living dangerously

When I was a child, my father allowed me to ride in the back of his pickup truck.  It wasn't ever anything that we thought twice about.  He had a girlfriend who was on the large side and there just wasn't a ton of room on that bench seat.  So, I was often put in the bed.

This was during the late '80s and early '90s when I was also allowed to ride in the front seat of my mom's car without a seat belt.  In fact, I can remember having quite a few driving lessons with my father when I was only ten or eleven years old.  It was a different time back then.  I would never think to put my ten year old behind the wheel of a car today! (or in the front seat, for that matter).

At any rate, I survived.

One time, when I was in fourth or fifth grade, my father was dating a woman who had a daughter in middle or high school.  The girl was involved in her school choir and was about to take a field trip to Carowinds, in Charlotte, NC.  My dad's girlfriend and her younger daughter invited us to tag along that weekend, but we had to drive.  Of course, my dad gassed up his trusty pickup truck and set off down the road with the other girl and me in the bed.  There was a cover on the truck at that point, and we had some blankets for comfort, but it was a very long drive, indeed.

On the way home that evening, the temperature began to fall and it got very cold in the back of that cold, hard bed.  My newfound friend and I huddled together for warmth, but it didn't quite cut it.  Eventually, we climbed through the back window into the truck's cab and crammed together with everyone else.  It was quite the experience.

Again, I survived.  At times, I wonder how.

My pickup truck fun ended abruptly not long thereafter.  There was a campaign to inform parents about the dangers of riding in the bed of a truck, which apparently worked on my father.  He learned that kids can be ejected from the bed in the event of a sudden turn or stop and quickly banned me from riding in the rear.  Soon after, he replaced the truck with a van and that was that.  Of course, the van had no seat belts, but we were getting somewhere, weren't we?

I was reminded of my childhood antics yesterday when I was driving on a busy freeway.  A truck merged in front of me and I noticed that there was a dog in the bed.  The animal looked happy enough, but I was so worried that it would jump out in front of me that I couldn't focus on much else.  My driving slowed and I increased the distance between myself and the truck.

If I couldn't fathom the idea of letting the dog ride in the pickup, I began to wonder why parents used to be willing to let their kids ride back there.  In this day and age, we completely restrict kids' movement around the interior of the car.  New carseat recommendations have babies riding in rear-facing seats until age 2.  My son, age 10, just recently received clearance from his doctor to ride without a booster seat.  He will be in the backseat for at least another two years, perhaps longer.  We have airbags, seat belts, and numerous other safety features.  Automobile technology has come a long way in the past twenty years and parents are more educated about how to keep their children safe while riding in the vehicles.  That's a great thing.

Not a Britney moment... promise!

Though improvements in motor vehicle safety were much-needed and a great thing, parents have also become over-protective in the past twenty or so years.  I mentioned to my mother recently that I had let Alex walk up to the neighborhood school for a viola lesson.  Her first question was, "Can you see the whole way to the school from your house?"  Well, no.  I can't.  But, we only live a couple of blocks away.  When I was nine, I was walking a further distance home from school each day in all sorts of weather.  Of course, my mother's argument is, "Times have changed."

She's right.  Times have changed since I was a child.  Things are safer now.  According to well-known free-ranger Lenore Skenazy, crime has fallen to the level that it was in 1970.  Therefore, I was in more danger walking home from school at the age of nine than my son is at risk of by occasionally walking a shorter distance in 2011.  Furthermore, I was a victim of kidnapping back then (by a family member), so I know it can happen.  But, I have faith that it won't.  At some point, we have to let go. 


Photo Credit:
Tommy's Truck by Steve Snodgrass via Flickr. 
Eye Contact by A. Davey via Flickr.

saying goodbye to the pacifier

Nearly two weeks ago, Katie gave up her pacifier for good.  It wasn't really her choice, but she did well with it regardless.  We simply took it away and told her that she was a big girl and that big girls don't need pacis.

The first night was kind of rough.  We let her sleep in our bed because we weren't sure how she'd do going back to sleep on her own if she woke up in the middle of the night.  That night, we laid in bed counting "stars" on the ceiling until she fell asleep.  We got to 76.  At first, Kate was very practical about the matter, claiming, "no stars in my house, Mommy, no stars."  Eventually, she relaxed and drifted off, though.

I will admit, our little Kate-cat was quite cranky the first week or so.  She was used to having her pacifiers whenever she wanted them.  But, now she doesn't even ask for them.  And, should she find one that we missed, she tells us that she found a "baby paci."

Surprisingly, Katie has stopped drooling incessantly (I didn't realize that was related to the pacifier) and, unsurprisingly, is talking much better.  She's really growing up!

two sides of a coin

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My dad, a 60 year old disabled veteran, lives in extreme poverty. Visiting his new home last week, I found that he does not have running water, a toilet (there isn't one installed, so even if he had water, he couldn't use it), heat, or a decent way to cook food. He receives just over a thousand dollars a month in disability and veteran's benefits. Doing the math, he can't live on that even in his current rented slum. He pays out $136 a month in interest to a Payday Loan Company. He also pays $106 each month for life insurance. At least he's trying.

He could move into a low-income housing unit for elderly people. The city owns it and only charges $300 a month for rent and utilities. But, then he wouldn't be able to own pets, which are very important to him. I don't understand why he insists on keeping the number of animals he does, but I've found I can't do anything about it, either. That is, I can't do anything short of calling animal control, but his pets aren't really to the caliber of the Animal Hoarders, so I don't think that's really necessary. He'd just go get more anyway.

Across town, my mother lives in a two bedroom townhouse with all the niceties. She can, obviously, bathe as she wishes, do her laundry, use a toilet, watch tv or movies, use the internet, and do all the things a typical 50+ divorcee might enjoy. She's surpassed my father's goals and lives comfortably in a middle-class townhouse community, complete with a pool and small gardens. She has upper-crust taste, taking vacations to Florida to private beach-side gated communities each year, splurging on my kids, and generally doing whatever she pleases.

I'm sure this isn't typical of a kid with divorced parents, but I'm really glad that they split up when I was so young (age 3). I think my mother has achieved much more than my father would have tolerated. I expressed this sentiment to my husband last night and he replied that my mother might have brought my father up, rather than the other way around. I really don't think so. I mean, I was so young when they split that I don't remember much, but I do know what I've witnessed over the past twenty-some years. My dad doesn't have the true desire to do any better for himself. I don't see how my mother put up with it for the short time that she did.

During the week, I would live in your typical middle-class home. I was able to go to the doctor whenever I needed, I had all the toys you could imagine, I was warm, well-fed, and comfortable. I had a lovely bed with ruffled sheets and a big floppy blue comforter, complete with matching navy ruffled curtains.

Every other weekend, I was thrown into poverty. For the majority of my young childhood, there was only one bed. My dad would sleep on an army cot when I visited and I would get to sleep in his twin bed with dirty sheets. As a teen, I had my own room. However, it was fitted with two old, used, stained mattresses (no boxsprings, just two mattresses stacked together on a frame). It was queen-sized and my father never purchased or "found" sheets for it. So, I would be stuck throwing a blanket underneath me when I went to bed and another on top. At night, the roaches would come out. The conditions were awful. The house stank, there was little heat, and no clean clothes. And, to think, I temporarily moved out of my nice, comfortable home to live with him on more than one occasion.

So, I was exposed to both kinds of living as a kid. Though I didn't fully grasp my father's situation back then, it saddens me to see him living in such conditions now. While he used to work, he no longer does. He claims he is unable to, given his hip problems (2 replacements in ten years), carpal tunnel syndrome which surgery did not fully correct, and whatever mental issues he is dealing with. I used to think he was lazy. Now, I don't think anyone would be willing to hire him.

So, I'm stuck. I don't know how to help. I understand that my expectations in a home are higher than his own, but come on. He needs a toilet, which the slumlord won't install. He needs to be able to pay for water and electricity. He needs to live in safe and healthy conditions. I just don't know how to get him there.

it's cold out there!

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How cold is it?

It is so cold, the politicians have their hands in their own pockets! -- Johnny Carson

It is a cold, cold morning here. Our low of 10 set a record this morning, but the windchill is 8 below. Yikes! I'm trying to avoid going out today, but my son must be picked up from school and we're in need of groceries.

I'm a guest blogger over at Losing the Baby Weight today. One commenter wrote about how, as a teenager, her mother would warn her not to touch the thermostat.  What's funny is that my mom had this rule, too.  I wonder why?  I mean, obviously it had to do with the heating bill, but what else?  Is this a secret code for parents of teens?  As in, "if you touch the thermostat, I'll know, so imagine what other, more important things I find out about."  Or, is the thermostat a euphemism for a penis?  "Don't touch that boy's penis, or I'll KNOW!"

bwahahahahaha.

Yes, the evil laugh.  Because moms were just out to ruin our lives and make us cold back in those days.

Photo Credit: It's Cold!! by Mr. T in DC on Flickr via a Creative Commons Attribution-- No Derivatives license

one precious present

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When I was a young child, my granny taught me to to do many things. We would spend our days sewing, crocheting, and making crafts. One thing that I really loved was hand embroidery. She started me off making magnets out of plastic canvas, but eventually I was moved up to using a hoop and real fabric. I think I mostly practiced letters and stitched over pictures. Nothing too fancy. One year, for their anniversary, I gave my parents a toaster cover that I had embroidered with "Rise and Shine" and a great big sun. A simple, free gift. You see, it was their cover to begin with. I just prettied it up a little.

Some rights reserved by davis.jacque

I can never turn down pretty embroidery, or things that remind me of my granny, so when friend Kat, of Mama's Sewing Room, posted a link to a perfect present idea, I couldn't resist.  Kat is quite the web shopper anyway, and is always sending us girlies links to her favorite things.  Think... a crafty Oprah on steroids.  In a good way.  She ought to go to work as a personal shopper because she has super taste.  So, this is what she had in her basket today:

Hand-embroidered children's artwork by JamisyJo on etsy

How neat!  JamisyJo takes your child's drawing and hand embroiders it onto linen for a keepsake that you will absolutely treasure.  She does these in either black thread or matches the colors in your child's art.  After she's finished with the handiwork, she stretches the linen over a canvas frame and then covers the back with white felt, so there are no raw edges.  This piece is an 8x8, but there are larger sizes available, too.  Oh.my.gosh.  When Katie becomes slightly more masterful with her scribbles, I am totally having this done.  I'll send in one of Alex's, too.  This is such an awesome idea.  She suggests giving these to grandparents and family members, but I want one to keep for myself! 

Visit JamisyJo on etsy

* I was not compensated in any way for this post.

one huggable, lovable friend

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.

While packing for our recent trip to Colonial Williamsburg (which was great and I'm sure I'll tell you all about it shortly), I started thinking about Pillow Pets. You see, Katie received the bumble bee pillow pet for her birthday and she now sleeps with it every night. So, it had to go to the hotel with us. Had. To.  I plopped the thing in the suitcase and zipped it on up.  Done.  Ready to hit the road.

Did anyone else have one of those pillow person things in the 80's/90's/can't remember the hell when, but I was a kid and they were super popular?  You know, the ones that had clothes kind of drawn on and floppy legs hanging off their square-ish bottoms and yarn for hair?  Really long yarn that would be considered a choking hazard now?  But, back then?  Parents apparently didn't care enough to care.  What were they called?  The pillow people, not the parents.  Let's see....




Oh, right.  They were called Pillow People.  How original.  And, maybe they didn't quite have chokingly-long hair.  Maybe I made that part up.  Anyway, this was the one that I received for Christmas one year.  I don't know how old I was.  I just remember that my dad (whom I used to call my "real dad," children of divorce can really be f'd up and scary sometimes), my dad gave it to me the year he was living in an apartment with a drug-dealing woman.  I don't remember her name.  Maybe there were two women.  Maybe I don't really know. 

Not my picture, I'm too lazy to deal with scanning and such.

Anyway, I got this pillow person for Christmas that year.  I can remember being incredibly thrilled, though I can't recall actually asking for it or anything.  Non-custodial parents have it so easy.  They can thrill their young children with anything. 

However, my dreams of snuggling down in bed clutching this little person to my chest and snoozing comfortably through the night were soon dashed.  The thing is, though, that my dad expected me to actually use this thing as my pillow.  Like, lay my head on it.  And, he didn't know how to wash it properly, so it got kind of dirty.  Eventually, she was shoved inside a pillow case.  So much for the pillow person/friend fantasy.  Unlike the girls in the commercial, I never pushed mine around in a stroller or played with her like my friend (okay, maybe I played with her as my dirty pal who really needed a bath.  Maybe.)

That's okay, though.  Because, it is kind of weird for kids to have a person look-a-like pillow that they clutch to their chest as they sleep at night.  It seems like a bit of a precursor to the blow-up doll.  You know, a fake partner with whom you snuggle.  Who can't talk back and always does what you want.  Such a fantasy.  I'm glad I have a husband, so that I'm not stuck hugging pillows.  That's the best part about marriage, you know!

So freakin' weird.  Yes, this thing really is for sale.

So, pillow people have now turned into pillow pets and Katie has one.  Alex is jealous and he wants one, too.  The grandparents plan to give him one for Christmas.  A dog, I think.  Because, he doesn't have enough dogs already (we have two).  Whatever.  They can both lay their heads on them so that they don't develop creepy feelings about snuggling with pets.  We don't want fleas in the bed, you know.

a little too comfortable

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As our fall weather quickly turns winter-ish here in the mountains of Virginia, I sit and listen to the tinkling of heat coming through our floor vents.  I am at once both grateful for the year-round comfort that a heat pump provides, and nostalgic for the seasonal temperature changes within the house as well as out.

not my house

When I was a young girl, I would spend the days with my granny while my mother and father worked.  My granny lived in an aging apartment complex with cast-iron radiators for heat in the winter.  There was no air-conditioning at all.  During the summer, she would crank the windows open and place a large electric window fan at the other end of the room, to get a "cross-draft."  She would sit in front of that window for most of the day, enjoying the cool breezes while I played outside in the heat.  Unlike my son, I wouldn't say that it was too "hot" to play outside, only coming in for an occasional glass of cool lemonade.

When the weather turned cool and the leaves began to change, the window would be closed for the season and the heavy drapes drawn across.  There were no floor-length drapes in her home, though, because a radiator sat beneath each window.    As the superintendent turned the heat on each year, there would be much popping and crackling while the radiator stretched its seasonal legs.  A funny smell would appear as dust burned away from the large, heavy coils.  And, the heat would be on again.

not my granny's radiator

The radiators were topped with huge slabs of marble.  I don't know if it was something that my granny had acquired over the years, or if they were provided by the apartment owners.  However, the huge pieces of rock turned the radiators into hot-topped tables during the winter.  While I would place my cheek against the cool surface in the warmer months, I knew better than to touch those burning slabs of marble if the heat was on.  At home, my mother would reheat her coffee in the microwave.  Well, I can't remember if my granny had a microwave or not, but she didn't really need one as long as she had her radiators going. I can recall that she would set her coffee cup on the table-top each morning and the liquid would stay warm throughout the day. 

As I sit here this morning, sipping my own coffee, in my own home, I fondly remember those days when there was a true hot seat in the house.  A place that was warmer than any other.  The other corners of the room may have been drafty, but there was always that coveted seat next to the radiator.  I remember the mornings of waking to rush down and cold hallway to use the restroom.  The days of entering a cold room in which my dad had turned off the electric baseboards and wishing the heat would just hurry up and rush out at my cold feet.  The evenings when the seasons could surely be felt in your bones and you cuddled together under warm afghan blankets with hot cups of cocoa.  And, I sit here in my t-shirt, listening to my heat drift up through the floor vents, watching my daughter run around bottomless (we're potty-training), and I'm completely comfortable.  A blanket is on the couch beside me, for comfort, but I do not need it.  I know that, though the sun shines bright, the air outside is quite cold for an early November day.  I realize that, when we go out, we'll have to put on coats.  Yet, for now, it is 72 degrees in every corner of my home.  The perfect temperature.

For that, I am grateful.  I know that there are many people in this country, my own parents included, who are not blessed with the supreme heat pump that we have.  They don't have super-tight, energy-efficient homes.  They don't necessarily have heat pumps.  They may still have baseboards, radiators, or just plain fireplaces and wood stoves.  I know that we are blessed.  And yet, maybe we'll turn that thermostat down a little bit and throw an extra blanket on the bed.  Not just to save money, but to teach the kids just how blessed we are.

not me, not my bed

Oh, and when I'm camping in 28 degree temperatures this weekend, I will definitely miss my heat-pump.  Bundle up, ya'll!

condom conniption

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Let me preface this post by saying, I used to be on birth control. In fact, I've been on many different types, but most recently I took Yaz. Guys, I was having a full-blown period every other week. I couldn't stand it. So, I'm not on Yaz anymore. In fact, I'm not on anything.

This week, we used our last condom. Now, I'm not normally the condom-buyer around here, but Mr. Hull has been busy with work and I didn't really want to bother him just so that later on I could "bother" him, if you know what I mean. I had some shopping to do anyway, so I thought I might as well just buy a box.

Do you know I went to three stores over the course of two days and could not find the condom aisle?  Seriously.  Two different Krogers and a Walmart.  Okay, the Walmart was in the crappier part of town, so it shouldn't have been much of a surprise that they didn't have them out on a shelf in the mis-labeled "family planning" aisle.  But, still, the Krogers locations didn't have any out either.  I couldn't even find a place where they should go, so it isn't like everyone in Roanoke suddenly got all horny and everything.  They just weren't there.

image source

I'm assuming they were probably behind the pharmacy counter, beside the pregnancy tests.  Because, you know, those who steal condoms invariably also steal pregnancy tests.  Or, wait... that doesn't make much sense.  If you steal a condom, you shouldn't need a test, right?  And, if you do need the test, you obviously didn't steal the condom.... huh.  So, maybe the powers that be have decided that too many people are melting down the condoms and using the latex to manufacture illegal drugs, like they do with the good sudafed.  Or, maybe they just want kids to have to ask the pharmacist for a pack, with they will invariably be too embarrased to do, and so they won't have sex at all.  Uh-huh.  We all know that they will anyway and then they'll have to go asking for the pregnancy test, which they won't ask for, and then they'll be featured on TLC's show, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant."  Really.  It could happen.

Do you think I stood in line to ask the pharmacist for a pack of condoms?  Hell no.  The line was too full of old people picking up their many prescriptions (throw a pack of condoms in there too, why don'tcha).  Or, maybe they really were there for the condoms.  I don't know.  I didn't wait to see.  I was toting around a squirmy toddler who wouldn't stay in the buggy, wouldn't hold my hand, and wouldn't stand beside me in the store.  Maybe I should have gotten in the line anyway.  The cashier would have chucked a case of condoms at me. 

So, after going to three stores in two days looking for the all-elusive condom, I returned home with none.  Mr. Hull hasn't gotten any, either.  I feel frustrated that I can't just walk into the store and purchase such a simple, but needed, item.  I have to wonder what the average fifteen-year-old would do when faced with a similar situation.  I imagine that he or she would simply give up, and then have sex anyway.  Kinda like what I might do.  Is that the answer?  No, I don't think so.

I used to feel like parents who gave their kids condoms were weird, but my feelings have changed.  If my children should ever decide to [gasp] have the sex, I don't want them to go to one store and give up.  I can't control the merchandisers, but I can control what goes on in my own home.  I now kind of understand why some parents would have a bowl of the things just sitting out in the entrance way.  That is much easier for a teen or young adult to access than the condoms that sit in the bowels of the pharmacy, on a dark, dusty shelf, where even a semi-mature adult must jump many pointless hurdles in order to gain access to the goods.

And, it isn't just about the pregnancy thing, either.  Whether a girl is on birth control or not, she needs to learn to use a condom, and then have access to them.  Just yesterday, I was catching up on an episode of Project Runway and was stunned when Mondo revealed that he had been living with AIDS for ten years.  Ten. Years.  What the hell?  He was only 22 when he contracted it.  Now, that's some scary stuff.

When I was a teenager taking sex ed in middle and high school, we were told to use some means of birth control.  We were informed of condoms and spermicides and the pill and such.  But, we weren't told that, even if we were on the pill, we should still use a condom because of all the nasty funk we could catch from our partners.  When my doctor first started giving me the depo shot, he didn't warn me to continue using condoms, even though I wasn't married.  My mother has never uttered the word "condom" in her entire life, I don't think.  We need to be talking about this more.  We need to keep ourselves from becoming so lax concerning the sex lives of teenagers.  We don't need to put teen moms on a pedestal, we just need to give them the education and support they need.  But, most of all, we need to make sure that the all-important male condom is readily available to every single person who should wish to purchase it, without having to wait in line behind a bunch of old geezers (who, in all honesty, need the condoms, too).

image source

a discovery of sorts

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Guess what?  I'm a guest blogger today, over at Big Mama's The Bristol Project.  Go check out my post and her super blog!

Have you ever been caught off guard by something, and then felt surprised that you were caught off guard in the first place?

source

On my way home yesterday afternoon, I saw a little black boy riding his bike down the street.  To be honest, it struck me as odd because I was in a traditionally white neighborhood.  Not a rich neighborhood, mind you, just traditionally white.  In fact, it really is a working class and poverty-stricken neighborhood more than anything, but that is a story for another time.

You may have noticed that I called the boy "black," rather than African-American.  You see, that's what we really say here in VA, at least in my corner of it.  Now, we aren't trying to be ugly or anything.  They call me "white" and I'm fine with that.  This boy, had he himself been from Africa, as some of our local refugees are, would likely be called a refugee, or black, rather than an African-American, even.  But, this is a rant for another day.

So, to get back to my story... there's a little black boy riding his bike on the sidewalk next to the road and I feel taken aback.  Why, you wonder?  Well, Roanoke, VA has a deep, dark secret.  Back in the 2000 Census, it was considered to be the most segregated city in Virginia.  Also, my hometown ranked 66th in segregation amongst 300 and some metropolitan areas nationwide.  So, we still aren't quite used to seeing integration creep into our neighborhoods.

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 There are four quadrants in my city.  The Southern two have traditionally housed mostly white people, while the northern sections have mostly housed the black folks and other minorities.  From time to time, you would find that someone of the opposite race had moved into the neighborhood, but that was only after the ordinances were struck down by the Supreme Court a way long time ago.  Growing up, there was a nice family who lived across the street from me.  The dad was white and the mother was Asian.  The boy appeared to be Asian, too.  Somehow, it didn't strike me as odd.  But, if they had been black and white folks, I bet my parents heads would have spun.

Up until a few years ago, children were still bussed into other neighborhoods in order to integrate the schools, under a city-wide Magnet program.  Schools in less desirable, crime-ridden areas, would begin offering special application- only programs in dance or theater, math or science.  Parents would apply to these schools, and suddenly there was an influx of white children into the black schools.  Of course, it went the other way around, too, but not nearly as often.  This program was discontinued due to funding a few years ago.  Then, about two years ago, the city decided to cut costs by eliminating the need for bussing and redrew the lines so that most children now attend their neighborhood schools.  Like it or not, segregation has somewhat returned.

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And, then I wonder... what would lead a person to move into a neighborhood in which they didn't quite "belong?"  I suppose it would be considered bravery.  I couldn't do it.  I could not pick up and move my family into an area in which we would be stared at, made fun of, or-- worse-- physically endangered.  Yet, many years ago, people stood up for not just equal rights, but the same rights.  The right to sit anywhere on a bus.  The right to eat in any restaurant, to use any restroom.  The right to live as a free individual in a land of opportunity.  The right to be free from being ostracized, set aside, and used as an example.  The right to be a whole person.  I applaud them, and I applaud those who continue to stand up for what they believe in.  I'm sure it is a hard thing to do.  I might not always agree with what they have to say, but I'm sure glad that they have the right to say it.  

So, in a city so full of difficult race-relations, one could only wonder why I felt surprised at encountering a black child in a white neighborhood.  Well, quite honestly, I thought I had somehow managed to grow up unfazed by the color of one's skin.  I try not to be racist, really I do.  I have claimed to enjoy getting to know people for who they are, rather than their race.  But, try as I might, I didn't ignore the color of this child's skin as he rode down the road.  In some instances, I guess the culture in which we are raised really defines us.  I'm going to try harder to teach my children to love people for who they are, rather than what they look like, how they speak, or the culture from which they come.  There's still a lot of work to do.  Let's get going.

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a grand old gal

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Mrs. Solloway was a grand old gal.  She was caring and welcoming, sweet, smart, and sassy.  Mrs. Solloway was a true Southern lady, with a bit of a rebellious streak built in.  To me, she was a friend, a confidant, a story-teller, and a mentor.

We would share long afternoons, sipping tea and snacking from her lovely green depression glass plates. She had the whole set, tucked away in a china cabinet.  Though they were so much more lovely than my mother's own titanium-strength Corelleware, we ate off of them whenever I would visit.  She would always be dressed well, skirts, stockings, jewels galore.  Mrs. Solloway wore clip-on earrings so large they made her ear lobes droop from the weight, but she wore them well.  She always kept herself up, always wore her best, living her last days to the fullest.

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Her home was always spotless, too.  Even at eighty-some years of age, Mrs. Solloway continued to clean religiously, making sure everything was in its place.  Though she lived in a rental apartment, her home was as big as a house, with rooms adorned with lovely antiques and baubles.  Unlike my own home, it was always tidy and uncluttered.  You see,  Mrs. Solloway could afford her large home because she was thrifty and she only bought things she needed.  She took care of what she had, enjoyed just-enough portions, and was wise in her ways.

Mrs.  Solloway had no children of her own.  Rather, she relied on others' offspring to keep her busy.  As a young wife, I imagine now that she suffered from infertility.  She took on a neighbor's sons as her own, though I never knew whether she truly adopted them, or just loved them as she did me.  At any rate, she called them her "boys" and treasured their company.  I often wondered why she raised boys, rather than girls, but now I understand the particular joy that a young Adam can bring to one's life.

When I would visit, nearly every day, we would never play traditional games.  While my granny was good for a hand of rummy or blackjack, or to play backgammon or work a puzzle, Mrs. Solloway would weave stories of her youth, of her husband, her boys, her life during the war.  She always asked about school, too.  Though Mrs. Solloway was born over a century ago, she was an educated woman.  She had learned how to drive a car, and was one of the only older ladies in the apartment complex who did drive.  She had co-written some book about our community's history for the historical society.  She would show me parts of the book from time to time, though as a young girl, I took no interest in history.  She encouraged me, and loved me, and taught me many things.  I do not recall how we came to meet, but I am so glad we did.

Mrs.  Solloway passed on back in 1997.  She had fallen and broken her hip, then became very ill while in the hospital.  It was her time.  Over the ten years that I knew her, she taught me many things.  Among them, be true to yourself, share your time with others, help however you can, be a volunteer, practice hospitality, don't take yourself too seriously because you can't possibly be perfect, keep a tidy home that is always open to guests still working on this one, and that life is fleeting, so live it to the fullest and make memories every day.  Mrs. Solloway made many memories during her ninety-some years in this world.  I plan to do the same.

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This post is part of the SITStahs Back to Blogging event.  Thanks to our lovely sponsors, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.

Blume, Martin, and You: The Power of the Written Word

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All right, ladies and peeps, welcome back to my homage to the SITS Girls Back to Blogging Event. Today's post? Repost something with a title you like a lot. Well, here's some news for you, I like most all of my recent titles. I've really been working on capturing the spirit of the post in my title lately. So, I'm not going to bore ya'll with a repost of something I wrote just last week. To be frank, my older titles are just plain boring, so I'm not going there either. I think I'm going to spin this assignment around a little bit.

My favorite title was from something I posted last week, tales of a fourth grade something.  The post was a letter to my son on his first day in fourth grade.  Obviously, the title is a play off of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume, one of my favorite childhood authors (the other was Ann Martin, of Baby-sitters Club fame).

I find it funny that I find inspiration in things that I read long ago.  I immersed myself those Judy Blume books as an elementary-aged child, yet the stories still come to mind as I deal with the situations my own children present.It just goes to show that words are very powerful indeed, and can stick with someone a long time.  Do you ever stop to thing that something you write, be it online or in a journal, or even published in a book, may have an impact on someone twenty years down the road? 

Who are your favorite influences in your writing?  Are they authors from your formative years, or people whose writings you have read recently?

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tales of a fourth-grade something

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Dear Son,

You are starting fourth grade today.  Look at how you've grown!  You're no longer the little guy, the sweet kindergartner off to start his first day of school.  You carry a biohazard messenger bag, as opposed to that long-forgotten Thomas the Train backpack.  Your printing is not crooked and haphazard and you are starting to write in cursive.  You have friends to go off and play with.  You have stories to tell.  You are becoming a top-dog.

Yet, in some ways, you are still my little boy.  You like hugs and kisses, but don't tell the other guys.  You seek attention and appreciation.  You still want me to pack your lunch and you like to be tucked into bed at night.  But, you'll soon grow out of these things.

I hope you have a wonderful first day of school.  Make new friends and greet others with a smile.  Tell your jokes and tales of summer camp, vacation, and diving into the lake.  Be a big shot, but don't get a big head.  Do your very best.  Know that your father and I love you.  We're proud of you, son. 

once upon a time...

This post is part of a Tuesday blog hop hosted by One Little Mister and Mommy is Crafty. Stop by the other participating blogs, listed below.

Katie's First Haircut

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We took Katie to get her first hair cut Friday evening.  Her bangs had grown to the tip of her nose, so we thought it was about time.  Of course, we let Alex go first and set a good example for his little sister.  He wanted a Bieber-like cut, so we obliged with a longer look.  Before long, he'll be the fourth-grade hottie.

Next, it was Katie's turn.  She was ready to go!  When the hairstylist asked if she was ready to get her hair done, she emphatically said, "Yes!"  She climbed up in her booster and held on tight as Miss Crystal raised the chair.  Halfway through, she even handed over her paci and busied herself with examining the animals on her smock.  Katie did a wonderful job sitting still and holding her head high.  She's turning into such a big girl.

Woke Up Dead

(source)

It's raining,
It's pouring,
The old man is snoring
He bumped his head
And went to bed
And couldn't get up in the morning...

That's how the song goes, right?  But, when I was a kid, I distinctly remember someone teaching me to sing it as "he bumped his head/ and woke up dead/ and couldn't get up in the morning..."  Well, of course he couldn't get up in the morning.  He was dead, silly!  I recently brought this up with my mother and she said that it must have come from my father.  I don't know.  I still have trouble singing it properly.

Where, oh where, have they all gone?

Today is Click and Pick Monday, and it is also my best-friend-from-high-school's birthday.  In her honor, I wanted to choose a birthday etsian to feature today, one who crafts products that may be to my former bff's liking.  However, in searching the Etsy Birthdays, I found a lot of blank profiles and empty shops, which led me to wonder, where have all the etsians gone?

Is Etsy the home of the fly by night home-based crafter?  I hope not.  I would hope that most people who open up shop on etsy will be there for years to come.  That way, should I buy something from them, I can become a repeat customer.  However, I realize this is idealistic.  Many shops will not flourish, lives change, and artists find new outlets in which to market and sell their wares.

Perhaps it is much like my old high school friendships.  Times changed and we grew apart, speaking to one another seldom, if at all.  Now, with the likes of Facebook, we can reconnect, but will it ever be the same?  I don't know.  Somehow, I don't think so.

So, Happy Birthday Kim, my friendly fairy-loving, poetry-writing, wild cat.  And, happy birthday to all the long-lost etsians out there, where ever you may be.  May peace and profits come your way.

A Different Sort of Marriage

I never really had a good model of marriage when I was a child.  My parents divorced when I was three or four years old.  Before that, my only memories are of them yelling at one another.  For years after, I would feel anxious from time to time and hear their loud, angry voices in my head.  My throat would close up and I would feel an irrational fear and insurmountable guilt.

I don't have any happy memories of my parents together.  None at all.  Even after they divorced, my father would accuse my mother of ruining his life and taking me away from him, and my mother would call my father names like "SH," which stood for Shit Head, behind his back.

When I got older, I learned that my father kidnapped me shortly after they separated.  I vaguely remember being in a strange bed and having police officers come to the house where I was.  I remember walking through the courthouse and seeing my mother sitting on a bench in front of a panel of windows.  She jumped up and ran to me.  That is all.

As I got older, I also heard other stories of married life between my parents, but none of it was pleasant.  I would look back through photo albums, but there weren't any pictures of the three of us together.  I suppose that may be because someone always had to be behind the camera, but I don't know.

My father didn't remarry until I was grown, but my mother found a new husband and got married shortly after my fifth birthday.  Steve was good to her and took care of me, but he had a mean streak, too.  I remember that they would argue about normal couples things.  Once, when I was about 12 years old, my mother threatened to send me to my fathers while she left my stepfather.  She said that we should all go our separate ways.  They did eventually get a divorce, and I did eventually go to live with my dad, but it took another two to three years before we got there.

In some ways, I can feel sympathy towards my mom.  I am now married with two children, one more than she ever had.  I understand the frustration of trying to make something work, of holding onto hope that I can have a normal life.  I understand the way that someone so close to you can use words that cut so deeply.  But, I'm not alone in this.  I'm sure my husband has experienced the same.

We don't fight like my parents did when I was young, at least I hope not.  When we argue, it is about typical family things.  Money, time, holidays, and the such.  It still hurts, and it is still hard for me not to go the same way that my mother did.  It is hard for me to know how to work through our problems, when I had no model for a good marriage.  Because of that, I not only feel sympathy towards my mother, I also feel anger.

Some days I feel like I don't know how to be a good wife and mother.  Some days I feel like I just can't do it.  I try, I really do, but I just can't get there.  I see myself repeating her mistakes.  I hear myself repeating her harsh words.  I worry that, I too, will wind up a bitter old woman with hardly any family left to care.

At the same time, my husband and I are committed to each other.  Regardless of what we may say or feel, I can't imagine that we will go the way of my parents.  I can't imagine that we really would go through divorce proceedings.  So, in that way, we are different from what has gone before.  We may struggle, but we'll make it.  We have to.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop, prompt number four, "Describe how your relationship with your spouse is different then the relationship your parents had while you were growing up."