Let me start by saying that my husband, Jeff, is making me the most amazing farm style dining table. I am grateful and can’t wait to see the finished project. He is a talented woodworker and has made many beautiful pieces for our entire family. I begin this way lest my reader think I am mad or making fun of my husband. Well, actually I am making fun of him, but let the record show it was his idea. Here is the record…
“And that’s why I need three power drills,” stated my husband to me though I had not inquired into the number of his power drills. It caught me off guard, and my blank stare was not enough to end the conversation. So he continued, “in case you were wondering.” I was not wondering, I did not even know how many power drills he had, and I did not care. Power drills in my world are necessary for certain jobs but I find them slightly intimidating and just a little bit scary. I am in a happy place if I do not have to think about power drills at all during the course of the day, most of my days have been spent in happy places. Although recently, I found myself helping my pregnant daughter hang some shelves and the power drill was wielded by me for a short period of time. Several things to note about that adventure, it was my son-in-law’s power drill, I drilled several unnecessary holes accidentally, I slipped once and nearly drilled my own thumb, I was very happy when the job was done and the power drill got put away.
Back to the number of power drills my husband needs… Since he mentioned that I might be wondering and since he began drilling again, giving me a chance to begin wondering in earnest. I observed keenly my environment. I was holding up my end of the pieces of wood currently being worked on giving me a clear vantage of my surroundings. Indeed three power drills were in proximity to me. One drill, an older black, well used, tool lay on its side with what appeared to be a Phillips head type screwing bit attached. A second power drill, a newer, lovely orange, model was plugged in nearby with what appeared to be an actual drill bit in place. Finally, my husband was wielding a yellow bent angle drill with a bit that he was using to make counter sink holes in the pieces of wood that I was still holding while making my inventory of power drills. If that last sentence was impressive and not in keeping with what seems to be my knowledge of power tools, it may be because I know more than my husband thinks I know or it may be because he told me about his bent angle drill and counter sinking methods. If this was face book I would add a couple of winks at this point.
I began to put the puzzle together. The seemingly random comment referring to the power drill needs of my husband had nothing to do with my wondering mind. Rather, it was commentary on his cleverness. I realized then that I had overlooked praising his efficiency in the power tool department. While I was mindlessly holding up my end of the project happily listening to my favorite country music station I did in fact notice that his routine was going very smoothly. This slick system involved drilling a hole, boring the counter sink hole, and finally screwing in the wood screw. No time was wasted by my clever husband having to change bits on a single drill. No sir, like a highly skilled surgeon he had the proper instruments lined up ready to go as each phase of operation required.
It was somewhat anti-climatic when I finally replied, “nice job, three drills means you don’t have to waste time changing the bit.” His smile and nod of the head confirmed to me that his need of many power tools was not so much the issue as my failure to admire his work. I made fun of him, he made fun of me, and we had a lot of fun that afternoon. Memories were being built in to my table. I’m gonna love that table.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
More Than Poetry
More Than Poetry
The back of the picture reads, to the most beautiful girl in the school, world, universe. I will love you forever. The flip side captures the face of a young man with sad eyes and only a hint of a smile. His shaggy, long hair is at odds with the suit and tie he is wearing. The memory of a young man with impossibly long legs and his best girl, temporarily smoothes my wrinkles into a smile. It was 1979, the beginning.
I am the most beautiful girl in the universe… or at least I was. The young man in the photo first talked of marriage while we sat together on the front lawn of our high school shortly before graduation. I said no. Plans to go to California to become a dancer or an actress or both would conflict with an early marriage. He had plans to join the army. Moving from base to base makes it impossible to answer a simple get to know you question with an equally simple answer. “Where are you from?” The answer is complicated if you have never lived anywhere for more than a year, “ I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa …” I knew this because I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa and six more moves before I was ten. I had already lived the life of an Army brat; I was not going to be the wife of a soldier. There was no doubt I loved my dad, but it was a desperate kind of clinging love. If I was good and obedient he would love me and come home. It was an odd notion with no known origin.
My mother was the constant, raising me in my father’s absences during the Vietnam War. She loved with abandon, unconditionally; her love filled a little girl’s heart with sunshine and butterflies. I guess it is the way of children and memories, and a sign of the times back then. Some things are too hard to examine and the sources of memories can be too fleeting to recapture. My parent’s life together ended in divorce. It was then that my dreams of true love began. They were filled with yearning, desiring, happiness and no fear. Love should be two people cleaving to each other in a big wide world. No clinging.
One year later, the young man had not joined the army; he gave me a ring instead. I said yes and we planned a life together. A detailed promise was extracted from him. No divorce, no reason for a divorce, never, not ever. He looked so kind and said with the gentlest voice ever, “never.” He was noble; I had already begun to fall into desperation. Determined to hold on tight to him and his promise I was unaware of falling into my old ways. How could I know? My actions were not obvious to anyone especially me. Just the opposite in fact, it was my suggestion to our pastor to include the scripture of a man leaving his family to cleave unto his wife, so beautiful, so poetic. For me it meant, come what may, we have each other.
The years passed and our family grew. He loved me through the birth of our three daughters; he loved me when I went back to school; he loved me when I traveled to faraway places without him. He loved me when I grew fat, when I grew skinny and when I grew fat again. He loved me when my hair sprung out after the requisite 80’s perm; he loved me with straight hair; he loved me when my hair was maroonish red, and when my hair turned gray. He loved me when I was happy and when I was mad. He loved me in sickness and in health.
We turned 40. Over the next few years we would become familiar with biopsies that were benign, hypertension, diabetes, depression, anxiety and panic attacks. We moved, changed jobs, and we became grandparents. I managed our lives firmly planted in the notion, do it right and love will be yours. It was working, or so it seemed. We had stared down over twenty years of life and survived still married to each other. We were not merely married, but happy with each other, enjoying life, still in love. Cooking, well, mostly eating was one of our favorite things to do together. Still wanting to share this joy I steadily replaced a certain southern grand dame of Savannah restaurant fame’s cookbooks with more healthy cookbooks with a lot of ‘no’ sprinkled on the covers. No salt, no fat, no sugar. Making sure we were compliant with doctor’s orders was the plan. Some would say I nagged, I preferred guided. Caught in the grip of loving my husband, I plowed right in, sure of the new plan. I had no idea how contradictory I had made our lives. I forgot about that long ago girl who wanted to live the poetry of love.
In February, nearly thirty years after pledging to cleave unto each other, our world changed. My husband’s mental health hit an all time low. After declaring suicidal thoughts to his doctor he disappeared on foot. Three hours became a limitless time on the clock. Phone calls were made, police came and went, and everyone we knew searched. The time bounced from fast forward frantic to slow motion distortion. He was finally located safe but in a state of utter despair. The next few months of intense therapy and some medication strategies stabilized his feelings. He has become more content, the bad days retreating into his memory. I remain painfully aware of the fragile nature of health. In a recent discussion with our doctor, I actually asked for the right recipe to ensure my husband’s safety and health. I was still clutching that magic conditional love that would keep him coming home. My doctor’s not so encouraging words were spoken after a moment of shock flashed across his otherwise stoic face. He said, “Mental illness is like any other illness, it is sometimes fatal in spite of our best efforts.” I needed comfort, not gloom and doom. Recalling the doctor’s words my lungs lurched into body betrayal mode: no air in, no air out. My feelings ran the gamut from fear, anger, sorrow, helplessness, to overwhelming love and gratitude. Months passed and as is the nature of time, some things eased. I began to remember my youthful yearning for an uncommon love found in verse.
I looked up to Cleave in the dictionary. My thought was to renew my vow, to use it somehow as encouragement. What I read surprised me. Two meanings: the first, to chop or break apart; the other is to stick fast or adhere. Not what I was expecting. So I looked up to Cling. After the expected adhere, stick or hold on my eyes moved on to these words: embrace, hang on to, retain, keep, cherish. Well, well, I get it, finally. I had it then, I have it now. The poetry of love is not in the words used to describe it but in the actions it requires to hold on. The heights and the depths of our life together have been entirely marked by embracing and letting go. There are no guarantees, no conditions. Love is in the living, we embrace it and cherish it and sometimes all we do is hang on. A woman shall leave her family and cling to her husband, not pretty prose, but a balm for my heart.
I am standing here looking at the photo of my husband taken during our senior year of high school. It’s yellowed with the passage of more than thirty years. He still thinks I am the most beautiful girl in the universe and I still think he has impossibly long legs. I will love him forever.
The back of the picture reads, to the most beautiful girl in the school, world, universe. I will love you forever. The flip side captures the face of a young man with sad eyes and only a hint of a smile. His shaggy, long hair is at odds with the suit and tie he is wearing. The memory of a young man with impossibly long legs and his best girl, temporarily smoothes my wrinkles into a smile. It was 1979, the beginning.
I am the most beautiful girl in the universe… or at least I was. The young man in the photo first talked of marriage while we sat together on the front lawn of our high school shortly before graduation. I said no. Plans to go to California to become a dancer or an actress or both would conflict with an early marriage. He had plans to join the army. Moving from base to base makes it impossible to answer a simple get to know you question with an equally simple answer. “Where are you from?” The answer is complicated if you have never lived anywhere for more than a year, “ I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa …” I knew this because I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa and six more moves before I was ten. I had already lived the life of an Army brat; I was not going to be the wife of a soldier. There was no doubt I loved my dad, but it was a desperate kind of clinging love. If I was good and obedient he would love me and come home. It was an odd notion with no known origin.
My mother was the constant, raising me in my father’s absences during the Vietnam War. She loved with abandon, unconditionally; her love filled a little girl’s heart with sunshine and butterflies. I guess it is the way of children and memories, and a sign of the times back then. Some things are too hard to examine and the sources of memories can be too fleeting to recapture. My parent’s life together ended in divorce. It was then that my dreams of true love began. They were filled with yearning, desiring, happiness and no fear. Love should be two people cleaving to each other in a big wide world. No clinging.
One year later, the young man had not joined the army; he gave me a ring instead. I said yes and we planned a life together. A detailed promise was extracted from him. No divorce, no reason for a divorce, never, not ever. He looked so kind and said with the gentlest voice ever, “never.” He was noble; I had already begun to fall into desperation. Determined to hold on tight to him and his promise I was unaware of falling into my old ways. How could I know? My actions were not obvious to anyone especially me. Just the opposite in fact, it was my suggestion to our pastor to include the scripture of a man leaving his family to cleave unto his wife, so beautiful, so poetic. For me it meant, come what may, we have each other.
The years passed and our family grew. He loved me through the birth of our three daughters; he loved me when I went back to school; he loved me when I traveled to faraway places without him. He loved me when I grew fat, when I grew skinny and when I grew fat again. He loved me when my hair sprung out after the requisite 80’s perm; he loved me with straight hair; he loved me when my hair was maroonish red, and when my hair turned gray. He loved me when I was happy and when I was mad. He loved me in sickness and in health.
We turned 40. Over the next few years we would become familiar with biopsies that were benign, hypertension, diabetes, depression, anxiety and panic attacks. We moved, changed jobs, and we became grandparents. I managed our lives firmly planted in the notion, do it right and love will be yours. It was working, or so it seemed. We had stared down over twenty years of life and survived still married to each other. We were not merely married, but happy with each other, enjoying life, still in love. Cooking, well, mostly eating was one of our favorite things to do together. Still wanting to share this joy I steadily replaced a certain southern grand dame of Savannah restaurant fame’s cookbooks with more healthy cookbooks with a lot of ‘no’ sprinkled on the covers. No salt, no fat, no sugar. Making sure we were compliant with doctor’s orders was the plan. Some would say I nagged, I preferred guided. Caught in the grip of loving my husband, I plowed right in, sure of the new plan. I had no idea how contradictory I had made our lives. I forgot about that long ago girl who wanted to live the poetry of love.
In February, nearly thirty years after pledging to cleave unto each other, our world changed. My husband’s mental health hit an all time low. After declaring suicidal thoughts to his doctor he disappeared on foot. Three hours became a limitless time on the clock. Phone calls were made, police came and went, and everyone we knew searched. The time bounced from fast forward frantic to slow motion distortion. He was finally located safe but in a state of utter despair. The next few months of intense therapy and some medication strategies stabilized his feelings. He has become more content, the bad days retreating into his memory. I remain painfully aware of the fragile nature of health. In a recent discussion with our doctor, I actually asked for the right recipe to ensure my husband’s safety and health. I was still clutching that magic conditional love that would keep him coming home. My doctor’s not so encouraging words were spoken after a moment of shock flashed across his otherwise stoic face. He said, “Mental illness is like any other illness, it is sometimes fatal in spite of our best efforts.” I needed comfort, not gloom and doom. Recalling the doctor’s words my lungs lurched into body betrayal mode: no air in, no air out. My feelings ran the gamut from fear, anger, sorrow, helplessness, to overwhelming love and gratitude. Months passed and as is the nature of time, some things eased. I began to remember my youthful yearning for an uncommon love found in verse.
I looked up to Cleave in the dictionary. My thought was to renew my vow, to use it somehow as encouragement. What I read surprised me. Two meanings: the first, to chop or break apart; the other is to stick fast or adhere. Not what I was expecting. So I looked up to Cling. After the expected adhere, stick or hold on my eyes moved on to these words: embrace, hang on to, retain, keep, cherish. Well, well, I get it, finally. I had it then, I have it now. The poetry of love is not in the words used to describe it but in the actions it requires to hold on. The heights and the depths of our life together have been entirely marked by embracing and letting go. There are no guarantees, no conditions. Love is in the living, we embrace it and cherish it and sometimes all we do is hang on. A woman shall leave her family and cling to her husband, not pretty prose, but a balm for my heart.
I am standing here looking at the photo of my husband taken during our senior year of high school. It’s yellowed with the passage of more than thirty years. He still thinks I am the most beautiful girl in the universe and I still think he has impossibly long legs. I will love him forever.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Pie, Pie I Love Pie!
We are Pie people more than cake people. Don't get me wrong we do love homemade yellow cake with milk chocolate icing, but not birthday cake or wedding cake or red velvet cake. Especially not red velvet cake. Yuck! My grandmother's coconut cake was great and her butter cake was really really great but the gift belonging to those recipes seems to have vanished when she went to live with the angels who sprinkled her with angel dust in her last days. But pies and cobblers are where our hearts live and beat.
Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday for us...it features pie. It's when the rest of the world recognizes pie for it's greatness. I'm not sure what dessert goes with New Year's but Valentine's day is a definite cake day, chocolate with pink icing. Easter is coconut cake, oh yea, that's a good one, as I mentioned coconut cake is good. Coconut cake after it's been in the freezer for a month...that is the best! Such good memories for me. Independance day we love as cherry, blueberry and apple pie take center stage!My mama spices up other special summer days with her peach cobbler. I don't think Halloween gets its own dessert just candy. And Christmas is cake, fruit cake to be specific, ummmmm not too good. So July 4th and Thanksgiving us pie lovers live it up!
I used to be the pie maker and they were good, but I have passed the pie pans to my duaghter and she is awesome! Yesterday I mentioned that we don't really mess with Thanksgiving menus. We like the tradition and that applies to the desserts too,with one exception. In my years of being the pie maker we finished our feasts with Pumpkin and Pecan pies and an occasional Sweet Potato pie. But since my middle daughter has taken over the pie making she has added Coconut pie. Her Coconut pie is the best, bar none, in the world! It is so good that her sister, my youngest daughter, shunned a wedding cake for her October Wedding in favor of Coconut pie and Pumpkin pie made by middle daughter.
We may add a crustless pumpkin pie this year for certain health considerations but I will be looking forward to Coconut Pie. Rumor has it that the health conscious are considering just a sliver of middle daughter's Pumpkin and Coconut pies!
Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday for us...it features pie. It's when the rest of the world recognizes pie for it's greatness. I'm not sure what dessert goes with New Year's but Valentine's day is a definite cake day, chocolate with pink icing. Easter is coconut cake, oh yea, that's a good one, as I mentioned coconut cake is good. Coconut cake after it's been in the freezer for a month...that is the best! Such good memories for me. Independance day we love as cherry, blueberry and apple pie take center stage!My mama spices up other special summer days with her peach cobbler. I don't think Halloween gets its own dessert just candy. And Christmas is cake, fruit cake to be specific, ummmmm not too good. So July 4th and Thanksgiving us pie lovers live it up!
I used to be the pie maker and they were good, but I have passed the pie pans to my duaghter and she is awesome! Yesterday I mentioned that we don't really mess with Thanksgiving menus. We like the tradition and that applies to the desserts too,with one exception. In my years of being the pie maker we finished our feasts with Pumpkin and Pecan pies and an occasional Sweet Potato pie. But since my middle daughter has taken over the pie making she has added Coconut pie. Her Coconut pie is the best, bar none, in the world! It is so good that her sister, my youngest daughter, shunned a wedding cake for her October Wedding in favor of Coconut pie and Pumpkin pie made by middle daughter.
We may add a crustless pumpkin pie this year for certain health considerations but I will be looking forward to Coconut Pie. Rumor has it that the health conscious are considering just a sliver of middle daughter's Pumpkin and Coconut pies!
Traditions
Thanksgiving is on everyone’s mind. Television programming features regular reminders that it’s green bean casserole time again! Magazines are full of glossy pictures featuring a golden bird and side dishes that make even a full stomach rumble with hunger. My family and I pour over these magazines on the hunt for clever ways to set the table, crafts for the kids and other tid bits that will make our day together special.
I always pay special attention to the varied ways to prepare the feast day standards such as sweet potatoes, dressings, and salads. I do this not because I plan on surprising my family with sweet potato cranberry spiced soufflé or walnut stuffing with golden raisins and pimento, but to laugh at the weirdoes who would dare mess with tradition! Every year I am amazed at the myriad of ways to prepare Thanksgiving Dinner. Who are these people? I may live a sheltered life, but I have really never met anyone who doesn’t make the same thing year after year. How could you betray the memory of your grandmother by not making her cornbread dressing on Thanksgiving?
Oh sure we talk about it, we speculate on making things low calorie, more modern or even accommodating a new son-in-law’s possible Thanksgiving traditions. We even carried out a few flirtations with the new. There was the year we were all watching our weight so we made mashed cauliflower instead of mashed potatoes, it fooled no one and it was never repeated. Another year we went to a step-parent’s house and had an entire meal of new. That day has been recorded in family lore as the worst Thanksgiving ever. The evil step-mother tried to impress with a fancy affair, no turkey, just goose. Goose stuffed with dates, sausage and some unidentified gray stuff…best guess was mushrooms. Least I mis-lead you, we do indeed experiment, love new recipes and try all sorts of craziness found in the pages of Martha Stewart. We have enjoyed many meals of “recipe firsts.” Some of them even becoming part of our regular repertoire of dinner fare. We do not however mess with Thanksgiving!
We may add a son in law family favorite to make them feel like part of the family, we may invite someone to bring their Thanksgiving specialty but we do not mess with the perfection that has become our Thanksgiving Day feast.
Original Menu in bold, additions in italics:
Roasted Turkey, we have to have this because we love it and we need the juices to make the dressing.
Deep Fried Turkey, Deep fryers became the rage about ten years ago and the boys in the family thought the idea of frying a turkey ranked in the supreme category. We did love it, but as previously stated we could not do away with the Roasted Turkey.
Grilled Turkey Breast: due to a constant shortage of left over white mean, again the men wanted to man up and use fire to cook the bird. Results were delicious, it was a keeper.
Giblet Gravy: a southern tradition
Smooth Gravy: a son in law addition
Cornbread Dressing: Handed down for at least 4 generations, it’s not going anywhere! * note at least one son- in –law grew up eating stuffing. It is not on the menu, never has been never will be, it’s gross.
Mashed Potatoes: duh!
Sweet Potato Souffle: Handed down for 4 generations, even people who don’t eat sweet potatoes eat this and love it
Green Bean Casserole: This is a testament to a much beloved son in law, he loves it, and no one else does. Two generations have now made this so that said son in law will have a smile on his face!
Green Stuff: Otherwise known as Watergate salad. We are thinking about adding Pink stuff this year in honor of the newest son in law in the family.
Relish Tray: duh!
Maybe tomorrow we will address the desserts!
I always pay special attention to the varied ways to prepare the feast day standards such as sweet potatoes, dressings, and salads. I do this not because I plan on surprising my family with sweet potato cranberry spiced soufflé or walnut stuffing with golden raisins and pimento, but to laugh at the weirdoes who would dare mess with tradition! Every year I am amazed at the myriad of ways to prepare Thanksgiving Dinner. Who are these people? I may live a sheltered life, but I have really never met anyone who doesn’t make the same thing year after year. How could you betray the memory of your grandmother by not making her cornbread dressing on Thanksgiving?
Oh sure we talk about it, we speculate on making things low calorie, more modern or even accommodating a new son-in-law’s possible Thanksgiving traditions. We even carried out a few flirtations with the new. There was the year we were all watching our weight so we made mashed cauliflower instead of mashed potatoes, it fooled no one and it was never repeated. Another year we went to a step-parent’s house and had an entire meal of new. That day has been recorded in family lore as the worst Thanksgiving ever. The evil step-mother tried to impress with a fancy affair, no turkey, just goose. Goose stuffed with dates, sausage and some unidentified gray stuff…best guess was mushrooms. Least I mis-lead you, we do indeed experiment, love new recipes and try all sorts of craziness found in the pages of Martha Stewart. We have enjoyed many meals of “recipe firsts.” Some of them even becoming part of our regular repertoire of dinner fare. We do not however mess with Thanksgiving!
We may add a son in law family favorite to make them feel like part of the family, we may invite someone to bring their Thanksgiving specialty but we do not mess with the perfection that has become our Thanksgiving Day feast.
Original Menu in bold, additions in italics:
Roasted Turkey, we have to have this because we love it and we need the juices to make the dressing.
Deep Fried Turkey, Deep fryers became the rage about ten years ago and the boys in the family thought the idea of frying a turkey ranked in the supreme category. We did love it, but as previously stated we could not do away with the Roasted Turkey.
Grilled Turkey Breast: due to a constant shortage of left over white mean, again the men wanted to man up and use fire to cook the bird. Results were delicious, it was a keeper.
Giblet Gravy: a southern tradition
Smooth Gravy: a son in law addition
Cornbread Dressing: Handed down for at least 4 generations, it’s not going anywhere! * note at least one son- in –law grew up eating stuffing. It is not on the menu, never has been never will be, it’s gross.
Mashed Potatoes: duh!
Sweet Potato Souffle: Handed down for 4 generations, even people who don’t eat sweet potatoes eat this and love it
Green Bean Casserole: This is a testament to a much beloved son in law, he loves it, and no one else does. Two generations have now made this so that said son in law will have a smile on his face!
Green Stuff: Otherwise known as Watergate salad. We are thinking about adding Pink stuff this year in honor of the newest son in law in the family.
Relish Tray: duh!
Maybe tomorrow we will address the desserts!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Ants Are Mean
I had to waste the afternoon of a perfectly lovely warm late fall afternoon sleeping! Don't get me wrong some days I long for a lazy nap while fresh ocean breezes cover me better than the softest sheets. But not today.
Today was a gift, a throw back to summer with just enough coolness in the air to harken the colder days of winter ahead. It is what I call a threshold day, one step behind finds the summer fun, one step forward lands you in the excitment of winter holidays.
Looking forward to spending the day outside, I wrestled my grandson from P.J.'s to clothes, to shower, back into clothes, back into clothes, and back into clothes. Yes, I believe the count is right, dressing him 4 times in less than 45 minutes. The first time he insisted on wearing dirty clothes, I gave in, anything to get him dressed and outside. I jumped in the shower, he undressed and jumped in the shower. Dressing number two involved me insisting on him wearing clean underwear. We struggled, he won. Naked again, he agreed to wear clean underwear if he could wear them backwards. I agreed, what do I care if he has a wedgie all day? Backward clean underwear with dirty clothes on top. I could agree to that, I just wanted to get outside. On our way outside a collision with a water glass led to the fourth and final wardrobe choice, clean shirt, dirty pants, backwards but clean underwear, no shoes. Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign that we should not venture outside.
Today's mission several games of red light, green light and collecting fall leaves. Our cherry tree floats the most vibrant leaves onto our lawn. Colors range from burnished browns to sunny yellows. There are pumpkin and green leaves and golden oranges. Almost every color you could think of except red. I have asked my grandson to bring me yellow leaves, then brown, then orange...he says what about red? Looking around we find no reds. He looks up and spies the flaming red trees lining the back of our neighbor's yard. Barefoot and armed with an array of leaves we head over to ask if we may harvest a few of the red leaves lying about in such plenty. Our neighbors love my grandson and eagerly offer for him to take bushels and bushels of leaves. We thank them and tell them a few will do.
My grandson is happily picking up leaves and I see that the most vibrant reds have fallen close to the trunk of the tree. I venture in and am stooped over mindlessly calling out, "look at this one, oh look at this one," when something else red appears to be under the tree. Ants!
My left bare foot is covered in fire ants, stinging and biting or whatever it is that they do. In just a few short moments they have swarmed my foot and the bottom of my pants. Trying to remain cool and keep my grandson away, I scream and spastically begin brushing them off my foot and pants. No one likes fire ants and as it turns out I am allergic to the little freaks of nature.
Two antihistimines, and two ibuprofens later, I'm on the couch with a foot that looks like a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I have hives covering my entire body and my fingers are almost too swollen to hold anything. My eyes are heavy from the antihistimine. My daughter has come to retrieve my grandson and I drifted off not to awaken for two hours! The door bell was ringing or perhaps I would be sleeping still. God does indeed work in mysterious ways. It was the "bug man" at the door. I had forgetten about our quarterly pest control visit. I explained my plight, to which he responded, "Ants are mean." Yep, ants are mean!
Today was a gift, a throw back to summer with just enough coolness in the air to harken the colder days of winter ahead. It is what I call a threshold day, one step behind finds the summer fun, one step forward lands you in the excitment of winter holidays.
Looking forward to spending the day outside, I wrestled my grandson from P.J.'s to clothes, to shower, back into clothes, back into clothes, and back into clothes. Yes, I believe the count is right, dressing him 4 times in less than 45 minutes. The first time he insisted on wearing dirty clothes, I gave in, anything to get him dressed and outside. I jumped in the shower, he undressed and jumped in the shower. Dressing number two involved me insisting on him wearing clean underwear. We struggled, he won. Naked again, he agreed to wear clean underwear if he could wear them backwards. I agreed, what do I care if he has a wedgie all day? Backward clean underwear with dirty clothes on top. I could agree to that, I just wanted to get outside. On our way outside a collision with a water glass led to the fourth and final wardrobe choice, clean shirt, dirty pants, backwards but clean underwear, no shoes. Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign that we should not venture outside.
Today's mission several games of red light, green light and collecting fall leaves. Our cherry tree floats the most vibrant leaves onto our lawn. Colors range from burnished browns to sunny yellows. There are pumpkin and green leaves and golden oranges. Almost every color you could think of except red. I have asked my grandson to bring me yellow leaves, then brown, then orange...he says what about red? Looking around we find no reds. He looks up and spies the flaming red trees lining the back of our neighbor's yard. Barefoot and armed with an array of leaves we head over to ask if we may harvest a few of the red leaves lying about in such plenty. Our neighbors love my grandson and eagerly offer for him to take bushels and bushels of leaves. We thank them and tell them a few will do.
My grandson is happily picking up leaves and I see that the most vibrant reds have fallen close to the trunk of the tree. I venture in and am stooped over mindlessly calling out, "look at this one, oh look at this one," when something else red appears to be under the tree. Ants!
My left bare foot is covered in fire ants, stinging and biting or whatever it is that they do. In just a few short moments they have swarmed my foot and the bottom of my pants. Trying to remain cool and keep my grandson away, I scream and spastically begin brushing them off my foot and pants. No one likes fire ants and as it turns out I am allergic to the little freaks of nature.
Two antihistimines, and two ibuprofens later, I'm on the couch with a foot that looks like a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I have hives covering my entire body and my fingers are almost too swollen to hold anything. My eyes are heavy from the antihistimine. My daughter has come to retrieve my grandson and I drifted off not to awaken for two hours! The door bell was ringing or perhaps I would be sleeping still. God does indeed work in mysterious ways. It was the "bug man" at the door. I had forgetten about our quarterly pest control visit. I explained my plight, to which he responded, "Ants are mean." Yep, ants are mean!
Monday, November 14, 2011
Smiling in the Sun
Nah, I'm back sitting in the sun with Moses I just got a glass of wine instead. Maybe tomorrow!
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