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.

the littlest seamstress

Things were unusually quiet around the house last night.  Walking into the kitchen, this is what I saw...

She was rearranging the pins in my pin cushion.  Alex used to do the same thing, making elaborate patterns out of the different colors.  I sat down with her and we sewed for a little while, working on the tuxedo shirt dress I've had planned for a couple of months.  I was trying to get the puffy sleeves just right and Katie helped out by handing me pins as I needed them.  I realized that she has grasped the concept of pronouns.  Rather than saying, "Mommy needs this," she is now saying, "You need this?" and "Here you go."   Such a cutie.

once, when I was eight

When I was a child, I lived in a house on a very busy road.  The house sat up on a hill, but it had a very flat back yard and a swing set.  I spent many hours playing on that swing set when it was warm out.  In fact, it was one of my favorite things to do.

I didn't merely swing, you see.  As a child, I had a very active imagination and would pretend that the swing set was an RV.  That's right, an RV.  Didn't you know that yachts on wheels are glamorous?  No?  Well, they are.

So, I would be riding along in my RV, traveling across the country with my imaginary friends.  My pretend name was Elizabeth.  I typically had a slew of characters in my elaborate pretend plots.  We would explore deep caverns, hike grand trails, and have all sorts of amazing adventures.  Then, night would fall and we would go to sleep in the RV.  ahem.  on the swingset.

One bright spring day I was playing in the backyard.  I remember racing to cross the support beams, stepping from swing to teeter-totter to the double swing, which served as my private bedroom on wheels.  As I was exiting the boudoir, my leg caught on the end of a screw.  The metal used to be covered by a black rubber cap, which served to prevent injuries I suppose.  However, most of those caps had long fallen off.  I had had the swing set for several years at this point.

At any rate, I caught my thigh on this screw.  And, the screw bit me.  It sunk its nasty teeth into my young flesh and wouldn't let go.  I continued my downward trek, hopping from the swing to the new grass.  But, rather than landing and rushing off on another adventure, I fell.  Grasping my leg, I hollered out.  My stepfather, who was cleaning out the flower beds for spring, looked over and thought I was goofing off.  I was, after all, quite imaginative. 

Looking down, I can still remember seeing thick white clumps of fatty-looking stuff laying on the grass.  Somehow, I hobbled to the back door, let myself inside, and saw my mother talking to my granny.  Speaking into the phone she said, "Gotta go, Lindsey's cut herself wide open."  And then I was clutching a wet rag to my thigh and riding down the road to urgent care.

I met my current physician while laying on the examining table of his doctor's office.  His nurse gave me a shot, saying "You're going to feel a big stick," before he put five stitches in my leg.  I had to wear a bandage for weeks after that, and then a big band aid for even longer.  I was a celebrity in my classroom.

For the longest time, I had a bright pink scar slashing across my thigh.  The scar is gone now, mostly, but I can still feel it if I run my hand over my leg in just the right way.  There's also very little feeling along that line, right where the skin thickens and is the tiniest bit raised.  In just a few weeks, the twentieth anniversary of my accident will pass.  I feel lucky that that is pretty much the worse thing that has ever happened to me, and it wasn't all that bad.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.  The prompt that I chose was about a scar.  I can't find the wording now, but you can look for it here:  (So, the prompt wasn't for this week after all.  I don't think Mama Kat will mind if I link up anyway, given that she inspired this post with that nifty inspiration widget she has over there.  Looking for something to write about?  Ask your Mama.)

Photo Credits:
Swing by terren in Virginia on Flickr
Campground: Class C RV by Bill Ward's Brickpile on Flickr
Surgeon Mr Ali Mearza checking notes by Focus Laser Vision on Flickr

two titties and a funeral

Way back when, the spring before John and I were married to be precise, John's grandparents passed away within six weeks of each other.  This story takes place after one of their funerals.  I can't remember which, though I'm pretty sure it was his Grandma's.  I don't actually remember going to his Papa's funeral, now that I think about it.  But, I'm sure I did... I guess.

At any rate, we'll say it was his Grandma's funeral.  If you were there, correct me if I'm wrong.

It was a pretty day, and after the funeral part was over, John's family loaded up to drive to the nearest Golden Corral.  I don't recall how this place was chosen, but I do know that this was the only instance in which I had ever been around his aunts and their children for any length of time.  The meal has not been repeated since.  Surely it isn't because of what happened, but I guess we'll never know.

The meal was a jolly one, which I thought was strange to follow the burial of the family's matriarch.  But, I guess family needs to let of steam when someone who has been sick and cared for for so long passes on.  Regardless, we weren't having a solemn meal, and I guess that was a good thing.

 Towards the end of the lunch, John finished up his plate of food and went off in search of dessert.  He came back with two sumptuous cupcakes placed atop his plate.  Side by side, they sat, with their perky little gumdrops sitting straight up in the air.  This was before cupcakes were fashionable dessert items, but nevertheless, John had an intense love for them.  And, these... the way they were place side by side on his plate... well... we all looked at one another and smirked.  Then, John's most-proper mother, of all people, exclaimed, "They look just like titties!"

Well, maybe not quite.  But, she did point out, rather indelicately, that John had brought a couple of pink-tipped knockers to the table.  And, she wasn't referring to mine.

* Photo Credit:
Spring has Sprung, Some rights reserved by jurvetson on Flickr
Hearts for Haiti, Some rights reserved by norwichnuts on Flickr

pooh corner

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

When I was a child, we had a cable plan that did not include the Disney Channel. However, about twice a year, Disney would be available for free for a week or so. Yet, I still managed to catch some Pooh Corner, Dumbo's Circus, and Mousercise enough to remember those shows fondly.

two sides of a coin

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

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.

one precious present

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

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

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness
.

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.

memory lane

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

I was going through some old photos recently and came across a set from Christmas 2003.  Alex was 2 and a half years old.  It's hard to believe that he's nearing 10. 
Where does the time go?

We came across this tool bench in the attic while getting out Christmas decorations this weekend.  He loved playing with it so much that, when he out grew it, I couldn't make myself get rid of the thing.   Other finds were Little People toys, a boppy, and the menu from my hospital stay when he was born.

 Peek-a-boo!  See the box in the corner?  We had just moved into that apartment.  We would stay for a year before buying our house.  The first thing to go up in our new home was the Christmas tree.

 Among other things, Santa brought Alex a corduroy Mickey who is still hanging around somewhere.

And, there I am with my fuzzy-caterpillar eyebrows with the first turkey that I ever cooked.  It's just the breast, but it counts for something, right?  We ate Christmas dinner with my dad on a small end table because we didn't yet have a dining table.  Cooking dinner for my family has always been important to me, at least on the holidays, even if I haven't always been good at it.  It seems as if this turkey had to be put back in the oven after the picture was taken, as it had a bloody streak running through it.  I added too much milk to the mashed potatoes, so they were runny, and I only cooked my green beans for a few hours.  That's okay, I believe we had a good time of it anyway.

a little too comfortable

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

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!

not any old dog

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

Last night, my husband and I finally watched the final episode of Lost.  Yes, I know we're a bit behind the times.  We didn't start watching until the show had gone off the air.  That's not what this is about.



This scene had me tearing up for another reason, altogether.  Okay, fine.  Jack died.  I kinda saw that coming.  What I didn't expect was that Vincent, the dog, would come out of the jungle and lay beside him as he took his last breath.  That's what really got to me.

When I was seven, my mom got me a puppy.  Her name was Maggie.  I will always remember the day I got her.  My mother picked me up from school, where I was in second grade.  It was February.  We walked out to the car, where I immediately noticed a towel in the front seat.  Lifting the towel, I found a tiny, wriggling black dog.  She was small enough to fit in my still-small hands, and she was adorable.  Most of all, she was mine.

I didn't always treat Maggie quite right.  I can remember being resentful of her as I had to clean up her messes and take her out to potty in the backyard.  I remember playing rough games, probably unintentionally inflicting pain in my play, but that she would always play right along.  I would dress her up in my old clothes and put on doggie fashion shows, too, likely humiliating the poor mutt.  There was one time when she sat down on my slipper and peed.  I felt the hot liquid oozing around my toes and immediately freaked out.  I was, after all, only seven and the idea of pee on MY toes upset me quite a bit.  I picked her up and tossed her onto her newspaper in the bathroom.  I didn't throw her, just a little toss, but it was still unkind.

Yet, I loved the dog.  I baked her dog treats and cakes for her birthday.  I filled her stocking at Christmas and made sure she had a new sweater under the tree.  In fact, one year I even crocheted her a doggie sweater.  She didn't like my human friends, but to me, she was the best.

As I watched Jack's death scene and Vincent came into the picture, I began to remember that Maggie was always around when I felt ill.  On a normal day, she didn't like to go into my bedroom.  However, when I was sick, she would come lay on the floor beside my bed.  My mother once told me that dogs could tell when their people didn't feel well and always tried to make them feel a little better.

Maggie died several years ago.  I wasn't by her side.  I had moved away from home and she had been sick for a long time.  Emotionally, I'd already buried her.  She was no longer my friend.  She was just my mother's old, crabby dog.  I didn't help my mother wrap up her body and take it to be cremated.  I didn't say goodbye.  I didn't lay beside her as she left this life behind.  Again, to me, she was already gone.

But, Maggie wouldn't have been that cold-hearted and careless towards me.  She would have pawed me, licked my face, and made me realize that it was okay.  Her presence would have relaxed me, as did Vincent's on Jack's day.

I have two dogs now and, to me, they're just pets.  They aren't friends, they aren't really family.  They're dogs who entertain me.  They play with my kids.  They live in my house and sometimes give me kisses.  But, they're still dogs.  However, in Maggie's memory, I'll be extra kind to my two dogs this Christmas.  I'll bake cookies for them with the kids.  I may even give them a stocking (no, probably not.)  At any rate, I won't let them be cold or lonely because, like them or not, they are my companions.

a grand old gal

If you enjoy what you find here, be sure to subscribe or become a follower, so you can keep up with all my bloggy goodness.

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.

source

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.

___________________
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.

The Resident Scaredy-Cat

(source)

Yesterday, Mama Kat wrote about saving her own ass during a recent sonic boom.  Her story reminds me of the time my husband and I heard gunshots outside, somewhere in the neighborhood.  We had just gone to bed for the evening.  The bedroom window was open, as it was a warm spring evening.  All of a sudden, we heard what definitely were not fireworks.  We both hit the floor and headed into the hall.  He went to the phone, to call the police, while I gathered the children from their rooms.  Katie was grabbed from her crib, and then I headed back up the hall for Alex.

Me: Get up!  Now!  [reaches up and smacks at the lump in the loft bed].
Alex: huh?
Me: Up!  Up, up, up!  Get up!
Alex: huh? why?
Me: Just GET UP!

Finally, Alex retreats from his warm and cozy bed and the three of us hide in the inner bathroom while Mr. Hull unlocks his gun.  Sirens blare outside, police cars fly up and down the road.  I make a pallet of blankets for Alex and Katie to spend the night and join my husband in the living room.  Nothing happens.  We wait up for awhile and still nothing.  We weren't attacked.  We weren't robbed.  There wasn't a war.  There wasn't even a civil uprising.  Overreact much?  Yeah, probably, but there have been a couple of stand-offs in our neighborhood in the six years we've lived here.  I guess, in our sleepy-headed minds, nothing is impossible.

So, how about you?  Do you have a harrowing tale of surviving some sort of supposed danger?  Have you overreacted to save your family in the face of an imagined threat?  Please share.  I'd love to know that I'm not the only fruit loop out there.

Steppin' Out

Last spring (as in, the spring of '09, as opposed to the spring of '10, which would be this past spring), I had the opportunity to attend Wood Badge, a leadership training course for Boy Scout leaders.  The catch: my husband had already gone, so I would be on my own.  In the deep, dark woods.  Without my family.  yeah.

Also, I would be leaving my 6-month old nursing daughter behind with her father.  I would be the first nursing mother to attend the course.  I would have to have special allowances to pump.  I would need a private room.  The course was scheduled to take place over two weekends, each a month apart.  So many reasons not to go.

I verbally committed, then backed out.  I just couldn't go.  It wasn't my thing.  So, sorry.  I reconsidered.  It was a great opportunity.  Something for me.  I would have a blast.  I really should go.  So, I signed up.  Again, I started to have second thoughts.  In fact, I was even questioning myself as I drove away that first morning.

When I arrived at Camp Powhatan, I was greeted by smiling faces.  Though I was thrown into a group with five other people I'd never met, they were friendly and understanding (for the most part).  We quickly learned that we would be called the Antelope Patrol (snort, snort, snort) We learned, laughed, and played together.  We bonded over plates of camp food and games of skill.  We became accustomed to working together as a unit.  It was a wonderful experience and I looked forward to the second weekend, during which we would be camping out.

There were no second thoughts in regards to returning, though I had never carried my supplies in a pack, while being led on what was touted as a "three mile hike." (Wood Badge miles, you see...)  I had never camped without my husband and family.  While I knew how to pitch a tent, cook over the fire, and generally take care of myself while camping, I had always had my husband to rely on.  He was there to scare away any wild animals and turn out the lantern after I went to bed.

The first night went fairly well, but the second night was a challenge.  Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a huge clap of thunder.  The woods outside my tent lit up.  Rain came pouring down.  The ground shook with thunder and the sky was alight with lightning.  I scrunched down in my sleeping bag, clutching my mini maglite (smart choice, holding a metal flashlight in a thunderstorm), and praying that we would make it through to morning. We had no other shelter at our immediate disposal.  We had nowhere to go.  The only choice was to stay put and ride it out. 

As the storm subsided and I slowly drifted back to sleep, I couldn't help being a bit proud of myself for weathering the elements on my own.  Though my patrol-mates were in tents just feet away, they were all inaccessible for the duration of the night.  I had camped on my own, in a thunderstorm, and survived.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop, prompt #3, Steppin Outside the Box.

Throwback Thursday

Starting this week, I'm going to regurgitate a posting from my old blog, Mrs Hull's Musings, at http://www.mrshull.com.  I'm going to be dropping the hosting for that site relatively soon, so this is my way of retaining the best and/or most interesting material for prosperity (or laughs).

The Cat Spoon
April 14, 2007

When I was eight years old, my father owned two cats, Pumpkin and Sam.  Pumpkin very much resembled her namesake, while Sam was a handsome black and white fellow.  These cats loved to eat and, thus, utilized their facilities quite often.  My father would clean the box regularly, always using a particularly large spoon.  This spoon was unmistakable.  It had a large, distressed bowl and a short, knobby, orange handle which was losing its paint.  He normally kept the spoon in a flowerpot near the backdoor.  However, one day, the spoon mysteriously found its way into the silverware drawer.  As luck would have it, we had company that day, and they brought ice cream.  When it was time for our treat, my father’s friend reached into the drawer in search of a large spoon.  Of course, she went for the biggest spoon of all, the cat spoon.  “Stop,” I shrieked, “that’s the cat poop spoon!”  My father assured everyone that it had been thoroughly cleaned, and had not been used for cat poop in “some time,” but no one could quite enjoy their dessert after my timely intervention.  We did have a good, disturbing, laugh, though!