FOUNDATION PIECES

I was doing some closet tweaking the other day, removing items I no longer wear or no longer should wear - shopworn, torn, or otherwise unwearable and unfixable. My youngest was sitting on the makeup stool outside my closet spinning to infinity (antique piano stool) as I held up a particular top to assess.

Youngest: So are you gonna put that one in the charity pile?

Me: No WAY. This top is my most valuable top.

Youngest: Mom. It's a plain ol' tee shirt for girls. It's not SPECIAL or anything.

Me: Well, it's not valuable from a money perspective, and it's not special from a design perspective - it doesn't have embroidery or ruffles or an impressive brand name. That's for sure.

Youngest: See? Why don't you put it in the charity stack?

Me: Because I can wear this top with 3/4 of my wardrobe. It's the perfect top. I can wear it plain with shorts, with pants, or with a skirt. I can wear it under a cardigan, blazer, or poncho. I can belt it or not. I can put dressy jewelry or casual jewelry with it. The color is perfect. The style is perfect.

Youngest: You do wear it a lot.

Now, you might think from this description this should be some fabulous top, eh? Are you telling yourself you really need to see this top if it's all that?

Youngest is right. It's plain. Nondescript even. And I have one in every single color made.

THE most Valuable shirt in my closet

Doesn't look like much, right? Plain old sweetheart tee, right? Well. Everything about it is perfect. It has a v neck with a narrow satin trim. It's pinched at the bust and fitted at the waist. The sleeves are 3/4. It's soft knit. It's just the right length. It's washable. It goes in the dryer like a champ and comes out looking just like it did in the store the day I bought it. If I could only have two articles of clothing to my name, this would be one of them (in the pepper red).

I asked Youngest if he had any belongings like that- some material thing that didn't look like much by itself but really was a wonderful thing to have for many reasons.

"Well," he said, "I guess Legos don't look like anything but a plastic block, but I wouldn't much want to be without them."

Then he went on. "Plus. One of them by itself is kind of useless, but if you put it with a bunch of other ones it's very valuable. In fact, you could have a whole bunch of Legos and not be able to make anything out of them unLESS you had this one particular one. THAT happens sometimes."

So I started thinking about the things in my life that fit that description, and how you truly couldn't judge the worth of something just by glancing at it; just by making judgments from your first glance. It's really those things that are my most prize possessions. A garlic press doesn't look like much but I wouldn't want to be in a position to have to prepare a meal without one. Compression garments don't look like much but I wouldn't want to wear a sheath dress without one. My minivan looks like forty seven others just like it in the school parking lot, a hundred others just like it on any highway, and not at all the vehicle that would be my individual pick, but it is the PERFECT vehicle for the job at this point in my life.

The list goes on and on. This ink pen is fabulous. (But it's just a pen, y'moron. Yeah, I know you're thinkin' it.) But it is. Fabulous, not just a pen. Well it's that too but the point is this is four pens. In one. Fabulous. I tell you, the very folks that roll their eyes at my relationship with this pen are the SAME ones that ask to borrow it in meetings. "I need a red pen - anybody got - OOH. Caren has one."

My Dad has been using this pen ever since I can remember - and that's a lonnnng time ago. Decades. He understands the fabulousness of a nonfabulous looking item too.

So I'm easy to pleasy. Cheap date. Youngest is the same way. On any given Sursey Day I have many choices that will make Youngest happy for $4.00. Eldest and Hunky Hubby however, different story. For another post. "Hard to buy for" doesn't even begin to tell the story.

So I'm off to JoAnn. There's a $1.00 fabric bin to scavenge through.

I DON'T THINK I'D BE A BIG GIRL

Earlier this week we received word that a family member of an in-law had died as the result of injuries sustained while serving as a volunteer EMT during Irene rescue efforts. We didn't know the victim himself but quickly heard of his fine character and his dedication to his family and community. Countless memorials have already been written and shared via internet and social media. It seems obvious that this man was adored by family and friends, that he was a hero, "not for how he lost his life but how he lived it" as one write-up described.

http://planetprinceton.com/2011/mourners-say-goodbye-to-princeton-emt/

He and his EMT partner were called to rescue people who were thought to be trapped in a vehicle in the water on a flooded roadway. He was trained in swift water rescue, had followed safety procedures such as tethering to his partner and wearing a helmet and a flotation vest. And yet he lost his life.

My thoughts this week have been about Mike's wife and small daughter. I have grieved over his death, a 39 year old man I never met, but also and especially for the ones who adored him, for whom the puzzle of their life has lost a critical piece, who are now faced with conducting their lives absent of their husband, their dad, their sibling, cousin, nephew, friend, or co-worker. They're tasked with recognizing the gaping hole that is now where he once was and then learning how to cope with that. How to cope without Mike. How to eventually once again be a joyful, blessed person and lead an delightful life not by ignoring that hole but by learning how to live with it.

I'm fairly sure (not to mention extremely embarrassed) that I would have a hard time being mature in this position. Were I the wife of a man who lost his life while rescuing someone, I'm afraid I would be resentful that he was no longer here to take care of his children. Of me. That I could no longer take care of him. That the hole in our lives would be so great, so deep, such an enormous cavern, that I never could surmount the sadness of living a life without him, this man who risked and ultimately gave his life to rescue someone else. I fear I would be resentful - feel that my boys and I needed rescuing and now he wasn't there to do it.

In several of the internet memorials and newspaper articles I read the statement that "Michael died doing what he loved." While I understand statements like that are helpful coping mechanisms, I'm not inclined to believe that would give me any peace.

That there was ultimately no one even in the car to rescue? Don't even want to think where I'd go with that. It's the final affront. Overload.

I pray God gives Michael's wife more tenacity and resolve. I'm praying hard she has peace and tranquility over a tragedy that seems senseless. Hoping she won't see senselessness in it but feel God's good grace instead.

YEE HA! Git along, lil' dogies

Tonight's entertainment for the fam. Every year we go to the rodeo, and every year I have to work hard and talk to myself to resist the temptation to wear all my western garb. Ohhhh, I have it all; western boots, hat, vest, denim, and a bandana. First of all, it's just too ding dang hot to wear that many articles of clothing. More importantly, if I wear all that stuff at one time I look like a wannabe or like I'm wearing a costume. I can get away with the boots and a bandana maybe - y'know. Sort of a nod to where I am instead of all full on, all out "HEY! LOOK AT ME I HAVE WESTERN STUFF TO WEAR!!!"

I love the horses. The horses are da bomb.

We started going to the rodeo back when my now 21 year old nephew was 3. HE donned the whole costume, but at 4 he looked cute. Owned it too, man. My Daddy showed him how to tie a bandana around his neck like a cowboy and as soon as that knot tightened, his accent turned to a country drawl. He played the part. Tipped his hat when my Mom walked by and said "Howdy, ma'am."

When my boys came along they weren't so gung ho with the wardrobe concept. They liked the rodeo and went along willingly, enjoyed it while they were there, but have never been bowled over by the whole idea. Too bad, I said. I adore it and you just have to go with me, I said. It'll give you experience that will help round you out, I said. No, you may not take your Game Boy, I said.

So fast forward to this year, and low and behold, they're looking forward to it! Yippie. Of course they're taking friends so they don't have to sit there by themselves with their gooberly embarrassing parents. But still looking forward to it.

Whaddya bet I'm not so lucky in February when the Atlanta Ballet's production of Snow White comes along.

THE OTHER ONE (or, HERE I AM LOOK AT MEEEE!)

Yesterday's post was about my number one son. Today represents equal time to my Jr. Mint, my son who disallows the description "number two son". His reasoning? "I'm NOT poop."

This picture is my favorite and most accurate visual description of my second born. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's a hoot. And a half.

This child's essence, his aura, is just - I dunno, magnetic. He's full of piss and vinegar, is certainly at least half monkey, he's a prankster, a practical joker, a hugger, a passionate lil fella with huge highs and lows and he never. Ever. E-V-E-R. Is silent. Ever. ever

If he is not speaking, he's singing. If he's not singing, he's whistling. If he's not whistling, he's humming. If he's not humming, he's clicking, clapping, clopping, banging, boinging, chattering, prattling, rattling, clucking, cackling, growling, howling, screeching, *sigh* or gibbering.

....and ALWAYS moving.

Hands are always busy. Picks up everything he sees. We've tried to soften the negative implications of that issue using fidget toys. His observation on that subject? "Mom. I have TWO hands. You gave me ONE fiddle toy. I still have another hand to pick stuff up with." Accompanying that statement, an exaggerated eyeroll for dramatic effect.

Hate it when they're right.

The sweet creature does not have one single private thought. If he's thinkin' it, you know it. If it comes up, it comes out. Absurdly, as peevishly abrading as one would theorize that to be, it has a strangely charismatic effect. My Jr. Mint is very knowable. He has many interests and hobbies and as social and verbal as he is, if you know him - even if you've just met him- you know what they all are. Right away. It imparts a sense of intimacy, a warm fuzzy feeling like you get when you've known someone all your life.

A rare shot with his mouth closed.

I have the same parental feelings of insecurity about this one as Eldest. They're not quite as far along though, given he's four years younger. In the spot in my heart where I have sad feelings of Eldest leaving in five years at which time I still won't be finished talking with him, won't have soaked up enough of him, won't have heard his voice enough, felt his presence enough, I have feelings with Jr. Mint that we won't have spent enough time together in silence. That we won't have experienced enough together - enough of the things that go without saying. With both of us being jabbermouths, consummate gasbags, I worry not that anything will go unsaid, but something will go undone. Some experience he needs.

Again, hopefully he'll grow up successfully to be a good man despite me instead of because of me. However it happens I'm ok with it, as long as it happens.

My Mom has always said she didn't love any one of her three children more or less, but she does love them the same but differently. I only had an understanding of that complicated concept when I became a parent myself. I love my children with the same breadth, the same girth, the same largess, each impossibly miraculous boy the same. But different. They are "fearfully and wonderfully made," "the apple of His eye", and "His treasured possessions." He gave them to me to train up and enjoy so they could be the apple of my eyes too. My treasured possessions.

For a little while.

THE BOX OF ME

Yesterday my eldest son had a school assignment to fill a box with things that represented him. Once in class, the students were to present the box to the class and give explanations for the items they chose.

Eldest's "Box of Me"

The items he chose:

A glove he found while on a meaningful trip

A rusty piece of metal he found at his Grandparents' farm

A beautiful purple rock given to him by his Aunt

A wooden ink pen he made himself at a Scout woodworking workshop

The hand exerciser he uses to strengthen his grip for rappelling/climbing

A piece of duct tape

Skateboard trucks

His Nixon watch

I can look at the contents of the box he assembled and agree that it contains the essence of what makes up my incredible Number One Son. Not many of the items would be of monetary value to anyone else, and of the ones that would, I can report that he bought them himself or made them himself.

I started thinking about how many times the content of this box of his would change over his lifetime. If he'd done the same exercise three years ago he would've had totally different items in the box. Legos maybe, candy, a book, a rock and an arrowhead. Two years from now my bet is the contents will again change altogether. Kind of a wonderful mystery-to-come of who he will be then.

Those thoughts are the same ones that, a few months ago, led to the feeling I have that my childrens' youth is slipping through my fingers, tiptoeing away quickly and quietly so that I don't notice until a large chunk is already gone. I have four more years with my oldest before he's old enough to decide to live somewhere else, do something else. Two years before he's old enough to drive himself somewhere. Time is already up on some precious things, like me being his favorite girl. Sadly that boat sailed when he was 10. I repeat mantras like "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it," I pray for my children every day, every time I pray, and yet I panic that there's something, something important, I'm forgetting to teach them. That I'm spending too much time and effort on things that may turn out to be less important than things I'm not devoting enough time to. That I put too much emphasis on those lesser important things and not enough on the crucial things that will give him the scaffolding to be a man.

Then he puts together a box like this one above, and I listen to comments my friends make about the choices he made of items to illustrate who he is, and relax just a little and recognize that he has the elements of a good man in his heart already. That maybe he'll grow up and be fine in spite of me instead of because of me. That fortunately, he has a Heavenly Father that loves him eeeeeven more than his Dad and I do - and how that is possible is so far beyond the scope of my understanding that I have to stand on faith that it's true, because I can't love anyone any more than I love that child.

I'm holding on to the few things that he hasn't yet stopped doing. He still hugs me and says I love you when he leaves to go somewhere, (provided of course no one is around). He still asks my advice when he's faced with a tough situation he can't work out on his own. He still texts me and sends me pictures when he's off with someone else. I'm told those things will go away too, at some point. I'm just enjoying them for now and trusting that even if he stops for awhile, that at some point he'll come back to it.

As I was looking at the box he put together for his assignment, I speculated about what I would put in a box to represent who I am.

I don't think my eldest would fit in the box.

GEORGIA CRACKERS and ALABAMA CAVIAR

Every Christmas my mother-in-law makes a dish with black eyed peas, chopped bell pepper, onions, tomatoes, and Italian dressing. She gooshes it all up together and puts it in a bowl next to the Scoops or Monster Fritos and announces that the LA Caviar is served. That's for Lower Alabama.

I had that on my mind this morning. Yesterday a friend was relating a story to me about a recent experience where someone in her conversation group had used the term "cracker" to describe an extremely Southern person with an extremely Southern accent and an extremely Southern persona and just all around extremely Southern emanations. My friend was hot. Annoyed at the use of the term.

Now, it's my personal opinion that you will only be offended by something if that something is a sore spot for you. Or if you care. Make sense? Clearly there are exceptions; grievously offensive or hurtful words, for example, but we're not talking about that depth of offense anyway.

So back to Crackers. Here's the thing. Dictionary.com has five definitions for the word. Numbers one through three being what you would expect and referring to crisp flatbreads (which you could eat LA caviar off of. Let us take a moment to revel in the irony.) and stuff you light and explode on July 4th, here are numbers four and five:

4. Sometimes Disparaging and Offensive. a native or inhabitant of Georgia (used as a nickname).

5. Disparaging and Offensive . a poor white person living in some rural parts of the southeastern U.S.

SOMEtimes disparaging and offensive, a native or inhabitant of Georgia. What times? The times that you choose to interpret it that way, that's what times. I am most definitely, gratefully, and proudly an inhabitant and native of Georgia. I fudge on the native part a little. In the interest of full disclosure, I'll add that I was born in Alabama (middle, not lower) but my family was from Georgia and returned to Georgia when I was very young. Regardless. The point is that by definition I am a Cracker. And I am profoundly, entirely in love with and dedicated to that definition, being an inhabitant and native of Georgia, so I take on the term Cracker with gusto. Bring it on.

I could pick the number five definition instead and be hacked off, but why would I do that? AND. On some days I feel like I belong in that category too. Precisely what is offensive about being poor and white?

I love the name of my dear friend's blog: "Georgia Black Crackers". Mavis is an African American woman in hot pursuit of the genealogy of her family. Think the word Cracker bothers her? Here's a link. See for yourself: http://georgiablackcrackers.blogspot.com/

How I interpret (anything) is my decision. How I react is my decision. How I feel is my decision. The minute my friend went to the dark side upon hearing that term, she gave away her power. She alone defines herself, not the doofus who referred to that delightful Southern character as a Cracker. The A number 1 irony is that doofus thought he was being offensive, meant to be offensive, derisive, by using the term. So he misused the term Cracker. My question is, does that make him one?

SAGE, LEMON BALM and TESTOSTERONE

I am cultivating a small herb garden in a little plot to the side of the house. Couple reasons for that. Besides just that I have the need to grow fresh herbs, directly in front of this little plot is the boys' basketball goal. Most afternoons and weekends there is a clutch of men-in-training stomping around mercilessly about the basketball goal, the entire passel oblivious to the concept of purposeful landscaping. The goal then, (ha, get it?) of my plant choices was to choose the toughest, most hardy plants available. Herbs. For the most part, bugs don't bother them, there are plenty of perennials to choose from, and they're useful to use and share. What I didn't realize was there would be yet another benefit. For me, that is. For the boys, not so much.

When they come in from shooting basketball, they smell like lemon balm - an intoxicatingly delightful scent, not to mention that it's an astonishing improvement for their shoes to smell like lemons instead of the way they usually smell. I can't even describe that smell, although the word wicked comes to mind.

Occasionally I look out the kitchen window and watch them play for a minute. The other day the agglomeration of boys ranged from seven years of age to fourteen. They were particularly aggressive on this day - they'd been to a neighbor's house and the poor, trusting Mom had allowed the kids full access to the refrigerator, in which the Dad's stash of Mountain Dew was kept. Nice and chilled. Full of mega-caffeine. "Here I am," it called to the bunch o boys. "D-r-i-n-k m-e-e-e-e."

So they did.

Alas, the barbaric basketball game. Holy cow, I thought. If I don't get some water in those kids to flush out that caffeine and sugar, they'll kill each other. Or gang up on some poor unsuspecting soul and mame him. Either way, it wasn't the way I envisioned the afternoon unfolding. I quickly fixed a gallon of cold, icy water, grabbed a stash of go-cups and headed outside.

"Boys, take a water break."

"Ok Mom, - QUIT it - just a sec - LET GO OF MY HAIR - and we'll be - I SAID QUIT IT! HAIR IS OFF LIMITS!" - right there."

Sheesh. Had someone not seen this gaggle of boys together before they would never believe they're a creative, polite, well-mannered group that gee-haws naturally.

Not this day. At times like this I find it unbelievably inconvenient that I don't have the ability to whistle. I do, however, possess lungs capable of hollering almost as loud as the storm siren. Or so I've been told.

"Scatter!" When you scream it while simultaneously cracking a six foot bull whip onto pavement, it is downright astounding how quickly a testosterone-caffeine-sugar filled group of boys come to attention. Bug eyes were just a bonus.

"Mizzez Ceeeeee!"

"Yes Samuel?"

"You. Are. Da. MAN!"

"Yes, Samuel, yes I am. Now then. Each of you men-in-training to your own corner. Find your own spot and/or your own toy or game. No team sports or group play for thirty minutes AND four glasses of water each. When you've met those two criteria, you may reconvene. Any questions I thought not."

"Mizzez C?"

"Yes, Samuel?"

"Y'know this minty like stuff we step on all the time while we're playing ball?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Kin I pick a leaf er two and shove it down in my waw-tah?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Um, wait. Mizzez C?"

"Yes Samuel?"

"Thur's this other stuff I step on sometimes - I mean I don't mean to step on it honest - but anyway it don't smell like lemons. It smells like my Gran's house at Thanksgiving. What's thet?"

"That's sage, Samuel. Would you like to take some home to your Mom?"

"No thanks. I hate the way my Gran's house smells at Thanksgiving."

I love boys. They're tough, sensitive, and oh so honest, all wrapped up in one big ball of - well, usually dirt.

PEEP-TOE BOOTIES and other insane logic

We enjoy oxymorons - my friends and family bat them around, making jokes, poking fun. One of my friends' husband belongs to a group that does actual reenactments of Civil War battles. That one always gives us all a chuckle. My CPA friend murmurs about consistent discrepancies. Another friend's son just joined a co-ed fraternity. My friend the English teacher has a specific, accurate, narrow definition for oxymoron. She's a purist. But I like ones that even just nod to oxymoronism. Limited freedom. Political ethics. Fresh sour cream. Willful negligence? What about a stripper's dressing room?

These fit into the category nicely:

My brain just can't take this in. Are we trying to keep our ankles and heels warm and give our toes and arches air?

Are they boots or sandals?

<----This is like wearing evening shoes with daisy dukes and a wife beater.

My friend the professional singer thinks I'm a baboon when I get the giggles after she says live recording. OK the term comes up more than you'd think.

Here are some more favorites:

initial conclusion

authentic replica

extensive briefing

marijuana initiative

Windows XP

flexible ethics (I don't even want to know)

And my personal favorite: enough time

Oxymorons are sort of accidental hyperboles. I like literary accidents. We'll examine puns next. We have competitions with those.

STORIES I'LL NEVER FORGET or, 3D COMIN' ATCHA!

It's curious what your brain decides is important enough to file away. Based somehow on what an impact an event, story, a fact has upon you when you learn it, your brain either files it in memory or pitches it into File 13. We're to believe that our brain is employed by us, functions on our behalf, uses our own personal character, abilities, needs, and interests to help distinguish what to file and what to pitch. I beg to differ.

I can, for some screwball reason, recall some of the goofiest details of the waygone past, but can't remember what time I'm supposed to pick up my eldest from FCA. Oh relax. I always remember to pick him up. I just have to scramble to figure out whether it's over at 5:00 or 5:30.

For example, every time I see the word "cutout", I'm reminded of the time my sister-in-law was bra shopping at a great sale at Macy's. All the sale bras were in a big bin - the kind that looks like a messy underwear drawer where you have to rifle through it all to find what you're looking for. Well, sister got tired of looking and grabbed a bra that suited her. She exclaimed, "Oh look! This one has sweet little triangle shaped cutouts at the top of the cup. Yep. I'll take this one." She got home and tried it on quickly to realize the cutouts were not at the TOP of the cup. They were in, errr, in a much more revealing spot. Sorta slap dab in the middle.

Q: When is a sale not a sale?

A: When the sale bra you bought makes you look like you're not wearing a bra.

What's the point of that anyway? (Yes, yes, yes. I get the pun.)

So why in heaven's name would my brain perceive that is critical enough to remember while tossing aside the time I'm supposed to pick up my child?

Here's a good one. A friend of mine who had a quite precocious child recounted an incident to me while we were sitting around the country club pool once. Oh relax. We lived in a rural Georgia town where the country club cost about as much as a suburban Atlanta YMCA.

"I guess we forgot to lock the bedroom door." Stories that start with that sentence never end well. She leaned forward and spoke in an embarrassed whisper. "Glenn and I were engaged in passionate, all-consuming - uhhh - intimacy. 'K? Suddenly," she says with much redness about the face, neck, and ear tips, "I feel something tickling my feet."

Uh oh. Do you know anyone whose chest begins to get very red and blotchy when they're upset? Then from the chest, the red blotchiness spreads to their neck, betraying their feigned attempt at confidence, composure, aplomb?

She screamed. Glenn took it as a compliment. Tamara jerked and craned her neck over Glenn's shoulder to see their son, all of aged 7, standing at the bottom of the bed.

"I KNEW THAT THING HAD TO BE FOR SOMETHING BESIDES JUST PEEing!"

I remember the story almost word for word. I remember the swimsuit she was wearing and the color of her eyeliner. I remember the time of day and the color beach towel I had flung on the pool chaise. I even remember the book I was reading at the time. I recall the comment my mother-in-law had when I told her that story. "That child oughta be glad his parents love each other."

That family moved away shortly after and sadly we did not keep in touch. Yet, even though my brain can retrieve that story in its entirety with details intact, I can't remember which one of my friends loves avacados and which one had a doctor appointment I need to ask after.

I only hope that when I tell them the story about Tamara and Glenn, they'll laugh so hard and love me so much for my funny stories they'll forgive me for not remembering that I should be asking about their doctor's report.

No, I don't think I'm in charge of what gets saved to the grey matter and what goes to the recycle bin. Is it a cop-out? Maybe. Do I get points for wanting to remember the important stuff? Maybe. Regardless, it is what it is. I adore my friends, my family, and I'm thinking, I'm fairly certain, confident even, that they know it. What I don't have in memory I hope I'm making up for in attention, empathy, and time spent.

READING and other luxuries

A few months ago I came into the 21st century with regard to reading. Begrudgingly and with a tearful wave to the tactile wonderfulness of a book spine in my hand, the musty smell of a book and its pages, and the beauty of a sweet little bookmark poking out of the top of a book, I got a Nook.

Little did I realize.

This gadget holds thousands of books. The world is my book!

Partially ok mostly because my kids were young, also because I had kids in my arms and no room to tote books, up until a few years ago I had all but stopped reading. Almost sheepishly I admit that with the exception of vacations or hospital sitting I didn't crack a book. Well, I didn't crack a book for pleasure. Cookbooks I cracked plenty. How to raise strong-willed boys cracked a bunch of those too. Anywayzeez not until I began reading again for pleasure, now that my kids are reaching varying stages of independence, did I recognize how very much I was missing.

BC (before children) I think, if memory serves, I probably read minimally a book a week. I forgot how my vocabulary increases exponentially and without me recognizing it. I forgot how my head and my heart become more open, more flexible, more understanding of the world and people around me. I forgot how my brain works at a quickened pace, processes at an accelerated speed (not breakneck ok, I mean this is me we're talking about, not Einstein). I forgot how the more I read the more I crave to read.

I always envied my sweet sissy, who, even when her children were young, could sit on the sofa, totally engulfed by a book. Of course, it's important to know she has girls. They read with her. Sat quietly, looked pretty. All you could hear in the room was pages turning, classical music in the background. All you smelled was perfume. *sigh*

I have boys. Enough said? I can't even describe what our house smells like. (Thank goodness for candles.) I never mastered the art of reading a book while keeping one kid from jumping out of the top branch of a tree while the other one was stealthily placing a springboard on the landing bullseye. And yes, I did have an hour here and there while they were practicing soccer. I discussed snack schedules. Made menus, grocery lists. Clipped coupons. It was either then or during church.

Right now I'm reading four books at once. One fiction, one auto-biography, one memoir, and one cookbook/storybook. My eldest reads two fiction books at once but I don't have the brain power to keep characters and storylines straight. Maybe as I read more.

Each of the four books serves a different purpose and depending on whether I have ten minutes and need to jump into and out of a book quickly, have thirty minutes to read before I go to sleep, or an hour at the pool while the kids play, I have something appropriate to read without having to haul a stack of heavy books around in my arms and in the car. I recommend it.

Ironic what happens when you hesitate to jump out of your comfort zone and embrace new concepts. When the ereaders came out I winced and shook my head, poo-pooing electronic reading in favor of the feeeeeeel of a book, the smell, the experience, of reading a book. Great in romantic theory. Practically, not so much. That poo-poo kept me from reading voraciously which, as it turns out, is way higher on the scale than smelling the mold from an old book and using cute bookmarks.

Just sayin'.

IT JUST MAKES YOU SHAKE YOUR HEAD

A friend's husband passed away yesterday. The two of them were so close, devoted to each other and family. Having raised their children, retired from jobs, they were in the era of their lives where they had the time to notice the beauty in things, not from the interstate at 65 mph careening toward work, but slowly, easily, where they could stop, sit, reflect and enjoy the simple loveliness of a tree. A grandchild. A spouse's smile. And most especially, the true beauty of time itself. It was to be the time in their lives where they got to lie down in the grass or sit in their recliner or on their porch swing and recognize, fully, that they were not wasting time, but enjoying and appreciating time.

My first thought was "there's always a reason things happen". A paraphrase of a popular scripture in Romans, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

It's a comforting concept to fall back on, an answer when there is no answer. For those of us who study God's word there are a googlezillion other scriptures that convey that message. We believe it, have faith in it, recite it while shaking our heads at some misfortune or sad event.

In the face of this kind of loss however, my human need for understanding, for putting things in their proper perspective rears its head. I know what the Word says, but what could the reason possibly be? A woman loses the love of her life just when the sweetness of life was emerging? A woman who says things like "Love is like a violin. The music may stop now and then, but the strings remain forever... '"

I don't get it but I don't have to. The word "but" is what gets me in trouble. I know what the Word says BUT. But I have to understand. The truth is I don't. I, me, myself, this isn't about me. (Got that revelation on the treadmill this morning.) Again, He pointed out that I'm but a speck. Important to Him but in perspective, a speck. Unless I'm omnipotent I don't have enough information to understand what the reason could be. Same as any other situation - fact gathering is a necessity before understanding and an informed decision can be made.

And so it is that it occurs to me it's my own ego that engages me and says "Oh girl you have to figure this out. Get it to work. Make sense. Put it in a cubbyhole."

Nooooo, I don't.

There's nothin' worse than an egotistical 51 year old white blonde woman. I don't want to be her. Nope. So my role is to support and sympathize, pray for the one who passed and his family.

And what a relief that turns out to be. Big ol' burden off my shoulders, trying to figure God's stuff out. I'm leaving it to Him. I have a hunch He's capable. There are lots of things that He asks me to help Him with even though He's capable of doing it Himself. This isn't one of them.

AND I THOUGHT JUST THE IDEA WAS ATTRACTIVE

My kids call me names - lots of 'em. It makes them giggle so hard they snort. Their favorite is Food Nazi. Earth Mother is another common one. Tree Hugger, Henna Hippie, Natural Nellie, Organic Mama.

In my home you will find chemicals galore and even some junky processed food. I only do what makes sense to me at the time and make improvements one at a time, and I'm good with that. I don't care to present an organic image as though it's an attractive character. It's a work in progress. I figure by the time I'm 60 I will have rid my home of nearly every chemical, be growing all my own food, capturing my own water, and still feeding my kids home cooked meals from scratch when they come home to visit. I will, however, still be going to the salon to have my roots done. Just sayin'.

See what I mean? Total hypocrite. I'm good with that. I only use organic products if they W-O-R-K, and there are many needs for which I've not found such a thing. Yet. Soooo, I will continue to use the mainstream, nasty, polluting, environment robbing products until such time as I can find some natural, organic product that WORKS. I'm confident I'm not screwing my kids out of a beautiful future world in the meantime.

For example. I've watched and read every single informational piece OUT there about natural weedkillers. Tried them all. I mean AAAAAAAAAALL. Did my share. Drove around the world (really just Atlanta but it's shockingly similar) finding unusual, organic ingredients, mixing, fixing, experimenting. Tried the "you have everything you need for a great garden and lawn in your kitchen cabinet" route. Mixed, fixed, experimented. Tried the retail organic stuff. No mixing, fixing, yet still an experiment.

Nuh-uh. None in the same class as Round-Up. Round-Up is da bomb. It's on a pedestal at my house with a spotlight trained on it, almost equivalent with the joy my family and pets give me. Nah, not really, but it is. so. great. You just can't kill poison oak with borax, vinegar or salt. It's a fact. So I'll continue to use Round Up until such time that a true replacement is found.

Note: Replacement (verb, used with an object)

1. to assume the former role, position, or function of, substitute for

2. to provide a substitute or equivalent in the place of

3. to restore, return, make good.

Note key words and phrases above: to assume the function of, to provide an equivalent.

I rest my case.

On the other hand, there are many organic and/or natural products I have embraced and there are new ones on the market all the time. It's getting easier. The products work and they don't break the bank (another big criteria). Alternatively, I've made my own products for years: window cleaner, all purpose cleaners, laundry detergent, soaps, cleansers, lotions, shaving gels, lip balms, and so on. Making organic/natural products is even better (and usually less expensive) than buying them.

To be fair however, I'm not the only person living in my home, and the other three do not walk the organic road so willingly. So. I have backup in some appropriate cases. I have a bottle of off-the-shelf laundry detergent for the rare occasion that any of the three of the others living in my home might try to do laundry. I have off-the-shelf toilet cleanser in the boys' bathroom. It's difficult enough to get them to swab their own pottie when it's one easy step; no way would they carefully pour baking soda and then vinegar into the pottie, let it fizz and sit, then swab. It's a matter of success and survival. Where to make concessions. What to concede to.

And so it was that I came to use Method brand anti-bacterial kitchen cleanser. Functional, not too expensive, smells good, and not made up of caustic chemicals. Not perfect, but good stuff. In fact, now I know to tell you this, the active ingredient is thyme oil. Here's how I know. Funny story.

Last week the boys and I went to Florida, leaving my hunky hubby and their daddy home all alone. Now then. While he's not a fastidious person, nor is he interested in order or neatness or bothered by the lack of it, he did a commendable job keeping the kitchen man-clean. Not woman-clean, but a fair job nonetheless. I was appropriately impressed.

However. During our absence an army of sugar ants marched in to keep him company. Upon our return, hunky hubby waltzed back off to work during the day to leave me to deal with organizing and implementing their demise.

Day 1: Washed down counters, sinks, backsplashes, handles, faucets, windowsills, underneath of cabinets and any other random surface on the affected bank of countertop, ostensibly to clean whatever microscopic blops of food or sugar to which the teensy soldiers were attracted.

Day 2: Woke up to tripled efforts by the ant army. Hunky husband stopped by pesticide store on the way home and bought Amdro or Terro or something super strong max strength ant bait. Repeated day 1's cleaning efforts and placed ant bait units in appropriate places. Went to bed.

Day 3: Ant armies called in the infantry, the cavalry, and maybe even military from cooperating countries, I dunno. My white countertop looked like a Belted Galloway cowhide from a distance.

I love these cows. My kids used to call them Oreo cows.

Anyway, the ants were crawling OVER the commercial ant bait to get to my countertops. I declared war of my own. I got serious. I made up my own slow-acting poison that the unassuming lil buggars would drink, get drunk on, and take back to their queen, who is apparently busily spitting out baby ants quicker'n I can kill 'em, the hoochie. Ran out of Method cleaner so I used my homemade vinegar cleaner to repeat day 1's ministrations, then poured blobs of my heinous killer bait in appropriate places.

Day 4: No ants.

Day 5: No ants.

Guess what. No go ahead, guess!

The Method cleaner was attracting the ants.

That is too left of center for even me to wrap my head around. Here's the bottom line question, and boy it's a head scratcher:

How can it be a cleaner if it attracts bugs??????

This organic/natural concept/battle just never stops, does it......

BIBLE STUDIES and SERVICE PROJECTS

Last night at 2:00am I was lying wide-eyed staring at the ceiling fan and giving my snoring husband the stink-eye (unbeknownst to him because he was ASLEEP) and wondering why insomnia is such an ingrained part of my personal make-up. As you can imagine I came up with no good ideas for that question (and you can well believe I've beat the subject to death over the years). So I looked past the ceiling fan and said, "Ok God it's just you and me. Whaddya want to talk about?" As it turns out he wanted to discuss the service project I am committed to do as a part of my summer bible study program. We have several choices but I had been initially and particularly drawn to a specific one called Seven Bridges. What perked my ears when I heard it was that Seven Bridges Road is my favorite song in the world by the Eagles. And yes. I do believe in signs like that. The Seven Bridges is a recovery program for homeless who live under the bridges and in the streets of Atlanta. It's for the last, the lost, and the least, they say. (I love that. Alliteration is a beautiful, powerful tool.) It's a first step program to rescue homeless and then provide placement into a recovery program. Once they go through that program they are connected to a next-step resource at a discipleship home or whatever is appropriate for their personal needs.

Me: So. God. I-I-I-I just donnnnn't knowwwww about the under the bridges thing- yikes. I'm kind of scared about that.

God: You think I won't take care of you when I'm the one that put that project in your head?

Me: Well when you put it THAT way......

God: Remember what I said to Job?

Me: Well no. Maybe. I don't know. Which time? You know I'm not super knowledgeable about Your Scriptures. But I do want You to know I'm working on it.

God: I know. I'm talking about when I lectured Job for pages and pages in your Bible about how powerful I am and how he obscured my plans with words backed with nothing - no knowledge. I told him to brace himself and answer like a man when I asked him things like "where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?" and "have you ever given orders in the morning or shown the dawn its place that it might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it?" and "can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water? Do you sent the lightening bolts on their way? Do they report to you, 'Here we are'?" and "does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread its wings toward the south? Does the eagle soar at your command and build its nest on high?"

"Well, Missy", He said. "Don't MAKE me direct that lecture to you." (And I'm telling you. for all the world that sounded like 'Don't make me stop this car!')

Me: Ok. I get it. And by the way, I love that scripture.

God: Thanks, my dear daughter. And I love YOU.

So. Even though it was made abundantly clear that I am but a speck in all His plans, I am still everything to Him. Quite a paradox and acutely, remarkably comforting at the same time.

My next prayer to Him will be that He bestow the same comfort about my Seven Bridges project upon my husband. Ha.

Well since you're snivvling

Half a dozen folks I know are snotty. Snivvly, snarfley, honkin, sneezin, hackin sick. I don't know what's blooming right now but it's prevailing over lots of my friends' and family's immune system. So here are my favorite remedies:

Cold Relief for the bath:

2 cups Epsom Salts

1 cup Sea Salt

1/2 cup baking soda

6 drops Eucalyptus essential oil

6 drops Lavender essential oil

6 drops Peppermint essential oil

6 drops Tea Tree essential oil

1-2 tablespoons of oil, whatever oil you choose - almond, grapeseed, olive, coconut

Mix ingredients thoroughly and seal in an airtight jar. Add 1/2 cup of salts to bathwater.

Muscle rub:

4 oz sweet almond oil

3 oz beeswax

1 oz cocoa cutter

15-20 drops Vitamin E oil

25-30 drops Lavender essential oil

Melt all and pour into a mold or jar. Great alternative for those who don't care for the scent of menthol. I found out when my eldest was verrrry leedle that menthol affects him negatively. I put Vicks in the medicine cup of his humidifier and within minutes he was uncomfortable and jumpy and he couldn't stay in the room.

Special Cold Tea

Boil 4 cups of water.

Grate a 1" piece of ginger and put in teapot. Add about 5 or 6 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice. Add a dollop of honey or Agave nectar - 2-3 tablespoons (to taste).

Put the lid on teapot and allow to steep a few minutes. Strain into your teacup to avoid getting bits of ginger.

Commercial favorites:

Pure-Aid Hot Patches they contain menthol and capsaicine. Great for chest or between shoulders.

Ocean - helps open up nose and sinuses without harmful (and addictive) decongestants or steroids.

Fishermans Friend lozenges - same ingredients and recipe since the 1800s. Not organic, but no artificial ingredients.

Hot water bottle, heating pad, and humidifier. The good old staples of cold war.

Heal quickly!!!

BLUEBERRIES FOR SAL (and me)

This is my favorite Robert McCloskey book, even more than Make Way for Ducklings or Homer Price. He wrote it in the 1940s and won a Caldecott for it. I have an old copy of it that was printed in the 1960s and the illustrations were homey and warm; the illustration of the kitchen reminds me of my Grandmother's old kitchen. My Mom read it to me, then she read it to my sister, then I read it to my little brother. I read it to both my kids so often they could recite it verbatim.

I went blueberry pickin' this morning. I got up early and drove to my favorite Pick Your Own blueberry farm with a cup of Southern Pecan coffee and the sunroof open. I always think about Blueberries for Sal when I pick blueberries. I got out of the car and walked into the field between the rows where many of the blueberry bushes are so tall they provide sort of an arbor to walk down. It was peaceful, sun was shining down in broken streaks through the branches, birds were singing and a couple of bluebirds were fussing at me, and my toes were damp from the dew. Life was good. I was putting handfuls of berries in my bucket and eating one every now and then when a plump, juicy one was just too much to resist. I thought "wouldn't it be funny if I heard a rustle of leaves and a 'plink, plank, plunk' from the other side of the row.

No such luck. I'd rather it have been a baby bear, to tell you the truth. But no, it was two women who had come to pick berries together. Guessing they were in their 70s. They enjoyed each other's company and while they were picking they conversed. N-o-n-s-t-o-p. Theyyyyyyy talked about vitamin supplements, they talked about their husbands' declining health and vigor, they talked about sales at the grocery stores, what they cooked for dinner last night, their hip pain, their thin fingernails, their droopy eyes, droopy boobs and shingle butts and other minutia. Sooooo much other minutia. My ears began to throb. Where in the heck was my quiet, lovely, early morning outside time where I could marvel at God's handywork while I picked blueberries so ripe and juicy they were all but dripping from the bush? listen to birds tweet and squawk? squench my toes in the dewy grass? I moved to the other end of the field lest my throbbing ears begin to bleed. It was a little quieter there but I could still hear the Prattle Twins. From that distance they sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, which was a vast improvement from the pastiche of subjects they'd discussed in detail within my earshot.

Decidedly they have a different archetype for blueberry picking. Theirs is one of camaraderie and conversation, mine of solitude and meditative time, admiration for nature. At least I came home with a gallon of blueberries, which have now been washed and at the moment are drying on trays with the fan blowing on them. When they're dry they'll go in the freezer until they're individually frozen, and from there into Zippie freezer bags.

I guess when I'm 70 I may be one of those women - the ones who are in the moment, who don't care who's around or who hears them, who feel compelled to loudly discuss inconsequential and somewhat private drivel in public places - after all, to be fair that describes the entirety of this blog, so who am I to judge??? See you prolly didn't care to know the details of how I was preserving my blueberries, but I hadta tell you.

A few more of my favorite childrens' books:

This was a particularly special book to my kids, who never had blankets for woobidies but other objects instead. Every single time I read the name Owen I thought about screaming it the way Anne Ramsey did in Throw Momma from the Train. Never did. But I thought about it.

Gerald McBoing Boing is a hidden Dr. Seuss treasure. I always had to read this one using appropriate voices for each character.

As it turns out, my youngest son IS Gerald McBoing Boing.

This one is a favorite because my hunky hubby used to read it to my kids aaaaaaaaaaaall the tiiiiiiiiiime. Another one they could recite by rote. The reading of it produced a particular cadence, sort of a rhythm that always made me tilt and rock my head and shoulders like I was doing the snake. No matter what I was doing, when I heard them reading Dummer Hoff, my head and shoulders were movin'.

I don't know whether my kids loved Corduroy or if it was just me and they tolerated me reading it to them. It never was one they asked for by name, but I always threw it in anyway. Such a sweet story.

A-CAMPING THEY WILL GO (or, Mommy has some girl time!)

This is home for my hunky hubby for the next three days.

All three of my guys are gone to various getaway spots. Ronny and Jr Mint are in the woods camping with the Cub Scout pack, and Eldest is in Florida with his cousins.

Poor, poor lonely Mommy. *sigh*

When such an occasion arises that I'm sleeping single in my king sized bed, the gamut of emotions runs a wide berth. I adore ADORE, I say, plump pillows behind me and all my creature comforts within easy reach; nail polish, magazines, Nook, remotes, cell phone, netbook. As a general rule multi-tasking is not my strong suit, but this is an exception. I can text, talk on the phone, watch a movie, surf the net, read a magazine, and paint my nails simultaneously. One has to wonder then, why I can't help my kid with homework and answer my husband's questions and cook dinner all at the same time. But that's another post.

At any rate, apart from turning my bed into a girl party for one, once I settle down in the covers and turn the lights off I miss -yes, I really am saying - I miss hunky hubby's snoring. I heard my great aunt say one time that was one of the things she missed most about her husband who had recently died, listening to him snore beside her. She went on to say she wished she had appreciated it more while he was living instead of poking him to turn over and grumbling. She discovered only after he was gone what a comforting, peaceful sound it was and how uncomfortably quiet her nights were without it.

Can you even imagine the decibel level of snoring at the Scout camp-out? Yikes.

Here's another professional snorer. The big one. That's my baby brother with my boys. That, in fact, is another boy trip. They were touring a military ship and #1 Snorer of whom I spoke earlier was taking the picture.

Eldest doesn't snore, but he travels while sleeping. Jr Mint doesn't snore either, but he has discussions in his sleep. Between the three, nighttime is a pretty lively time at our home.

Back to Mommy time. There was a warm stone pedicure yesterday, and today there will be shopping. Probably not the kind of shopping you might assume. I need a rain barrel, bird seed and some fresh veggies, so I will be headed to Tractor Supply later on, and then to the farmer's market from there. My kind of shopping.

So tonight, fresh steamed vegetables for dinner. Mmmm. (The carnivores are camping.) If I'm lucky the fresh salsa guy will be at the farmers market and I'll have chipotle avacado salsa and chips with my veggies. Blueberry picking tomorrow. Mmmm. First Friday Art Walk tomorrow night, yaaaaay. Saturday my fellas come home, hoo-rah!!!!!!

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY FROM MY DAD (and me)

I usually repost this every Veterans Day, but I missed it this year. I think it's just as appropriate for Independence Day since we're celebrating the history, government, patriotism, and traditions of the United States.

It's a letter from my Dad to his Uncles on a Memorial Day several years ago. Pretty self explanatory. He copied my siblings and myself. He sent it to me in a plain white #10 envelope with a little note attached in his (usual) henscratch that said something simple like he thought I might like a copy, that this was something he felt strongly about and had for years and finally was able to articulate it -something like that, I don't remember his exact words now. I have it in my "treasures" box.

My Dad has a unique way of writing that combines factual information with the emotions he feels in a straightforward manner that, while it isn't flowery or wordy, is perfectly descriptive and yet poignantly eloquent. He puts a fine point on the subject and then blurs it a little. This is one of his most powerful pieces and I only read it once a year, but on that one occasion I read it over and over and over. And over. With a wad of Kleenex in hand. Then I thank God for my Uncle Paul and Uncle Ralph, my Dad, and so many thousands of others who could have been the recipient of this very letter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dear Paul and Ralph,

I guess I would not have started this letter had not some things come together. Mainly the publication of the book THE GREATEST GENERATION by Tom Brokaw, the observance of Memorial Day by the nation, and the need I have to tell you both that you have always been my heroes. I'm sure I could not say that face to face without making a fool of myself. My son and I have frequently talked of the selfless, noble self-sacrifice of your generation during World War II, and have lamented the passing of that great large-hearted outlook in defense of your country. It has probably not been said as it should be said yet, but Tom Brokaw does a credible job while we are waiting for perfection.

Both my son and I are in awe of your generation. That something horrible has happened to the American heart and spirit between then and now we both know, but we do not know how to say it. The wonder for both of us is that the people of your generation are not affected by the current one. There remains the same spirit of manners, helpful cooperation, humility and the total lack of pretension as were present when you served.

Among the several blessings I realize regarding my children is that they all three got somehow the gene for analysis and the ability to see, quickly, to the core of a matter, and as a result we talk of the two of you more than you realize. I know you have seen the "media" coverage of Memorial Day and all the hype attendant on such an occasion. I doubt that all that meant much to either of you. Well, this letter is a poor attempt at bringing the hyperbole right down to the most elementary level, in an effort to persuade you, fifty four years after the fact, that, if you both had not risked getting you ass shot off a hundred, a thousand times, we would all likely be speaking Japanese or German now.

So never doubt that, in the extended family, everyone in my age range and younger, whether they say it or not, realize that we all owe you, both of you, a debt that we can never pay by simple thank yous. And it is not strange that the attempt to express what we feel chokes us up so that we feel like fools trying to get out what we feel.

We all know that you are heroes, and you will always be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So happy Fourth, rah rah for the red, white and blue, and with all due respect to the Declaration of Independence and its import on this occasion, rather I'm celebrating the humans that have made independence possible through the generations and today.