REIKI, CACKLING KIN, AND HEALING

My Mother-in-Law's eightieth birthday was celebrated recently.  Eloise (the birthday lady)  has three children who each have two children.  One of those six grandchildren has a child of his own.  All children, grandchildren, and great grandchild were present and accounted for at the pahrtaaay.

Now back to Eloise.  Stay with me here.  She is the oldest of eight children.  One has passed away, and all six others were present yesterday at their big sister's birthday party.  And some of theirs.  And a few of of theirs. All in all, there were fifty or more folks celebrating together.  These folks are but the tip of the iceberg.  At Christmas, there are generally around a hundred.  But I digress.

My children, my husband and I have discovered that we each, in our hearts, are at our happiest, our calmest and most peaceful during these times.  When family gathers.  It does not get any better anywhere anytime but to be in the midst of the people who love you the most and have been with you the longest.  They get who you are, and they love you because of it and in spite of it. 

My oldest child craves these gatherings - and he knows it.  My youngest child adores them but hasn't found his craving for them yet.  I am blessed beyond knowing to have a child who is fifteen and knows already that he craves his family.  (Except, of course, for me.  Moms are idiots.  I'll be sure and let you know when this concept subsides.)  Youngest is still developing his conscious understanding of the importance of family and I am waiting until the light bulb goes on and he 'gets' how magical they are for the soul.

Now that the stage is set, I'll tell you the story.  (Are you still'with me?) Anyway. My Sister-in-Law and her husband went over (Mama lives in Alabama on the lake) on Friday and spent the weekend,  getting ready for the shindig on Sunday.  Sister-in-Law practices Reiki.  She took her table and set it up in one of the bedrooms.

In addition and to add to the activities, we (When you've been married into a fam for 32 years you have earned the right to drop the "in-law" status.  They're mine too.) have a cousin who is a Doctor of Chiropractic Medicine who also practices Reiki.  She was present as well.

So.  after we ate and sang Happy Birthday and so on, unbeknownst to me (I was washing dishes and such) my hunky hubby climbed onto the Reiki table at his sister's suggestion.  DC cousin brought her thumper thingie too.

From the kitchen I began to hear chortles, belly laughs, and finally uproarious group laughter.  I HAD to check it out.  In following the happy noises I was led to the bedroom where Reiki and Chiropractic was being practiced on a victim customer patient and watched by an audience.   Patient was face down.  Jokes and comments were flying about the room, laughter echoing like whirlpools in the air.  Shoulders were shaking and heads bobbing with laughter.

"I know that backside," I thought.  Know it well.  Hey that's my hubby!  Sister was at his head with her hands cupped at each side of hubby's head and cousin was at his feet measuring his leg length and using her thumper thingie.  All manner of cousins and Aunts and Uncles were in the audience;  some watching with amusement, some cracking jokes, and all having the time of their lives.

My hubby was in HOG HEAVEN.  How do things get any better than to be where he was?  He was the patient.  He had four loving, healing family hands on and over him and a dozen sets of eyes on the three of them like actors on a stage.  Familiarity, sense of history, connection, acceptance, and peace were almost visual in the room.  The room vibrated with love.  As my eyes slowly panned the scene I subconsciously thought, "I wonder if this is what Heaven feels like?"    Cousins and siblings and parents wandered in and out of the room, watching for a few minutes then heading off to join another cluster on the porch or the dock or the kitchen table.  Some were firmly planted on chairs, beds or stools, staying for the entire show.

My husband was almost a different person on the way home from this party.  He didn't recognize it consciously, but the experience had affected him deeply.  It lasted for days - things that normally produce stresses for my big guy and manifest themselves in many forms - headaches, neckaches, anxiety attacks, negative disposition, and more - he was able to handle with more ease and less lag.  Decisions were easier to make, priorities easier to discover.

My takeaway is that family is healing.  Yes, Reiki and Chiropractic are specific healers, means toward the goal, but the third practitioner in the room that day was family.  Clan.  Consanguinity. Kinship.  Brotherhood.  Connection.  Lineage.   It's like a shot in the arm.

When it wears off we need to go back for more.  It's addictive, in a good way.  May we all stay addicted and coming back for our regular fix.

 

People In Hell Want Iced Water, Too

This is what I grew up hearing from a neighbor's Dad.  He was a single Dad, which was an infrequent situation in the late 1960s.  He had one daughter my age.  After we each had finished our homework and whatever chores were on the docket for the day, we met outside and played until it got dusky.  That was our cue we had to go in - to our respective homes.  If we got thirsty, we drank from the garden hose.  Had to let it run awhile or the water was hot enough to make tea, but if you let it run a minute or two the water became cool enough to quench our thirst.  There were no Capri Suns then.  There weren't juice boxes or Powerades, bottled water or instant powder packets to flavor your bottle of water.  There was water.  Out the garden hose.

My friend's Dad worked hard.  I don't remember what he did for a living (I was eight years old.  It wasn't what I paid attention to.) but it must've been some kind of mechanical work because his hands were always dirty, fingernails always greasy, and white t-shirt always sweat stained.  When he got home, he got a beer from the fridge and put it up to his cheek and said "Ohhhhhhh yeah".  Then of course he proceeded to drink it (and several more).  For this reason, I was never allowed to go IN my friend's house.  We were Play-Outside-Friends only.

At any rate, occasionally my friend's Dad would come outside where we were playing in the packed sand street of the cul de sac (although they weren't called that then.  They were dead end streets and our particular one dead ended into a sand dune.) and watch us play, and talk to us for a few minutes before stumbling back inside for another beverage.   Every now and then when that particular situation occurred, my friend and I would have been discussing a new toy we had seen on TV or heard of from another friend.  My friend would say, "Dad, I want a (fill in the blank).  It's a new toy."  It NEVER failed, my friend's Dad responded the same. way. every. time.

"People in Hell want iced water, too, Sookie Jane."


My friend already knew what that answer was going to be.  She would face me and mouth the words along with her Dad as he spoke them.  As I recall she added a massively dramatic eyeroll and a diva sigh for effect. I think when you are eight years old, you listen to these pat Parental Advise Comments but don't hear them.  Never in a million years would you spend time focusing on what it means and how it pertains to your predicament.  It was simply the response you knew you were going to get.  Here are some more I grew up with:

"He's drunk as Cooter Brown."  

"Do you kiss your Mama with that mouth?"

"You don't know your ear from a hole in the ground."

"You keep lookin' in that mirror you'll see the Devil."

"You are cruisin' for a bruisin'."

"If you don't like the road you're walking, start paving another one."

I was well into adulthood when at some point I would hear one of these quotes and a light bulb would come on. I'd recognize there was truly a legitimate, appropriate, and meaningful connection to a real life situation in the words of the quote, and I was to connect the dots and apply it.  DOH!!  

I still would like to meet Cooter Brown.

Happy Memorial Day, from my Dad and me

I repost this every Memorial Day.   It's a letter from my Dad (pictured)  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 your 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."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was fortunate enough to use this day as an opportunity to sun, swim, visit with family and eat David's ribs.  I'm so thankful for the experience.

And so,

 I would like to thank and celebrate the people who have made independence, (and me eating ribs under a banner yet waiving) possible through the generations and today.  I can never repay the debt, but will ever be grateful.

BEHIND THE EAR, and other scary things

I love my job.  I will be so sad when I finish school and have to leave the safety and security of the school's salon floor.  I should divulge that when I say "job" I do not mean the paying kind.  Not the paying money kind.  I work in the school salon on customers in order to get hours and credits in order to graduate.  It's still a job, I say.  If I could get paid for it, I swear I'd just stay there after I graduate and pass my state boards.  Sadly, that ain'ta gunna happn.

So anyhow.  I love my job.  I meet dozens of people every week, learn about their lives, their families, their history, their problems, and their plans for the future.  And then in a few weeks, those new friends come back for another appointment and so I get to know them better and better, while all along still meeting new people every day.

Sometimes, like today, I leave a little sad.  My last customer today was a very kind, wise gentleman named Ralph.  Ralph had a patch over one eye.  Generally men don't want their hair shampooed first like ladies do.  Men want to go straight to the chair, have a neck strip and a cape slung on them, a blended clipper cut, a square clean neck, straight sideburns, and cleaned up ear and eyebrow hair.  Then they want you to take that cape OFF of them, take them to the front desk so they can pay, slide you a good hefty tip, and GET THE HECK OUT OF DODGE.   Regardless of how comfortable you make them, how much you draw them out and get them to talk while they're in your chair, how much they like you, they STILL itch to get OUT of a salon.  It's a SALON.  

Ralph wanted a shampoo first.  To be accurate, Ralph asked me if I could shampoo his hair first.  "Of course!,"  I responded.  Got him to the shampoo bowl and draped.  He removed his eye patch.  Helped him lean back and get his head in the bowl and his neck situated.  Turned on the water and while I waited for it to warm up, started with my usual questions.  "Mr. Ralph are you tender headed?"  Most people say no.  In fact they say no, heck no, oh no, hell no, God no, or some version thereof which means 'put some muscle in it, girl, and scrub it good'.  Occasionally someone says 'sorta'.  Never, until today, has anyone ehhhhhhver answered yes to that question.  But Ralph did.  "Yes, verrrrrry."

OK.

"Very, Mr. Ralph?"

Yep.  'Specially this ear, right there (as he points to his crown), and right here (at his hairline at the temple).   Sumpn tells me I'm in trouble as I look down at this sweet man.  He looked back at me with his one good eye.  The spot on his temple is about a half dollar size, scarred and slick, a slight different color and 'finish' than the rest of the skin on his face.  The ear he pointed to (which was in the neck rest hole of the shampoo sink so I could only see it from the front) looked smaller and flatter than the other one.  As I placed my hand behind his head (like a cradle) to lift it up gently so I could look at his scalp, he winced.

"Ralph?"

"Yes'm?"

"Sit up.  We need to talk, don't we."

"Oh damn, I reckon."

"Ralph?"

"Yes'm?"

"What's going on with your scalp?  Why are you so tender, and what are the scars from?"

His eyes dropped, he clasped his hands, blew all his air out and sucked in a fresh batch.  "Skin cancer. Over 200 of 'em.  This ear?  The doctor had to take it off to get all the cancer out and then sew it back on.  This scar" (the one at his temple) "was the first one.  Since then there have been 199 others.  I actually don't even have a nose anymore.  This was all built for me" (as he circles the air around his perfectly normal sized nose with his index finger) "after they had to take my nose because of cancer.  The skin cancer, y'know."

"Is it going to hurt you when I shampoo your hair?"

"Not if you do it right" (great).  "Just go ahead.  It's dirty.  I just got out of the hospital.  Just whatever you do, don't TOUCH this ear. It hurts all the time.  Hurts if you look at it wrong."

My heart started beating fast and I could feel tears coming.  Ralph looked like someone's wonderful uncle, and he had come straight to the salon from a lengthy hospital stay to get a shampoo and a haircut.   WHERE was his family?

I shampooed his hair as if his head were a bird's or a butterfly's.  I got him back to my chair and without touching his scalp, combed his hair.  He looked tired.

"Use the scissors, would you please?  The clippers - well, we can't use clippers."  He sounded tired.

On a customer with no scalp issues, a haircut using shears takes three times as long as a clipper cut.  On Mr. Ralph, double THAT - so I had plenty of time to learn about Mr. Ralph.  He was from Nebraska, where he had been raised on a farm.  Moved to New York as an adult and began working construction.  Worked on the World Congress Center and ate lunch on top of it when the construction was complete.  Headed South, working construction all along the way, ended up here.  Mr. Ralph was a delightful man.  We talked about farm things - churning butter, head cheese (which he was thrilled I even knew about), using every part of a butchered animal, walking to school, and so on. We talked (or rather I listened) about his views on Obama, Social Security, and health care. We talked about "kids today", barbeque, and fresh corn on the cob. When I finished his haircut I wasn't satisfied with it because I couldn't get close to his ears or behind them.  What makes a men's haircut a wonderful, custom, impressive haircut that will get compliments and make people ask who cut it?  Around the ears.  Honest.  You might could prolly mess up the rest of a man's head, but if you pay close attention to the detail of the lines of his sideburns, around his ears, and his neckline, he's happy.  True story.

But I couldn't cut around Mr. Ralph's ears.  So even though he had a good haircut, he still looked messy.  Not a thing I could do about it.  I had used my longest, slimmest shears, braced my hand on my other hand and then on his shoulder so I could get in there and cut without bumping his ear, but there was only so much I could do.  I was not happy with it.  I wasn't finished.  It wasn't finished.  I couldn't finish.

"It looks great.  I'm happy with it," he said.  "Walk me up to the front desk."

So I did.  He paid for his haircut, turned to me and as he handed me a wad of bills and patted my arm, he said "You paid so much attention and gave so much effort to try to make my hair look perfect even with all THIS going on (as he raised both hands and pointed to his head with both index fingers).  I appreciate you so much."

I wondered if he knew how inadequate I felt as I watched him from behind walk out the door, curly burly unruly hair all behind his ears.  I hope I didn't let it show.

I hope Mr. Ralph comes back to visit me.  But boy.  I gotta say, I really hope somebody else cuts his hair.  I'm STILL a nervous wreck.

WHAT YOU WOULDN'T DO

But then I only want the best it's true

They can't believe the things I do for you

What you won't do, do for love

You've tried everything but you don't give up

In my world, only you make me do

For love what I would not do

Makes me do for love what I would not do

Heard that song live at Chastain Park. I can picture the night, who I was with, the way the world and weather felt, how the sky looked, the smell of candles, wine, and lots of expensive, stinky cheeses from the party next to us. I can remember moving my lips along with the words of the song (not singing. Definately not singing. I did want others around me to actually enjoy the evening.) with my eyes closed and swaying my shoulders and head just a little, and I can remember holding my hunky hubby's hand tightly and moving my ear closer to his face so I could hear his awesome tenor, James Taylorish voice softly singing along.

But what I can not remember - you won't believe it - Is WHO was on the flip-flappin' stage singingit!!! Can you just bleedat? It might have been Al Jarreau. That's who I truly believe it was, but then I have moments when I think it might have been George Benson. And then I really start to doubt, close my eyes and SWEAR I can hear (and see, yum) Bobby McFerrin standing on the stage with his all tall, skinny, dready, linen-clad, big white toothed bright smiley self, moving around like he doesn't have a bone in his body - like a slinky. He's the black Jimmy Buffet. I do know it was Bobby McFerrin that I was blessed to watch and hear him perform Baby: (backed by Chick Corea. Top THAT.)

baby baby baby baby runnin' everywhere,
baby baby baby baby runnin' here and there,
baby baby baby baby lookin' what we do,
baby baby baby baby watchin' want to do it too.

baby baby baby listenin' what we say,
baby walkin' walkin', talkin' talkin' want to play,
playin', playin', growin', growin', you an me to be,
have you thought of thought of what you're what you're makin' baby up to be.

mama mama mama mama treat your baby tenderly,
papa papa bounce your bounce your baby on your knee,
tell you tell you baby baby stories, play your baby games,
teach your teach your baby baby, sharin' makin' love your aim.

what we gonna gonna leave our babies when we leave this place,
how we gonna gonna help our help our babies take our place,
'cause baby baby baby lookin' what we do,
baby baby baby watchin' want to do it too

I used to sing Bobby McFerrin songs to my youngest when he was teensy and still slept in a crib. Rocked or walked both bebbies to sleep at night, sang Patsy Cline to the oldest, and Bobby McFerrin to the youngest. And they survived! Their ears did not bleed. True story.

I've often marveled at the things parents will do for their children. Often I have looked back in my own journey as a parent and only recognized then that something I had done in the past was one of those things you can only shake your head at and cluck, as you mutter, "Well when you're a parent, that's what you do. Right?"

Currently I am driving my son, once a week, to a tutor who lives two hours away. Because she's what he needs. Friends think I'm crazy. My hunky hubby even looked at me dubiously when I delivered the news to him that's what I'd be spending my Friday afternoons and evenings doing, and some Sundays as well. Ultimately now he knows it's the right thing, but it's a fair statement that that news is a little shocking. Difficult to process. It's sort of like someone locking himself in the house and giving his keys to a friend, just so he won't be able to get out of the house to go buy cigarettes, or booze, or ice cream or chocolate, shoes, or whatever it is that's got the grip. It's what's called for sometimes, but so extreme is the behavior to accomplish it that the recipient of the news discombobulates momentarily. Or, for some temporary period of time.

I haven't often been accused of not dealing with something. (Yes, Grammar Police, I know.) Rarely have I been known to procrastinate. Hardly is it like me to let something unacceptable drag on if there is anything I can humanly do to correct. So. It's not a stretch that I might be prone to overzealous motions or acts in this arena. My motto is I hope to always be able to claim having done too much and never have to be responsible for having not done enough. (Yes. Again. I know. You may call it Grammatical License.)

One time I drove one of my kids fifty miles, once a week to a specialist who was not covered by our insurance when there was one seven miles away that was. I had good reason. Was it worth the extra $800 a month out of pocket? You betcha. Was it worth the extra drive, time, and aggravation? Yyyyyyyep. Would I do it again? Most certainly.

Every parent has these stories. I love to read them. Love to hear about them. Tonight I took three handsome ten year olds to their school Talent Show - oh wait, scuse me - VARIETY Show, cauz heaven forbid we use the word talented *sigh*. Dozens and dozens of parents running, stepping, fetching, wearily setting up and tearing down, managing ticket sales, and so much more. For their kids. TALENTED kids. There I said it. TALENTED, they're TALENTED. Can we please call it that?

Anyway. Strangely (she said sarcastically) all THOSE parents, the active ones running the show? Those ones? THEIR kids were many of the ones IN it - not afraid to get up on a stage in front of 700 people and DO something, do it joyously, vigorously, energetically, and with all the innocence and pride of youth. To have taken all the time they did to practice, and practice, and practice some more. And another thing. The other parents - the ones that BROUGHT their kids to see the show? Those kids were the ones that clapped the most, cheered the loudest, got excited about their classmates performances. Both sets met up at the FroYo after to mingle, Group #2 patting Group #1 on the back, giving them positive affirmations and attaboys, and all of them shoving frozen yogurt down their piehole and being so excited and high on life and the academically and parentally sanctioned togetherness going on. I looked around the room and noticed that the best and brightest kids were there, visiting, bumping shoulders, knuckles, hips.

These kids are the ones that will be the Valedictorians and Salutatorians in their high school classes. They're the ones that will be in school plays, orchestra, band, on the football team, the soccer team, in BETA club, FCA, and the like. Mostly because they're smart, full of piss and vinegar, and joyfully motivated. But somewhat too, because their parents schlepped them places, introduced them to beauty, talent, a social life, shows, art, history, music, dance, and so so much more.

Whether they wanted it or not.

What we parents wouldn't do.

The Stink Eye

You know the one. It's the one Mamas give their kids when they're misbehaving in public. Mom slings the Stink Eye at the kid and the kid straightens up at once, fear orbing from his very core. A more expressive look there isn't, in all your inventory of looks you could bestow. It's the same look that Wife gives Husband when he embarrasses her in public. The one kid shoots Mom when she comes to school to pick him up in yoga pants, a wife-beater, and one of those goofy lookin' Rosie the Riveter bandanas tied around her head with the knot and bow ears cocked crooked on top of her noggin.

It comes naturally to most adults- the Stink Eye, not tying a bandana around your melon - particularly if you have children. Or a spouse. Or a sibling. Or, heck. People. Some kids are born with it, too. My ten year old developed it prior to turning a year old. It's a gift.

Of great import to note here, the Stink Eye is NOT the same as a Hate Look. The Stink Eye says "You are very important to me. I will love you always. You're a big part of my life. And, by the way. QUIT IT. Quit it this NANO-second and do not do NOT EHHHHHVER do it again as long as you shall live. Which if you do that again isn't long."

The Hate Look, on the other hand, says "You, my pretty, are a wretched, contemptible beast, and I could quite easily perform the Five Finger Death Punch on you while you sleep and then go get ice cream to celebrate. You make me want to shoot a puppy*."

The Stink Eye is often given via the magical ricochet properties of the rearview mirror. Or, it may involve an almost indistinguishable (to the general public) squint of one eye and/or a teensy but evil raising of one eyebrow. Sometimes a very soft, gentle, but BRUTAL grunt or sucking of the teeth accompanies.

It's one of the greatest communication tools available. Anybody can throw it and anyone (oughta be able to) catch it.

If you didn't see The Devil Wears Prada (where HAVE you been???) one of my favorite parts is where Stanley Tucci educates Anne Hathaway on the expressive facial tells of Meryl Streep and what each means. Here's what Stanley (as Nigel) says:

"There's a scale. One nod is good. Two nods is very good. There's only been one actual smile on record, and that was Tom Ford in 2001. She doesn't like it, she shakes her head. Then, of course, there's the pursing of the lips."

And Anne Hathaway (as Andi) says, "Which means...?"

"CATASTROPHE."

I have yet to meet the human who throws a meaner Stink Eye than my ten year old boy. If you catch a Stink Eye from him, you know you're in some big, fat, hairy trouble.

The good news is, he's not old enough or tall enough to pull it off. It's just stinkin' cute. So. The takeaway is, go big or go home. And. Don't do it if you can't pull it off. Wait 'til you grow into it.

Ta for now.

Stole the puppy thing from my sister. Just sourcin'.

Out With the Old, In With the New

My last few posts have been about the celebrated and honored seniors of our family. Time to turn it around and talk about the youngsters. The whippersnappers. The youth, or as Joe Pesci says in one of my favorite lines ever in a movie, "yoot. Two yoots."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpNgONH2ncI

On the last weekend before school was to start, my hubby decided he would take our two boys to the local gun show. It comes to the Civic Center once a year and I'm not ever sure who enjoys it more; my husband or the boys. At any rate it's become a tradition, and they generally call some friends to go with them. They make a Saturday morning of it and eat lunch at some dinky man dive after.

This year, as most, Clay and Nick went with them. Nick is my eldest's best bud, and Clay is his Dad, one of my husband's hunting buddies. When my three drove by to pick them up, they piled in the truck. They were off.

Only something was different, my husband reported later. Clay and Nick were both sheepish. A little quiet. Discombobulated even. Little did hunky hubby know he was getting ready to find out why.

Nick, Clay reported, had had John over the night before. John is the third of the Three Musketeers. Ever since second or third grade it's been Nick, John, and my Cole. Sometimes others joined, and lots of times two of the three got together when all three couldn't, but all these years these three boys have been dearest of friends and together often.

That night it was just Nick and John. They decided it would be fun to get some black powder from Nick's Dad's basement and light it. Yes, you read it right. Let me interject here that both these boys are all of 14 years old. Both bright. Both in A/C classes in 8th grade. Both have been Scouts since they were in Kindergarten. John, in fact, is getting ready to transfer to a magnet school for science - always has all As, is the 'most responsible' patrol leader in the Boy Scout troop, is engaged, respectful, and blends in well with kids and adults alike. What would make such a child decide he needed to light gunpowder, you ask? Me too - I've yet to figure it out. I'm still shakin' my head over it.

So who lit the powder? Yep, John. As his Mama said, "Yep, Mr. Smarty Pants wasn't so bright." John suffered second degree burns to his face and hands. Nick's hair curled, singed, and broke off, but he had no damage. A third friend, a next door neighbor, got smart and ran when they decided to light it.

Nick and John thought they would go to Nick's room and put some cold water on John's face until it stopped burning; that way they could get away without telling their parents what they'd done. But of course, John's skin began to burn worse and worse and before long, they decided they'd have to go admit to the parental units what had happened.

As the burns began to look and feel worse and worse, they took John to the Emergency Room. There they found out his burns were second degree. He was treated, bandaged and sent home with instructions to return a few days later for surgery. In this surgery, they replaced his burned skin with pig skin (I'm thinking until new skin regenerates?) and in a few days from now, he will return to the doctor to find out if there will be permanent scarring on his sweet face. Kills me that could be possible - I've looked at that beautiful face and perfect skin for years and I don't want to think it could be marred forever. In the meanwhile, he is out of school for at least a week to a week and a half, and in a significant amount of pain and discomfort.

I'm taking Cole over later to visit with John for a few minutes. He wants to let John know he's thinking about him. He's going to take him a basket of candy including but not limited to Atomic Fireballs, Hot Tamales, and RedHots. These kids have a sick sense of humor and in any other case it might be in poor taste to do such a thing, but they will adore the appropriateness of the gift and laugh together while they visit.

We have used poor John's situation as a teaching moment for Cole. Even though we have had dozens of conversations throughout our childrens' lives about safety of all kinds and just as many about guns and explosives specifically, and even though for years hunky hubby and I have each relayed stories to our kids about childhood friends who similarly burned their faces, eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair off and even blinded themselves lighting gunpowder, here's the thing. So had John's parents. I asked Cole what he would have done had he been with the boys that night, and he said he would've told them not to even go get the gunpowder. "What if they did anyway?" I asked. If they continued, he said, he would've gone and told an adult. But y'know, who's to say he isn't telling me what I want to hear, regurgitating the accurate answer? I want to believe it is what he would have done. He's smart and he's reasonable. He's down to earth and he's mature for his age in some ways. And I'd be willing to bet that since this happened it's definately what he would do in the future should he be in that situation, but here is the bottom line.

There's only so much you can teach your children whether by words or by modeling behavior yourself. After that (and during) you just have to pray over them. Daily. Sometimes hourly or by the minute.

I've received a teaching moment of my own from John's plight. It is that good, smart children can get into trouble and can do dumb things. That just because you've taught your children something doesn't mean they'll heed it. Moreover, that I have no power or control over my childrens' actual behavior, just the shaping of it and the consequences after it.

So why is it?

During Christmas vacation we spent two days at my Mama and Daddy's house. On the way home, I related to hunky hubby that I was worried about my Mom.

"What do you mean? She seemed fine to me other than working too hard for a 79 year old woman."

It's true. She is my Grandmother's (who is 104.5) caregiver, bill payer, chauffeur, property manager, secretary, battering ram - y'know. She's everything. My Grandmother (who is 104.5) does not think of her daughter as a 79 year old woman, or if she does, my guess is that from her perspective that's a spring chicken. She has that syndrome that our seniors get sometimes; the one that is seated firmly in entitlement due to age, wisdom, experience, and maybe most of all, weariness. It's someone else's turn to do for them. Know that one?

So my Mama, who really should be the recipient of some caregiving of her own, "works" full time. Now, Mary Ellen wouldn't have it any other way. She's doing what she feels she's supposed to be doing with her life and for her family. But it takes its toll.

During our visit, Mama pulled out sausage balls and announced that we should warm them and put them on the table to snack on. But. She pulled them out of the pantry. . . NOT the refrigerator.

"Mama," I said. "Do those have meat in them?"

"Yes baby. They're sausage balls."

"Mama," I said. "How long have they been in that pantry?"

"Since yesterday when I made them."

Still nothing. I needed a stronger prompt, I guessed. Or maybe just an all-out, blatant one.

"Mom. Shouldn't they have been stored in the fridge?"

"Oh. I guess. I didn't think about that. Here. Put them on the table."

WHAT??????

I changed tactics. I simply whispered a warning to each of my other family members to stay away from the sausage balls.

After dinner: "Wellll, nobody ate the sausage balls! Weren't they good?"

Now you understand why I'm worried?

The next morning, my Mama called me from Grandmother's. (She rises at 5:00 every morning and goes next door to her Mom's house, feeds her breakfast, helps her get her bath, and then begins the general housekeeping and chores.) "Honey I got waffles for the kids for breakfast, and there's bacon ready to be panfried, too."

"Ok Mama, I'll take care of it."

The frozen waffles were nowhere to be found - that is, if you were looking in the freezer. Guess where they were. No really, guess.

Right. The pantry.

Guess what WAS in the freezer though?! The bacon. Ready to be cooked? Don't think so. Ready to be thawed maybe.

During our visit there were a few other similar incidents. None of them were dangerous - well, unless you consider eating day old meat that hasn't been refrigerated dangerous. But you know what I mean. She wasn't driving down the wrong side of the road or anything. Not that she hasn't before in her life, but that was thirty four years ago when she was just ditzy.

So, my hunky husband reminds me, she's always been ditzy. Why is it you're worried now?

I don't know, but I am. Her responses are different than the lifelong ditziness we're accustomed to - they have a different tenor, a different underlying ummm - I don't know what.

So, my hunky husband reminds me, she's almost 80. Peoples' 'tenor' change with age.

Mind you, he's not trying to minimize my worry. Well, he is, but for altruistic reasons, not dismissive ones. He's trying to rationalize, to make me feel better, to help me put into perspective something I can't get ok with yet.

Only now, two days later, in the middle of the night, have I recognized why I'm worried now. She's my Mama and she's 79. Yes, genetically she may very well have a good shot at living another twenty five years, but I guess I am facing the thought, the very real idea, that sometime in the future, the relationship my Mama and I have will change. For good.

There aren't many things I'm afraid of. Really there aren't. Losing my Mama however, is high up on that short list. It's a totally selfish fear, for she knows where she's passing to when she passes, and she isn't afraid. She has a deep faith and a strong and committed Christian heart.

So why is it I'm worried? She does ditzy things and I worry she's displaying signs of dementia instead of the regular ditziness that's been a part of her personality always. It weakens my argument that I can't describe why I'm worried or give objective examples or reasons why I think recent occurrences are more serious or forboding than the ones we've always laughed about, shaken our head and sucked our teeth and looked at each other with glances that say, "Ohhhhh, that's just Mama."

My greatest hope is that I'm wrong. I haven't given thought to what life will be like without my Mama, and I don't want to give thought to such a thing. Maybe I won't have to for a couple of decades.

I don't know where they are and neither does she...

A few weeks ago I talked about Sylvia and Marie's Grandfather passing away. As a result, Sylvia had to bring her Grandmother to live with her in Alabama. With her dementia progressing, she is not able to take care of herself. We know what an incredibly difficult transition and situation it is when you take on this responsibility - I commend her for feeling such strong accountability for her family. If you have been in this position however, or even if you know someone who has, you will understand there is a flip side to the seriousness and critical nature of the situation.

You just have to laugh.

Comic relief is a necessary thing, folks. So you'll understand I'm not speaking out of disrespect or making light of the situation when I relate these humerous bits.

From the time Sylvia was in Alaska (where Grandmother and Grandfather lived) preparing to bring Grandmother home, she began her campaign to get her Grandmother to quit smoking.

"Once we get to Alabama there's gonna be no smoking. Maybe she'll forget she smokes."

I laughed so hard I choked. Didn't expect that. Then, a few weeks later, this:

"I'm missing three pairs of shoes. Grandmother has a new hiding place and I don't know where it is and neither does she."

Again, laughed so hard I snorted. Seems like when a comic statement is a surprise, it makes it even funnier.

My own Grandmother, who is 104 years old, had a toothache a couple of years ago. At 102 the dentist was not inclined to do anything restorative; his suggestion was to pull the tooth and leave it at that. Over the holidays while we were there, my Mother, having just sat with Grandmother while she ate her lunch, said, "If we'd known Mother was going to live this much longer we might've had that tooth fixed instead of yanked."

Funny stuff. She didn't intend for it to come out funny. Just happened.

Similarly, each year when Grandmother's birthday comes around, my sister and my cousins and I all put our heads together to decide what and where to have the party. For the 104th party planning, I said, "Well lets make it a big one. Might be her last."

My cousin Sheri said, "Oh Caren. We've been saying that for ten years."

Hee hee heeeeeeeeeeeeee. It's not funny. But it IS. IT IS. Every time I visit my Grandmother, when I hug and kiss her goodbye and tell her I love her, I head out the door and get in the car to leave and spend the next few minutes wondering if that was the last time I would ever get to do that. It's so gut wrenching a thought that comic relief is a necessity. I tell myself every single day I get to spend with her is a gift. I'm sure Sylvia tells herself the same thing about her Grandmother.

Some gifts are more valuable and meaningful than others; some come with baggage, some come with strings. The gift of having our seniors comes with humor. Thankfully.

YOU SPENT HOW MUCH?????

My hunky hubby has the George Bush Sr. Cost of Living Syndrome. That is to say, he's clueless about the current prices of groceries among other things, and accordingly, how much is generally and regularly spent for groceries for the average family of four. Uhh, family of four where 75% are male. I feel that statement is crucial because its insanely consequential to the bottom line.

Now then. I feel compelled to state for the record that Hunky Hubby can quote the exact and/or relational cost of an abundance of items, mostly related to commercial property and it's upkeep, maintenance and repair. Also he's acutely aware of the price of frozen pizza, Xochitl chips, salsa, guacamole, and hummus. And Diet Coke. Pretty much his repertoire as it relates to consumable grocery items. Now, if you're talking hunting gear that's a different saga. And a post for another day.

So when I got home from Costco yesterday and happened to mention that I'd spent $365, he. freaked. out. Lost his mind for a bit.

"You saw all the stuff we brought in baby," I say. "How much did you THINK it cost? You can't get this quantity of cases, multi-packs, and huge containers of consumables like this for peanuts y'know."

"Well . . . . well . . . . well, weeeeee're we're just spending a lot on extras right here at Christmas, that's all," he said with a frustrated hand raised to his forehead.

"Extras? Interesting viewpoint. I never looked at food for our family as extras, but if you insist."

"Are you kidding me?" He's hoarse by now. "Three HUNDRED and seventy DOLLARS worth? That's not EXTRAS?????

"Sad to say, but no my darling man. It's normal. And not only that, but I didn't get everything I needed either. I'll have to make a grocery store trip later in the week."

At this point I thought his eyeballs might just pop out of their sockets and the top of his head shoot off with projectile smoke billowing and a big ol' train horn sound for accompaniment. He looked at me like I had three heads.

"What? More? We still need MORE?"

*sigh* Bless his heart. Good thing I'm so in love with him.

Pregnant pause. Having known the man for somewhere over thirty years, I'm fully aware that now at this nano-second he's working that information in his brain to spin it so that somehow HIS reaction is MY fault.

"Well, you acted like $370 was a lot when you told me how much you spent."

"It is."

"It is what?"

"A lot."

Pregnant pause. Having known the man for somewhere over thirty years, I'm just now learning how to burst his blame bubble.

"Well then, see?"

"See what?"

"See? If you hadn't acted like it was a lot I wouldn't have - uh - said, yeah that's it, said what I did."

*sigh* Bless his heart.

"It is a lot, but it's not more than usual. See the difference there, Big Guy? And for the record, the term extras refers to something that can be done without. In excess. Ancillary. Extraneous. Last time I checked, it was not only illegal but unethical and abysmally negligent not to provide healthy and nutritional food for your children."

Okayyyyyy. So that parting shot may've been ever so slightly patronizing. But just WAIT until he asks me where the Diet Cokes are. Now THERE's an extra.

Christmas in Dixie

It's snowin' in the pines....

Not really. It is supposed to snow tomorrow, but I've had that song stuck in my head since last week. That one and Sweet Home Alabama and yes I know it wins the prize for the most redneck song ever written. But tell me this. Do you know anyone who, when the very first four or five guitar notes of Sweet Home Alabama come on, does NOT say "Turn it up" along with Ronnie Van Zant?

I don't.

Nor do I know anyone who doesn't know Christmas in

Dixie. What's it doing in Memphis? Maybe Graceland's all in lights.

What about New York City?

By now there's snow on the ground.

Chicago?

It's windy and the kids are out of school.

What's goin' on in Motown?

It's magic and the city's on the move.

It's a warm, inviting, cozy song. Just like when you hear the first four notes of Sweet Home Alabama, you know for the next three and a half minutes Lynyrd Skynyrd is going to be right there with you, dependably twanging out the lines and guitar licks you know by heart and have for years. Who plays the air guitar when it comes on?

Mee, mee, meeeee!

Unabashedly. No shame. Riiiiiight out in the open, baby. If my kids are around when it comes on they scatter. Fast. So Mom doesn't embarrass them by playing her air guitar. They know I carry it everywhere with me.

And when Randy and Jeff Owens come on singing to me about Christmas in Dixie, there's no one that sings that last, sweet line louder than me.

And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight. For that one, my kids don't scatter. They sing it with me. At the top of their lungs.

It's special being Southern, no doubt. You see the quote "I'm American by choice and Southern by the grace of God", and you might think it's just a cute lil' catch phrase to put on a button or a bumper sticker, but no. Nnnnnnnnewp. We Southerners really feel it. I know other folks are proud of where they live or where they're from, but I don't ever hear the pride, the love, and the thankfulness come through like I do when I hear a Southerner talk about life in the South, or explain how to fry (or eat) fried chicken, how to make buttermilk biscuits, how to sit on the porch with a tall glass of iced tea, how to entertain while making guests feel like family, how to interpret Southern speak, or most importantly, how to speak gracefully and tactfully with a lovely, gentle drawl while shooting daggers from your eyeballs into someone's soul. It's the Southern feminine version of The Hairy Eyeball. The Stinkeye. Only we do it with a wink, a smile and a tilt of the head. A Southern woman must know this, as well as the backwards sympathetic comment "Bless your heart."

"Oh, she's gained at least twenty pounds. Bless her heart."

Anyway. Here I sit rambling on about being Southern when I need to be cooking dinner and helping J-rod with his homework. He's got a ton, bless his heart.

LOSING the GREATS

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my family lost two greats. My children lost one of their remaining three Great Grandparents. That my children have thus far had three Great Grandparents in their lives has been a rare blessing. The Great Grandfather they lost lived 4400 miles away and had only met my children once. Still, it was a sad and reverent occasion. This Great Grandfather was the grandfather of my oldest son's birthmother. Follow that? Cole's birthmother's grandaddy. Each of my children claim their brother's birth family as their own, and I claim them all. The more family you can claim the merrier, I say. Cole's birth aunt also belongs to Jared, Jared's birth grandmother belongs to Cole, and so on. It warms my heart when Jared calls Cole's birth aunt by "Aunt Sylvia". That Aunt Sylvia's children are cousins to both my children and not just one? It's something so staggeringly positive and poignant, and most families who are made by giving birth to their children unfortunately never even get to experience it. It's one of the many advantages of getting your children by adoption.

The Great Grandfather we lost was Korean. He lived in Alaska. He possessed such a wide, deep, vast expanse of wisdom and knowledge and I'd always hoped he could someday share it with my children. Alas, too much worked against us for it to happen. There was a language barrier, distance, and failing health and it wasn't to be. His wife, the boys' Great Grandmother, has dementia and anything she might have shared with the boys is gone, for the most part. When history and wisdom doesn't get passed down a connection is broken and I don't think it can be regained. I'm sad about that.

The one remaining Great Grandparent is my own Grandmother. She's nearly 105 yet most days she's sharper than me - not that that takes much. I'm so grateful my boys have lived their lives thus far with her in it, and I hope we have more time yet with her. Every visit with her is a memory we all take with us. Makes us richer. Makes us understand the value of experience and seniority, the delicacy of life and the importance of savoring every moment with someone as if it's your last.

I'm so thankful my children have birthmothers who love them so much; who made the ultimate and most incredibly difficult, selfless decision to give their child a shot in life. Never do my children have to wonder if they weren't wanted, if they were given away. Their birthmothers and their birthmothers' families make certain they know otherwise, by their actions and their words.

We will miss our Korean Great Grandfather even though we didn't know him well. He held a spot in our family tree. He was an important character in the story of our lives, maybe Cole's in particular.

We also lost my Aunt Mary (that's pronounced Aint Mayree). To say that lost was profound is so incomplete as to nearly be offensive. She had an intense and far-reaching impact on the lives of her family. She was the sister of my Grandmother. The younger sister. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob (the brother of my Grandfather - that's a story for a post all on its own) never had any children, so they made their nieces and nephews their children. We all spent childhood summers at Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob's. They lived on "the old home place", a sprawling, peaceful Georgia farm of hundreds of acres, mature forests, trails, blackberry bushes, lakes, ponds, garden plots, pastures, fruit trees and barns that they played in as children. They had built a home there but also preserved all the old buildings on the place. They had cows, horses, and occasionally pigs. They always had two border collies and one was always named Sam. As long as I remember going there, there was always a furry black, blonde and white border collie named Sam.

My cousin Jeff eulogized Aunt Mary. It was by far the best, most appropriate, most endearing tribute ever given at a funeral where I've been in attendance. I have a copy of it coming to me. I'll share parts of it with you when it arrives. Jeff reminisced about how Aunt Mary taught us all what clean really meant - as we all apparently had erroneous definitions prior to her lessons. He told of her kindness and how many other kindnesses she was responsible for that no one would ever know about. He talked about her spirit, her contagious laugh, her financial shrewdness as well as her financial generosity. He talked about how many things we all learned just by being there with them - how to tell when a horse was getting ready to roll, how to jump off a horse, and how, in so many more ways than one, to get right back on the horse. During the ten or fifteen minutes he spoke, he brought back such intense, accurate, and delicious memories of Aunt Mary, and as I looked around at all the people who loved Aunt Mary and were gathered around her coffin, it was obvious Jeff brought the essence of Aunt Mary back for them too.

I'm so thankful to have had her in my life. I'm thankful she played such a great role in my life and provided me with one of the many models I was fortunate enough to have of a fiercely strong, joyous woman.

We have a lot to be thankful for this holiday season.

"We are

what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
– Aristotle

Let that one sink in for a few minutes. The more times I read that the more I love it. The more I've decided I should live by it. The more I think it should be my mantra.

It's powerful. It's profound. It's simple. Excellence is a habit. Wow.

I believe that's a habit I'd like to have. It surely is easy to make something a habit. I know because Monday I started eating one funsize frozen Snickers when I got home and today, Thursday, a mere three days later, it's part of my daily ritual and I'm discombobulated if I don't get it. Yesterday I forgot and within five or ten minutes of walking into the house my mouth was watering and I was craving chocolate, caramel and peanuts. Exactly two frozen bites of it. What do you want to bet it takes me longer to break that habit than it did to establish it???? WHY is that? Grrrr. I digress. The point is, it drove home for me the fact that I can establish a habit within a short matter of days. Why shouldn't it be a fabulous habit? One I don't ever WANT to break???

Recently I started back to school. The group of 'kids' I attend with are late teens and early twenties, for the most part. They drag in at 9:00am, talk about how tired they are, how they couldn't get out of bed, their MOM had to call them SEVEN times before they got up.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR. Their MOM???? SEVEN times???? Don't anyone tell my nine year old. He's gonna feel SO hornswoggled.

One of these girls, rubbing her eyes with one hand and propping her head up with the other, peeps through her half shut slits and says, in my general direction, "Miz Caren, how in the HELL do you have so much energy this early in the morning???"

Early? EARLY? Give me strength. Any Mom knows that 9:00am is about lunchtime. When your day begins at 5:45am with two loads of laundry, a shower, getting something into the crockpot for dinner, making three lunches, signing four papers your kids forgot last night, writing a check for the field trip (again, said child forgot last night), feeding two dogs, throwing two coats of mascara on inbetween all that, then getting the kids to school and getting myself to school, all by 8:15 -- and lovin' every second of it ----- 9:00am is NOT early.

So my reply? Well, what I WANT to say? "How in the heck are you so SLEEPY at 9:00am???" You are burnin' daylight, lil girl!!! Energy is a state of mind. You ain't gonna acquire it slopped over the table like that with your head in your hands."

What I say: "Energy is lots more fun. It's a decision."

That's when the student next to me said "Hey! Aristotle said that, right?"

"I don't know," I said. But he shoulda, if he didn't. So I looked it up when I got home. Here's what the gal next to me was thinking of:

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence therefore, is not an act, it's a habit."

Wow. So, I think, is energy. So, I think, is a good attitude. So, I think, is a thoughtful and loving countenance.

I think I would've liked Aristotle.

GIVING THANKS

This year our Thanksgiving is taking a turn. I'm not getting out the china and silver and crystal. Not washing it all up so we can eat off of it for an hour or so and then wash it all up again. Not getting out the linen and washing it all up, setting the table with it and then pulling it all off the table and washing it all up again. Some years it seems like a good idea to wear myself out doing those traditional things. Some years I really enjoy it, even though I spend an inordinate amount of time on it and lose way too much rest and/or sleep for its importance. In any case, not happnin' this year.

This year I either have time to cook OR be with family. I choose family. Thankfully my sister-in-law came up with the idea to have the meal catered out. Her schedule is similar to mine for the next two to three weeks and I don't know about her, but I'm having trouble finding enough time to get the bare necessities done, much less the 'can-do-withouts'. I haven't taken my kids anywhere fun in weeks. I haven't spent an evening cuddled up with my husband reading or watching a movie together in much too long. I haven't been to see my Mama and Daddy in months. Haven't had a girls night in forever. At this point, it would be an insult to those I love and haven't spent enough time with to agree to spend hours and hours in the kitchen cooking for one meal.

And thankfully, split several ways, the cost of the meal catered is less than I would pay for groceries for the event, plus all the time I gain being somewhere other than the kitchen with my hand up a bird's bum. It's a win-win.

I never have quite understood the feeling that Thanksgiving is so so much about food. I'm not thankful for food. Well, that's not right. Of course I'm thankful for food. But it's not what I'm celebrating and being thankful for on the fourth Thursday in November. Nope. It's family. It's spending a day together with people I don't see enough, don't hug enough, don't get to visit with enough. It's fellowship, laughter, reminiscing, storytelling, and just breathing each others' air.

And I get to thoroughly enjoy it. I get to enjoy it because I don't have broilers and roasters and casserole dishes and cookie sheets and baking pans and bar pans and cake plates and mixing bowls to wash. I'm going to do what the men do after a meal - sit down in front of the TV or on the patio. And then, I get to enjoy it some more instead of washing dishes. Paper plates go straight into the garbage. Yay. And then I get to enjoy it some more even, because I don't have to wash and fold linens.

Then when that celebration is over, I can make a pot of coffee and go upstairs and pack my bags so the next morning we can travel to my Mama's house for another Thanksgiving celebration. Don't have to spend half the night cooking. I only have to take myself and my three guys. No food. She's been catering Thanksgiving out for years.

I am one lucky girl. I should be thankful! (wink wink)

60 MILES, 3 DAYS, 2400 FRIENDS, ONE I.T. PULL, ONE SISTER, ONE GOAL

Last weekend I participated in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day 60 Mile Walk for breast cancer. My sister (that my hunky husband's brother gave me) and I had been planning this for months. We'd been training. We'd been plotting. We'd been fundraising. We'd been talkin' it up. We'd been thinking about it and smiling but largely ignoring it owing to the fact that we both have lives that are all-encompassing, comprehensively, extensively, uhh, full beyond measure.

I had an advantage. My children both played soccer at a complex that was composed of five soccer fields and a 1/2 mile track which encircled three of the five.

Susan had an advantage. She did NOT have two children that played soccer or - well, she didn't have two children.

The two of us are of like minds in many respects. We understand if our nights aren't good our days aren't good, we understand our capabilities and our shortcomings, and as a result we elected to spend one of the three nights in Camp (for the experience. Y'know.) and the other two in hotel rooms where we could actually sleep well and arrive at the start line the next morning refreshed and ready. This decision actuated a chain of events that made us "exceptions". Well we knew we were exceptions already. We had to figure out how to get luggage to and from Camp, how to get from Closing Ceremonies back to our vehicle, and a few other such logistics. We managed.

Imminently important was how to get to the Medical Tent each morning in time to have our various hurty parts taped and then get in 'line' for the start so that we had the advantage of at least beginning the day's walk in the first third. We managed. Also important, how to arrive at Camp in the a.m. in time to throw in with the breakfast crew. Bacon, sausage, eggs, biscuits, jelly, butter, hash browns, cheese danish, fruit, juice, and coffee. Anyone with a brain understands the importance of making it in time to partake. We were, after all, walking 20 miles that day. We managed.

The upshot was that we DID it. We finished. We walked 60 miles for the cure. T-H-E. C-U-R-E. We had raised our money, trained, and we walked it. We started, we finished. It wasn't easy. At times it wasn't even fun. But. At other times it was. Fun. Fulfilling. Exhilarating. Emotional. Passionate. Climactic. Adrenaline charged. Emotion packed. Exhausting. Painful.

At the Opening Ceremonies we got to place a pink circle on the Memorial Wall. That one that says "For Diane" is mine.

And as much of a cliche as it is, here's what went through my peabrain. If Diane can receive the news that she has cancer, engage in the chemo/radiation fight and maintain a positive attitude, live (and I do really mean live) through years of remission, and then receive the bad news again and start all over with chemo/radiation, then guess what. I CAN walk 60 miles in three days. I can do that. No matter that my shins splinted and my I.T. band was pulled, no matter Susan had a hamstring pull and painful blisters. Somehow we understood that our issues were minor - even though they felt major. No. Not major. Epic. Deadly. Dramatic. B-I-G time.

Cauz know what? Diane managed. She managed. She managed with beautiful graciousness and gentility. She managed through her faith and her relationship with God.

Diane managed. She manages today. She has an invasive functioning illness/ailment and she could beat any of us out when it comes to attitude, cheerfulness, or faith. She has the best friend in the world. That would be my mother.

I'd walk another 60 mile walk for her. I wouldn't like it. But I'd do it. Throughout the 3 days, there was one thing Susan and I kept repeating to each other. "It's about the journey. It's about the journey. It's about the journey."

It meant so many things. When we wanted to pass everyone because they were pokey or annoying. When we wanted to sock someone in the face because they were selfish or thoughtless. When we wanted to hail the Sweep Van and just go back to camp and chill, have our muscles rubbed and wrapped. But the journey WAS what it was about. For every day I'm separated from the event for yet another day, I understand the journey a little better. I can pray that my shins will heal quicker. I can respond to questions with "Oh yes, I'd do it again." I can proudly announce, "We raised SIX AND A HALF MILLION DOLLARS." But in the end, even though I'm profoundly and permanently affected by the experience, I still don't have a clue. Not a clue what it's like to live with cancer. And I'm thankful, for that and for the conviction to do The Walk and to understand the blessings of my life and my family. For a sister to walk with. For a family to return to. For a Godly mother with a Godly best friend. And for a loving God that wraps me in His arms even when my biggest problem is my shins.