side benefits. First, there were two bird sanctuaries who had displays in the vendor area, and between the two of them, we were able to see, up close, a great horned owl, a red-tailed hawk, a northern saw-whet owl and an eastern screech owl. The screech owl was in a man-made log with a hole in the front of the top part of the log, and he sat so very still and was so very perfect that he looked like he wasn't even real. When Monet approached the owl, he said, "Wow. That almost looks real."
"Yeah, doesn't it?" I said, keeping Bard from spoiling my joke by a nudge of my elbow. "If you look really closely at his eyes, they almost look like they would wink at you," and I drew Monet closer to the little creature for a closer look. After just a few seconds, the owl winked and Monet jumped back, shouting, "Whoa!"
The other side benefit was the sign I saw that said, "Contra dance tonight!"
After all of the energy expended at the Migration Sensation, I wasn't sure I was up for a dance, but I really, really wanted to go...
That's not to say the topics weren't interesting. They were! But when compared to years previous, with speakers like Amish farmer, conservationist and author David Kline and owl expert and enthusiast Paul Boyd, this year's speakers didn't really hold my attention.
This is the third year we've attended the Migration Sensation in Shreve, Ohio. The past couple of years were better, but not by much. I guess I just figure that they have an awesome draw--the wetlands around Shreve are some of the best for observing migratory birds and wildlife--they may as well do it right. The children's programs were a nice effort, but interaction would be much better than lecture. The lunch was very sad--overcooked, cold coney dogs for $2.75 each. It only cost us $15.00 to attend the event and all of the lectures, but it cost us $27.00 to eat lunch of soup and hot dogs, and everyone was still hungry. And since it snowed (!) today, it was too cold and wet to go observe the wildlife in the bog. Aside from that, the event begings at 7:00 A.M., and just TRY keeping a teenager interested in ANYTHING but sleep at 7:00 A.M. Next year, we hope to take our own food, hike even if it's raining, and maybe even try to help the organizers create better kids' programs.
But there were a few cool side benefits. First, there were two bird sanctuaries who had displays in the vendor area, and between the two of them, we were able to see, up close, a great horned owl, a red-tailed hawk, a northern saw-whet owl and an eastern screech owl. The screech owl was in a man-made log with a hole in the front of the top part of the log, and he sat so very still and was so very perfect that he looked like he wasn't even real. When Monet approached the owl, he said, "Wow. That almost looks real."
"Yeah, doesn't it?" I said, keeping Bard from spoiling my joke by a nudge of my elbow. "If you look really closely at his eyes, they almost look like they would wink at you," and I drew Monet closer to the little creature for a closer look. After just a few seconds, the owl winked and Monet jumped back, shouting, "Whoa!"
The other side benefit was the sign I saw that said, "Contra dance tonight!"
After all of the energy expended at the Migration Sensation, I wasn't sure I was up for a dance, but I really, really wanted to go...
Saturday, April 02, 2005
What We Did Today...
Shreve festival touts migrating birds
by Bob Downing
Beacon Journal
by Bob Downing
Beacon Journal
The wetlands in southern Wayne County will be alive with migrating waterfowl and songbirds when Shreve hosts the fifth annual Shreve Migration Sensation from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday.
The activities include speakers from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. at Shreve Elementary School, 598 N. Market St. (state Route 226).
There will be self-guided birding tours from 8 a.m. to noon to nearby 5,492-acre Killbuck Marsh, 228-acre Shreve Lake and 1,154-acre Funk Bottoms wildlife areas.
The three state wildlife areas are part of Ohio's largest inland wetland on the border between Wayne, Holmes and Ashland counties.
You will likely see lots of migrating waterfowl and perhaps sandhill cranes and bald eagles, and the event is designed to appeal from beginner to expert birders.
Stop by the school and get a map and directions to the wetland sites, where experts from the Ohio Division of Wildlife will be stationed and spotting scopes will be set up for visitors to use. You can bring your own binoculars or spotting scopes, if you prefer.
The biggest crowds are usually drawn to the bald eagle nesting site in the Killbuck Marsh. It is off Force Road east of Cemetery Road in Franklin Township.
The schedule of speakers is:
• 8:30 a.m. -- Prairie Plants by Randy Carmel, a science teacher at Wooster High School.
• 9:30 a.m. -- Ohio River Otters: An Amazing Success Story by Chris Dwyer of the Ohio Division of Wildlife.
• 10:30 a.m. -- Butterflies by Roger Downer, a researcher at the Ohio Agricultural Research and Development Center at Wooster.
• 12:30 p.m. -- Waterfowl by Jim McCormac of the Ohio Division of Wildlife and author of Birds of Ohio.
• 1:30 p.m. -- The Peregrine Falcon: Nature's Most Efficient Flying Machine by Chad and Chris Saladin of Lorain, who monitor nesting peregrine falcons in the Cleveland area.
• 2:30 p.m. -- Ohio Bats by Merrill Tawse of the Richland County Park District.
For youngsters, Tom Roig of Shreve will present a program on sled dog racing for youngsters and Laura Jordan of the Medina Raptor Center will be on hand with hawks and owls.
The program is being sponsored by the Friends of the Killbuck Marsh, a grass-roots nonprofit group; the Shreve Business & Community Association; and the Ohio Division of Wildlife.
The fee is $10 a person or $15 a family.
For more information, call 800-821-0456 or 800-362-6474. You can also check out the Internet site www.shreveohio.com.
The activities include speakers from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. at Shreve Elementary School, 598 N. Market St. (state Route 226).
There will be self-guided birding tours from 8 a.m. to noon to nearby 5,492-acre Killbuck Marsh, 228-acre Shreve Lake and 1,154-acre Funk Bottoms wildlife areas.
The three state wildlife areas are part of Ohio's largest inland wetland on the border between Wayne, Holmes and Ashland counties.
You will likely see lots of migrating waterfowl and perhaps sandhill cranes and bald eagles, and the event is designed to appeal from beginner to expert birders.
Stop by the school and get a map and directions to the wetland sites, where experts from the Ohio Division of Wildlife will be stationed and spotting scopes will be set up for visitors to use. You can bring your own binoculars or spotting scopes, if you prefer.
The biggest crowds are usually drawn to the bald eagle nesting site in the Killbuck Marsh. It is off Force Road east of Cemetery Road in Franklin Township.
The schedule of speakers is:
• 8:30 a.m. -- Prairie Plants by Randy Carmel, a science teacher at Wooster High School.
• 9:30 a.m. -- Ohio River Otters: An Amazing Success Story by Chris Dwyer of the Ohio Division of Wildlife.
• 10:30 a.m. -- Butterflies by Roger Downer, a researcher at the Ohio Agricultural Research and Development Center at Wooster.
• 12:30 p.m. -- Waterfowl by Jim McCormac of the Ohio Division of Wildlife and author of Birds of Ohio.
• 1:30 p.m. -- The Peregrine Falcon: Nature's Most Efficient Flying Machine by Chad and Chris Saladin of Lorain, who monitor nesting peregrine falcons in the Cleveland area.
• 2:30 p.m. -- Ohio Bats by Merrill Tawse of the Richland County Park District.
For youngsters, Tom Roig of Shreve will present a program on sled dog racing for youngsters and Laura Jordan of the Medina Raptor Center will be on hand with hawks and owls.
The program is being sponsored by the Friends of the Killbuck Marsh, a grass-roots nonprofit group; the Shreve Business & Community Association; and the Ohio Division of Wildlife.
The fee is $10 a person or $15 a family.
For more information, call 800-821-0456 or 800-362-6474. You can also check out the Internet site www.shreveohio.com.
Fits from Blogger
While I have been getting fits from Blogger, yesterday's April Fool's joke was NOT one of them. :-) I'm glad so many of you enjoyed my little prank. For those of you who weren't very persistent and never did "get it," shame on you. ;-)
When the going gets good, the bloggin' gets...gone? I don't know, something like that. Things have been busy here in o-HI-o but in a GOOD way, so I haven't been blogging like I want to. Instead of giving you a rundown of what I've been doing lately, I'm actually going to take advantage of the whole bloggin' date thingy and enter the posts as if I actually did them on time. So, if you're a regular blogreader and you're interested in reading the goings-on of Thicket Dweller's past week or so, you'll have to go back to the old stuff to read the new stuff. ;-)
So, read on! Or...um...read back. Or whatever.
When the going gets good, the bloggin' gets...gone? I don't know, something like that. Things have been busy here in o-HI-o but in a GOOD way, so I haven't been blogging like I want to. Instead of giving you a rundown of what I've been doing lately, I'm actually going to take advantage of the whole bloggin' date thingy and enter the posts as if I actually did them on time. So, if you're a regular blogreader and you're interested in reading the goings-on of Thicket Dweller's past week or so, you'll have to go back to the old stuff to read the new stuff. ;-)
So, read on! Or...um...read back. Or whatever.
It was a JOKE, folks. ;-)
This sorry excuse for a blog cannot be displayedPlease try the following:
- Click the
Refresh button repeatedly until something different happens telling yourself over and over again that repeating the same thing while expecting a different result is a sure sign of insanity, or try again after you've done a load of laundry and hugged your kids. - If you typed the page address in the Address bar, you really need to get a "favorites" folder. It's much easier. If you're not a homeschooler, make sure that
the blog address is spelled correctly and doesn't have any eroneous apostrophes. I hate eroneous apostrophes. - To check your connection settings, click the Tools menu, and then click Internet Options. On the Connections tab, click Set Phasers to Stun. The settings should match those provided by your local technogeek (TKNOGK) administrator or Internet service provider (HUSBAND).
- If your Network Administrator has enabled it, Microsoft Windows can examine your network and automatically discover every single thing about you, including whether you're wearing boxers, briefs, a thong, or going commando.
If you would like Windows to work, just close your eyes and pray or click
Detect Network Settings - Some blogs require 128-bit connection security. Click the Help menu and then click About Internet Explorer to determine what strength security you have installed. If you figure out what this means, make sure you fill me in, because I have no idea.
- If you are trying to reach a secure site, this ain't it. If you knew me really well, you'd find that I'm actually quite insecure. But if you're convinced this is a secure site, you can go ahead and click the Tools menu, and then click Internet Options. On the Advanced tab, scroll to the Security section and check settings for 4.01.05, AFD 4.01.05, FOOL 1.0, APRIL FOOL 100%.
- Click the
Back button to try another link. But remember, you will probably continue getting this page no matter what because, ahem, it's a JOKE. - If you get to the bottom of this page, click the mail button to let me know you read this. It'll crack me up and make my life worth living.
Cannot find blogger or APRIL FOOL'S Error
Internet Explorer
Friday, April 01, 2005
NEW POST: All Grown Up.
I think I'm officially getting old.
I was at the city offices this morning to pay my real estate taxes and noticed that the license bureau is in the same building. Since my birthday's in ten days, and my driver's license will expire then, I figured I'd save myself the hassle and just get it renewed while I was there.
Even though I hadn't showered.
Or done my hair.
Or in any way prepared to have my photo taken.
A photo that will stay with me for the next four years, that I will keep for identification purposes, that I will show to complete strangers in the checkout line of the local grocer's or The Gap.
But I knew that if I didn't get it done while I was there, my whole procrastination thing will kick in the minute I leave the parking lot and I won't renew my license until August, and all of the cashiers will say, "Do you know your license is expired?" And I'll say, innocently, "Oh, is it?"
So I did it. I renewed my driver's license even though I wasn't even remotely ready. I didn't even look in a mirror before I had my photo taken! There was a time when I wouldn't have even left the HOUSE looking like I did! But I was there, I seized the moment, and I did it. I chose maturity and responsibility over vanity.
And, boy, am I ever sorry I did.
I was at the city offices this morning to pay my real estate taxes and noticed that the license bureau is in the same building. Since my birthday's in ten days, and my driver's license will expire then, I figured I'd save myself the hassle and just get it renewed while I was there.
Even though I hadn't showered.
Or done my hair.
Or in any way prepared to have my photo taken.
A photo that will stay with me for the next four years, that I will keep for identification purposes, that I will show to complete strangers in the checkout line of the local grocer's or The Gap.
But I knew that if I didn't get it done while I was there, my whole procrastination thing will kick in the minute I leave the parking lot and I won't renew my license until August, and all of the cashiers will say, "Do you know your license is expired?" And I'll say, innocently, "Oh, is it?"
So I did it. I renewed my driver's license even though I wasn't even remotely ready. I didn't even look in a mirror before I had my photo taken! There was a time when I wouldn't have even left the HOUSE looking like I did! But I was there, I seized the moment, and I did it. I chose maturity and responsibility over vanity.
And, boy, am I ever sorry I did.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
NEW POST: "I Forgot"
If there were two words I would eliminate from the human language, they would undoubtedly be, "I forgot."
I suppose eliminating the words themselves wouldn't be good enough. I'd have to see that the entire concept of "I forgot," be eliminated.
"I forgot," is the bane of every mother's existence, the dreaded words a blow to every married woman's ego. It's the very thing that causes educators, librarians, baseball coaches, employers and friends to go completely and totally mad.
Yesterday was the epitome of forgetfulness in my household. A theme ran through my home like a river of molten lava, like a swarm of grasshoppers descending upon a field of ripening wheat.
"Did you do your chores?"
"I forgot...."
"Did you take out the trash?"
"I forgot...."
"Are you coming to the class tomorrow?"
"Oh! I forgot!"
"Where are the library books?"
"Uh...I can't remember."
"Did anyone call while I was gone?"
"I'm...not sure..."
This day of forgetfulness precedes, of course, tomorrow, a day for which I am attempting to prepare for the first of hopefully many community education classes geared towards home learners. We're working towards that very first class, a beginners' art class to be taught by amazing artist Fred Del Guidice. This class will be the culmination of years of prayer and I'm fairly certain that Satan intends to defeat it by tossing seeds of forgetfulness into some of my family members' brains. Unfortunately, those who have weeded out those ugly seedlings have to bear the weight of the work for those who haven't. And, believe me, it doesn't make us very happy.
I had just about gone out of my mind today handing out reminders to make beds, get dressed, do chores, etc. when the time rolled around to prepare to leave for Creative Writing Class, a course that Bard and I have been taking from a local writing for about four weeks now and which both of us thoroughly enjoy.
"Get ready, kids," I announced. I'd worked out a schedule with Bo two weeks before. He would take the younger kids to their science class at the library, drop Bard and I at our Creative Writing class, wait for Monet and Sweetheart at the library, then waste time at McD's until Bard and I were finished. I'd gone over the plan repeatedly. Last Tuesday, I'd reminded him several times.
"Home by six, right?"
"Right."
At 6:15 last Tuesday evening, I knew it wasn't going to happen.
This week, I reminded him again, though I thought the previous week's nasty taste was still lingering in his mouth enough that he'd not DARE forget. After a day full of "I forgot," I felt it was best to just call one more time. Just a reminder. The phone rang. No answer. Voicemail. Half an hour later, I tried again. Voicemail. Finally, at 5;15, I heard Bo's voice on the other end. I knew he'd had to have left by now to arrive home in time, since it's a one hour and fifteen minute commute. Yet I heard no road noise in the background.
"Ummm...whatcha doin'?" I asked hopefully.
"Working up an estimate," he replied.
"Where are you?" Hope was still clinging on by a fragile thread.
"Uh....where else would I be if I were working up an estimate?"
That was just the answer I did NOT want to hear. He was in the office. An hour and a half away.
"I was supposed to be home by six? Uh...I guess I forgot."
I'm surprised the telephone survived such an impact.
After the initial wailing and gnashing of teeth, I forced myself into problem-solving mode, quickly herded the kids into The Beast that is our Dodge van and headed down the road. Deposited kids and Grandpa at the library, dispatched husband to library to pick up kids, headed to creative writing class with Bard.
As drove down the main street towards our meeting spot, an artists' co-op and gallery I turned to my daughter and voiced my frustration.
"I swear," I told Bard, "if one more person says 'I forgot' today, I'm going to start chopping off fingers."
We parked The Beast and headed towards the gallery. As we approached, I noticed our Creative Writing instructor sitting on the steps in front of the shop.
She'd forgotten her keys to the shop.
I suppose eliminating the words themselves wouldn't be good enough. I'd have to see that the entire concept of "I forgot," be eliminated.
"I forgot," is the bane of every mother's existence, the dreaded words a blow to every married woman's ego. It's the very thing that causes educators, librarians, baseball coaches, employers and friends to go completely and totally mad.
Yesterday was the epitome of forgetfulness in my household. A theme ran through my home like a river of molten lava, like a swarm of grasshoppers descending upon a field of ripening wheat.
"Did you do your chores?"
"I forgot...."
"Did you take out the trash?"
"I forgot...."
"Are you coming to the class tomorrow?"
"Oh! I forgot!"
"Where are the library books?"
"Uh...I can't remember."
"Did anyone call while I was gone?"
"I'm...not sure..."
This day of forgetfulness precedes, of course, tomorrow, a day for which I am attempting to prepare for the first of hopefully many community education classes geared towards home learners. We're working towards that very first class, a beginners' art class to be taught by amazing artist Fred Del Guidice. This class will be the culmination of years of prayer and I'm fairly certain that Satan intends to defeat it by tossing seeds of forgetfulness into some of my family members' brains. Unfortunately, those who have weeded out those ugly seedlings have to bear the weight of the work for those who haven't. And, believe me, it doesn't make us very happy.
I had just about gone out of my mind today handing out reminders to make beds, get dressed, do chores, etc. when the time rolled around to prepare to leave for Creative Writing Class, a course that Bard and I have been taking from a local writing for about four weeks now and which both of us thoroughly enjoy.
"Get ready, kids," I announced. I'd worked out a schedule with Bo two weeks before. He would take the younger kids to their science class at the library, drop Bard and I at our Creative Writing class, wait for Monet and Sweetheart at the library, then waste time at McD's until Bard and I were finished. I'd gone over the plan repeatedly. Last Tuesday, I'd reminded him several times.
"Home by six, right?"
"Right."
At 6:15 last Tuesday evening, I knew it wasn't going to happen.
This week, I reminded him again, though I thought the previous week's nasty taste was still lingering in his mouth enough that he'd not DARE forget. After a day full of "I forgot," I felt it was best to just call one more time. Just a reminder. The phone rang. No answer. Voicemail. Half an hour later, I tried again. Voicemail. Finally, at 5;15, I heard Bo's voice on the other end. I knew he'd had to have left by now to arrive home in time, since it's a one hour and fifteen minute commute. Yet I heard no road noise in the background.
"Ummm...whatcha doin'?" I asked hopefully.
"Working up an estimate," he replied.
"Where are you?" Hope was still clinging on by a fragile thread.
"Uh....where else would I be if I were working up an estimate?"
That was just the answer I did NOT want to hear. He was in the office. An hour and a half away.
"I was supposed to be home by six? Uh...I guess I forgot."
I'm surprised the telephone survived such an impact.
After the initial wailing and gnashing of teeth, I forced myself into problem-solving mode, quickly herded the kids into The Beast that is our Dodge van and headed down the road. Deposited kids and Grandpa at the library, dispatched husband to library to pick up kids, headed to creative writing class with Bard.
As drove down the main street towards our meeting spot, an artists' co-op and gallery I turned to my daughter and voiced my frustration.
"I swear," I told Bard, "if one more person says 'I forgot' today, I'm going to start chopping off fingers."
We parked The Beast and headed towards the gallery. As we approached, I noticed our Creative Writing instructor sitting on the steps in front of the shop.
She'd forgotten her keys to the shop.
Friday, March 25, 2005
A Thought for Terri Schiavo
Tonight my husband reminded me that a local woman was recently arrested because she was neglecting her parakeets. The conditions under which the parakeets were living were considered cruel and inhumane. Yet there currently roars a legal battle over the life of a human being--a human being that is currently starving to death at the hand of her government.
To Terri and her family, I offer these words:
"So do not be afraid of them. There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."
My prayers are with you tonight.
To Terri and her family, I offer these words:
"So do not be afraid of them. There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."
My prayers are with you tonight.
::: it's that ol' black magic :::
As part of my goal to do 101 specific things within 1,001 days, I investigated the possibility of my 13-year-old son, Houdin, performing magic tricks at one of the local care centers. For Houdin, magic tricks, illusions, sleight of hand, prestidigitation--these are things that give him a bit of an ego boost. They make his mind work. They get him the attention he loves so much. Because Houdin has very little fear of standing in front of a group of people he doesn't even know and asking them for money, or experimenting with a new trick, I felt that the challenge of performing for residents of a care center or nursing home would be a good thing for him. I asked him about it. He was up for it. I made the calls.
Within a week, we were preparing for Houdin's first performance at the care center. He'd been biking to the local bakery several times a week busking for bucks while showing tourists his tricks. Some days, he'd come home with over $20.00. He was no stranger to performance. This would just be a different setting.
I'll tell you this, in case you haven't been reading my blog for long. Houdin is a pseudonym taken from the name of a famous magician, Robert Houdin, the man from whom Houdini based his stage name. Houdin and I butt heads. He's stubborn. I'm stubborn. He wants to sit around all day and be a boy, burping and making fun of his siblings and farting. I want him to work hard at being a man. He doesn't know the value of a dollar. I want him to learn it. It's a bit of a battle. No. Let me rephrase that. It's a constant battle.
So you're probably wondering why I would get this child--this child who would very quickly be diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and medicated if he were in public school--involved in a project that took preparation and forethought. If you're not wondering that, I can assure you that I am.
We have appointments every two weeks on Thursdays to put on a half-hour to forty-five minute show for the residents of the care center. About a week before each event, I tell Houdin to start preparing for his upcoming show. About four days before each event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says. No promise to prepare. Mini-lecture from me. Exasperated okays from him.
About two days before the event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says, defensively. A bit of a bigger lecture from me. More greatly exasperated okays from him.
But no action.
The day of the event, I remind him that he will be leaving at a specific time to go to the care center, and I remind him to get his things together, to put together a routine, to make sure he has clean clothes and to be sure that all of his tricks work.
Fifteen minutes before the event...do I even have to write it? It's so painfully obvious what we go through.
Once we're in the car, I have to send him back into the house to change his pants or to wear the shoes that actually have toes in them or to get his magic tricks. The whole way to the care center, we're frustrated with each other and I'm nervous about his performance.
Today was no exception.
We were in even more of a rush today because of piano practice, so I made sure to remind Houdin what day it was (he often asks what day it is and doesn't seem to care from one day to the next) and what our schedule would be like. Today, in a rush, we left for the care center, but not until I had sent Houdin back into the house twice--once for a change of pants and once for a change of shoes. He has nice new dress shoes. He just seemed to think that the ones the dog had chewed to pieces were a better choice. Or maybe--and this is more likely--he just didn't think.
I did NOT want to go. I knew Houdin was unprepared. I figured he didn't have most of his tricks, and I was sure he was going to do several tricks that these residents had seen before.
We arrived at the care center to find many of the residents already assembled in the dining hall where Houdin gives his show. As he began to pull his tricks from his black and silver magic bag, it was clear that I'd been right. Several of the tricks were broken. A couple were missing pieces.
He was totally and completely unprepared.
I don't know...maybe the Lord is trying to show me something. Maybe He's trying to teach me patience or teach me that I can't be in control all the time or something. But I'm not getting it. All I'm getting is that I very much wanted to have a son that could learn, could be a gentleman, could rival any boyscout in the whole being prepared category. Instead, I have a son who can't remember how to spell his middle name. I'm totally serious.
I really hesitate in writing about this. It's a source of constant struggle for me, this relationship with this son of mine. I keep waiting for the light to go on in his head, for the whole thing to click, for the motivation to kick in, but it just...it just doesn't. And it drives me mad.
So, here we are, standing in the dining room of the care center, these dozens of expectant faces staring back at us, and Houdin's asking me which trick he should do. There really aren't that many from which to choose. He has a deck of cards, but only one table at a time can see those. He has his cups and balls trick, but one of the cups, less than three weeks old, is already broken. And he forgot the balls. He could do his trick where he blows bubbles and then catches one in mid-air and passes it around the room--a solid ball. But he doesn't have any bubbles in the bottle. He could do the color cube, but he broke the cube. He could do the stiff rope trick, but he broke the rope. In the end, he has only about five tricks he can do. Five little tricks. Dozens of expectant faces. Thirty to forty-five minutes.
I watch him struggle through a few tricks, drop a few bombs, and I see a few blank faces. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing my son fail, and I can't stand seeing the residents' confusion when a trick goes wrong.
I, being the magical mom, pull a few things out of my hat. We'll do "black magic," I decide, where I send Houdin out of the room and we, the people in the room, choose an object. When he returns, he uses his brilliant mind-reading ability to detect the object. I ask him about several objects in the room. "Is it this one?" I ask. No. "This one?" No. "This one?" Yep. The crowd oohs and aahs. They're impressed. We do it again. This time, with no words. The residents are awed. We're working together. We're making happen. It's working because we were prepared. I wish I could get this into my son's head. Just be prepared, Houdin. Then there will be no blank stares, no embarrassment. no disappointment. I tried to explain this to Houdin over lunch. He just rolled his eyes.
When my husband Bo came home, I told him the tired old story.
"It's simple," Bo said. "Don't take him anymore."
"Bo, I can't DO that."
"You can. See this?" He pointed to the dates on the white board calendar where I have the care center appointments written in dry-erase marker. With one finger, he erased the words "care center."
"Don't take him anymore," he said. "Don't talk to him about it. Don't remind him about it. Don't say a word. After a while, he'll say, 'Why don't we go to the care center anymore?' Tell him that if he wants to do it, he'll have to prepare, make the call and make the arrangements to get there. Tell him you'll drive him, but he has to make the plan."
"It won't happen," I told him. In my mind, I could see it all falling away. I could see Houdin spending his summer sitting around watching the Marx Brothers or playing with army soldiers.
But even more, I could see the residents. I see Bob, who has very little control over his arms and legs, and I see him reach out his hand to pick a card and smile when Houdin shows him that card at the end of the trick. I see Kyle, the young basketball player who was the cream of the crop, rendered quadrapalegic after a horrible car accident that caught the community's attention and propelled them into prayer. I can still see the look on Kyle's smiling face today while we played Black Magic, hear his broken, struggling words as he called my son's name and said, "You...you...did...a...seriously...good...job. I...I...I...like...this...game. I...like...this...game."
I can't let Kyle down. I can't let those residents--gathered in the dining room with ice cream dripping off of their chins, their childlike, expectant faces staring, waiting--I just can't let them down. They love to see Houdin walk through the door. Even with his broken tricks and missing pieces and slurred speech and ripped jeans and forgotten routine. They love him.
Maybe that's all that matters. Maybe that's all it takes. I don't know. Maybe he really doesn't need to be as prepared as I'd like. Maybe I should just let it go, let that willingness to show up and perform be enough. It seems to be enough for Houdin. It seems to be enough for Kyle.
Maybe it should be enough for me, too.
What do you think?
Within a week, we were preparing for Houdin's first performance at the care center. He'd been biking to the local bakery several times a week busking for bucks while showing tourists his tricks. Some days, he'd come home with over $20.00. He was no stranger to performance. This would just be a different setting.
I'll tell you this, in case you haven't been reading my blog for long. Houdin is a pseudonym taken from the name of a famous magician, Robert Houdin, the man from whom Houdini based his stage name. Houdin and I butt heads. He's stubborn. I'm stubborn. He wants to sit around all day and be a boy, burping and making fun of his siblings and farting. I want him to work hard at being a man. He doesn't know the value of a dollar. I want him to learn it. It's a bit of a battle. No. Let me rephrase that. It's a constant battle.
So you're probably wondering why I would get this child--this child who would very quickly be diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and medicated if he were in public school--involved in a project that took preparation and forethought. If you're not wondering that, I can assure you that I am.
We have appointments every two weeks on Thursdays to put on a half-hour to forty-five minute show for the residents of the care center. About a week before each event, I tell Houdin to start preparing for his upcoming show. About four days before each event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says. No promise to prepare. Mini-lecture from me. Exasperated okays from him.
About two days before the event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says, defensively. A bit of a bigger lecture from me. More greatly exasperated okays from him.
But no action.
The day of the event, I remind him that he will be leaving at a specific time to go to the care center, and I remind him to get his things together, to put together a routine, to make sure he has clean clothes and to be sure that all of his tricks work.
Fifteen minutes before the event...do I even have to write it? It's so painfully obvious what we go through.
Once we're in the car, I have to send him back into the house to change his pants or to wear the shoes that actually have toes in them or to get his magic tricks. The whole way to the care center, we're frustrated with each other and I'm nervous about his performance.
Today was no exception.
We were in even more of a rush today because of piano practice, so I made sure to remind Houdin what day it was (he often asks what day it is and doesn't seem to care from one day to the next) and what our schedule would be like. Today, in a rush, we left for the care center, but not until I had sent Houdin back into the house twice--once for a change of pants and once for a change of shoes. He has nice new dress shoes. He just seemed to think that the ones the dog had chewed to pieces were a better choice. Or maybe--and this is more likely--he just didn't think.
I did NOT want to go. I knew Houdin was unprepared. I figured he didn't have most of his tricks, and I was sure he was going to do several tricks that these residents had seen before.
We arrived at the care center to find many of the residents already assembled in the dining hall where Houdin gives his show. As he began to pull his tricks from his black and silver magic bag, it was clear that I'd been right. Several of the tricks were broken. A couple were missing pieces.
He was totally and completely unprepared.
I don't know...maybe the Lord is trying to show me something. Maybe He's trying to teach me patience or teach me that I can't be in control all the time or something. But I'm not getting it. All I'm getting is that I very much wanted to have a son that could learn, could be a gentleman, could rival any boyscout in the whole being prepared category. Instead, I have a son who can't remember how to spell his middle name. I'm totally serious.
I really hesitate in writing about this. It's a source of constant struggle for me, this relationship with this son of mine. I keep waiting for the light to go on in his head, for the whole thing to click, for the motivation to kick in, but it just...it just doesn't. And it drives me mad.
So, here we are, standing in the dining room of the care center, these dozens of expectant faces staring back at us, and Houdin's asking me which trick he should do. There really aren't that many from which to choose. He has a deck of cards, but only one table at a time can see those. He has his cups and balls trick, but one of the cups, less than three weeks old, is already broken. And he forgot the balls. He could do his trick where he blows bubbles and then catches one in mid-air and passes it around the room--a solid ball. But he doesn't have any bubbles in the bottle. He could do the color cube, but he broke the cube. He could do the stiff rope trick, but he broke the rope. In the end, he has only about five tricks he can do. Five little tricks. Dozens of expectant faces. Thirty to forty-five minutes.
I watch him struggle through a few tricks, drop a few bombs, and I see a few blank faces. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing my son fail, and I can't stand seeing the residents' confusion when a trick goes wrong.
I, being the magical mom, pull a few things out of my hat. We'll do "black magic," I decide, where I send Houdin out of the room and we, the people in the room, choose an object. When he returns, he uses his brilliant mind-reading ability to detect the object. I ask him about several objects in the room. "Is it this one?" I ask. No. "This one?" No. "This one?" Yep. The crowd oohs and aahs. They're impressed. We do it again. This time, with no words. The residents are awed. We're working together. We're making happen. It's working because we were prepared. I wish I could get this into my son's head. Just be prepared, Houdin. Then there will be no blank stares, no embarrassment. no disappointment. I tried to explain this to Houdin over lunch. He just rolled his eyes.
When my husband Bo came home, I told him the tired old story.
"It's simple," Bo said. "Don't take him anymore."
"Bo, I can't DO that."
"You can. See this?" He pointed to the dates on the white board calendar where I have the care center appointments written in dry-erase marker. With one finger, he erased the words "care center."
"Don't take him anymore," he said. "Don't talk to him about it. Don't remind him about it. Don't say a word. After a while, he'll say, 'Why don't we go to the care center anymore?' Tell him that if he wants to do it, he'll have to prepare, make the call and make the arrangements to get there. Tell him you'll drive him, but he has to make the plan."
"It won't happen," I told him. In my mind, I could see it all falling away. I could see Houdin spending his summer sitting around watching the Marx Brothers or playing with army soldiers.
But even more, I could see the residents. I see Bob, who has very little control over his arms and legs, and I see him reach out his hand to pick a card and smile when Houdin shows him that card at the end of the trick. I see Kyle, the young basketball player who was the cream of the crop, rendered quadrapalegic after a horrible car accident that caught the community's attention and propelled them into prayer. I can still see the look on Kyle's smiling face today while we played Black Magic, hear his broken, struggling words as he called my son's name and said, "You...you...did...a...seriously...good...job. I...I...I...like...this...game. I...like...this...game."
I can't let Kyle down. I can't let those residents--gathered in the dining room with ice cream dripping off of their chins, their childlike, expectant faces staring, waiting--I just can't let them down. They love to see Houdin walk through the door. Even with his broken tricks and missing pieces and slurred speech and ripped jeans and forgotten routine. They love him.
Maybe that's all that matters. Maybe that's all it takes. I don't know. Maybe he really doesn't need to be as prepared as I'd like. Maybe I should just let it go, let that willingness to show up and perform be enough. It seems to be enough for Houdin. It seems to be enough for Kyle.
Maybe it should be enough for me, too.
What do you think?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
"Where have you BEEN?"
life has been so full, that i haven't taken the time to blog. of course, i kick myself for this, because when life is full, that's when the most interesting and blog-worthy things are happening!
~Carrie from A Day in the Life of...
"Where you been? I mean, you didn't come back with a tan or anything..." ~Paraphrase of David Wilcox's Spin.
You've heard it before. Someone you love hasn't seen you for a while. Suddenly, there you are, standing face to face with each other in the grocery store near the Noxema and Sea Breeze. You exchange gasps and one of you shouts, "Oh my gosh! What are you doing here? Where have you BEEN?"
And you think about it. Hmm. Where HAVE I been? So much has been going on. But you know, you say, I just can't put my finger on any one thing right now!
So here we are, you and I, standing in the Health and Beauty aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly and you're asking me, "Where have you BEEN?"
And I'm thinking about it.
The truth is, I've been all over the place, physically AND mentally. I mean, is it just me or do essays come in floods and droughts? Like now, I've got about a gazillion topics flooding my brain and can't possibly take the time to sit down and write them all. Plus, people only read the top entry in a blog anyway. Don't lie to me to make me feel better. I know it's true. I have stats, ya know.
So I kinda try to keep it down to one blog entry a day. Kinda. On some days, I'm thinkin' that writing's a bit like manna. I should take it while it's there and don't even THINK about storing it up.
But other days, like today, I'm thinking I should take more of the boy scout tack and be prepared. Write down all those essays and thoughts that are rattling around in my head. Save 'em for a rainy day. Or a writing drought. 'Cause sure's shootin' there will come a day when I sit in front of this transistorized tormentor and the computer in my head will flash nothin' but a great big cursor. Then, if I were a good boy scout, I'd have a ready-made essay, all set to cut-n-paste into the "compose" field and we'd all be happy.
Somehow, though, I feel like that's cheating. So I just don't do it.
Meanwhile, your feet are probably getting tired, and you're getting a bit weary of standing in the Health and Beauty aisle, so I start to rattle out loud instead of just in my head.
"Well, hmmm. Where have I been? Okay. Lessee. When did I see you last? Ah! That's right! The last time we talked, I was telling you how I met with The Happy Housewife who tried to teach my how to sew, but my sewing machine wouldn't work! I kinda lost my tail wind after that, I suppose. We haven't talked much since then. Or have we talked at all? No? Wow. I can't believe how time flies.
"Okay. Huh. Lessee. Oh! I know! We went on a field trip! Did I tell you about the field trip? It's been so long, I can barely remember. I'll have to show you the pictures. We went to the NASA Glenn Research Center in...what's that? Oh, I told you about that? Sorry.
"OH YEAH! Now I remember! Here's where I've been!"
And then I list all the stuff I've been doing. Like:
"I went to this homeschool support group meeting with Blue (Pensive Wanderer) where they were having an arts and science fair. I was mortified to see that at least a half-dozen of the displays had major misspellings and misuses of apostrophes, like in 'Question's and Answer's.' Maybe I'm just hypersensitive after reading the first half of Eats, Shoots and Leaves." And then I think about that for a minute.
"Nah," I say. "I really was just mortified by that."
And then I go on. You smile politely.
"I've been working on a course on baking for Bard. It's based on a book by Lora Brody called Basic Baking. I'm just kinda cutting the book into readable chunks and giving her a notebook full of questions based on the reading material. It's really a great book. The copy I'm currently using is from the library, but I just found one on eBay for $4.00. It really does go through the basics of baking and then takes the reader through a series of baking categories, like bar cookies, quick breads and coffeecakes, cookies, cakes, pies, etc., explaining what can go wrong and how to correct the problems.
"I've also been working on applying the things I've learned in Home Comforts by Cheryl Mendelson. I can't believe how much I didn't know before I started reading this book! In addition to creating a series of weekly duties for each child in our family, I've been applying some of the principles and methods presented in Mendelson's book. It has made a big difference, though I still feel as though I spend a good portion of my day cleaning." You offer some sympathetic wisdom, and I agree.
And even though you're a good friend, by this time, you're kind of glancing longingly at the toothpaste, wishing you could just go on with your shopping and get out of the Piggly Wiggly. But, hey, you asked. Right?
"I've been doing a lot of driving, too. The Amish don't drive motor vehicles, but they don't mind paying someone else to do it for them. Did you know that? So, I've set myself for hire to earn money for my daughter's trip. Did I tell you that she's going to China in June? I didn't? Well, she is. She's going with her choir, and we have to raise about another $1,200 before she can go. She's cleaning and babysitting and I'm driving neighbors to the store, the doctor, church, where ever. It's pretty fun. I get to know my neighbors, help them out a bit, plus I get to earn money for Bard's trip. Yeah, I think so, too.
"Houdin, he's my thirteen year old...what's that? Yeah, he's thirteen already. He'll be fourteen in June. Yeah, growin' like a weed. Anyway, he and I have been butting heads like you can't believe. Today he dragged his feet doing his chores and just couldn't get his attitude straightened out, so he missed out on going on a field trip. Where'd we go? Oh. Um...it was called MAPS. Stands for Military Aviations Preservation Society. Or something like that. I think.
"Anyway, it was interesting. It fell in line with the stuff we've been learning about Neil Armstrong and other aviation-type stuff. But because of Houdin's bad attitude, he missed out. I wish I could get on the same level with that boy. Please pray for me, will you? Thanks. "
And because you're a good friend, I know you will.
"Hey, I should be letting you go. I didn't mean to keep you this long. Aw, man. I'm sorry...aw, man! Your ice cream's melting all over the floor! Here, lemme get you a new one. No? Okay. Sorry. "
And I'd still be thinking of things I'd like to tell you, because we're friends and I know you're interested, though maybe not right now. And even though my mind has started to recall all kinds of things I want to tell you, I wouldn't say any more about me. I'd just think it. I'd think about my creative writing classes and the kids' piano lessons and how I really want to make it to the music store I heard about to see if I can learn to play banjo or mandolin, and I want to tell you about the art classes I have coming up and how perturbed I am that someone cancelled out on me at the last minute and how thrilled I am that someone else just signed up. But I don't tell you about all that.
And I don't tell you about the argument I had with my husband for coming home too late to get to tonight's library program or how I think I've gained ten pounds but don't know why. I don't tell you about how I taught myself to make mitered corners on my bedsheets or how I've started airing my bedroom out every morning because Cheryl Mendelson says it kills dust mites and freshens a stale room. If I told you all that, it would be too much information.
So instead we exchange promises to get together soon, and we say it's been too long, and we musn't let it go this long again. I tell you that I have this idea for a mother-daughter book club and another idea for a homeschooler's baking class based on the lessons I'm working up for my daughter. And maybe you'd like to come? You'd probably nod politely, because that's the kind of person you are. That's why we're such good friends, even though I'm one poor correspondent. You're just so patient with me. That's why I like you.
And then I remember what a heel I truly am. "I'm so sorry," I say. "I spent so much time talking about me that I forgot to ask you how you've been doing. Maybe the next time," I say.
And there is a next time. And I look at you and gasp and say, "Oh my gosh! Where have you been?"
And you tell me...
Sunday, March 20, 2005
SparkNotes: Today's Most Popular Study Guides
I mentioned SparkNotes: Today's Most Popular Study Guides in a recent post. Looks like an interesting site.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Lucky Star
If I could write a book about business models, I would definitely include a chapter about Joey.
Joey is the owner of THE best Chinese-American restaurant in o-HI-o. I'm not kidding. The food is fresh, they cook it while you watch, and it tastes awesome. Plus, the place is clean. Those things alone (or together) are enough for me to declare it a marvelous restaurant.
But there's something about this restaurant, aside from the food and cleanliness, that makes it the best Chinese-American restaurant in o-HI-o. Possibly even in all of the U.S.
There's Joey.
We started going to Lucky Star when we lived in Akron and my husband worked near the newly-opened eatery. He came home from work one night and said, "You've gotta try this place. It's awesome." I like chinese food, sure. But it tends to be rather...questionable. I have this thing about eating bamboo shoots and water chestnuts that smack of formaldehyde. Plus, at the time, I was on a health kick that required that all grains be brown and nothing contain MSG (which is still a requirement), so I called Lucky Star and asked if I could get my meal with brown rice.
"Shuaw," came the voice on the other end. "You wan' brow' rice? I make brow' rice."
"Okay..," I continued, "what about MSG? Do you put MSG...?" Before I could finish, a voice shouted back.
"NO MSG! NEVER MSG!"
Alrighty then.
I placed my order--broccoli chicken with brown rice, moo goo gai pan for Bo and two orders of fried wontons. It was ready when we arrived. And it was, indeed, delicious. I even checked the ingredients on the soy sauce packets. No MSG.
Lucky Star thus became a regular habit in our lives. I'd call Bo at work and tell him that I was going to place an order, ask him to pick it up. Chinese food replaced our pizza nights, our sub nights, and our fried chicken nights. We talked to Joey on the occasions that his ever-growing business allowed. He talked about coming to America from China to start a restaurant while behind him worked dozens of his friends and relatives who had come along with him, apparently inspired by his enthusiasm and his work ethic. We asked him if he's glad he did it. "Yeah," he said. "Business. Is good."
About the third time we ordered, I called Lucky Start and started my schpiel. "Broccoli chicken..."
"Brow' rice, righ'?" came the voice on the other end.
"Uh...right. And I would like to order two..."
"Two ordeh fry wonto', righ'?"
"Yeah! How did you know that?"
"Ready fifteen minute. Okay? Okay."
And, sure enough, it was ready and waiting when we arrived, even though we were five minutes early. Made to order. After all, the sign outside says "Chinese Fast Food."
As things usually go with us, our chinese food fit became a little worn, so we eased back into pizza and subs on Friday nights and our trips to Lucky Star became a bit less frequent, a bit more balanced. That wasn't to say we'd fallen out of love with Lucky Star. We just ordered a bit more sporadically. Still, every time I'd walk into the restaurant to pick up my food, Joey would be there, smiling and waving, holding my order in his hand even when ten other customers were walking in behind me. The amazing thing is that it wasn't just me. He had all of the other customers' orders lined up waiting for them, too. And he didn't have to ask which order was which. He just knew.
Our Chinese food hiatus lengthened into weeks and then into a couple of months. Bo would eat there for lunch occasionally, and Joey always knew who he was just by the sound of Bo's voice on the phone. Joey'd answer the phone saying, "Lucky Stah. Moo Goo Gai Pa'? Ten minute." Bo would have enough time to say, "Yeah," or "Make it General Tso's today," and the conversation would be over. The food was in the making before the phone hit the cradle.
After our little Sweetheart was born at home, I immediately craved Lucky Star food. Sitting in the comfy nook of my bedroom, snuggled with my newborn babe in my own bed in my own home, I picked up my own phone and ordered my own first postpartum meal.
Trying to think about all of the other people in the house, like the midwife and the kids and my dad, I stumbled along with my thoughts. "Um...lemme see. Well, I know I want two orders of fried wontons..." Before I could finish, I heard Joey yell my name with a tone of recognition and surprise.
"Yes!" I said, astonished. "That's right!" I placed the rest of the order and told him that it was my very first meal after the birth of our newest baby girl. He gave us extra fortune cookies that night. He's a shrewd businessman, Joey is. He's got a great memory, but he's still a shrewd businessman.
Then we moved away. And we lost Lucky Star.
There's a Chinese place here in our town. We've tried it. It's no comparison. And besides, there's no Joey.
Sometimes we tell people about Joey. Sometimes we refer people back in Akron to Lucky Star and tell them how good the food is. But it's kinda like a movie that hit you just right--you're not sure if it'll be as well-loved by others as it is by you. Sometimes I think, "Well, maybe Joey's not really as awesome as I remember him. Maybe I'm exaggerating."
But it only takes a couple of trips through the grumpy cashier's lane at the local grocery or an unpleasant run-in with a disgruntled McTeen to realize that not everyone is a Joey.
Today I happened to find myself in Joey's presence again. He has opened up another place in a town neighboring his first shop and we met with friends for a lunch date. Joey came out of the shop and met Bo on the sidewalk, waving and shouting his name. Aformentioned friends accompanying us were surprised. "You know this guy?" Bo nodded, grinning. Sometimes you wanna go where somebody knows your name.
"Been too long!" Joey chastised us. "You move too fah!"
"You need to come down south," I joked.
Joey pointed to Sweetheart who was standing by my side. "This the baby?" He shaped his arms into a cradle, rocked back and forth and smiled at Sweetheart.
"Sure is," I told him.
He took our order, pointed us to a seat, and handed us two sets of chopsticks for Sweetheart and me. He checked on us regularly while we ate. As we were finishing up, Joey brought us each a fortune cookie and tossled Sweetheart's hair. I cracked open my cookie.
"Your enthusiasm inspires people," it said.
Business owners, you spend a lot of money trying to get into the heads of your consumers. Listen up. I'll clue you in, and I won't even charge you.
I believe that's the model of a truly successful business, enthusiasm that inspires people. I've been to some swanky places that served great food or boasted an awesome atmosphere or made killer lattes, but if there's no human connection, it's just feeding the flesh. People respond positively to to a positive attitude. Behavior breeds behavior.
"Your enthusiams inspires people."
I looked up to see this enthusiastic entrepreneur greet another incoming customer, call out his name, ask him if he'll be having Pepper Steak today, ask him why he's been gone so long. I see the young customer smile shyly. I looked back at the fortune in my hand.
I think I got Joey's cookie.
Joey is the owner of THE best Chinese-American restaurant in o-HI-o. I'm not kidding. The food is fresh, they cook it while you watch, and it tastes awesome. Plus, the place is clean. Those things alone (or together) are enough for me to declare it a marvelous restaurant.
But there's something about this restaurant, aside from the food and cleanliness, that makes it the best Chinese-American restaurant in o-HI-o. Possibly even in all of the U.S.
There's Joey.
We started going to Lucky Star when we lived in Akron and my husband worked near the newly-opened eatery. He came home from work one night and said, "You've gotta try this place. It's awesome." I like chinese food, sure. But it tends to be rather...questionable. I have this thing about eating bamboo shoots and water chestnuts that smack of formaldehyde. Plus, at the time, I was on a health kick that required that all grains be brown and nothing contain MSG (which is still a requirement), so I called Lucky Star and asked if I could get my meal with brown rice.
"Shuaw," came the voice on the other end. "You wan' brow' rice? I make brow' rice."
"Okay..," I continued, "what about MSG? Do you put MSG...?" Before I could finish, a voice shouted back.
"NO MSG! NEVER MSG!"
Alrighty then.
I placed my order--broccoli chicken with brown rice, moo goo gai pan for Bo and two orders of fried wontons. It was ready when we arrived. And it was, indeed, delicious. I even checked the ingredients on the soy sauce packets. No MSG.
Lucky Star thus became a regular habit in our lives. I'd call Bo at work and tell him that I was going to place an order, ask him to pick it up. Chinese food replaced our pizza nights, our sub nights, and our fried chicken nights. We talked to Joey on the occasions that his ever-growing business allowed. He talked about coming to America from China to start a restaurant while behind him worked dozens of his friends and relatives who had come along with him, apparently inspired by his enthusiasm and his work ethic. We asked him if he's glad he did it. "Yeah," he said. "Business. Is good."
About the third time we ordered, I called Lucky Start and started my schpiel. "Broccoli chicken..."
"Brow' rice, righ'?" came the voice on the other end.
"Uh...right. And I would like to order two..."
"Two ordeh fry wonto', righ'?"
"Yeah! How did you know that?"
"Ready fifteen minute. Okay? Okay."
And, sure enough, it was ready and waiting when we arrived, even though we were five minutes early. Made to order. After all, the sign outside says "Chinese Fast Food."
As things usually go with us, our chinese food fit became a little worn, so we eased back into pizza and subs on Friday nights and our trips to Lucky Star became a bit less frequent, a bit more balanced. That wasn't to say we'd fallen out of love with Lucky Star. We just ordered a bit more sporadically. Still, every time I'd walk into the restaurant to pick up my food, Joey would be there, smiling and waving, holding my order in his hand even when ten other customers were walking in behind me. The amazing thing is that it wasn't just me. He had all of the other customers' orders lined up waiting for them, too. And he didn't have to ask which order was which. He just knew.
Our Chinese food hiatus lengthened into weeks and then into a couple of months. Bo would eat there for lunch occasionally, and Joey always knew who he was just by the sound of Bo's voice on the phone. Joey'd answer the phone saying, "Lucky Stah. Moo Goo Gai Pa'? Ten minute." Bo would have enough time to say, "Yeah," or "Make it General Tso's today," and the conversation would be over. The food was in the making before the phone hit the cradle.
After our little Sweetheart was born at home, I immediately craved Lucky Star food. Sitting in the comfy nook of my bedroom, snuggled with my newborn babe in my own bed in my own home, I picked up my own phone and ordered my own first postpartum meal.
Trying to think about all of the other people in the house, like the midwife and the kids and my dad, I stumbled along with my thoughts. "Um...lemme see. Well, I know I want two orders of fried wontons..." Before I could finish, I heard Joey yell my name with a tone of recognition and surprise.
"Yes!" I said, astonished. "That's right!" I placed the rest of the order and told him that it was my very first meal after the birth of our newest baby girl. He gave us extra fortune cookies that night. He's a shrewd businessman, Joey is. He's got a great memory, but he's still a shrewd businessman.
Then we moved away. And we lost Lucky Star.
There's a Chinese place here in our town. We've tried it. It's no comparison. And besides, there's no Joey.
Sometimes we tell people about Joey. Sometimes we refer people back in Akron to Lucky Star and tell them how good the food is. But it's kinda like a movie that hit you just right--you're not sure if it'll be as well-loved by others as it is by you. Sometimes I think, "Well, maybe Joey's not really as awesome as I remember him. Maybe I'm exaggerating."
But it only takes a couple of trips through the grumpy cashier's lane at the local grocery or an unpleasant run-in with a disgruntled McTeen to realize that not everyone is a Joey.
Today I happened to find myself in Joey's presence again. He has opened up another place in a town neighboring his first shop and we met with friends for a lunch date. Joey came out of the shop and met Bo on the sidewalk, waving and shouting his name. Aformentioned friends accompanying us were surprised. "You know this guy?" Bo nodded, grinning. Sometimes you wanna go where somebody knows your name.
"Been too long!" Joey chastised us. "You move too fah!"
"You need to come down south," I joked.
Joey pointed to Sweetheart who was standing by my side. "This the baby?" He shaped his arms into a cradle, rocked back and forth and smiled at Sweetheart.
"Sure is," I told him.
He took our order, pointed us to a seat, and handed us two sets of chopsticks for Sweetheart and me. He checked on us regularly while we ate. As we were finishing up, Joey brought us each a fortune cookie and tossled Sweetheart's hair. I cracked open my cookie.
"Your enthusiasm inspires people," it said.
Business owners, you spend a lot of money trying to get into the heads of your consumers. Listen up. I'll clue you in, and I won't even charge you.
I believe that's the model of a truly successful business, enthusiasm that inspires people. I've been to some swanky places that served great food or boasted an awesome atmosphere or made killer lattes, but if there's no human connection, it's just feeding the flesh. People respond positively to to a positive attitude. Behavior breeds behavior.
"Your enthusiams inspires people."
I looked up to see this enthusiastic entrepreneur greet another incoming customer, call out his name, ask him if he'll be having Pepper Steak today, ask him why he's been gone so long. I see the young customer smile shyly. I looked back at the fortune in my hand.
I think I got Joey's cookie.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Getting There
Yawn.
Because I have very little energy, I'm just gonna say these few things, and then I'm off to bed:
Bard, Houdin and Monet started piano lessons yesterday. The lessons were great. The piano teacher was very down-to-earth, friendly and helped each child adapt to his/her individual level and interest. She told us that it was wonderful to "be able to teach such a musical family," and that the children knew enough about reading music that it was like "starting in third grade instead of kindergarten." That was very encouraging.
Getting out of the house to GET to the piano lessons was NOT so encouraging. For some reason, my sons seem to think, "Time to go" means, "Wait until you're in the car to remember that you have no underwear on, that you can't find the music you wanted to learn, and that you're wearing the shoes the dog devoured." This is even with three hour, two hour, one hour, half-hour, fifteen minute and five minute reminders.
Sigh.
They may never be able to leave the house without embarrassment, but at least they're musical.
Because I have very little energy, I'm just gonna say these few things, and then I'm off to bed:
Bard, Houdin and Monet started piano lessons yesterday. The lessons were great. The piano teacher was very down-to-earth, friendly and helped each child adapt to his/her individual level and interest. She told us that it was wonderful to "be able to teach such a musical family," and that the children knew enough about reading music that it was like "starting in third grade instead of kindergarten." That was very encouraging.
Getting out of the house to GET to the piano lessons was NOT so encouraging. For some reason, my sons seem to think, "Time to go" means, "Wait until you're in the car to remember that you have no underwear on, that you can't find the music you wanted to learn, and that you're wearing the shoes the dog devoured." This is even with three hour, two hour, one hour, half-hour, fifteen minute and five minute reminders.
Sigh.
They may never be able to leave the house without embarrassment, but at least they're musical.
Visitors
I am totally and completely pooped and exhausted, but I would be a very bad person and extremely remiss if I did not post that I had a special visitor to my home today.
I was thrilled to meet The Happy Housewife in real life today, and it's true, she's very happy. What a sweetheart she is. She was kind, generous and, indeed-- I'll say it again--happy.
S, I have to apologize for my appalling manners. I didn't put the dogs away (which resulted in a few muddy paws on S's skirt!), didn't offer you a drink when you arrived, forgot to offer you a piece of pie after lunch, forgot to take you to the dry goods store, and didn't take the IBC bottles to your car (but I am saving them for you). Atrocious!
I have to say that I have been in a fog all day, just kind of floating along. I wasn't a very good conversationalist and have been dragging my feet ever since you left. I don't like to place blame, but Aunt Flo decided to visit today, too. I think it's all her fault. Mostly. Plus, I stayed up WAY too late last night having a girly time with Bard, eating junk food and watching Runaway Bride (which Bo declared as thick sentimentalism with a side of eye candy).
So, I hope you'll forgive me, Happy Housewife. I was so looking forward to your visit, and I very much enjoyed having you here with us. Your little Peanut is a beauty, so pleasant and content.
I was thrilled to meet The Happy Housewife in real life today, and it's true, she's very happy. What a sweetheart she is. She was kind, generous and, indeed-- I'll say it again--happy.
S, I have to apologize for my appalling manners. I didn't put the dogs away (which resulted in a few muddy paws on S's skirt!), didn't offer you a drink when you arrived, forgot to offer you a piece of pie after lunch, forgot to take you to the dry goods store, and didn't take the IBC bottles to your car (but I am saving them for you). Atrocious!
I have to say that I have been in a fog all day, just kind of floating along. I wasn't a very good conversationalist and have been dragging my feet ever since you left. I don't like to place blame, but Aunt Flo decided to visit today, too. I think it's all her fault. Mostly. Plus, I stayed up WAY too late last night having a girly time with Bard, eating junk food and watching Runaway Bride (which Bo declared as thick sentimentalism with a side of eye candy).
So, I hope you'll forgive me, Happy Housewife. I was so looking forward to your visit, and I very much enjoyed having you here with us. Your little Peanut is a beauty, so pleasant and content.
I'll take my sewing machine in for a tune up, and then we can try again. If you can stand any more abuse. :-)
Signing off...
The Dud. ;-)
Favorite Childhood Movies
My daughter asked this question at her blog:
What were the most memorable movies of your childhood?
Mine were:
Escape to Witch Mountain
Little Princess with Shirley Temple
The Other Side of the Mountain
Star Wars, of course
Pete's Dragon
Somewhere in Time
Charlotte's Web
I was really into magical movies and love stories. I could especially relate to kids who were misfits. Hmmmm....
What are the most memorable movies from your childhood?
What were the most memorable movies of your childhood?
Mine were:
Escape to Witch Mountain
Little Princess with Shirley Temple
The Other Side of the Mountain
Star Wars, of course
Pete's Dragon
Somewhere in Time
Charlotte's Web
I was really into magical movies and love stories. I could especially relate to kids who were misfits. Hmmmm....
What are the most memorable movies from your childhood?
Monday, March 14, 2005
Creative Spurts
Do you ever feel like you go through waves of creativity? I don't know, maybe it's the approaching Spring, but I just feel so full of creative energy that I could just about burst.
Tomorrow, the three older children start piano lessons. Then Bard, the fifteen year old daughter, and I have our creative writing class, for which I still haven't completed (nor started) my assignment.
Yesterday, we attended a jam session where a bunch of talented people joined to play old-timey fiddle tunes and other good stuff. I felt so good being there, just tappin' my toes and singing harmonies. It filled me with such a happy energy. I don't know why my family doesn't see this and get me to these things all the time to help avoid those ugly crying jags.
The jam session was hosted by a homeschooling family where the father and his four sons all play instruments. I actually attended and photographed the birth of the youngest son about seven years ago. I wrote about catching up with the Stockdale family here. It was inspiring to see such a talented family enjoy each other's company and perform together with such energy. The youngest boy even played the bucket bass, which was an overturned five-gallon bucket with a piece of twine attached to a long stick.
Attending events like the jam session help me focus on what I most enjoy. Yes, sometimes I get jealous. I think, "Man, my husband's a musician. Why didn't he teach my kids to play instruments?" But then I realize that my love of music should be enough of a motivation to get my kids--and myself--involved in music whether my husband has the time to teach them or not.
Tomorrow, before the piano lessons, we're going to make a stop at a music store that gives lessons on dobro, guitar and mandolin and we'll see if any of the kids are interested in pursuing. Houdin owns a fiddle, but his fiddle teacher went away to college before he could get much under his belt. I hope to ask about local fiddle instructors, too. As for me, I'd really love to learn to play the dulcimer. A local historical village, Roscoe Village, has an event called Dulcimer Days in May. Hopefully I can glean some information while we're there. Learning to play the hammered dulcimer is on my 101 list.
And then there are the art lessons. I'm all at once looking forward to and worrying about them.
Well, it's off to finish reading Mandy. After that, we start a new book, which I will discuss tomorrow.
Here's to creativity!
Tomorrow, the three older children start piano lessons. Then Bard, the fifteen year old daughter, and I have our creative writing class, for which I still haven't completed (nor started) my assignment.
Yesterday, we attended a jam session where a bunch of talented people joined to play old-timey fiddle tunes and other good stuff. I felt so good being there, just tappin' my toes and singing harmonies. It filled me with such a happy energy. I don't know why my family doesn't see this and get me to these things all the time to help avoid those ugly crying jags.
The jam session was hosted by a homeschooling family where the father and his four sons all play instruments. I actually attended and photographed the birth of the youngest son about seven years ago. I wrote about catching up with the Stockdale family here. It was inspiring to see such a talented family enjoy each other's company and perform together with such energy. The youngest boy even played the bucket bass, which was an overturned five-gallon bucket with a piece of twine attached to a long stick.
Attending events like the jam session help me focus on what I most enjoy. Yes, sometimes I get jealous. I think, "Man, my husband's a musician. Why didn't he teach my kids to play instruments?" But then I realize that my love of music should be enough of a motivation to get my kids--and myself--involved in music whether my husband has the time to teach them or not.
Tomorrow, before the piano lessons, we're going to make a stop at a music store that gives lessons on dobro, guitar and mandolin and we'll see if any of the kids are interested in pursuing. Houdin owns a fiddle, but his fiddle teacher went away to college before he could get much under his belt. I hope to ask about local fiddle instructors, too. As for me, I'd really love to learn to play the dulcimer. A local historical village, Roscoe Village, has an event called Dulcimer Days in May. Hopefully I can glean some information while we're there. Learning to play the hammered dulcimer is on my 101 list.
And then there are the art lessons. I'm all at once looking forward to and worrying about them.
Well, it's off to finish reading Mandy. After that, we start a new book, which I will discuss tomorrow.
Here's to creativity!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
From the Mind of a Man
I cried this morning.
I don't know why, really. I just felt very sad.
It's not that I didn't have reasons for my tears. It's just that none of them seem especially tear-worthy to me. Mostly, I think I was crying because I feel so out of place. I don't belong. I'm a stranger in a strange land--a sojourner.
And I guess I feel underappreciated, too.
But the point is that I cried.
It was one of those heartbreakingly quiet cries. Not the sobbing, stuff-a-pillow-in-your-mouth-so-nobody-hears-you kind of cries. Rather, it was the kind where sadness just wells up, rises in your throat, leaks out of your lower eyelids, overflows onto your cheeks and drips onto your lips.
I was crying like this, sitting in front of my computer, when Bo walked in.
"Do you want to be alone?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to cry on my shoulder?"
Yes. That was it. That's what I needed. I nodded. And then I put my head on his shoulder and cried.
And then I felt better.
We talked for a little bit, not about any one thing in particular, but about feelings in general. And then the day went on. I did some straightening and tidying around the house, a bit of blogging, a bit of reading, a lot of nursing the baby. I did some laughing, some singing, some thinking and some discussing. But no more crying. I really did feel better.
On our way home from a quick shopping trip, Bo asked me, "So, are you feeling better now?"
"Yeah," I said. "Actually, I am."
And then I told him about a study I once read that found that we women actually shed progesterone in our tears. This helps to get our bodies in sync again, helps us to regain balance.
He thought about this for a moment and then said, "So if I lick the tears off your face, I'll grow breasts?"
Now I think I remember why I was crying...
I don't know why, really. I just felt very sad.
It's not that I didn't have reasons for my tears. It's just that none of them seem especially tear-worthy to me. Mostly, I think I was crying because I feel so out of place. I don't belong. I'm a stranger in a strange land--a sojourner.
And I guess I feel underappreciated, too.
But the point is that I cried.
It was one of those heartbreakingly quiet cries. Not the sobbing, stuff-a-pillow-in-your-mouth-so-nobody-hears-you kind of cries. Rather, it was the kind where sadness just wells up, rises in your throat, leaks out of your lower eyelids, overflows onto your cheeks and drips onto your lips.
I was crying like this, sitting in front of my computer, when Bo walked in.
"Do you want to be alone?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to cry on my shoulder?"
Yes. That was it. That's what I needed. I nodded. And then I put my head on his shoulder and cried.
And then I felt better.
We talked for a little bit, not about any one thing in particular, but about feelings in general. And then the day went on. I did some straightening and tidying around the house, a bit of blogging, a bit of reading, a lot of nursing the baby. I did some laughing, some singing, some thinking and some discussing. But no more crying. I really did feel better.
On our way home from a quick shopping trip, Bo asked me, "So, are you feeling better now?"
"Yeah," I said. "Actually, I am."
And then I told him about a study I once read that found that we women actually shed progesterone in our tears. This helps to get our bodies in sync again, helps us to regain balance.
He thought about this for a moment and then said, "So if I lick the tears off your face, I'll grow breasts?"
Now I think I remember why I was crying...
The Lost Questions
Where is it? I know it's here somewhere. Doggone it. Ah! Yes! I found it!
Last month, I asked readers to recommend a movie, a book and a musician. I also said to ask me any three questions and I would answer them on my blog. Pensive Wanderer, I have not forgotten you. I think about your questions often. I just haven't really known how to, um...well...
Okay, darn it. I just didn't take the time to answer them.
But I'll answer them now.
Other than that, no. I guess I've never really been the violent type.
That's not to say I haven't WANTED to. There have been several times that I've been so angry or frustrated with someone that I wanted to whap 'em one. But I never have. Does that get me extra jewels in my crown?
Now here's the real question. Have YOU???
Last month, I asked readers to recommend a movie, a book and a musician. I also said to ask me any three questions and I would answer them on my blog. Pensive Wanderer, I have not forgotten you. I think about your questions often. I just haven't really known how to, um...well...
Okay, darn it. I just didn't take the time to answer them.
But I'll answer them now.
Did you expect to end up where you are when you were younger?Did I expect it? No. Did I hope for it? Yes. I think the only things I really, really wanted that are different than what I have now are that I hoped to travel more, have more money and be a writer by profession. Actually, I also hoped that my husband would have a career in music or that we would both have a career together that involved our whole family. But I guess you can't have it all. Or you can, but you wouldn't be able to afford it.
Have you ever or ever wanted to punch someone in the face and if so, why did you or didn't you do it?Never punched anyone in the face. But I did kick an ex-boyfriend in the stomach. I found him curled up asleep next to a disgustingly cute girly on MY living room floor. Ick. Sent 'em both walkin'.
Other than that, no. I guess I've never really been the violent type.
That's not to say I haven't WANTED to. There have been several times that I've been so angry or frustrated with someone that I wanted to whap 'em one. But I never have. Does that get me extra jewels in my crown?
Now here's the real question. Have YOU???
Saturday, March 12, 2005
The Big Boring Middle: An Interview Continued
In the big boring middle of the long book of life,
After the truth has been told
If you don't die in glory by the age of Christ,
Then your story is just getting old.
~Glory
by David Wilcox
And now, the continuing interview...
Last week, Dogwood Blue chose to interview me because she thought I was such an amazing and important figure in Mommy Blogging. I'm honored that she chose so well.
Okay, she's interviewing me because I asked her to. Still...
Anyway, she asked me five questions. I answered the first two, and I've been pondering number three all day. It's been easy to ponder.
Her question:
"What are one or some of the most difficult trials you have overcomethus far? "
I've overcome--or should I say, I've experienced--a lot of trials. I'm not sure how they rate on the global difficulty scale, because I've never been involved in a natural disaster, been a victim of a violent crime or lived in complete poverty. But I have had my car repossessed, my telephone shut off due to non-payment and racked up quite a few overdraft charges in my day. I grew up in an adoptive home with two very dysfunctional parents, endured regular ridicule and rage, battled both sides during my parents' divorce and lost my mother several times, the final time when I discovered that she had passed away months prior without my being informed.
I've overcome heartbreak many times and I've seen the deaths--or at least the postponement--of many dreams. I've overcome teenaged pregnancy, the mortality of loved ones, horrible neighbors, backstabbing friends, a nagging father (strike that...I'm still trying to learn how to deal with that one), inhabiting a small cabin with no electric or indoor toilet, living on next to nothing, a child diagnosed with a chronic disease, and the fear of dying from a terminal illness.
These, to me, were all difficult trials. But now I'm experiencing what I think is one of the biggest trials I've ever experienced.
The Big Boring Middle.
I'll be 36 next month. We're relatively stable financially. We and all of our children are healthy--even Sweetheart, who was diagnosed at the age of three with Pauciarticular Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. We have a new home in the middle of the beautiful, rolling hills of Amish country. We have four dogs, a goat, three guinea pigs, a few fish, two parakeets, three finches, an indoor cat and half a dozen outdoor cats. We have good neighbors, a steady job, a strong marriage and food in the fridge. I really, really hesitate to say this...but it's almost boring.
For so many of my younger years, there was this force that drove me. It was called The Future. You might even call it Hope. I had very big hopes for the years to come, and those hopes motivated me, lit a fire under my tail. I wanted to be a successful, published writer. I wanted my husband to be the next Michael Card. I wanted to have children who were well-adjusted geniuses. I wanted a big house in the country, lots of kids, lots of animals, a steady job for my husband, a quiet neighborhood.
And now. Well, now I have those things. Okay. Not the successful published writer, Michael Card husband and well-adjusted geniuses (they're all geniuses--just not well-adjusted geniuses). Two cars in the garage and a jacuzzi in my bedroom. Life has never been so good.
But I feel very sad now.
While I'm still busy trying to make things "better," they really are about as good as they can get. There's very little left to work for. And I cry almost daily.
Isn't that crazy?
The biggest challenge of all of this is that I always pictured my dream home bustling with people, a kind of L'Abri filled with music, art and conversation. But now I find myself thrust into a community where everyone seems to be happily plugged into a place of worship or a homeschool group or a 4-H club.
I have listened to naysayers who have informed me that opening my home to others was self-centered and cheeky, perfectionistic and Martha-Stewart-like, and even a degradation to the quiet, old-fashioned neighborhood.
And besides, I live in the midst of the Amish who regularly participate in social activities create by and for their church members: volleyball games, tea parties, coffee klatches, weddings, funerals, cleaning dervishes, family gatherings, every-other-week in-home church meetings, and oodles and oodles of benefit dinners or auctions. They are social whirlwinds who have no need for additional gatherings. It's built into their culture.
While on this subject, I can quickly answer one of Dogwood Blue's other questions, that of a home church:
"How did God lead you to be a part of the particular church you attend?"
The answer?
I don't attend.
And now, for a muddy detour.
We were members of a church for many years, the same church my husband and his parents had been a part of for many years before we married, and it became toxic. The attitude towards children there did not fall in line with my philosophies and beliefs. There were very few families with young children in our church, and no homeschooling families--our homeschooling was quietly tolerated. My gifts of hospitality, creativity and teaching were belittled, Bo's gift of music was unappreciated and heavily criticized, and we soon found that we weren't the only ones who were feeling that their faith was being poisoned. The church experienced a large split and we went along with the crowd. Unfortunately, THAT group experienced a split, and we became disillusioned with fellowship altogether.
We tried houses of worship as often as we searched for a physical home, but there was never one where we felt that we could belong. My faith is very important to me, and so many of the churches we attended trivialized that faith, made it into a cause for social gathering, yet only social as far as it was convenient or comfortable for everyone involved. No depth.
The last church we visited was one that we attended for several months. We tried to be very actively involved, attending family functions, home groups, youth functions and Sunday services. But people there, too, seemed to stay inside their own protective shells. Nary a person ventured forth in talking to us, and even in my openness to get to know others, busy-ness seemed more the theme than depth. The final cut came when our home group broke for the summer. Come fall, we waited for a phone call from our home group leaders who were to let us know when and where the meetings would be held. No call. July led into August with still no call. Near the middle of July, we were at a town function where we sat behind a group of people that I recognized from our home group. I overheard them talking about the group, discussing the meeting of the week prior. The group had already begun to meet several weeks before and we were never notified. After months of attendance and outreach, we hadn't made a single real friend. We quit going to that church.
Several months later, I received a phone call from our home group leader.
"I was wondering if you have time to get together with my wife and I tomorrow night." He sounded upbeat and positive. Since my husband had known this man since college, I thought that maybe he had realized his error of omission and was calling to get us involved again.
"Let me check my schedule," I said. "Yeah, we have it open. What did you have in mind?"
"Well," he answered, "my wife and I have this great opportunity we'd like to share with you..."
Regardless of how many times I insisted that we were not interested in a multi-level marketing campaign, this man and his wife continued to call us about this every day. I finally had to ask them, politely but firmly, not to call again.
That same week, I received a letter in the mail from another of our home group members with whom I hadn't spoken in several months. It was a solicitation to buy makeup products from her. These letters have trickled in steadily. But not one of our former fellow church members has mentioned our disappearance from the church.
Since then, we've tried a couple of other churches, but they have all left a bad taste in my mouth. I crave a Christian home, but I just don't have the energy for that kind of rejection again. I long for that social interaction with other Christians, but I just can't handle the judgement, the control issues, the insincerity, and the controversy that comes with attending a church. It's an area of my life that I just wish would fall into place, but it never has.
Okay, we're back on the main road now. Whew. That was pretty bumpy, wasn't it?
And so I feel that I have no real social network, Christian or otherwise, with whom I can share my visions, goals and dreams. I am, I suppose, an outsider. Too Christian for some, too liberal for others, and not established anywhere.
That's why this upcoming art class means so much to me. It feels like the beginning of a goal being fulfilled. I've had several setbacks even in this venture and have felt a bit squelched by certain individuals who doubt that there's a need for such a class, but I will continue on. I will fight against this sadness and depression that threatens to defuse my dreams.
And I guess that brings me to Dogwood Blue's final question:
"What do you look forward to most in the future?"
Opening my home to those who really need it. Maybe even adopting. Filling my house with music and laughter. Seeing my children grow and change, fall in love, move away, and bring me more children that I can watch grow and change. Falling in love with my husband all over again. Discovering more about my gifts and talents. Learning more about how the Lord wants to use me, my life, my desires. Climbing out of this dark hole that's currently threatening to swallow all of my joy.
I've overcome a lot. I know there is hope for the future.
After you've passed thirty-two
If you don't die in glory at the age of Christ,
Then your story is still coming true.
~Glory
by David Wilcox
After the truth has been told
If you don't die in glory by the age of Christ,
Then your story is just getting old.
~Glory
by David Wilcox
And now, the continuing interview...
Last week, Dogwood Blue chose to interview me because she thought I was such an amazing and important figure in Mommy Blogging. I'm honored that she chose so well.
Okay, she's interviewing me because I asked her to. Still...
Anyway, she asked me five questions. I answered the first two, and I've been pondering number three all day. It's been easy to ponder.
Her question:
"What are one or some of the most difficult trials you have overcomethus far? "
I've overcome--or should I say, I've experienced--a lot of trials. I'm not sure how they rate on the global difficulty scale, because I've never been involved in a natural disaster, been a victim of a violent crime or lived in complete poverty. But I have had my car repossessed, my telephone shut off due to non-payment and racked up quite a few overdraft charges in my day. I grew up in an adoptive home with two very dysfunctional parents, endured regular ridicule and rage, battled both sides during my parents' divorce and lost my mother several times, the final time when I discovered that she had passed away months prior without my being informed.
I've overcome heartbreak many times and I've seen the deaths--or at least the postponement--of many dreams. I've overcome teenaged pregnancy, the mortality of loved ones, horrible neighbors, backstabbing friends, a nagging father (strike that...I'm still trying to learn how to deal with that one), inhabiting a small cabin with no electric or indoor toilet, living on next to nothing, a child diagnosed with a chronic disease, and the fear of dying from a terminal illness.
These, to me, were all difficult trials. But now I'm experiencing what I think is one of the biggest trials I've ever experienced.
The Big Boring Middle.
I'll be 36 next month. We're relatively stable financially. We and all of our children are healthy--even Sweetheart, who was diagnosed at the age of three with Pauciarticular Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. We have a new home in the middle of the beautiful, rolling hills of Amish country. We have four dogs, a goat, three guinea pigs, a few fish, two parakeets, three finches, an indoor cat and half a dozen outdoor cats. We have good neighbors, a steady job, a strong marriage and food in the fridge. I really, really hesitate to say this...but it's almost boring.
For so many of my younger years, there was this force that drove me. It was called The Future. You might even call it Hope. I had very big hopes for the years to come, and those hopes motivated me, lit a fire under my tail. I wanted to be a successful, published writer. I wanted my husband to be the next Michael Card. I wanted to have children who were well-adjusted geniuses. I wanted a big house in the country, lots of kids, lots of animals, a steady job for my husband, a quiet neighborhood.
And now. Well, now I have those things. Okay. Not the successful published writer, Michael Card husband and well-adjusted geniuses (they're all geniuses--just not well-adjusted geniuses). Two cars in the garage and a jacuzzi in my bedroom. Life has never been so good.
But I feel very sad now.
While I'm still busy trying to make things "better," they really are about as good as they can get. There's very little left to work for. And I cry almost daily.
Isn't that crazy?
The biggest challenge of all of this is that I always pictured my dream home bustling with people, a kind of L'Abri filled with music, art and conversation. But now I find myself thrust into a community where everyone seems to be happily plugged into a place of worship or a homeschool group or a 4-H club.
I have listened to naysayers who have informed me that opening my home to others was self-centered and cheeky, perfectionistic and Martha-Stewart-like, and even a degradation to the quiet, old-fashioned neighborhood.
And besides, I live in the midst of the Amish who regularly participate in social activities create by and for their church members: volleyball games, tea parties, coffee klatches, weddings, funerals, cleaning dervishes, family gatherings, every-other-week in-home church meetings, and oodles and oodles of benefit dinners or auctions. They are social whirlwinds who have no need for additional gatherings. It's built into their culture.
While on this subject, I can quickly answer one of Dogwood Blue's other questions, that of a home church:
"How did God lead you to be a part of the particular church you attend?"
The answer?
I don't attend.
And now, for a muddy detour.
We were members of a church for many years, the same church my husband and his parents had been a part of for many years before we married, and it became toxic. The attitude towards children there did not fall in line with my philosophies and beliefs. There were very few families with young children in our church, and no homeschooling families--our homeschooling was quietly tolerated. My gifts of hospitality, creativity and teaching were belittled, Bo's gift of music was unappreciated and heavily criticized, and we soon found that we weren't the only ones who were feeling that their faith was being poisoned. The church experienced a large split and we went along with the crowd. Unfortunately, THAT group experienced a split, and we became disillusioned with fellowship altogether.
We tried houses of worship as often as we searched for a physical home, but there was never one where we felt that we could belong. My faith is very important to me, and so many of the churches we attended trivialized that faith, made it into a cause for social gathering, yet only social as far as it was convenient or comfortable for everyone involved. No depth.
The last church we visited was one that we attended for several months. We tried to be very actively involved, attending family functions, home groups, youth functions and Sunday services. But people there, too, seemed to stay inside their own protective shells. Nary a person ventured forth in talking to us, and even in my openness to get to know others, busy-ness seemed more the theme than depth. The final cut came when our home group broke for the summer. Come fall, we waited for a phone call from our home group leaders who were to let us know when and where the meetings would be held. No call. July led into August with still no call. Near the middle of July, we were at a town function where we sat behind a group of people that I recognized from our home group. I overheard them talking about the group, discussing the meeting of the week prior. The group had already begun to meet several weeks before and we were never notified. After months of attendance and outreach, we hadn't made a single real friend. We quit going to that church.
Several months later, I received a phone call from our home group leader.
"I was wondering if you have time to get together with my wife and I tomorrow night." He sounded upbeat and positive. Since my husband had known this man since college, I thought that maybe he had realized his error of omission and was calling to get us involved again.
"Let me check my schedule," I said. "Yeah, we have it open. What did you have in mind?"
"Well," he answered, "my wife and I have this great opportunity we'd like to share with you..."
Regardless of how many times I insisted that we were not interested in a multi-level marketing campaign, this man and his wife continued to call us about this every day. I finally had to ask them, politely but firmly, not to call again.
That same week, I received a letter in the mail from another of our home group members with whom I hadn't spoken in several months. It was a solicitation to buy makeup products from her. These letters have trickled in steadily. But not one of our former fellow church members has mentioned our disappearance from the church.
Since then, we've tried a couple of other churches, but they have all left a bad taste in my mouth. I crave a Christian home, but I just don't have the energy for that kind of rejection again. I long for that social interaction with other Christians, but I just can't handle the judgement, the control issues, the insincerity, and the controversy that comes with attending a church. It's an area of my life that I just wish would fall into place, but it never has.
Okay, we're back on the main road now. Whew. That was pretty bumpy, wasn't it?
And so I feel that I have no real social network, Christian or otherwise, with whom I can share my visions, goals and dreams. I am, I suppose, an outsider. Too Christian for some, too liberal for others, and not established anywhere.
That's why this upcoming art class means so much to me. It feels like the beginning of a goal being fulfilled. I've had several setbacks even in this venture and have felt a bit squelched by certain individuals who doubt that there's a need for such a class, but I will continue on. I will fight against this sadness and depression that threatens to defuse my dreams.
And I guess that brings me to Dogwood Blue's final question:
"What do you look forward to most in the future?"
Opening my home to those who really need it. Maybe even adopting. Filling my house with music and laughter. Seeing my children grow and change, fall in love, move away, and bring me more children that I can watch grow and change. Falling in love with my husband all over again. Discovering more about my gifts and talents. Learning more about how the Lord wants to use me, my life, my desires. Climbing out of this dark hole that's currently threatening to swallow all of my joy.
I've overcome a lot. I know there is hope for the future.
In the big boring middle of the long book of life,There is surely a future hope for you, and your hope will not be cut off.
~Proverbs 23:18 (New International Version)That's where your future lies.
Then you won't be left with an armload of nothing.
Proverbs 23:18 (The Message)
After you've passed thirty-two
If you don't die in glory at the age of Christ,
Then your story is still coming true.
~Glory
by David Wilcox
An Empty Calendar Day
When I look at my calendar, I can see that I'm pretty ruled by its contents. The scrawlings on that little patch of paper practically dictates my life.
Upcoming stuff I'm excited about:
~Kids start piano lessons on Tuesday. This is cool.
~We will be hosting an art class in our home with artist Fred Del Guidice on March 30th. This is very cool, but I'm not getting the response I'd hope to get. So far, I have eight students, and I was hoping for fifteen. I'm at once excited and concerned about this class. I so very much want it to work out.
~My creative writing class on Tuesday.
~A visit from Little Sis and my new niece and my mother-in-law.
~Spring: I can't wait to plant my kitchen garden.
Upcoming stuff I'm a bit worried about:
~Well, the art class. I hope I can get a few more people to join.
~Soccer. The boys both want to play. That's fifty bucks I don't have, plus the extra time in the schedule, plus I don't know if it will conflict with baseball, plus I was supposed to send the registration Thursday and I didn't. But they both want to play very badly, and Monet really needs the active play.
~Houdin's concert tomorrow.
~Spring: Will I be able to afford to plant my kitchen garden?
~Income Taxes.
~Real estate taxes.
~Bard's China Trip money.
Upcoming stuff I'm dreading:
~Cleaning Sweetheart's room. I started it last week, and it's still unfinished. I've gone through this room many times. I've left it cleaned and organized, but Sweetheart is a "fill-my-needs-and-go" kinda girl. If she wants to change clothes, she'll drop the dirty ones right off of her body right where she stands. If she wants food, she'll leave a wake of dirty dishes, milk jug without a cap, bread crumbs, sticky jelly and spoons caked with peanut butter. She even leaves the toilet unflushed. So finishing this room is something I don't want to do. It's a shame, because it was once my favorite room in the house...
~Cleaning the basement laundry room and fruit cellar. There will be a lot of decisions to make about what to get rid of and what to keep in these rooms. Ick.
~Cleaning the computer room.
Do you notice a pattern here?
**********************
Today, I'm in a funk. I've been cleaning and maintaining order pretty steadily for the past week. You know what's on my calendar today? Nothing. That hasn't happened in weeks. You know what that means?
A. The phone will ring in ten minutes and someone will need something, and I won't say no.
B. Some major tragedy will strike and my weekend will be eaten away.
C. I forgot to write something on the calendar.
But as it stands right now, this day on my calendar is empty. I'm ready for a party. Let's order subs, play games and watch movies all day. That's my plan.
I hope I'm not slipping back into procrastination mode. I prefer to think of it as a break. A nice, well-deserved break.
Right?
Oh, I have an idea! I'll write this break on my calendar! Then it will, like, a PLANNED break! And then I can fully appreciate it without feeling guilty! And then it won't be procrastination at all! And when someone calls to say, "Hey, are you busy today?" I can look on my calendar and say, "Hmm. Let me see. Yep. Sorry. I've got something on my calendar today."
I've gotta go. The phone's ringing.
"Hello? Ummm...just a sec. Let me check my calendar..."
Upcoming stuff I'm excited about:
~Kids start piano lessons on Tuesday. This is cool.
~We will be hosting an art class in our home with artist Fred Del Guidice on March 30th. This is very cool, but I'm not getting the response I'd hope to get. So far, I have eight students, and I was hoping for fifteen. I'm at once excited and concerned about this class. I so very much want it to work out.
~My creative writing class on Tuesday.
~A visit from Little Sis and my new niece and my mother-in-law.
~Spring: I can't wait to plant my kitchen garden.
Upcoming stuff I'm a bit worried about:
~Well, the art class. I hope I can get a few more people to join.
~Soccer. The boys both want to play. That's fifty bucks I don't have, plus the extra time in the schedule, plus I don't know if it will conflict with baseball, plus I was supposed to send the registration Thursday and I didn't. But they both want to play very badly, and Monet really needs the active play.
~Houdin's concert tomorrow.
~Spring: Will I be able to afford to plant my kitchen garden?
~Income Taxes.
~Real estate taxes.
~Bard's China Trip money.
Upcoming stuff I'm dreading:
~Cleaning Sweetheart's room. I started it last week, and it's still unfinished. I've gone through this room many times. I've left it cleaned and organized, but Sweetheart is a "fill-my-needs-and-go" kinda girl. If she wants to change clothes, she'll drop the dirty ones right off of her body right where she stands. If she wants food, she'll leave a wake of dirty dishes, milk jug without a cap, bread crumbs, sticky jelly and spoons caked with peanut butter. She even leaves the toilet unflushed. So finishing this room is something I don't want to do. It's a shame, because it was once my favorite room in the house...
~Cleaning the basement laundry room and fruit cellar. There will be a lot of decisions to make about what to get rid of and what to keep in these rooms. Ick.
~Cleaning the computer room.
Do you notice a pattern here?
**********************
Today, I'm in a funk. I've been cleaning and maintaining order pretty steadily for the past week. You know what's on my calendar today? Nothing. That hasn't happened in weeks. You know what that means?
A. The phone will ring in ten minutes and someone will need something, and I won't say no.
B. Some major tragedy will strike and my weekend will be eaten away.
C. I forgot to write something on the calendar.
But as it stands right now, this day on my calendar is empty. I'm ready for a party. Let's order subs, play games and watch movies all day. That's my plan.
I hope I'm not slipping back into procrastination mode. I prefer to think of it as a break. A nice, well-deserved break.
Right?
Oh, I have an idea! I'll write this break on my calendar! Then it will, like, a PLANNED break! And then I can fully appreciate it without feeling guilty! And then it won't be procrastination at all! And when someone calls to say, "Hey, are you busy today?" I can look on my calendar and say, "Hmm. Let me see. Yep. Sorry. I've got something on my calendar today."
I've gotta go. The phone's ringing.
"Hello? Ummm...just a sec. Let me check my calendar..."
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