The way we were

My kids, as teenagers particularly, have thought themselves superior to their parents and grandparents - considering themselves more worldly, more sophisticated, more knowledgeable, more current.  We parents wait for them to mature out of those notions, smiling to ourselves about their naivete.

My cousin, a professional genealogist freely sharing her knowledge and research with the rest of us cousins, posted this picture on her facebook page.

This is my grandmother with her husband and first child. She was fifteen and he was twenty-five when they married. She's fifteen or sixteen in this picture, probably in the year 1929.  She joked that she played with her dolls and her babies at the same time.

At fifteen, she knew what she wanted and she made it happen. Like most men, I expect my grandpa never knew what hit him. They had four daughters and two sons, the younger son living only a few hours. The surviving son is my dad.

My grandparents were married for forty-five years, until my grandpa died at age seventy. She died in 1995 at age 80. They lived in southwestern Oklahoma, farming in rough conditions.

I am in awe of my grandmother's determination and her recognition, at such a young age, of the important things of life.

Have you hugged or called a grandparent today?

Back to Basics

After an eventful month, I am back.

In fact, it seems like deja vue all over again.

The boys, Ricky and I took the Florida vacation we had scheduled a year ago, before my blurred week of colon cancer diagnosis and surgery forced its cancellation.

The rest of the month has been filled with getting Ricky ready for thirty days in India. In fact, he should be pulling back from the tarmac right now, headed with a group of seventeen educators to catch a fourteen hour flight from Chicago to Delhi. He will leave Chicago about 4:00 pm today and land about 5:30 tomorrow afternoon Indian time. India is ten and a half hours ahead.

A year and a half after we married, I spent three weeks on a business trip to South and Central America - no cell phones, no internet, no employer budget for personal communication. Ricky and I had two prearranged thirty minute phone calls, all we could afford. The following summer he had internships in Texas while I continued to work in Chicago. Without a doubt, that was the longest twelve weeks of my life, even with spending all his summer salary on my plane trips to Texas every other weekend.

Now he's gone again, and I am home, but this time not alone. In the intervening thirty years I've accumulated two dogs, three cats and three kids to help hold down the fort. The fourth child and spouse live nearby.

While I was in South America Ricky grew a beard and moustache. It was so pitiful he shaved it all off before picking me up at O'Hare. I only have pictures. This time he shaved his head before leaving, something I'd seen and admired before. (You can see a picture here.)

Last time we were apart, communication was sketchy. This time, whenever internet is available, we will chat on Skype. We will email and update our blogs. He paid the $8 for ninety days that will allow him to use the internet to call any phone in the United States. The longest we will go without talking will probably be today. He has left his cell phone home, so I won't hear from him until he is settled in his Delhi hotel. The communication blackout may happen again as he moves around the country and stays in less modern hotels, but maybe not. We'll see.

Last time apart we were young adults still learning each other. Now we are marriage veterans able to have extensive conversations with few audible words. Then we filled the empty spaces with worry and perhaps a little jealousy. Now we just rely on each other with confidence. He is going to have a fabulous adventure without family worries and responsibilites. I will get the same adventure by proxy and will make myself do some things with girlfriends usually deferred for family reasons. Ricky gets a month without having to clean up cat messes, put dogs to bed, wake up kids or work on his "honey-do" list. (While he's gone I have farmed out the cat and dog assignments to the kids and will pretend to be childless as much as possible. After all, the youngest is sixteen.)

I have totally enjoyed watching Ricky prepare for this trip. For the past couple of months, anticipating our separation, he has been particularly sweet and attentive. What fun! And I've watched with amusement as he worried over trip details. Ricky wants to KNOW the plan when he's traveling. This is the first time in his adult life he has no control or choice regarding his schedule. He will have no control over home while away, either. He has worried that we won't be able to function without him. He has worried that we will be able to get by without him. Funny man, my now out of control husband.

Thinking about Ricky's worries reminds me of his dad, Jim Balthrop. Jim, a hungry teenage boy during the 1930's depression, ran his adult life around mealtimes. We, his children, mocked him for arranging his meals by clockwork and for setting his travel itineraries by the highway locations of Stucky's and Denny's Restaurants. Ricky has spent the month of June preparing to be hungry in India. Here's the email he sent me a week ago when we got back from Florida:

     With a week to go before I go a half a world away, here are some things that sound good for stocking up my stomach.

          Mexican Inn
          Lasagna
         Chicken chunks
         Kinkaids
         Outback (or other steak place)
         Italian restaurant (either Italy or Cafe Sicilia)
        Barbeque (at least once thats not Spring Creek)
    Those are probably the biggies. Chocolate cake maybe sometime?

Unfortunately for him, I only had a week to "make my weight" at Weight Watcher's, so we didn't get to the lasagne. I remembered Tuesday night to make his favorite chocolate cake and it turned out all right. (Since I weighed in after dropping Ricky off at the airport this morning, I can now have a piece, too!)

His other preparations included shopping, a favored activity barely second to eating. He bought the Ipad he's been pining for and a nice mid-sized camera with lots of zoom we both wanted. He has a new Eddie Bauer backpack and monsoon worthy shoes and lots of beef jerky. So now he and all his preparations are in the air.

What will I do while he's gone that I don't do when he's here? Grocery shop, make my own coffee, decide what and when to eat. (I had Ricky buy ground coffee yesterday so I can keep my coffee bean grinder-free track record intact.) I will have to pay the few bills he could not pay in advance and may actually learn how to use the various TV remote controls. Brian is covering the pool maintenance, I made Wiley learn how to operate our robot floor cleaner, neither of which I have ever done or will do. I'll have to make sure the trash is set out, the cars are gassed and the house is secure when things go bump in the middle of the night. I will have to turn on the bedroom celing fan myself, then turn it off, back on, off, on, ....... (Remember, I'm fifty-something.) And I'll find out how to do all the other things he does without thinking or me noticing.

When the boys and I head to Colorado for a few days in July, I must study the route, book the hotels and make sure we have more than the usual $5 or so of cash I usually carry.

And he's worried we won't notice he's gone? I already said he's a funny man.

If you want to follow his India adventure, he has a blog at http://rickysplace.wordpress.com/

A ways past fifty something

I had a conversation with my dad today, in between all the fast and furious e-filing I am doing. Actually, I called him to make sure he had looked over his and mom's return so that I could go ahead and push the button to file it.

I told him that Wiley and I are probably going to a soccer tournament in Colorado in the middle of July. Had he and Mom decided yet whether they are spending their motor home summer in Alaska or Colorado? I have been hoping for Colorado, as I'm longing for a cheap way to spend a few days doing as little as possible. If they are in Colorado, maybe they'll catch a soccer game or two and then Wiley and I can hang out for a few extra days.

Anyway......

Me: Looks like Wiley and I are going to be in Colorado the middle of July, at Colorado Springs doing a Pike's Pike soccer tournament. Are you going to be in Colorado then? Tell Mom so you guys factor that in when deciding where to go.

Dad: We're leaning toward Colorado, I think. So, end of July?

Me: No, the middle of July

Dad: I bet we could be in Boulder.

Me: No, we're going to Colorado Springs, so southern Colorado.

Dad: Okay, Colorado Springs, first of July.

Me: MIDDLE of July, Dad. I'm calling Mom.

And I did.

Cinderella!

I'm going to the Ball - the 2011 Inaugural Ball celebrating the swearing in of a good man who has been my friend and client for more than twenty years. How cool is that?

This time my carriage will be driven by American Airlines, a nice break from the recent weekend trips. Starting at Halloween I have gone to Oklahoma twice, San Antonio twice, Indianapolis and Memphis. This weekend we are headed to Houston for a wedding and then one more trip to Oklahoma before the end of the year. So that's one plane trip (Indy) and 4,000 miles of driving.

The invitation to the ball could not have come at a better time, though. This holiday season started a little flat. I've had mild feelings of doom and gloom, feelings I couldn't shake off. Do I only have a few holidays left? Will my body ever return to "normal?" (There's nothing particularly painful, just annoying, lingering side effects from my colon dissection in June.) Am I fated to be that brave, stoic cancer survivor who eventually succumbs gracefully to a recurrence?

All stupid stuff.

Now the Christmas shopping is mostly done and even wrapped, the decorations are up and the first seventeen batches of fudge are finished and delivered. My oldest, after a year and a half of constant searches and interviews, just landed a full time job! My older son, a joy to have back in the house, has a renewed sense of purpose and optimism and is making serious plans for the future, determined to follow through. My married kids just received bonuses and good reviews at their jobs. My youngest has excelled at band (San Antonio & Indy) and soccer (Memphis), all while keeping up with his school work.

And right after the holidays, which are and will be awesome, I get to go to a ball with my own Prince Charming. Seriously cool!

Will we or won't we?

Forget the red jello.

Most of the time Thanksgiving Dinner is at our house. The meal is always the same.

Turkey & gravy
Store bought dressing unless my mom comes and brings her great homemade dressing
Potato casserole
Baked beans
Green bean casserole
Mashed potatoes
English peas
Crescent rolls

and red jello

While several of the foods on the list are kids' favorites now, there wasn't much on the list they liked when they were little, but they loved the red jello. Ricky's dad would always make red jello for them and we made it one of our Thanksgiving staples (along with always having Ricky's dad and mom join us.)

The last several years we have had issues with the red jello. Sometimes it has mysteriously disappeared from the shopping list. Other years it has hidden in the pantry until it was TOO LATE to make it and have it firm by the time we eat. Several times I have made the red jello Wednesday night only to remember it's in the back fridge on Friday.

In the past week each of my children have pointedly requested red jello for Thanksgiving. I'll be seeing all the kids today. They are to remind me to make the red jello. Then tomorrow it is their specific mission to remember the red jello before we sit down to eat.

That's all I can do.

Back to normal

There is no normal, none at all.

You think it is waiting for you just around the corner, but instead there is only more craziness. Eventually you realize there is no set pattern for weaving through life.

I think I thought some day I would have the stress free lifestyle of Claire Huckstable* - with a professional career, a great sense of humor, a rich and entertaining husband, a gorgeous (clean) house and children that "oohed and aahed" over the wisdom I imparted.

Ha! Those TV shows and commercials and movies, they're all fakes. Even the more realistic shows can't mirror any one family's life, and certainly not mine.

I have almost eliminated the bad habit of assuming things will be simpler in the future.  I appreciate the classic story of "The Station," believing you just need to reach  your destination to have it made, but then realizing that the trip, the journey, is the actual destination after all.

With us, it's thinking that our schedule will get easier, more manageable.....after our jobs settle down, our kids can dress themselves or drive themselves, or after we've run out of life's surprises.

My first three kids are four and a half years, five school years, apart. I knew that as they moved in a pack through middle and high school that our lives would be hectic, but by the time our fourth child came through six years later, it would be a piece of cake. Right?

Now our baby is in high school. We've just finished marching band season, three months of 7:00 am rehearsals and extra evening and Saturday practices. And when your child does not drive, his schedule is your schedule, in addition to your own. In a two week period we made two round trip trips to San Antonio, several community rehearsals and performances and ended up last weekend for the final competition in Indianapolis. The band leaves on buses on a Wednesday night and arrives in Indianapolis Thursday evening after stopping for  a three hour rehearsal in Illinois. I flew up Thursday night, Ricky came up Friday afternoon. The band performed Friday morning and scored well enough to advance to the next round on Saturday. Saturday's performance put them in the finals on Saturday night. They finished third out of ninety plus bands. Each performance was better than the one before and Saturday night was awesome. After their final performance, the kids loaded up buses, leaving Indy about three in the morning.

Ricky and I floated back to our hotel room, pleased with the results and pleased with the end of band season. Life would once again be normal after our flight on Sunday.

At 1:30 a.m. the phone rang. Our son back in Texas had arrived home to his apartment to find the door kicked in and his electronics gone. Pretty devastating for a kid whose whole life is, or was, stored on his computer. Thank God he is safe and it was only stuff that disappeared.

Later in the day we got home (with only one TSA full body screening,) looking forward to no more 7:00 a.m. rehearsals. So the dog decides to go wonky on us. Winston, feeling ignored, quit sleeping peacefully through the night in his crate. It escalated during the week until Friday night, when I ended up rubbing his tummy for an hour, punctuated by putting him back in his crate, going back to my bed only to be summoned by his shrill, ear piercing yips. I ended up spending the night in the recliner, not that uncommon for me except this time I had a dog leashed to me. Unbelievable.

Now it's the weekend and holy crap! Thanksgiving is here! When did that happen? Obviously when I wasn't looking.

We made our major grocery runs on Saturday, the bird is in the house. And out of nowhere, a fabulous holiday is shaping up. My married kids had a change of plans so they will be able to share the day with us. My parents are heading down from Oklahoma. My older, single kids are a joy to have around, sharing in holiday jobs and dog duties. We are privileged that our older son is going to hang out here for a while, where it's safe and he can be secure while planning his next steps.

So life is back to our normal - a wonderful, wacky, wildly unpredictable normal.



* The first one of my kids to comment correctly on who Claire Huckstable is wins a prize.

A True Story

In the spring of 1995 my grandma died. A few days after the funeral my dad and mom, three of my dad's four sisters and their spouses gathered at their mother's senior citizen apartment to sort through her lifetime accumulation.

My grandma lived into her eighties and had a number of hobbies and interests. There were many items to reminisce over.

In among the bathroom towels, they found an unidentifiable object. It was perfectly round and smooth, looked like it was made of metal and had a large safety pin sticking in it. The consensus was that it was some sort of hot potato game kept around to entertain grandchildren (and great-grandchildren.)

One of the sisters tossed the game to my dad. "Here. You're the smart one. You figure it out."

My dad looked at it, turned it over in his hands, and pulled the safety pin out.

Orange smoke started fizzing out of the ball. Dad knew he was in trouble and ran toward the front door. He made it three steps before the ball exploded, covering the living room and everyone in it with a film of yellow and orange.

The concussion was powerful. Dad's palm and thumb were bruised so badly that blood oozed out the back of his hand. His stomach was peppered with fragments. His smart aleck sister Gwonda, who had tossed it to him, was bleeding from the face and neck. Everyone in the room was gagging and blinded.

Fortunately, two of the brothers-in-law were outside loading stuff when the bomb went off. My dad, mom and Dad's sister Jean piled into one car with Jean's husband Ted driving and Vadie, Gwonda and Gwonda's husband Lee made it to Vadie and Bob's car.

Heading to the hospital, my Uncle Ted was affected just by being in the car with them. He had to drive with his head hanging out the window, straining to see the center line. The other siblings took turns opening their eyes at intersections to yell out "red" or "green, go, go!" On the way to the hospital they drove past my cousin at work, who had never seen his dad drive so fast.

Arriving at the hospital they poured into the emergency room. Not for long. Soon the emergency room personnel were wheezing and coughing and had to shoo everyone outside, my dad and aunt on guerneys. Stripped and rinsed off by nurses and doctors in outside portable showers, the brothers and sisters could finally see again. My dad and aunt took a few weeks to recover from their wounds, but there were no serious injuries.

Everyone ended up in hospital scrubs, their own clothes ruined. Hospital staff wanted to burn the clothes, but couldn't because of the wallets, cash and other personal items. Back at Ted and Jean's house a few hours later, they set the bags of clothes on the lawn. The lingering fumes seeping through the plastic were still so strong it quickly killed the surrounding grass.

Lee, Gwonda, Vadie, Jo, Ted(dy Mac), Jean

So what the heck happened at their mother's apartment?

The bomb squad from nearby Fort Sill ended up calling in experts from Oklahoma City to determine that my dad had pulled the pin on a Korean War era tear gas grenade. Found in my grandma's apartment in small town Oklahoma. Nestled in the bathroom towels.


It turns out several of the grandchildren, now grown, remembered playing with the grenade. But Grandpa had told them not to pull the pin out. He had bought it at an Army surplus store, intending to set it off underneath the house to kill the bugs and spiders. For some reason he changed his mind. Wow. 


There are several lessons here.


First......
Boys will be boys. This seems to be a recurring theme among my posts. My grandpa was probably in his fifties when he bought the grenade. I'm sure he enjoyed telling his friends about it. And I expect he intended to use it eventually, because explosions are fun.


Second.........
Husbands should give their wives all the facts. Something tells me Grandma did not know she had a live grenade in her home. Keep in mind that Grandpa died twenty years earlier, so the grenade had been around for decades. He had told her it was important and to be careful. She carefully moved it from home to home and room to room. So men, even when you know it conflicts with the first corollary above, admit when you have something around that is dangerous.


Third..........
Do not think of your parents naked and in an outdoor shower.


And, finally (this is for you, Dad)...........


Find the instruction manual before you pull the pin. 

Call of Duty

Tomorrow is the first day of a new school year. Wiley the student has been in six-days-a-week, nine-hours-a-day marching band camp for the past three weeks. Ricky the teacher started back a week ago. Monday, an easy class day, will actually be a respite for both of them.

I usually dread the starting of school because of the exponential increase in laundry. Wiley shifts from wearing his pajamas all day, every day, to real clothes, while Ricky switches from shorts and a t-shirt to long pants and long sleeved shirts in addition to his shorts and t-shirt when he gets home.

But this year is an exception. With summer band, club soccer and rock work around the house, my boys have been sweating through two to three sets of clothes a day. Monday begins a respite for the washer and dryer, too.

Wiley also had to finish his summer reading and class assignments over the past few weeks. He has always done well in school, but high school steps it up a notch and I have been concerned how he would fit band, soccer, homework and sleep around his busy X-box schedule.

My prior efforts to minimize gaming time have been futile with both Wiley and his older brother. I have tried setting timers, keeping logs, or arranging rewards to get the boys to self-limit.

When that inevitably failed, I have unplugged or disconnected the TV or limited time spent in the den. But I have not had the stamina to follow through and enforce any of these schemes. Once my head is down working, the TV is on and a kid is in front of it. If I don't nag or yell, my silence (or grumble) is taken as implicit permission.

But with Wiley's understanding and agreement, I may have found the ultimate solution. At least it has worked for the past two weeks.

Brown paper and packing tape, that's the trick.

My goal is for us, Ricky and me included, to consciously choose when we watch shows or play games, rather than making the TV a companion to everything we do.

I have tried limiting the accessibility of the kitchen television as well, since that's where the most mindless TV watching occurs. I have been putting a pillowcase over the screen and hiding the remote control, but so inconsistently it hasn't mattered.

This parenting stuff wears me down. But that is what moms are called to - responsibility. And when we can't say "no" one more time, God answers prayer. The kitchen television died a natural death last night.

Now if He would help me out a little with the internet connections on our Ipods, computers and cell phones, my duty would be done.

Winning the game

Last week was such a blur - coming and going and spinning in place.

It started with a computer hard drive failure Monday morning. And I had such high hopes for my efficiency that day, too, wanting to focus on jobs that had to be done as I roll into the second stage of busy season 2010. Instead, I spent five hours at the Apple store, backing up my computer and paying the hundred dollars for priority service so I could have the hard drive replaced the same day.

The rest of the week included, besides work, supervising eighteen year old boys breaking rock in the front yard, setting up an ipod with appropriate music for my dad's birthday gift, worrying about my son's marching band audition, dealing with dogs on drugs, last minute packing and a plane trip that included a three hour unscheduled stop in Richmond due to bad weather that made us miss both lunch and supper.

Finally, arriving in Charlottesville after dark, we had to find our daughter's particular University of Virginia dorm parking lot. That last task was complicated, as Ricky was driving while I queried Lindsay on her exact location. Since Lindsay did not know that Ricky and my parents were also in the car, I had to repeat her instructions out loud so that Ricky could hear......."Okay, I need to turn around and come back because I went too far. Okay, it's not this light, it's the next light. Then I need to turn right, okay, I think I've got it......"

I have to admit, though, that I managed a most successful surprise. For months I had known we were all coming to her graduation, while she thought it would only be me. I nearly slipped up earlier in the week, mentioning something about taking the dogs to my friend's house, quickly covering my gaffe by saying it was to give Ricky a chance to sleep late a couple of days. But all's well that ends well, and she was stunned and delighted.

The funny (not in a ha-ha, but in a sweet way) part was the anxiety the ruse created for her husband, who was aware of our plans. He stressed over the details and fretted about keeping it from her. If you've seen the TV series "Chuck," he was "Awesome" to her "Ellie." Next time, I'll save him the agony and surprise them both. (Those are they things you have to learn when an adult joins the family. Sorry, Eddie, I didn't mean to make your summer more difficult than it already was, separated from your wife for twelve weeks.)

But the week was great, punctuated on Saturday with Lindsay's excellent commencement speech and an uneventful flight home.

The name of the game? Survivor!

Generations Ahead

My grandpa was born in 1893. He and my grandma had ten children, one at a time over twenty-eight years, and twenty-one grandchildren, only four of whom are younger than me. The only one I never knew was my aunt, their first born, who died of cancer at age thirty-eight.

My grandparents lived in the same home for seventy years, four rooms plus a bathroom, the toilet only added after I was in elementary school. The four oldest sons settled within a mile of my grandparents' home. When I was a kid, the uncle around the corner also only had an outhouse, but the one up the hill had an indoor toilet, but just for "number one" until they added a septic tank years later. At the outhouse you always checked for toilet paper first, or you really would be SOL. These were important things to know as the granddaughter from the "city" who spent a week and a lot of weekends at Grandma's house most summers and could choose when to spend afternoons or overnights with cousins.

During those summers we built forts in the woods and chased fireflies and locusts in the evenings. I helped bring the cows home at supper time, worked in the acre garden, emptied the drip pan on the ice box, brought canned items up from the outside cellar, gathered eggs, shucked peanuts for fifty cents an hour and helped do the laundry with a wringer washer - filling the tub with a hose and soap, washing and wringing the clothes, then emptying the tub to refill with clean water for rinsing and wringing again. I never did get the hang of milking. I watched my grandma with awe as she caught a chicken, wrung its neck, chopped off its head and feet, plucked its feathers (saved to use in pillows) and cooked it for supper.

When I was being ornery, I would eavesdrop on party line phone calls. Two short rings was one uncle's house, one long and one short another, etc. There may not have been electricity in every room, but telephone conference calls were a snap - just everyone pick up their phone at the appointed time. (And that would be phone, singular.)

In the winter, the living room was heated with a wood burning stove vented through the ceiling. I still remember the winter weekend my parents and older cousins ice skated on the pond beside the house while I was stuck in the house with a cold. Resentful, I played in the fire and tossed in kleenexes to watch them smolder, then erupt. I sure didn't go play in the unheated bedrooms.

One time, when I was five, I got to go to school for a day, riding the bus and everything, with my two cousins: Deletha, five years older and Linda, ten years older. The school had an elementary room and a secondary room. I sat and watched the class, making paper chains and paper dolls to keep busy.

When I was growing up, everyone went to Grandma's for Christmas Day dinner, i.e. lunch. No matter the four rooms, probably about six hundred square feet. The house was big enough to hold the fifty or sixty people usually there. Only two of the ten kids ever moved out of the area. The women cooked for hours. The men were served first, the children second and the women last. The women did the dishes.

Those were great times, the bustle of a large multi-generational family. (I don't recall there being much hustle, though, especially during the hot, hot summers.) The four grandchildren younger than me, including my brother, didn't have these experiences. Modernity had encroached by then - complete plumbing, a propane stove, even a window air conditioner.

I am privileged to have been so much a part of the past. I am sorry my children don't have anything like that.

When you are a kid in a big family as I was, someone always comments about you. You've gotten tall or fat or skinny..... You are constantly told who you are the spitting image of. I didn't believe that part at all. I was always told I looked just like my cousin Mona Faye (three years older than my mom!) and my cousin Linda. Well, my aunts and uncles were comparing me to the children they remembered. I would look at my cousins and think "no way." But then I got a little older, and sure enough, I do look remarkably like Linda. I saw that when I was in my thirties and she in her forties. She died of breast cancer at fifty, so I don't know how the trend would have continued. At an uncle's funeral last year, when I was close to the age of Linda when she died, her grown daughters were taken aback by our resemblance. They told me they could almost see their mom one more time.

I probably would have caught up to looking like Mona Faye, too, in another ten years or so. But she died last week. One day she was cooking and sewing and volunteering and enjoying life, the next day she collapsed and they discovered two tennis ball size tumors in her head. She would have been seventy-nine in a few days. I was not quite up to the long drive necessary to attend her funeral. It would have been interesting to see her one more time, a glimpse into my own future.

It is very practical being on the low rung of a long family ladder. I've watched my aunts and uncles and older cousins age from their twenties and thirties to their seventies and eighties. It gives me direction. I know where I'm going and have a pretty good idea when I'll get there. I've watched them navigate the world's technological changes and their own inevitable physical declines. I'm proud to say that in most cases, my family has managed it with grace and humor and no unreasonable expectations, a very good roadmap to follow.

Motto for the year

It works. This is the brownie pan, "as seen on TV," made for the edge lover. The divider, not shown in this picture, lets the brownies cook so that every brownie has edges.

My sweet sister-in-law Sherry gave us the pan for Christmas. I finally used it for the first time this weekend. I only waited six months to try it out.

I used the special brownie mix my other thoughtful sister-in-law gave me. Duncan Hines Chocolate Chunk, since discontinued, was my all time favorite. Susan found two boxes in her grocery store and sent them to me, a while ago. I had used one, but had been saving the other for a special occasion.

What could be more special than celebrating successful surgery? In hindsight, there must have been hundreds of times I should have used that last brownie mix. I had been saving it for years evidently, as it had an expiration date of May, 2006. Time does fly, doesn't it? The brownies were still deliciously devoured.

But that brings me to admit that I am a Hoarder, historically using "seconds and surplus" for everyday, saving the "good stuff" for "special" occasions.

I come by this attitude honestly. After my grandma died in her late eighties, her daughters found dozens of brand new nightgowns and other new clothes in her drawers. She was waiting to wear them until she had to go somewhere. She never did.

I grew up using and re-using. Brown paper lunch sacks, plastic sandwich bags and aluminum foil were used over and over in the lunches my mom packed for me and Dad. Scraps from one dress made the accents for another (or went into a quilt.) I wore my best dress only on special occasions. We had everyday stuff and "company" stuff. That's the background of a lot of people my age, growing up in the sixties with parents who themselves grew up in the lean thirties and forties.

Flash forward thirty years and I'm finally "getting it." I am learning to value my stuff by what it does, not what it costs. Do I have designer clothes I never wear, perhaps even with the tags still on? Now I pass them on without hesitation. I don't have to earn the right to get rid of nice things. Let them be nice for someone who will appreciate them. The same rule applies for furniture and nick-knacks and (especially) gadgets that seemed so necessary. Rather than move stuff from closet to garage to attic - just pass things along. It lets me smile.

And for those things I keep, I am trying to use them! How ridiculous to save a brownie mix for four years.

And for the things (shoes) I truly want, I now give myself permission. Recently, I agonized over replacing my kitchen mixer with a new one in a more modern color. There was nothing wrong with my thirty year old mixer. But how silly to keep something just because once it was expensive and still works.

We're hosting a garage sale next month, a fundraiser for Wiley's soccer team. I've started filling the back porch with stuff - bedding, laundry baskets, storage containers, pet paraphernalia, dishes, books, clothes, shoes, electronics........

Love it, use it or go ahead and lose it!

Wonder Woman

Every child believes or hopes that his parents are superheroes. Not wanting to name names or anything, but some children rely upon that belief.

A couple of days ago I asked my child when his band solo competition was scheduled. I knew he had been practicing. Normally, he lets me know about it, since I accompany him. Each year he has given me the details so that I could get the music, practice it and be ready when his private lesson teacher wanted to hear us rehearse.

The competition is this Saturday. His last private lesson was Monday. We have not rehearsed.

Last night we couldn't make it to the music store to acquire the music because of his end of year band concert.

This afternoon he gave me the name of the piece and I headed out to the local music store, the one which always has the music we need. They did not stock the piano accompaniment. They did have the instrument version, which we must provide to the judge to prove we actually purchased the music (required by school districts which abide by the copyright laws.) But they would have to order the piano part, and it could not get here by Saturday.

Silently seething, I called my son and asked him to call his teacher to see if the teacher had a copy of the piano part. I wrote down the stock number of the two books we needed and headed home. By the time I got there, my son had no answer as to whether we would be able to locate what we needed from the teacher.

It was 5:30 pm. I had two days to accomplish my quest. The fates were with me, though. Online I discovered a music store not too far away which had opened up a few months ago. It would be much closer than the store 30 miles and tomorrow morning away which would certainly have the music.

I called and the music was in stock and I could get there before the store closed at 6:00. Even better, my part of the music is not too difficult. I've sight read it through, worked on a couple of tricky sections, and will be able to practice it together with my son when he gets back from watching some friends' soccer game.

Turns out it was a pretty easy task for a superhero. My reputation is intact.

Time does fly when you're having fun

I was never much of a glue and glitter mama. So when my girls, both toddlers, were old enough to help with the Christmas cookies, I decided that it would be a great daddy/daughter activity. I made the dough ahead of time. Ricky then rolled it out, cut the shapes and moved then onto the cookie sheet. The girls decorated with colored sugars, with lots of hilarious results.

Then we added a boy to the mix. I continued with the best job of all - photographer.

This picture is about seventeen years old. The older daughter turned twenty-six today. The younger daughter is married, making her own cookies. The boy is in his own apartment, learning to feed himself with his new cookbook "A Man, A Can, A Plan." The cat died of old age about a year ago. The younger son was not even in our wildest dreams when this picture was taken.

Last month during the annual baking, for the first time, only the youngest was there to help Dad. Even though I knew it was coming, it was still a shock to have such a calm kitchen.

Decorating solo was hard work for one person, but he persevered, taking breaks when needed. He cheerfully did a great job. Not bad for a young man in high school!

Here's hoping he'll stick around for enough Decembers that I can keep my job as photographer for many more years. Don't tell the kids, but every now and then I do wish they wouldn't grow up quite so fast.

Lucile Balthrop (1920 - 2010)

Betty Lucile Balthrop, 89, a loving mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, passed away peacefully Wednesday, Jan. 6, 2010.
Funeral: 3 p.m. Saturday in Lucas Funeral Chapel, 1321 Precinct Line Road, Hurst. Interment: Following committal prayers, Lucile will be laid to rest with her husband, James, in Mount Olivet Cemetery. Visitation: 2 to 3 p.m. Saturday at the funeral home.
A native of Fort Worth, Lucile was born Oct. 7, 1920, to Luther Lecil and Edith Lou Adams Bostick. She was a longtime member of Meadowbrook Church of Christ, where she taught children's Bible classes. An avid gardener, she loved growing African violets and roses. Although Lucile lost her speech and mobility from a stroke 33 years ago, she never questioned her Christian faith and lived life with humor and dignity. After retiring to Granbury, she and James continued to enjoy traveling to such places as Hawaii and Branson. Even though her voice was quieted, her smile and gestures continued to brighten every room she was in. She will be lovingly missed.
The family would like to especially thank Kathy Jones and the staff of Jack's Place for their love and care for Lucile for the past two years.
She was preceded in death by her parents; husband of 69 years; infant daughter, Betty Lucile; and brother, Harold Bostick.

Welcome to the Club

My son has been in his apartment for a little over a week now. Yesterday he met me at Walmart so we could do the promised first time in an apartment shopping run - the kind where he shops and I pay.

He had been keeping a list of the items he really needed. Of course he forgot to bring the list. But he did comment that it was okay, he would remember the items on the list because he had actually written them down, and writing them down made it easier to remember.

I wonder if he has yet realized that the "write it down" concept applies to schoolwork as well? I know I've told him enough times, but that's just another example of having to let your kid learn things for himself. (Maybe we should have kicked him out to an apartment the summer after high school!)

But I digress.......

We headed toward cleaning supplies after a detour to buy a shower curtain. He then exclaimed over dish soap, sponges, spray cleaners, toilet cleaning items, trash bags and, for the apartment dweller, the indispensable roach traps. We added other items including toilet paper, hand soap and salt & pepper shakers. And of course he included a bottle of Febreeze, a young man's best friend. (If you live in the same house with a teenage boy, Febreeze is essential for odor management.)

At the checkout line both the checker and the lady in front of us chuckled at Brian and his cart. "First apartment, right?" We three parents exchanged knowing smiles.

Brian loaded up his truck, detoured by our house to pick up a few remaining items, then headed to his home with his loot. I don't really know how he managed the first eight days without a shower curtain or soap, but I chose to make another judicious use of my "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

He called me this morning, to thank me again for the stuff, and to brag about how clean and tidy his apartment is now. He also mentioned he keeps a rack by his front door for his friends to put their shoes on, so his carpet will stay looking nice.

At least it sounded like Brian on the phone. Could have been an alien, I guess, but he sure made me smile, whoever he was.

Looking ahead

My boys had some milestone moments last week.

Brian moved out to his own apartment on Saturday. He didn't have to. He was welcome to stay here (for free) as long as he was in school. It has been a fairly "cush" life for him the past six months, immune as he is to my nagging. He could come and go as he pleased, eat and sleep as he pleased. I even did his laundry most of the time, my choice.

But he recognized the need to make a move, a need to put some struggle back into his life so that he would grow. He should do fine. He has more than enough talent and ability. It has been a distaste for effort that has temporarily derailed him the last couple of years.

Over the past week, as he waited for his move in date, I would occasionally question him. Did he need anything? Did he want to go through the attic and garage picking out old furniture? Did he want things out of the kitchen? What about a grocery store wish list?

That's what moms do. We look ahead and anticipate and prepare. Each time I spoke my son's eyes glazed over as he looked ahead. The date would come. He would move his stuff. If he needed something, he would take care of it then. No additional thought required.

My other son tried out for and made the high school soccer team. This is a significant achievement in our school district, as the ninth graders are in junior high rather than high school. A ninth grader must be exceptional at his sport to be permitted to leave his junior high campus to participate at the high school level. Thirty-five freshmen from three junior highs tried out for eight spots. Wiley was one of the eight and the only one from his school to make it.

As the tryout date approached, I would occasionally question him. Did he have his paperwork done? Did he have the right equipment? Was he prepared to work hard during the very brief tryout and not take anything for granted? Would he be okay if he didn't make the first cut? Was he prepared if he did not make the final cut?

Each time I spoke my son's eyes glazed over as he looked ahead. The date would come. He would make it or not. If he needed something, he would take care of it. No additional thought required.

As we approach a new year and a new decade, I will continue to look ahead and anticipate, but more and more as an observer rather than a participant. My children's paths are their own, whether straight or curved.

Of course I will not be able to suppress an occasional "have you thought of......?" My kids will just have to humor me. And if their eyes glaze over as I ask the question, I will understand.

Getting back to the start

When I was a little girl and Christmas was most magical, our family would put up a "real" tree. I loved the lights and the tinsel, put on a single strand at a time. There wasn't a theme or color scheme. We had a variety of glass ornaments, accumulated slowly at first due to my parents' frequent moves. We also used garlands and beads and popcorn strings, which gave a lot of bang for the buck. From pictures, I now realize those trees were modest. But as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, each tree was gorgeous.

About the time my brother arrived, our family switched to an artificial tree. My mom had enough to do without pine needles and brittle branches.

I have to admit we had a silver aluminum tree. With blue balls. I tried to like it, really. I did enjoy helping my dad put it together, fitting each numbered branch individually into the pole and the end of season reversal of the branches to the slots in the storage box.

This is the part where my mom will tell me that I'm remembering it all wrong. I know there was a flocked tree for a season or two, also, only slightly better than plain aluminum.

But I think this is just more proof that if you don't like something in your past, you can choose to block it from your memory.

Once we had used the (ugly) aluminum/flocked tree enough years to justify its purchase price, our family switched to a more traditional artificial tree. From then on it was fine, a traditional green tree with lots of colors and lights.

Starting married life, I was determined to once again have a real tree. So of course that's what we did, small trees during the law school years and then larger. We tried the tinsel "icicles" a few times, but with both of us working full time, we didn't have the patience to put them on one string at a time (the only correct way!) or keep our cats from eating them. We've always had multi-colored lights and have collected multi-colored ornaments over the years. Ornaments signify vacations, children's achievements and interests, and of course angels and bells and other symbols of the reason for the Christmas season.

My husband grew up in a family that usually decorated its tree in the same color of ornaments. And his daddy preferred a real, but white flocked tree, so they often had those. Initially, Ricky expressed mild dismay at the multi color approach to our tree. Bless his heart, what husband can win that kind of argument with his wife? I think we did do a flocked tree once, but again, my memory is fuzzy.

Each year in early December Ricky and I and eventually our kids would head to the tree lots, voting on trees until a consensus emerged. The tree needed to be big enough, fresh enough to keep its needles and reasonably symmetrical. Ricky would wrestle it into the house. After waiting a day or two for the branches to settle, Ricky, like my dad, would add the lights. Like my mom, I would fuss until the lights were arranged as I wanted. Then we all added the ornaments.

I have loved every tree, pausing many an evening to sit in the dark to enjoy the random light show from the blinking strings and reflective ornaments. (The pauses are briefer now that our house stays alive much later each night with older kids at home.)

As our oldest approached college age, we faced a dilemma. If everyone was to decorate the tree together, we would have to do it over Thanksgiving or wait until mid December. The first option would create a fire hazard with a real tree. The second option would result in an unbearable delay in the start of the Christmas holiday.

We now have a large artificial tree that we always decorate over the Thanksgiving holidays, when everyone can help. With over thirty years of ornaments to apply, there must be many hands to make light work. We also added the tradition of a daughter helping me "fluff" the branches from their compacted storage before the decorating started.

Other than that, the rhythm continued each year. Ricky wrestled the tree into the house. I fluffed the branches. Ricky added the lights. I critically supervised. We all put on the ornaments.

A few years ago, it dawned on me that I could do the lights myself rather than berate my husband for not being able to read my mind. Much better. And in a moment of inspiration this year, I realized that putting on the lights is a snap if done before the branches are "fluffed."

Once again, our tree is gorgeous.

I'm not sure what we'll do when this tree wears out in a few years. We'll probably get another artificial tree, perhaps a little smaller. Ricky and I will have an argument over whether to do one that is pre-lit. I can not predict that outcome.

By the time that next tree is worn out, my children should all have homes of their own. By then I may be ready to let them take the ornaments from their childhood that they would like to use themselves.

Then I think I would like to get a real tree again. Ricky will wrestle it into the house. He will put the lights on it and I will fuss. Then we'll both decorate, maybe with tinsel put on a single strand at a time, always with the special ornaments we will still have.

Then we'll pause in the evenings to sit in the dark, admiring our gorgeous tree and remembering the wonderful life it represents.

No Batteries Required

The Christmas toy catalog from Target arrived in the mail today. For the first time in twenty-six years, I don't need to even look at it.

Liberating.

Also expensive - you know that old saying, "the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys."

Christmas shopping isn't quite as easy and cheap when the kids are grown, so I'm in the habit now of picking up things all year long. (I'd tell you where stuff is stashed, but the wrong people might read this and find out!)

The holiday season is going to be great.

My parents are coming to OUR house for Thanksgiving dinner. Due to all the make-up games needed after rain outs, there will be no (out of town) soccer tournaments during the holidays. I get to meet my brother's new "gal" at Christmastime, and I hear she's a keeper. My youngest will get his driver's permit. Our dog will fiercely protect us from the Christmas tree.

We will all be together at least a couple of times.

Blessings, indeed.

Hiding In Plain Sight

Back in the 1930's no one had to worry about childhood obesity. Kids were too low on the totem pole to get extra food and too underfoot to get to stay indoors. So, they ate only what they needed, and invented games to keep occupied.

Although we ate a little more than needed, we did continue that fine tradition of outdoor gaming this past weekend at my dad's family reunion.

The game from my parents' youth that we play is a tricked up version of hide-and-seek called "Piggy Wants A Motion." One person is "it" and has to find everyone. Anybody who is found has to go to a designated central location - the (pig)pen - and call out for a motion. If someone else in the game, who hasn't been found, waves at him, then the person in the pen can sneak off and hide again.

If you are the one hiding, the trick is to be able to wave at pigs in the pen without "it" finding you. If you are "it," you have to balance finding more "pigs" with guarding the pen to prevent escapes. The game ends when everyone is caught at the same time or the hunter gives up, unable to find the last one or two cleverly hidden people.

Our game started Saturday night with about ten players. I was "it" and got to decide the perimeter and, since it was dark, use a flashlight. The ring of campers and cars was the boundary. The pen was a couple of chairs set close to where all the grownups were sitting around visiting.

People hid behind and over and under campers. Every now and then someone sitting around the camp would indicate with a gesture or a nod where to look when the pen got too empty. I finally found my brother inside a car. My niece was inside a storage bin of an RV.

In a twenty-first century twist, the kids would text each other to say where they were hiding so those in the pen would know where to look for a "motion."

My daughter took the next turn as "it." She had a slight advantage, having seen the common hiding places from the previous game. I sat with one of my older cousins and visited for a while before she noticed and called me back to the pen.

The daytime game the next morning was the most fun. The perimeter was a little larger and included the outhouse and the ruins of the farmhouse along with more cars and tractors. My sons were the most creative in their hiding spaces, going under the floors of tents and inside trash bags. My older son was a lizard in his ability to dart from place to place and blend into (or under) his surroundings.

My brother was "it" in the morning game. He had an annoying habit of guarding the pen. (He later admitted he was too out of shape to run much!) Those in the pen had to develop strategies of distraction so that some could get away.

The game allows for other stealth moves. My son-in-law waited until the game started, not hiding in the first wave. He walked up to the pen and waited for a motion. Then, hidden the rest of the game around the farmhouse ruins, he constantly set pigs free.

My brother, unable to find his daughter, stood near the pen and hollered for a motion. She obligingly popped up to wave and he called her out. She was still griping about the unfairness of it hours later.

Finally, having never found my younger son, my brother ended the game. My son sat up. He'd been laying on the ground about ten feet from the pen the whole time - his blue jeans blending into the ice chest and his red shirt the color of an adjacent camp chair.

Until next time, he's the self-declared reigning champion of the game.

Still Charmed

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my son's ability to inflict damage on others while remaining personally unscathed.

Well, I didn't "knock on wood," so in the fifth and final game of his Labor Day soccer tournament he was hit hard enough to be injured. He finished the game that Monday morning, but later showed us the bruising and swelling. When it did not significantly improve the next day, we took him to the doctor.

The doctor diagnosed an injury which will need surgery in the long run to relieve discomfort, but in the short run just needs rest. He could play again once the pain and swelling subsided. After another week and a second doctor visit, he was told to wait a few more days.

Today he was feeling fine, able to run and jump without pain, and will be back at sports full time on Monday. Today the sun came out consistently for the first time in two weeks.

Since his injury, all his soccer practices and games have been postponed due to the rain and sog. He won't have missed a thing.