Our Alamo

Growing up in Texas, I was taught the battle cry “Remember the Alamo” early.  Texans take their state’s history very personally.  In learning the story of the historical slaughter, I accepted my own tiny corner of the state’s painful memory.  The package also contained a piece of the indignant rage, shameful pride, and even a desire to make good on the promises of the past to ensure that those lives were not lost in vain. 

Today, my Facebook news feed is flooded with a more modern battle cry of sorts, “I remember.” 

I wish I didn’t.

Of course I remember.  How could any of us forget the day we heard the news?  How could anyone forget the waves of confusion and disbelief?  How will any of us ever forget the panic that sent us to the pumps, preparing to flee if necessary? 

I’d rather not carry the memory of the missing faces papering the tall city we all knew.  I’d love to forget the days of mourning, silent moments broken only by tolling bells.  Families broken forever.  Bodies.  Wreckage.  Tears.

Televisions on round the clock coverage.  Flood lamps illuminating Ground Zero like day.  Workers covered in soot and ash.  Empty fire houses.  Another building falls and the work begins all over again.

I remember sitting in a wooden pew on a Sunday in September, searching for peace and comfort in the words of a pastor.  I knew we all were searching together.  We wept together, sharing fear and sadness.

A year later, before the memory grew stale and quiet, I found myself standing beside a truck with my husband and his brothers in uniform.  Above us, red, white and blue waved in the ocean air, atop an extended ladder.  The dancers gave me a rose, a hug and a kiss on the cheek, despite my protests. 

The next year, I sat with those men in a dark room.  For days, they watched marathons of documentaries.  They had read the reports.  They knew the story like the back of their hands, and they relived it with faith and dedication.

With each year that passes, the memory retreats a little.  But all we have to do is call its name and it appears again, filling our mind and heart with months we would rather never to have lived.

Last year, I taught this story to children who did not remember.  In doing so, I passed them their own little piece of our pain.  Those children, the ones that do not remember, will inherit this shared memory just as we inherited the memory of the Alamo, Pearl Harbor, or The War Between the States.  They will carry this story in their hearts without ever completely knowing it. 

Sadly, though, their day will come.  One day, they will live through their own September 11th.  Their own Alamo.  Only on that day will they begin to understand. 

Then they will learn what it means to remember, no matter how much you wish you could forget.

Sleeping Single in a Double Bed

Tomorrow, FireDaddy will return home after 11 days on the Appalachian Trail. 

My intent for these eleven days was to have one fun, relaxing day after another with my girlies – visiting family, swimming, beaching, hitting the gym.  Unfortunately, my hopes did not come true. 

Instead, we spent our time taking doggies to the vet, getting eyes dilated, hairs trimmed, roots colored, and running other non-thrilling sorts of errands.  I changed batteries in chirp-chirp-chirping smoke detectors, paid bills, anguished over budgets, made service calls, and scheduled appointments for still more doctors and dentists.  I accumulated piles of books and various household items for an impending garage sale  and piles of decorations for next year’s classroom, applied for a part-time job, washed/dried/folded/hung laundry, and washed/dried/put away dishes.  I reserved hotel rooms for our upcoming road trip, had Big Boy microchipped, registered dog tags, reregistered car tags, and cleaned out my refrigerator.  I rose around six with the doggies each day, while my girlies blissfully slept till nine or ten.  I baked blueberry scones, Mediterranean chicken, and fresh pound cake.  I filled the baby pool and emptied the trash.  I’ve washed booboos and blankies, heads, hands & toes… and everything in between. I fussed when they bickered, and nagged when they destroyed the den and their room and my room and the office.  I’ve answered countless times each day, “How many more days till Daddy gets home?” and “How many more days till our trip?”  I hugged and held them as they cried, fed them when they were hungry, and reached the cups when their throats were dry.

All of this is not to imply that I’ve been entirely miserable…don’t get me wrong.  During the past eleven days of uninterrupted girliness – I’ve introduced my girlies to the Bangles, Madonna, and Barbara Mandrell, as well as continued to expose them to pretty-much-inappropriate current tunes.  We’ve kept up with the latest Disney Radio tunes, and counted down to the big Disney premiere of Sixteen Wishes.  We’ve played games, held our breath under water and felt the wind in our hair as we sailed down the road with the sunroof open (ahem…in my brother-in-law’s truck).  We’ve stayed up late and cuddled in the night.  Together, we’ve danced the Cha Cha slide, the Chicken Dance, and our very best ballet and jazz. 

Coming from a mother who prides herself on being able to do it alone, I’m POOPED.  On nights like these, maybe a girl truly needs to stand in her kitchen with nothing but a glass of wine, a fresh slice of pound cake, and a Zune stocked with ridiculously old songs to keep her company.  It’s nights like these that I close my eyes and see myself standing in front of my white whicker dresser, and look into my own eyes in that familiar whicker framed mirror – so vivid and real that I am positive the cold mirror would meet my hand if I were to reach my fingers out far enough. 

It’s funny how some things have grown so much easier over the years – like skipping songs, once a careful lifting and lowering of a needle, now a simple click of a button.  Yet, other things – like the long, hot days of summer “freedom” – have grown so much harder. 

When I was little, I loved Barbara Mandrell.  She was beautiful.  She could sing, dance, and play more instruments than I could tally.  I played her records over and over and over again in my room until I’d memorized all the lyrics.  I was thrilled when Daddy took us to the Maude Cobb see Lee Greenwood --- because he had recorded a duet record with Barbara Mandrell.  I was worried and afraid for her when she was badly injured in the car accident.  I loved Barbara Mandrell. 

It’s funny how songs can take you away to another place.  Take you back in time.  The familiar click-click, click-click of the needle passing over blank lines between songs is fresh in my ears.  Where is that click-clicking now?  We push a button to skip forward and skip backward…there is no waiting.  No pauses.  Like MP3 files, the hours, days, weeks all flow seamlessly together on autoplay.

It’s halfway through 2010 already.  My babies are seven and four.  My anniversary is next week and my birthday is close behind.  I’m turning 33 and I’ve been married for ten years.  FireDaddy and I’ve been together for 14.  Where has my life gone???  Hell, where did these 11 days go???  Before I know it, I’ll be hunting down plastic duo-tang folders and sending my girlies off to 2nd grade and VPK. 

My throat is tight and lumpy; my eyes sting.

I miss the soft, scratchy static and click-clicking between songs. 

Mama

I was raised by a near perfect mother.  Our well decorated home was immaculately clean.  Her checkbook was balanced the day the statement arrived, every single month.  We ate home-cooked dinners FAR more often than not.  She was Room Mother Extraordinaire and her banana bread could win awards.

We had homemade, expertly decorated birthday cakes in designs that reflected our personalities and interests – a Barbie cake for me, a pizza cake for my brother, even a brown sugar sand trap complimented the fresh from scratch buttercream icing rough, fairway and green on the golf course cake she made for my lady golfer 4th grade teacher.  Our lunch bags were lovingly branded each morning with our names…in calligraphy.  My dresses were smocked with care by my own mother’s hands.  In fact, I even had a smocked nightgown with matching smocked barrettes. 

We were well mannered, well behaved children growing up.  We knew to say “ma’am” and “sir” to adults.  When called upon, we were trained to reply not with a “Huh?” or “What?”, but a “Ma’am?” or “Sir?”  We did not run in people’s living rooms or put our feet on their furniture; and if we did, we immediately stopped when corrected – sans sass talk.

We wrote thank you notes.  Our table was properly set with placemats and cloth napkins for each meal.  After dinner, as we cleared our own places, we thanked my mother for the delicious fare.  My older brother and I attended Cotillion when we were ten, where we practiced introductions and dancing.

My mother was not a “stay at home” mom.  She was a “work at home” mom. In addition to flawlessly running the household and raising children, she ran the family home building business from her desk - keeping books, helping Daddy manage contractors, and selecting flooring, wallpaper, lighting, and more.  She taxied us to dance, Blue Birds, Boy Scouts, soccer, T-ball and more.  She volunteered at the local hospital, served in the Junior League and occasionally worked in a friend’s gift shop. 

This was my mother. 

And today, as I sit in my pajamas, lazily letting my baby girlies sleep in on this summer morning, sipping a canned Diet Coke for breakfast, I marvel at the fact that she left dishes in her sink today when she left for work.

***

I remember sitting in my mother’s closet, in awe of her clothes.  She had so many clothes.  Clothes she’d hung onto for what, to my young mind, seemed like decades.  In reality, most of them were only a few years or perhaps A decade, I suppose.  She had a Real Wardrobe, not just a bunch of clothes.  I remember wanting to one day have a closet like that.  I remember wanting my closet to be organized and tidy like hers; everything in its own place with room to breathe.

I remember her long skirts, scarves, and jewelry.  She had earrings upon earrings and all sorts of zippered silky bags tucked away with gold and jewels inside.  Her shoes and her slips were so feminine and adult. 

I would sit on the little stool and help her decide which outfit to wear and how to accessorize it.  She asked my opinion and listened to my suggestions, almost as much then as she still does now.  She would show me shiny treasures - some hers and some mine – and tell me their stories, surrounded by the quiet in her closet. 

***

I am not my mother.  And, I will never be her.  My home will never be as clean as hers.  My cakes will never be as good, my sewing never as perfect, and my daughters’ school lunches will never wear their names in calligraphy.  My checkbook will forever envy the loving care hers receives, and my budget will never be so carefully balanced.  My closet is a shameful mess right now, and my baby doggie is much more at home in there than my girlies. 

The older I get, though, the more I am OK with this.  I am me.  This is me. 

I love and treasure my mother.  Her home is a comfort to me, as is my own.  My mother gave me love and safety everyday, just as I do for my girlies.  My mother was with me everyday; everyday she gave me herself.  I am with my girlies everyday; everyday I give them myself.  I kiss.  I hug.  I love.  I laugh and fuss and teach.  Just like Mama.

 

***** It’s been a while, I know.  I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance.  I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus.  Hope to see you all again soon. *****

Dancing In the Kitchen

I grew up watching My Mama dance.

Daddy still has the same turntable stereo on which we listened to records.  Sometimes Mama and Daddy would dance together.  Sometimes Mama would dance with us.  And sometimes, Mama would dance alone while we watched, smiling and laughing.

Now, my girlies and I dance.  We’ve done so for years.  We’ll turn up the stereo till the neighbors can hear and dance till we sweat and our muscles are sore.  We dance to anything – classical, rock, pop, Latino, you name it.  We just dance. 

We dance ballet, ballroom, interpretive, and group (think: Ring Around the Rosie).  Sometimes I hold them in my arms with their cheek to mine and we spin in circles and dip deeply, smiles pressing into our cheeks.  Sometimes we sautée and arabesque and practice graceful arms and fingers as we tendu or relevé.

Other times, I dance alone.  I dance while I cook dinner, set the table, wash dishes.  I dance while they bathe.  I dance and I sing and I am happy.

I know one day my girlies will look at me and laugh, just like we laughed with My Mama.  Then one day, I will dance alone, with no one there to see.  And finally, there will come a day when they, too, will dance with their babies.  Then, at last, they will know just how happy I was when I danced with them.

Sometimes I remember…

…standing with my Daddy and feeling awkward, like I wanted to be shy and avoid meeting his eyes with mine.  He asked me how I felt as we stood in the foyer, a plush fringed rug beneath our feet.  I guess I said “all right” and asked the same of him. 

I can still see his pretty, wide smile and the lines in his olive skin spreading away from his happy blue eyes.  He felt great, he reported, eyes looking ahead, genuinely excited.  Then he confessed his spirits had been eased a bit with an early taste of brew.  We laughed and I felt his presence begin to ease my own spirits. 

Everyone looked so pretty and distant through the window of the door that separated us from them.  The sheer white curtain added a softness to our view that matched the haze in my mind.  I stood there with Daddy, forcing a few deep breaths through my lungs, willing the oxygen to help me center myself.  Find the strength to hold myself together.

I heard Pachelbel Canon in D playing and I smiled.  I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined flying over golden Canadian fields. I watched the beautiful scenes from the movie that first made me love those tender, sweet notes.  

Daddy opened the door.  We stepped out onto the wood floor of the long, covered porch.  Then, beneath ancient oak trees standing grandly in the St. Augustine grass - vivid, green and lush from a week of persistent rain - My Daddy walked me towards the river and down the aisle.

Cheating Death

This week, my students asked if I would read some of my personal writing to them.  I quickly and politely declined, but offered to write a story for them, at their request.  One group of students asked me to write a story about a vacation.  They specifically said, “Tell what went wrong…” as part of their request.  This story immediately came to my mind.  I can’t believe I haven’t written it before, as it is a story that has been told over and over again since that day.  Here’s the story I wrote for them today…

 

The boat hovered heavily above my head as we trudged towards the river. My anxiety expanded like a balloon to fill my entire chest and gut.

When Daddy planned this little white water rafting vacation for us, I’d actually been excited. It sounded fun. After all, I love the water. I love boats. We would be in the capable hands of our river guides. I had envisioned a warm spring day and sunshine escorting us down along our gentle river ride, save for a few exciting twists and turns along the way. My sugar plum fairy fantasies faded when we arrived at the river outfitters headquarters, shivering in the forty degree gray morning, and heard the news about the body.

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about the body washing up today,” the local river expert laughed in reply to my mother’s nervous questions. We paced the floor quietly, our eyes soaking up the images of inflatable boats hovering sideways above rocks and racing water, its inhabitants clad in helmets, life vests and full body wet suits. As it turns out, he wasn’t kidding. Earlier in the week, a young woman had drowned in the stretch of the river that we would attempt to navigate today. Fortunately for us, her body was recovered only a day or two prior to this frigid morning.**

“Well, isn’t that comforting...” I murmured sarcastically under my breath.

A young man led us downstairs to the basement room where they stored the wetsuits and other gear. After they sized us up with their experienced eyes and a few clarifying questions, our wardrobe for the day was rationed and we were off to squeeze our flesh into this neoprene second skin. We looked like a box of classic crayons once we were ready, only bumpier and wearing goofy, hesitant grins.

Our guide chatted away, making small talk with us and laughing at inside jokes with his fellow river men. It seemed oddly distant to think of my warm, safe life at home in Florida as I marched towards impending danger. The voices in my head were dying to blurt out, “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll stay here! You go and have fun without me!” I considered running across that two-lane bridge that led us to the log building on the hill. The walk back to the Hardee’s where we’d eaten biscuits and eggs for breakfast wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps I could find a little corner store, stock up on magazines and make myself at home in a fast food booth for the day. The hours would crawl, I was sure, but that seemed far preferable to being pinned beneath a raft, sucking freezing cold water into my lungs. I felt like a lemming – deathly afraid to go, but too chicken to speak out against the herd.

As the men, both taller and stronger than us ladies, righted the raft and set it afloat, I listened to the last minute review of safety procedures. Stay out of the bottom of the raft. If you find yourself taking an accidental plunge, extend your paddle and never let it go – this is your lifeline. Keep your feet up so you don’t get snared on fallen trees or other dangers beneath the surface. Listen to your guide. Listen and follow instructions...for dear life.

I have never in my life felt so close to death. I’ve never been to war or in the presence of malicious gunfire. I’ve never felt like my life depended on the clarity of my thinking and my physical abilities, until that day.

As we overtook the first rapids, my apprehension would blur and sharpen like the manual focus of a lens. When he told us we were approaching “Decision” rapid, I yearned to raise my hand and give up. “I quit! I’m done! Call the helicopter and get me out of this canyon!” I imagined myself announcing to the world. But, again, I refrained.

With each rapid we conquered, I whole-heartedly participated in the traditional paddles up “YEEEEEHAAAAAAWWWW!!” celebration. I felt my spirit give thanks that I would live to see the next round of torture in the watery path between me and the rickety, powder blue school bus that would take us back to safety.

The “Big Nasty” lived up to its name. My mother, just as terrified as I, had been unable to heed our guide’s advice. She had fearfully wadded her body up between the inflatable bolsters that spanned the width of the raft. She felt, inaccurately, safer on the thin synthetic floor of the vessel...until she found herself in the 50-degree raging river. Mascara streaking down her face, her short hair plastered to her skin beneath her plastic helmet, she gasped for air as she surfaced. The life vest kept her afloat as our guide hollered for her to hold out her paddle. I barely saw her paddle, now dangerous extension of her arm, reaching towards our boat, just as my Marine brother, a trained and professional hero, toppled into the river. In a blur of wet faces and choppy water, I saw the knot welling up on my brother’s head. My mother’s attempt at rescue had smacked him forcefully just above his eye. With a surreal smoothness, our guide expertly plucked my mother’s vest from the water and deposited her exhausted, stunned body in the boat at his feet. As he gave my brother his arm, everyone’s breath escaped in relief. We were unaware that we’d even been holding it.

“HE SAID NOT TO SIT ON THE BOTTOM OF THE BOAT, MOTHER!” I scolded her, rage quickly responding to my overwhelming fear. I had been afraid my mother would suffer more than just a sharp splash into icy waters. Once I realized the danger had passed, I couldn’t help being mad at her for putting herself into such a dangerous predicament – she should have followed directions! I took this as a personal lesson and reinforced my thighs and rear with steely muscles. “I will NOT,” I silently pledged, “be bounced into that river,” and I would sooner cripple myself than risk suffocating beneath a boat.

At some point between a heartfelt YEEHAW and the relentless sprouting of a fresh batch of terror, I heard our guide hollering to his counterpart on another raft in the fleet. It was lunchtime. They were making plans for a cliffhanger picnic, literally.

The guides nimbly hopped from their respective boats onto a rocky ledge on the canyon wall. They were patient and gentle as they offered their strong, steady hold to each of us as we abandoned the familiarity of our air-filled seats for the questionable security of this spot of earth. We clustered around the tiny campfire, begging for warmth; not only was the river stealing our body heat with its persistent spray and splashes, but the wind and sprinkling rain worked to fill in the blanks between the river’s attacks. Our bodies ached with cold.

For just a moment, I allowed my mind to float away, escaping to the day years ago when we picnicked on the Hawaiian Island of Lanai. Our adventure of sailing and snorkeling had been unexpectedly punctuated by a delicious, luxurious teriyaki lunch. Perhaps these guides had a similar treat planned. Perhaps they’d serve up some “river cowboy” stew to nourish our fatigue and famine. Once again, my daydreams were cut short as I held out my hand to accept a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Lovely. This is even better,” I laughed at my own disappointment.

After an all too short relief from our mental and physical stress, we found ourselves piling back into the boats and launching for the remainder of the gorge. I was resigned to gut through the journey and eager for my next steps on solid ground.

After an irrelevant stretch of time, we heard the tone of our guide’s voice change as he refreshed our memory to the safety precautions outlined at the start of the trip. He spoke with no degree of humor, explaining the severity and danger of the rapid we would next attack. This rapid, the Coliseum, is categorized class IV+. A class VI rapid is often thought of as unnavigable, a class V is “expert”, requiring extensively practiced rescue skills. I must have worn the face of a prisoner standing before a firing squad. My life would surely end that day. I was positive I would not survive this obstacle.

Again, I hunkered down and stabbed my will to live into the water with my oar. I met every command with the strength of my bones. My jaw painfully clamped, as though trying to hoard air into my lungs, preparing for the worst-case scenario. I was so intently focused on my role in this unlikely crew, that I didn’t immediately notice the guide climbing out of his seat and onto the boulder in the river, the boulder on which our boat was now pinned. I also didn’t notice him pulling passengers out of the boat and onto the rock beside him, until I heard the shouts.

My mother and the other, now faceless, mariners were hollering to me. “Move! Get over here! Get up and move!”

I tried in my shock and confusion to move, but something was stopping me. There was a rope – nothing of consequence, just enough to fluster my blurred thinking, just enough to stun me into helplessness. In my memory, it feels like minutes; in actuality, I’m sure it wasn’t even seconds. Once again, Our Heroic Guide, employed his brute strength and quick thinking to snatch me up from my assigned seat. He pulled my body like a rag doll to the top of the boat, and I watched my seat flood before my eyes. I saw the ghost of my body as the water pulled it under and buried it in a watery grave.

The next few moments are lost to me. I do not remember returning to my seat. I do not remember freeing ourselves from the rock. I do not remember racing through the fall. What I do remember is my breath and blood flooding through my body finally as I heard Our Heroic Guide laugh in celebration with a fellow river runner. I do remember the oars up YEEHAW that I witnessed from above the boat, in an out of body moment. I do remember the numbness that protected me from the reality of the moment.

And, I’ll never, ever, as long as I live, forget the moment my feet finally touched that riverbank. I was alive. I climbed that sleek, muddy incline, thankful for the pain I felt in my thighs. I was thankful for the trees that canopied above me. I was thankful for the smelly exhaust from the pitiful bus in which we rode home. I was thankful for the silent, albeit fearful in its own narrow, winding, mountainside way, bus ride back to that log building on the Cheat River. I was thankful for my dry clothes and the rented mini-van waiting in the gravel parking lot. I was thankful for the hotel bed hours away that would later shelter my weary, empty body.

And, the next morning, I was mostly thankful for the strong arm that helped me lift my dilapidated body from its resting place, for without it, I could not have moved.

 

**As I was researching the Cheat River Canyon today, trying to remember the name of the fall that nearly got me, I stumbled on this link.  Apparently, outdoorsmen have a way of playing with time.  I found this report detailing the events of the woman’s death.  However, it actually occurred a few years prior to our arrival…not a few days.  But, the story is so much sweeter the way they told it. :)

 

This post was also submitted as a part of {W}rite-of Passage challenge #8: Plot.

Someone mentioned foie gras.

When BigGirl was 10 months old, I left her for the first time.  I spent a week in Baltimore for corporate training.  I sat in the airport, waiting for my plane, crying.  The novel I had borrowed from a friend was unable to distract me or lift my spirits.  I carried in my purse a piece of paper with four inkjet printed pictures of FireDaddy, BigGirl, Bo and I smiling together in the warm spring sunshine of my parents’ back porch. 

My week in Baltimore was mentally exhausting and emotionally draining, but good, nonetheless.  I met people from all over, laughed till my sides ached, collected expense receipts, explored the Inner Harbor area, shopped for souvenirs and frequented the hotel lounge with my new girlfriends.  At night, I would call home and miss my baby more and more with each day that passed.  I slept hard every night, a nice escape from the loneliness bottled up inside that hotel room.

That’s when I met Jane.  Jane had just moved to the States from France, where she was formerly employed by the French division of our company.  Amidst an international company conference, she met the American man who would be her husband.  He quickly swept her off her feet and ushered her across the Atlantic to a new life as his wife. 

Jane wore her French nationality like a feather in her bonnet.  Her jet black eyeliner extended beyond the corner of her eye just slightly, and angled up towards her brow, à la Cleopatra.  She kept her mocha hair neatly tied at the nape of her neck in a bun or simple ponytail.  The way she wore her Land’s End company logo button-downs made them look not only feminine, but sexy.  Her black heels flaunted toes that reached a sharp point and industrial-sized buckles and grommets.  They looked like pure couture beside my Mossimo heeled sandals.  Everything she said was music – a beautiful love song, whispered between sheets.

I suppose I had a bit of a “girl crush” on Jane.  I was completely enamored with her.  I hung onto her every word.  I found myself wanting to ask her to tell me everything – tell me again how you met your husband, about your family, about school.  What of the French division of the company? What does your home look like?  I wanted to know it all. 

At the time, my brother lived in Silver Spring and worked in Baltimore.  Sometime midweek, after being dismissed for the day, I left my room at the Hilton Garden Inn, hopped into his Murano waiting at the curb, and headed to dinner.  He took me to a French restaurant he and his wife enjoyed on occasion.

We sat at a cafe table outside, just within the low wrought iron fence.  As my eyes surveyed the menu, early French vocabulary lessons replayed in my mind…poisson, haricots, les frites, jambon… Finally, I chose a lovely skate with capers and brown butter.  It was magnifique.

The night was wonderfully delicious.  The spring night air was cool and helped me stay awake, despite wine and fatigue.  We laughed and had a wonderful visit before I collapsed in their downstairs guest bedroom. 

The next day, surrounded once again by the neutral corporate classroom, I couldn’t wait to tell Jane about my dinner.  I couldn’t remember the French word for skate, and the English name had no meaning to her….which is actually quite funny.  A skate is closely related to a ray…and the French word for skate is “raie”.  I struggled to define the fish with my words and hands until, finally, our minds connected again.  She smiled and reminisced about her mother’s cooking and meals with her family at home.  And, again, I listened with envy and admiration.

I never saw or spoke to Jane again after that week.  But, I’ll never forget her.  She is filed neatly away in a beautiful drawer in my mind marked “France” – alongside images of the Eiffel Tower, Le Louvre, L’Arc de Triomphe, fields of lavender in Provence, charming boulangeries, and bridges crossing the Seine. 

I bought a French guidebook last week.  It was on clearance at a bookstore going out of business.  Someday, hopefully not too far away, that will come in handy.

 

Photo credit:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/scpgt/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Brothers

I remember my brother saying once, about a boy I was madly in love with at the time, “He would be a great guy, if he wasn’t dating my sister.”

Brothers.  They are quite a story.

Of course, my story about brothers is from the perspective of a sister.  People talk so much about a girl’s relationship with her father and how important it is in her future relationships.  I have no doubt that is true.  But, in retrospect, I also know a girl’s relationship with her brothers can have just as powerful an influence on her relationships with men, too.

My brothers and I played cars in the den.  We set up our own garages around the room – under the piano bench, under the skirts of chairs and sofas, beneath chests and coffee tables.  We acted out scenes and stories with Corvettes and Firebirds and Lamborghinis in the lead roles.

My brothers and I played G. I. Joe.  Well, they played G. I. Joe and I played Barbie and, at times, their two worlds mingled.

I remember playing spy.  We’d load ourselves down with canteens and flashlights and assorted supplies before we crawled through air ducts (under and between furniture) and snuck into darkened offices to rifle through imaginary filing cabinets.

Riding together in the backseat on long road trips, we giggled till I nearly wet my pants, making up personalized license plates with potty puns.  Mama and Daddy would fuss from the frontseat for us to quiet down.  It’s not safe.  We were distracting the driver.  We’d bite our lips and whisper for a minute or two before our laughter roared all over again.

My brothers taught me to play and laugh.  They taught me to appreciate boys for what they are.

I still learn from – and about – my brothers today.  Brothers, be they old or young – want to fix things.  They want to advise and counsel.  It’s their way of protecting.

Brothers send friends to look out for you on dates.  Brothers walk behind you and your friends to and from school.  Brothers silently watch you do stupid things and, years later, tell you it hurt them – even though you thought they didn’t care.

Brothers look upon sisters like a big mess of tears and ribbons and puffy hearts and nonsense.  But, that big mess is theirs for keeps.

I hope that brothers also look upon sisters as a soft heart that cares for them.  The first girl that ever loved them and thought of them as their own.  A girl that knows them to be a strong, capable man that carries inside him the heart of a baby boy.  The boy who cried at the sight of his mama crying and when his beloved pet lizard died.  Boys that suffered heartbreaks at the hands of girls like me. 

Boys that hug their sister and make it feel like home.

Boys and girls are so different.  But, on the inside – in the quiet little memories and spaces between their souls – brothers and sisters are really very much the same.

Cold.

Even in Florida, it has been darn right cold outside this week. The kind of cold that makes you crave pajamas. Sweat pants. Big, squishy, crew socks. Hoodies. Blankets and quilts. Blazing fires in your fireplace and hot cocoa -- or the “grown-up” version of cocoa, hot lattes.

My bed has taken quite good care of me each night; a quilt, and sometimes a throw blanket, layered on top of my coverlet. Even with the assistance of a crow bar, I would still struggle to pry myself loose from its warm embrace. My personal bed heaters, Bo and Daisy, have risen to the occasion beautifully. Bo dutifully curls up by my feetsies, keeping my sock-clad toesies warm. Daisy wads her balled-up self under my arm and, on occasion, moves to my pillow in the night, molding to the top of my head like a canine stocking cap.

My kitchen, this week, has pumped out comfort food: crock-pot chicken with dressing, pork chops, chili, spaghetti, and, coming soon, asparagus & green pea risotto. For this weekend, I’m planning a roast, cooked over the course of the day. On Monday, we celebrated a successful first day back to “the grind” with a fresh batch of fudge brownies and tall glasses of skim milk.

Ironically, this week (by far the coldest week in recent memory) BigGirl’s homework included star gazing. Star gazing. In freezing temperatures. So, she and FireDaddy bundled up in their warmest winter gear, and spent time in the dark night yard, searching for constellations.  Orion, Cassiopeia, Lepus… The Lollipop. They shivered as they came inside, sporting red noses, rosy cheeks, and excited smiles.  They talked loudly and with renewed energy as they told BabyGirl and I their every observation.

Each night this week, the girlies have prayed for snow, wishing against all odds that the magic of inside-out jammies would bring a winter weather miracle to Florida. BigGirl has gone so far as wearing three layers inside out…an undershirt, and two layers of pajamas – all inside-out. Each morning, BabyGirl has crept straight from sleep, eyes filled with hope, to the sliding glass door to check for snow. Each day, these hopeful girlies have been disappointed only momentarily, realizing they can try again tonight, and maybe tomorrow will be different.

While much of me is tired of the frivolous annoyances brought on by the cold – covering plants, dripping faucets, the weight of extra coats, bundling up protesting children, searching closets, drawers and hampers for weather-appropriate clothes for the girlies, starting the car early each morning and carrying blankets to warm my Drama Princesses on the way to school – I must admit that much of me has enjoyed it.  In some ways, it is a fun, refreshing change of pace.  It’s fun to wear scarves and hats and gloves and tights and boots.  Create a new look, a new “cold weather you”.  It’s fun to cozy up in the big bed together, shivering between cold sheets.  It’s such a treat to enjoy a warm fire (especially living with FireDaddy…but that’s another post) and feel your heart flutter at the prospect of future flurries. 

The cold has returned pieces of my childhood to my mind.  The smell of snow.  Counting marshmallows in my hot chocolate.  Watching the way those marshmallows slowly soften and get bubbly as they melt into my warm treat.  My Mama relentlessly prodded and stoked the fire.  Daddy, in his Wellington boots, stocking cap, brown jacket and gloves, replenished firewood from stacks out back.  I remember how cold my feet were as they walked on the tile in our Texas home, and how, as I played outside, my fingers and face stung long before I confessed my chill to anyone.  A gray winter sky hung low above brown, dormant yards.  Barren gray trees stretching from cold red clay to touch heavy clouds.  Freezing cold air carried the smell of burning wood to my nose.  I hear the crunch of snow under my feet and remember stiffly walking in my heavy winter jacket and boots.  One year, the lake froze and I stood fearful on the safety of the back law, watching in awe as my crazy uncles walked out onto the ice, playing and goofing around like a bunch of overgrown boys.  One year, the unexpected sight of snow in the morning as I woke up at a friend’s house made me homesick.  You should be at home when it snows, I thought.  I missed My Mama and My Daddy and my brothers.

I’m a little homesick today at the thought of it all. 

Hello there, Winter.  I’ve missed you, too.

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/elifayse/ / CC BY 2.0

O’ Christmas Tree, O’ Christmas Tree

The tree is finally up.  Whew.

While this is definitely the most cumbersome of all decorating chores, it is also one of the most sentimental.  Ornaments on our tree, like many of yours, tell the tale of who we are and where we’ve been. 

There are faces on our tree.  Lots of little smiling faces.  Every year, we watch the faces grow older.

 

 

Ornaments mark milestones in our family’s story.  Our first Christmas together and my babies’ first Christmases. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some ornaments were handmade by family, friends, and even a few former students.

Of course, there are lots of firefighters and fire trucks, too.

Many ornaments came directly from the childhood trees of Little Girl Mommy and Little Boy FireDaddy.

Some of my newest favorites are more playful in spirit, reflecting my love of the beach and water.

Our ornaments represent our heritage,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the contents of our hearts,  

 and the child inside each of us.

 

And that sounds just about right to me.  Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

 

 

 

Girl Talk Thursday: Heartbreak City

 

Today’s Girl Talk Thursday topic is heartbreaks.  Such a touchy topic…

As you may have gathered from previous posts, I’ve had my share of boyfriends. Which is not to say that this is a point of pride for me…

I can remember riding in the car with my mother on the way to the mall; I was in high school. My heart was freshly wounded by Some Dumb Guy.  A sappy love song came on the radio and began rubbing salt in my wound.  I was trying to be brave and keep my mind off the hurt and lonely feeling that comes with breakups, but this blasted song was knocking me down brick by brick.  I remember softly, reluctantly asking my mother, “Can you please change the station?”  She respectfully agreed, and silently honored my request.  I wonder what it was like to be My Mama in that moment.  Was she thinking, “I hate seeing her like this?” or “Such a drama queen…”.  (Probably some of both.)

I did not choose my boys wisely, to say the least.  I’ve alluded to my own issues with self-esteem here before.  Here’s the bottom line: I didn’t like myself very much, so I liked just about anyone who liked me.  The truth hurts, but doesn’t make it any less true.

As you can imagine, with little to no standards for Qualifying Candidates, I got burned quite a bit.  Looking back, it seems like most guys dumped me when they had another waiting in the wings.  (Perhaps they were smarter than I give them credit for…)  That fact, of course, made it so much harder to accept.  The jealousy. The betrayal. 

And then, there was one guy that really was a jerk.  In his defense, he had no good role models.  His parents had split when he was young, young, young.  His mother lived on other side of the country and he didn’t know her AT ALL until his father, who spent a lifetime freely sharing his own twisted version of love with his sons, died.  So, along came the boy.  He liked me.  So, I considered and (of course) agreed to a date.  All was hunky-dory for a while.  I, in keeping with my own traditions, began allowing my entire life to revolve around Dumb Guy of the Moment. 

A smart enough person learns to see this as a source of control and power…and get used to it.  Often, they decide to keep things moving along the path of their choice, regardless of your thoughts.  Bottom line, I got hurt.  It hurt before it was over.  It hurt because I let it.  I was too stupid to see that I was worth more than that. I didn’t have the courage or perspective to realize I would be happier and better off without him.  I was scared and didn’t want to be alone.

Then, one day, it clicked.  I was done.  It was over.  I had had enough.  I shed my fair share of tears and wallowed in my sorrow with a few supportive friends, and then, as quickly as a baby falls asleep in their pureed peas, I flushed it.  Like a faucet, I turned it off.

A few days later, I met my husband.  He was supposed to be a rebound.  I just wanted a distraction to help me launch myself down a new road.  Turns out that road was a interstate with no end in sight. Funny how things work out. 

 

All of this “woe is me, innocent victim” talk is not, of course to say that I didn’t do my fair share of burning, as well.  I never maliciously intended to hurt, but misunderstandings happen and people change.  Girls are stupid in high school, as are boys.  And, hindsight is 20-20.  As it turns out, some girls – some “friends” – have ulterior motives behind their “advice”. 

“I feel so conflicted…I ‘love’ (because, when you’re young you think it’s love) So-And-So, but I kind of like Other Dude, too.  I don’t know what to do…”

“Oh, you should go for it…you and So-And-So are growing apart.  Follow your heart.  Go for Other Dude.  Here, why don’t I help you write the break-up note…”

A few days later, guess who’s comforting So-And-So?  Oh, look!  Now they’re a couple!  As for me and Other Dude?  Yeah.  That one will live in infamy forever among my family as the one to whom I said, “This isn’t going to last long.”  I don’t know if I said that to him, or just to my family.  But, it’s true.  I said it to someone.

 

As an adult, I’ve decided that heartbreaks come as a result of personal expectations.  (Wish I could claim credit for this profound statement, but a co-worker taught me this.)  We all have expectations for the people in our lives.  We have expectations for who and what boyfriends/husbands/lovers/friends/family members are and how they should behave.  These expectations, though, are rarely, if ever, explicitly discussed, they are often vastly different from one person to the next.  We get hurt when people don’t meet our unspoken expectations.

I expected boys would care about my feelings.

I expected they might “love” me forever - because, to me, love is forever.

I expected that they would be honorable and do the right thing.

I expected they would tell me the truth.

I expected that my girlfriends had my best interest in mind.

I expected they were being honorable, too.

I expected that, should someone truly care about me, they would fight for me.  They would come to me and say, “I don’t want to lose you.”

I expected wrong.

 

Even today, I live with heartbreak from time to time.  Who doesn’t?  My husband breaks my heart.  My children break my heart.  My friends break my heart.  My family breaks my heart.  That’s life. 

What I’m learning is that I must adjust my expectations.  The only person I can truly EXPECT anything from, is myself, because that is the only person I can – or want to - control.  I must expect more from myself than I do from others.  I’ve learned that, while I continue to open my heart to the loving people around me – who, like me, are just doing the best they can everyday, I need to give myself the unconditional love that I cannot always expect from others. 

And that, my friends, is harder than it seems.

 

 

I don’t like that this has been such a depressing post. So, to share a “feel good” with you…check out this video. You’ll like it, I promise!

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Crackin’ Open a Can of Christmas

The sun hadn’t even set on Thanksgiving Day and my “so-called friends” were posting pictures of their Christmas trees on Facebook, making me feel like a slacker.

Then, I went and hurt myself, somehow, and was incapacitated for a day and a half, in a house freshly cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for decorations.

Then, BigGirl woke up with a raging 104.4 fever, and another day was sidetracked.

Gosh darn it, I became hell-bent on putting out some flippin’ red and green already!!! In a typical neurotic fit, I began unloading the Rubbermaid tubs in the garage patiently awaiting my attention. One by one, we smiled at the pillows and cutsies and greeted them like old friends who’d come to visit. “Awww, I remember that…” BigGirl would say.

“Mommy, it’s not Christmas yet. I don’t want you to make dat,” BabyGirl chimed in.

As I, once again, found homes, some new and some the same, for all these familiar faces, I realized how many stories I pull out of the attic every year. (Well, more accurately, FireDaddy pulls them out of the attic…I pull them out of the tubs.)

Like the “crystal” candy dish my little old next door neighbor gave to us the year we were married, Mrs. Russell. I can see her face and remember the worry we had for her when she was hospitalized for a month or so. I remember her purple God awful reflecting ball she kept in her little courtyard by her front door, and her excitement as she called us over to look at her century plant in bloom. I never would have chosen this for myself, but it reminds me of friendship.

I have this crazy, random blue metal basket with Santa on it. Every year I pull it out and wonder exactly what I will do with it and where I will put it. But I don’t have the heart to give it away. It was given to me by a sweet, sweet friend I taught with in a past life. She was as country as country gets. And she would give you the shirt off her back, and the diesel dually she rode in on. The basket was filled with sausage (from their own pigs, I believe), corn bread, and bean soup mix. I miss her.

There’s the toy soldier my mother made, in her toll painting days. He’s so handsome. I have a thing for toy soldiers, I think. You know, being a man in uniform and all. I remember sitting in our kitchen watching her paint these projects. I was impressed with how easy she made it look, and how cool it was that water worked like an eraser when used correctly. I was thrilled when she said I could have it – for the girls, of course.

I love my green table runner with little red birds appliquéd on it. It’s cheery and looks semi-homemade. (Sometimes illusions are a good thing.) I love all the fabrics that come out of my tubs. Pillows, dolls, animals, stockings, napkins, runners, and more. Fabric has such a warming, inviting effect on a room. And what house doesn’t need a little more warmth in it for the holidays?

I love my basket of Christmas books, a second generation tradition. Since my girlies were so small when I started collecting, we have board books and everything beyond. As they mature and grow, so will this special collection. And, I’ll save the board books for friends’ babies and cousins and nieces and nephews and, one day, grandbabies. I love that it was the first item I pulled out of the garage. I presented it to BigGirl like her first gift of the season – and she received it as such. Both girlies immediately plunged into the basket of treasures, promptly browsing one after another after another. Quietly. Enjoying.

All of these stories and memories and thoughts fumble and bumble around my head like blind little mice. And we haven’t even touched the five (or more) tubs of ornaments yet. That’s another post entirely…

I love Christmas. I love that, like many things, no two are exactly alike. I love that with every little tchotchke I put out every year, I am surrounding myself with memories and faces. I love that decorating your home for Christmas each year is an act of creating. Creating memories. Creating a mood. Creating a backdrop for time spent with people you love.

Christmas is coming. Just you wait.

_____________________________________________________

Psst! Did you hear? Barking Mad is having a Crazy Christmas Giveaway! A $300 TARGET GIFT CARD!!! You know how I feel about Target, y'all...Anyhow, here's her link and all that jazz - go check it out!

Things that make me happy

I started a Thanksgiving Day post yesterday. It was filled with sarcasm, but it made me laugh.

Today, I went around my house snapping photos of things that make me happy. My new decorating rule: Surround yourself with things that make you happy. Happiness is completely irrational sometimes. Often, I can’t explain why something makes me happy, but I also can’t deny it. Like this summer when I found a pair of hotpads I just couldn’t resist. They made me happy.


This handmade bundle of flowers makes me happy. It sits on my desk, always in my line of sight as I look towards my monitor. It’s actually a combination of two Mother’s Day projects from BigGirl’s preschool days…and it’s a little worse for the wear (to say the least). But, when I look at it, I remember the day she presented these little gifts and I smile. She was so little.


Diet Dr. Pepper makes me happy. It’s sweet, cool, refreshing. I love it. Drinking it in my favorite cup (not seen here) on ice is a special treat I enjoy on “stay at home days”. Yummy. I know this isn’t exactly decorating, but it often graces an end table, bedside table, or counter in my home.



I love these blue and white canisters and pots. I’ve collected a lot of blue and white over the years. Why? Because it makes me happy. The two larger ones shown here came from my grandmother’s house. I love the combination of the three together, even though they are not intended to be displayed this way.






I love this little ceramic dog. One of my students gave it to me a few years ago for Christmas. She gave it to me because she and I both had a dog by the same name…a detail I had forgotten. Apparently, that was pretty special to her. The dog makes me smile. I look at it and think of her smiling up at me. This little doggie lives on my breakfast bar where I can see it everyday.






I love this little corner of my dresser. The lamp is nothing special, just an old Target purchase. But, the flowers are cheery and were a gift from My Mama. The crystal figure belonged to My Daddy’s Mama. You can’t really tell what it is, other than a person. It is a flower frog, intended to be used in the center of a crystal platter. However, I like looking at it on my dresser each morning as I dig for that favorite pair of underwear or bra.





I love this man. He’s a Greek fisherman. A few summers ago, I rescued him from a broken frame, buried deep within a closet at my grandmother’s house. (She’s very generous.) When I look at him, I wonder about his story. I would love to sit with him and hear his tales of the ocean and how he met his wife. I’d love to visit his home and enjoy a meal of fresh seafood that was prepared in his kitchen. I would take lots of pictures and they would be lovely. Like something from a movie.





Books make me happy. As “tech savvy” as I’d like to think I am, I cannot get into the thought of a Kindle. I love books. I love pages. I love book covers. I love books in stacks, in baskets, on shelves, in corners, on tables, everywhere. I love books. They make me happy.






I love this birdie. Pier 1. Love it. Wish I had bought more.








I love handing things down to my girlies. This little music box used to be mine. It was a gift from FireDaddy. He gave it to me as part of a birthday present the first year we were dating. It’s sweet, but it’s sweeter knowing it’s theirs now.







I love making things for my girlies. This is a Kitty Bank I made for BabyGirl. She wanted a Bunny Bank like the one her uncle gifted to her big sister, but I had no plans to return to Boston anytime soon to hunt down that cutie-patootie little toy shop in Harvard Square. So, I improvised…and spent an afternoon with BigGirl at the paint your own pottery place. It turned out OK, and BabyGirl absolutely adores it. She’s just like Sissy.








I love walking into a quiet room of the house and finding this. Having girls who love reading – and writing - is like a dream come true.



These are the little things that slowly, with time and love, turn a house into a home.

What makes your house a place you love to be?


UPDATED 12/1/09: Woo-hoo! Barking Mad is giving away a $300 Target Gift Card! (You know I need it!) Go see for yourself and get your bloggy all linked up, too!

Projects: Past, Present, and Future

As a teacher, I totally "get" the idealistic thinking behind assigning projects to students. I completely understand the lofty goals that accompany the standard "Dear Parents" letter, detailing the project guidelines, due date, and scoring information.  After all, projects are authentic learning.  They give students choices.  They close the gap between home and school.  They are directly linked to standards.  The possibilities are endless when you truly unleash your little learners and say, "Go!  Be free and LEARN!!!"

As a student, I often shared my teachers' glorified visions of excellence.  I'm sure I secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) strived at times to be the best:  turn in the fanciest diorama, write the longest report, or build the biggest balsa wood Aztec dwelling.  I do not doubt that I (at least internally) wanted my speech to get the most laughs, my science fair project to win the blue ribbon, and my work to receive the highest honor.  I WANTED that 100/A+!

Now, enter phase two of my life...parenthood.  In many ways, projects are a curse.  They take over my life.  They cost money - money for which I had plans.  Plans that didn't include buying jiggly eyes and felt.  My evenings are quickly consumed by cracking the whip over BigGirl while repeatedly turning BabyGirl away.  Trips to libraries to hunt down juvenile nonfiction books.  Hours pouring over the internet researching the topic and sifting through websites looking for age-appropriate and applicable content.

However, projects as a parent aren't all bad.  With each project, I fall in love with BigGirl's love of learning all over again.  I am continually amazed by the wheels in her head.  Her inquisitive nature and knack for piecing together random knowledge with memories is unbelievable.  I love the time we spend together and, inevitably, I learn something new.  And, for that, I'm always a better person in the end.  It is during the hours of toiling away over these school projects that I am reassured - she will be OK.  She will succeed in this rat race of a world.  She will rise to the top like cream in milk.   This girl of mine, she's going somewhere.

I also am reminded by my friend that these moments are memories in the making.  Just as I will never forget the night I stayed up till "the middle of the night" (probably 10:00!) with my parents creating the greatest solar system model of all time, she will never forget the hour we spent interviewing a couple in Scotland via Skype.  I will never forget how cool it was to use that awesome leftover silver metallic wallpaper (No, it was not from my own home. Daddy was a custom homebuilder.) to cover the outside of the moving box that housed my painted styrofoam planets suspended by fishing line.  And BigGirl will never forget painting paper plaid and pleating it into a miniature kilt.  Just as I will remember with a smile the pride I felt walking down the fourth grade hallway and seeing my solar system stand out in the row of models, I'm sure she will never forget the awkward pride she felt as her class watched her VoiceThread, and listened to her own voice teach her classmates about her heritage.

This project is not the first we've done together, nor will it be the last, I'm sure.  We've made a gingerbread girl, a leprechaun trap, costumes for literary parades, a Hopi doll, and - the first projects ever - family books.  (A tradition at our preschool.)

My heart swells as I compare these moments with my budding student to the moments from my own childhood.  My diagram of a flower received special praise from my fifth grade teacher (the meanest teacher in the world) because I outlined everything in black to make the edges stand out.  (I'm 99% sure she hated me and that was the only praise I received from her all year.  That's why I'll never forget it.)  That was also the year My Daddy helped me build the balsa wood Aztec dwelling.  The next year, my mother drove me around to shoe stores searching for the perfect pair of lace-up ankle boots to accompany my Laura Ingall's Wilder era project.  To be honest, I really don't remember that presentation, but I'll never forget the costume or the time spent preparing it with my mother.  And I'm pretty sure she returned the boots immediately afterwards.  We didn't have the money to be spending on those boots right then.  Believe me.  My mother helped me again soon.  She helped me write an "award winning" speech in sixth grade, just after we moved to Florida.  I even went on to the semi-finals - which was a big deal for "the new girl", who, prior to that point, was mostly known for talking with a Texas Twang.

At some point, probably high school, the time working with parents began to fade...as it rightly should.  Projects became my own procrastination, and the memories changed.  I can recall sitting in my bedroom for hours memorizing poems in French for Le Congrés, building my repetoire, line after line after line.  My senior year, I remember sitting at my desk, staring at my bulletin board, searching for the inspiration for yet another speech. This one was about my great grandmother.  I remember clearly the moment my eyes stumbled across the words from this Nike ad* (circa 1990) hanging there.  It all fell into place.

"You don't have to be your mother unless she is who you want to be.  You don't have to be your mother's mother, or your mother's mother's mother, or even your grandmother's mother on your father's side.  You may inherit their chins, their hips, or their eyes, but you are not destined to become the woman who came before you, you are not destined to live their lives.  So if you inherit something, inherit their strength.  If you inherit something, inherit their resilience. Because the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

And tonight, as I enjoy the relative calm in my home before the next project is assigned, I will remember that those moments spent on projects with my girls are irreplaceable.  Those moments are a gift I give my BigGirl - and one day, my BabyGirl.  It is in those moments that they will inherit from me, just as I inherited from my parents.  It is on those moments that she will one day look back and smile.


Pssst! If you haven't seen it yet - you have to give my girl props. :)


And just for fun, check this out from last spring**.  Heh, heh, heh.....




* I still love that ad, even today.  Probably more than ever.  
** Just so you know, I couldn't let BigGirl turn the project in since FireDaddy did it completely without her help/involvement.  Her finished project was a shoebox with a trap door that had tissue paper grass covering the top and a shiny coin glued on top of the trap door.  (Equally as ingenius, I thought...) 

Natalie Told Me To Do It.

If you've read any of my other blog (yeah, it's pretty dusty right now), you know that I love Natalie Goldberg. She's an author and writing guru...and she has taught me a lot. (OK, so maybe not PERSONALLY...but her books have taught me a lot.)

It's times like these when I really rely on her help to pull me out of the bottom of the barrel. You see, sometimes, I'm itching on the inside. I want to write. I feel like I NEED to write. (And, this month, I need to publish.) However, you don't always have the words. Natalie (yeah, I'm on a first name basis with her... in my mind) told me that I can write about anything. If I can't figure it out, start THERE.

But, sometimes, starting "there" would lead me somewhere I don't have the time or energy to go, if you know what I mean. So, sometimes, she tells me to start with JELL-O.

I love JELL-O.

Can you believe that FireDaddy and my girlies DO NOT LIKE JELL-O???

As a child, my brothers and I would be thrilled when Mama would make us JELL-O and serve it for dessert after dinner. I remember her brown glass dish she always made it in. The little, tiny bubbles that congealed around the edges of the bowl. The fun wiggle and shimmer on the surface as we watched her take it out of the fridge, waiting hopefully as she poked it lightly to see if it was really ready.

She served our JELL-O in cute little clear glass Pyrex souffle bowls with fluted edges. We cut out bites with our spoons and swished it between our teeth, turning it into a thick, bubbly liquid. It was a simple pleasure. So sweet and good.

Mama also made us JELL-O when we were sick. She tenderly asked us what color we preferred, red or green, before she boiled the water and stirred, stirred, stirred, dissolving the powder. It made for a nice change of pace from the Saltines, Sprite, Gatorade and beef bouillon (which, I must say, I also love).

The speed set method was a great improvement. Now, instead of waiting hours and hours for our sweet treat, it only required AN hour or so. Jigglers, though, never did anything for me.

Now, my refrigerator is almost always stocked with JELL-O cups. I'd love to say I buy them for my girls, but THEY DON'T LIKE IT. So, I buy it for myself and pack them as a guilt-free lunchtime dessert. Red and green, with the occasional orange. I've experimented with those newfangled flavors on the shelves at Publix these days, but they just aren't for me. I'll stick to my tried and true, red or green, please.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my tummy is growling and I hear some JELL-O calling my name.