O Mio Babbino Caro

Dad had flowers growing on all four sides of our house. The shady side which got little sun had a deep layer of lily of the valley, their rich green leaves punctuated with tiny white blossoms. And the aroma! You didn’t even have to bend down to enjoy their perfume: the scent rose up to meet anyone passing by. On the barely shaded, full-sun side of the house, hollyhock stems grew as high as the eaves, the pink flowers tipping to look down at us.

In the front was a raised bed garden filled with hens and chicks and annuals such as petunias and pansies. But in the back was the real treasure. A white trellis fence crossed over the front of a large stone path garden. Roses of all types and colors grew in the front beds, a climbing rose vining up and over the arched opening. The walk went straight, then branched to both sides, creating individual beds, each with a different “theme” – irises, gladiolas, impatiens of all colors. In the middle of the garden, the path made a circle around tall shasta daisies surrounding a bird bath.

We had a fenced-in pool which also sported blooming plants around it – a large, thick bank of rose bushes – the type that aren’t particularly pretty but even more aromatic than most roses. The blanket of pink blooms perfumed the air. On the other side, delicate morning glory vines wound their way up the fence, their blooms opening wide to greet the early sun, then closing throughout the day in protective rest.

When Dad got home from a job which he was very good at and never complained about, but I realized later was a choice he made solely to provide for his family and keep them in one place, he would park the clunky blue work van in the turn-around of the driveway (also bordered by flowers), and begin his slow trek around the yard. I would have met him coming in, so I would take his tin lunch box into the house while he began his walk. I seldom joined him. It seemed private. The battle of the day was over – it was time to enjoy his creation.

He would make his way around each section – touching the plants, deadheading a few blooms, yanking out a suddenly tall weed, untangling a vine and guiding it to a better spot on a trellis. I knew he was planning what he would do that evening after supper while the sun stayed up longer during our Michigan summer. But he was mostly admiring God’s handiwork. And his. Taking pleasure in the creation, enjoying its beauty and its company. 

That’s kind of how I see God growing us in His garden. There is somebody blooming everywhere – each person uniquely suited to where God has placed them. He plants us, tends us, feeds us, nurtures us, enjoys us, weeds us, and takes pleasure in our beauty and our company. 

So while my Dad was enjoying the walk around the beauty he had created, God walked with him, enjoying the beauty of this one HE had created.

And today they met to walk together again, but this time the meeting was face-to-face. The battle is over, it’s time to enjoy His creation. God has gained a master gardener and I love the picture of them, side-by-side, walking heavenly gardens, pointing and talking.

I’ll miss my gardener, but I’ll see him again. And when I do, I believe this time I’ll tag along on that walk. 

Glen A. Watson

1928-2022

The steps of a man are established by the Lord,

And He delights in his way.

Psalm 37:23

That Ain’t Funny

We have always been a family brought to cackles by slapstick humor. Therefore, “America’s Funniest Videos” was the perfect show for us. We laughed way too hard at other people’s missteps, calamities, and goofy pets. One day the show played a montage of people being thwacked in the head by piñata sticks. My little guy stopped laughing, looked at me, and said, “That’s not funny.”

Well, no. Not to him or his Mama. A mere month before he too had been thwacked in the head with a piñata stick and it wasn’t even a little bit funny. He could relate to those people in the videos in an entirely different way.

Empathy is a lot easier to come by when you’ve been the victim.

In “Mrs. Doubtfire” there is a funny and climactic scene in which Pierce Brosnan’s character is choking and Robin Williams’ character performs a comically dramatic Heimlich maneuver on him, saving the day. I’ve laughed over it every time I’ve seen it. In that same vein, my family and I, when we cough or choke while eating, will often echo a Boy Meets World episode about an equally comical pseudo-tragedy and say we’re “chucking to death.”

Empathy is a lot easier to come by when you’ve been a victim.

Well. Not any more. Not for me anyway. When you have experienced the terror of something lodged in your throat, unable to breathe, it becomes a landmark moment and not in a good way. The problem resolved just before the person poised to act behind me had to pull a Mrs. Doubtfire. But just thinking about it brings on the shakes.

When I was in high school and taking a mandatory woodshop class (anybody remember those?), we had to first watch a series of films warning us in the most gruesome of fashions to be careful around the tools and equipment. Digits were severed, people were impaled, and all just as realistically as possible. It was hard not to think of it as real. For the longest time after that I couldn’t watch scenes of violence in any of my favorite police or western TV shows. A person getting shot, which heretofore hadn’t affected me on a physical level, now caused me to cringe and cover my eyes.

I listen to a few different bookish podcasts. When they are recommending a book, I’ve noticed they are very careful to say something about “trigger warnings.” These are areas of possible sensitivity – abuse, children at risk, sexual crimes, suicide, etc. A couple of their typical trigger warnings cause me to mentally mark that book off my list. But those areas, I realize, are due to my own personal experiences. They barely bothered me before.

I have worried for years about the kids in my care who are playing alarmingly violent video games. I, like many others, have serious concerns about them being desensitized to violence. Now more than ever, the nightly news alone could have the same possible effect. Are they going to have to experience a shooting or a car wreck or a break-in or a fire or some other tragedy personally before they “get it”?

Perhaps some people are just better able to keep their fiction and reality separate. It probably has something to do with enneagram numbers or INFJs or ENTPs or some such thing and I’m a tad jealous. Perhaps folks like me get far too wrapped up in our fiction, print or otherwise. I’ll admit that I find myself thinking about and worrying over characters in my current book even when I’m not reading it.

Perhaps some people are just better able to keep their fiction and reality separate.

But you know, I think I like my empathy level. That line between reality and not reality for me is very thin indeed. Call me overly sensitive, but I’m sorry, like my little guy (who as a grown man still doesn’t think it’s funny) and the piñata sticks, I don’t think I’ll ever find a choking scene funny again.

Fiction became reality – one I’d rather not relive. Even through someone else’s eyes.

At Least It’s Not Bats in My Belfry

“I think I have squirrels in my attic,” I said to the receptionist on the phone. I had assumed the thrum-thrum of feet overhead was the cute little boogers jumping from the trees and running over the roof. But the sound was a little loud for that, a little close, and then there was this chewing noise…

Well.

So I called my exterminator dudes who keep bugs and such out of my house and asked the receptionist if they did rodents. They do and we scheduled a visit for a look-see. A few days before that, we had a rare snow and ice event. As I sat in my room that freezing night and listened to them scurrying around up there, I found myself glad for them – that they had a way to get out of that horrible weather.

I canceled the appointment. 

I know, I know. I can google with the best of them and I did reschedule my bug guy to come out the next Saturday to avoid any squirrel horrors. But I determined I wouldn’t let him kill them and if there was a nest with babies, the whole thing would have to wait, chewing or no chewing.

I have a long history with squirrels. 

My grandmother fed them from her back door. They would stand on the chain link fence and stare at the house, chattering away to remind her they were there. There was one that came every day and his heft proved it and identified him. Grandma fed us that way too.

I have a long history with squirrels

Due to the presence of dogs and not many trees in our yard, I didn’t see so many squirrels growing up. But as a newlywed, in a house set in trees, I spent a glorious morning watching a baby squirrel and a baby rabbit examining each other and playing together outside my kitchen door. They were about the same size and were bouncing and hopping excitedly around each other. I could imagine their dialogue.

“Dude! What’s with that long tail?”

“Me? What about your ears? What’s happening there?”

To my husband’s horror, I would frequently toss bread pieces in the back for the multiple squirrels that flowed up, down, and through the trees. “Where I come from, we shoot them out of the trees, we don’t feed them.”

I had to not think about that.

Early in our marriage, I had a high stress and insecure moment while sitting in the back of a livingroom by the picture window while my preacher husband visited with a prospective member. The talk had gotten serious and it was getting dark, and I, a new pastor’s wife, wasn’t sure what I should be doing. Should I turn on lights? Should I be getting them water? What if I had to go to the bathroom? My foot was bouncing like crazy when I turned my gaze away from the two men across the room and out the picture window.

There was a tree out there. A branch that grew toward the house had been cut off, leaving a stump about a foot long. When I looked out this time, a squirrel was on that stump. But he wasn’t sitting on it. He was spread out on his belly, his legs dangling on either side, and his head dropped over the sawed off end, looking right at me.

Well. I did manage not to laugh out loud, but you could practically hear my smile. I relaxed immediately, my foot slowing and my blood pressure going down.

When I looked back the next time, he was gone.

I know I am an ADHD poster child when I say I will stop what I’m doing to watch them. (“Squirrel!”) But I do. They amuse me and relax me. They always seem to be having fun. They’re cute and alert and their tails really do form a question mark. Two or more of them chasing each other around and up a tree, into the leaves and down again, streaking so fast they’re like brown ribbons being wrapped around the trunk and branches, will keep me mesmerized for as long as the chase is on.

They amuse me and relax me. They always seem to be having fun.

I’m glad God made squirrels, and I’m sure they make Him as happy as they do me. But, alas, they don’t belong in my attic. We chased them out, and I may or may not have spread some bread and walnut pieces around the yard by way of apology. 

And also as a thank you, from me and my blood pressure.

My Badness is Inherited

The Pizza Hut we were walking into had a free-standing sign which read “Please Wait to be Seated” on one side and “Please Seat Yourself” on the other. The second message was turned toward us, so Dad, our friend, and I made our way to a booth by the windows. After helping decide the order, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I had to walk past the entrance and that free-standing sign to do so, which means I could now read “Please Wait to be Seated.”

Well.

I stopped. I did an exaggerated shoulder slump, crossed my arms and started tapping my foot.

Then I heard the loud guffaw from that booth by the window.

Mission accomplished. Laughing, I continued on my way to the restroom. When I got to the table, our friend was still red in the face from embarrassment.

It was like that more than not and we didn’t care if we were in public. As a matter of fact, it was more fun if we WERE in public.

Variety shows were the order of the day back then – Sonny and Cher, the Smothers Brothers, etc. One we watched had an ongoing skit about the French Foreign Legion in which one enthusiastic character would make a fast entrance, do a springing jump that looked like he was peddling in the air, snap a salute, and shout, “I am here, SUH!” Dumb, but we were suckers for dumb humor.

As a matter of fact, it was more fun if we WERE in public.

One December evening, Dad dropped us off – my mother, sister, and me – at a side mall entrance and went to park the car, so as to keep us all from having to slog through the Michigan slush and ice. The three of us walked down the long indoor hallway to the main mall area and waited for Dad. When we heard the door, we all turned and watched him approaching.

I knew something was weird. I just couldn’t figure out what. He was walking fast. Then, just before he got to us, he did this springing jump (I was impressed), snapped to a salute, and shouted, “I am here, SUH!”

Well. I died. I have blogged about my non-gentle, not-so-ladylike (as my father would say) laugh. And that non-quiet laugh echoed throughout the mall. Still laughing, I turned to my mother and sister to share the moment with them. That’s when I realized my sister was gone. Puzzled, I looked down the mall walkways and saw her, speedwalking away from us, distancing herself as much and as quickly as possible from the wackadoos.

That wasn’t the only time we did that to the poor thing. Dad, my sister, my best friend, and I were in a restaurant booth together having an ice cream treat. (Dad: chocolate soda, vanilla ice cream. Every. Single. Time.) I don’t have any memory of what we were carrying on about, but carry on we did. I probably don’t need to mention again the high decibel level of my laugh. One line led to another, the laughter getting louder and louder. At some point I realized my sister was missing. Which is odd since we were in a booth and she was on the inside next to Dad.

It didn’t take long to find her… under the table. I had noticed she was sinking down in the seat as we carried on, but I didn’t realize she had hit ground level.

My favorite partner in crime is not doing so well these days. I have to visit him in a nursing home, and most of the time our conversations are a bit… well, confused. I usually just go along and answer any questions the way I think he’d want me to, knowing he will have no memory of it in just minutes. A few weeks ago, he told a story, and when he looked at me, I was thrilled to see his eyes scrunched up in that old familiar way of a really good and true laugh. And laugh we did. Loudly and joyously. I don’t have to know the plot to enjoy the storyteller.

It might be buried deeper and deeper, but he’s still in there and every now and then the goofy light shines out through the broken parts. As I’m pushing his wheelchair to his room, he will occasionally make racing car noises which is for the sole purpose of letting me know I’m walking too fast. Then he’ll slam his feet down on the floor, putting the brakes on our forward motion, and challenge another resident to a race.

One night he was registering displeasure about something, then said dismissively, “But does that bother me? Huh!” He shook his head, his head then going in a circle as he transitioned into a nod, followed by, “You BET that bothers me!” This was a constant when I was growing up and did my heart good to hear it again. One day while I was out in the hall and a particularly rough and tumble nurse’s aide was working with him, I heard him call out, “Don’t shoot – I’ll marry your daughter!”

But most times these days my laughter with him is just for his benefit. Regardless of the reason, though, I still give him a good guffaw. Then he joins me. Then we get louder. Then I picture my sweet sister as a young teen (today she would likely be louder than the both of us) heading out of the room and down the hall, pretending she doesn’t know us.

It may be, as it always has been, just loud and rowdy and embarrassing to the people with or around us, but that laughter between us is truly a sweet music, wafting up to the One who provided it in the first place.

… but that laughter between us is truly a sweet music, wafting up to the One who provided it in the first place.

And I have a feeling, if I could listen close enough to what was wafting back down, ours would not be the only laughter heard.

Apple Slicing and Plum Sucking

Poetry and I have an agreement. I will read and enjoy it on occasion, but I will not analyze, criticize, or theorize about it. Its job is to entertain me. If it doesn’t, it can expect to be dumped, and I’ll move on.

This agreement only becomes a problem when I am the teacher in front of a room of sixth graders and have to “teach them poetry.” When I got started many years ago, I collected and had them copy a score of “poetry terms.” Armed with that crucial information, we then began to look at and evaluate different types of poetry.

That lasted about ten minutes. I wasn’t enjoying it any more than they were. I had to ask myself what did I NEED to teach them about poetry, and what did I WANT to teach them about poetry?

Well.

What I want is for them to enjoy it – to find a way past the chorus of moans when the “p” word comes up the first time.

…what did I NEED to each them… and what did I WANT to teach them…

To demonstrate how poetry can bring out different sides of a person, I show them two examples of favorite poems of mine. The first is “Stop All the Clocks” (also known as “Funeral Blues”) by W. H. Auden, a sad and poignant reflection on a loss. The second is “Mucus Lament” by Robert Prottle which ends with the line, “Boogers can’t be choosers.” Right.

Then we start the whole poetry analysis thing with Eve Merriam’s “How to Eat a Poem.” It’s an extended metaphor in which she compares reading a poem to eating a ripe and juicy piece of fruit. Don’t be neat about it! she encourages her audience. Just dig in there and get messy.

To illustrate the difference, I tell the Tale of Two Pieces of Fruit.

Story the first: I watched my beloved stepmother eat an apple once while at their house. She was a very precise and proper person. When she brought the apple onto the patio where we were having our snacks, she carried it in on a small plate. With it she had a paring knife and a napkin.

She set the napkin, then the plate on her knees. Then she picked up the apple and the knife, cutting a small wedge out of the apple. She set the apple down. She then carefully cut the core from her slice of apple, putting it and the knife on the plate. Then she ate her slice of apple. When she finished, she picked up the apple and the knife and did it all again.

Story the second: I was busy in the kitchen, my little girl in her high chair behind me. We had some ripe purple plums and I set one on the high chair tray for her before getting on with my business. In just moments, I heard a repetitious squeaking sound. When I turned, I saw the poor thing trying to get her little baby teeth to break through that plum, her teeth squeaking on the unyielding peel.

I took it from her and bit a little hole in it so she could get her teeth in there and start taking bites of her own and turned back to whatever I was doing.

After a bit, I realized I was hearing a different repeating noise and looked at her again. My sweet little girl was gloriously covered in plum juice and pulp and was still working on the piece of fruit in her own unique way. Instead of taking a bite out of the plum, she had smashed her face into that baby and sucked the pulp and juice out of the hole I had created for her. Her little fist had squeezed that thing until it looked like a deflated ball, the pit against the hole the only thing that stopped her from sucking it dry.

So.

The kids enjoy the stories, and then I ask, “If those pieces of fruit were poetry, which one of my loved ones would Eve Merriam most want us to be like?” My plum sucking baby, of course. And that image of absolute abandon and no-cares-in-the-world eating sticks with them and gives me an image to bring up later when they start getting bogged down on a poem.

Life is full of rules and proper ways of doing things. It’s nice to be given permission to just jump full-on into something and throw caution to the wind.

It works with poetry. Maybe there are other facets of my life that need that sort of attitude. I pondered that, looking at the parts of my life that are a bit weighed down in legalism or stifled by obligation and routine.

Perhaps I can liven up my classroom a bit. I have a very well-controlled classroom. I had a substitute come in one day to ask me a question and she stared in awe at my quietly working class. “I know these kids,” she whispered to me. “How do you get them under control like this?” I leaned in conspiratorially and whispered back, “I am the merciless god of their universe.”

It’s true. I love – I NEED – a controlled classroom. I’m not willing to let that go entirely, but perhaps I could trust them more on their own. Mind you, I have adapted a lot and we have a lot of choice and freedom in my room. But maybe I could put up with a little more busy noise. Encourage them to take responsibility for themselves and allow more freedom and personal creativity – make it more (gulp) … fun. My “old school” is showing. I’m slicing that apple neatly when I could be sucking plums.

It seems I spend the majority of my time in the car. One way I pass that huge amount of time is listening to audio books which I borrow free from a library system. I try to read/listen to books that are safely within my chosen genres, quality literature, and books recommended by trusted recommenders. Perhaps, though, this would be a good time to cut loose the genre strings and have a little fun – be brave and jump into less traveled territory. Since I feel so compelled to just read books during this time, perhaps I could find some fun or quirky or challenging podcasts to listen to instead. I just need to ask myself when I’m searching (BEFORE I start driving of course): Is this an apple or a plum?

And then there’s my personal time with Abba. I have struggled in recent months to even maintain that time. Over the years, I have made sure I have the perfect reading plan and followed it to the letter, collected study Bibles and commentaries explaining the words and their history and meanings, compiled copious notes on how and when and where to pray, and set up the perfect journal to keep up with all of it. If I miss days on the plan, I either binge to catch up or just quit all together. And if I don’t start at the right time, I’m likely to skip it for the day. I can’t count the number of journals I have that were partially written in and then abandoned.

Is this an apple or a plum?

So what if my quiet time was less quiet? What if I sit all comfy in my rocker and just, well, jump in? Abandon the rules and the expectations and just meet Him there, messy as I am. At this stage of my life, a little abandon is probably called for. I would love to meet God like that – plum juice and pulp dripping from my smiling face, and to know He was having as much fun as I was.

My stepmother enjoyed her apple, but my daughter loved the heck out of that plum and had the best time ever eating it. I think that kid was onto something.

In Praise of Guys With Painted Nails

I had to take a day off in order to deal with some paperwork regarding my dear dad, so my daughter and I took advantage of the opportunity to meet for lunch. We went to our favorite Italian place and tucked into a booth away from everybody else. Our waiter came up behind me, so she saw him first. I saw her eyes light up and she said, “Oh I love your nails!” And indeed, they were beautiful – long and sculpted and painted a swirly, glittery purple. I looked up at him and saw the full picture. His eye makeup was amazing, his brows and hair two-toned and perfect, his jewelry gorgeous. His earrings were unlike anything I’d ever worn, but I loved them.

I’m old enough to still register a bit of silent surprise when I see someone breaking “norms” like that. Only now I do it with appreciation and more than a little awe. And some jealousy, I must admit, like I had with our waiter’s jewelry.

We are living in an age of shifting societal norms. I’m hoping they become diminished societal norms, then disappeared societal norms. Because what is “normal” after all? Who decides that? In early high school when I visited a friend’s house, her mother (whom I loved) looked at me a bit disapprovingly and suggested I be more thoughtful in selecting my clothes. I was wearing my well-worn jeans with the stitched smiley face on the thigh and a loose t-shirt. It was my favorite thing to wear. But after that moment, I was always conscious of my clothes. Did viewers approve? Did I care? Heck yes, I cared.

We are living in an age of shifting societal norms.

But I wasn’t fashion savvy, and didn’t know what to do to join the Norm. I was the kid who spent their entire adolescence behind in or even unaware of every trend and never quite fitting in. And fitting in was everything.

I didn’t know my LGBTQ+ friends WERE my LGBTQ+ friends because my parents’ generation invented the closet they felt compelled to stay in. They wouldn’t fit in with the Norm.

Thankfully, that’s changing now. I have joined the throngs watching TikTok videos and have seen many similar to the trans woman who said, “I’m wearing a dress to work for the first time and I’m so scared!” But she did it, with responders sending her off with comments about how beautiful she was and giving her virtual hugs. I don’t know what kind of courage my waiter had to pull up from his inner being the first time he went out in public in his makeup or had his nails done, but what I saw yesterday was a young person fully comfortable, confident, unselfconscious, and unapologetic. You know: normal.

I’ve been NaNoWriMoing for the past month. Somehow I did manage to complete the challenge and finish the book. It’s Called Flying Free and it’s the story of a fifty-year-old woman who runs away from a bad marriage and goes on a journey to discover who she really is. She’d spent all her life being what was expected of her, and now was her time to find out what she wanted for herself. Not an original concept, I know, but there are some interesting twists in there.

It was hard for this grown-up version of the teen in her smiley-face jeans to write about someone becoming secure in who they really are. I didn’t feel qualified to speak to that. But, just like with anything I write, I live vicariously through those created characters, and I found myself beginning to enjoy the freedom of breaking with social construct and instead following the advice she was given: “You be you.”

At my age, is it even possible to make those changes? To feel secure and free in who I am and not just thinking constantly about how I’m presenting to others and what they’re all thinking when they look at me?

I’m well aware how adolescent I sound when I voice those fears. But those fears stay with a person for a long time.

When I was a new bride and a new pastor’s wife, we were visiting at another church and I watched the pastor’s wife. She sat toward the middle of the church, not up front like me. She was quiet, not bustling about greeting everyone like me. She was behind-the-scenes, not up front and involved like me. She’d been a pastor’s wife much longer than I had. I talked to my dad after that day and said, “I need to be more like her.”

And my dad said, “Don’t. You. Dare.” I was stunned. “You be LINDA,” he said, pointing a finger at me.

You be LINDA…

Well.

There was a time not that long ago when many or most people would have looked at my waiter and others like him as if they were “weirdos.” But here’s the difference I celebrate today: Those people who are walking through this world having cast aside social constructs and norms are, as they say, “Living their best life.” My waiter and others like him would be the first to say that the goal is not to look different, to gain attention through extremes. They are simply secure in who they are and happy with how they are, which I think begs the question, “So who’s the weirdo?” Maybe that title belongs to those of us who are less than comfortable and relying heavily on others to tell us how we should look or act.

Now I wish I had asked my waiter where he got his earrings.

The Not-So-Celebrated Jumping Frog of Harrison County

November brings cooler weather, holiday preparations, and novel writing. While I’m hammering away at the keyboard writing the next Great American Novel, Caleb has kindly agreed to post two of my favorite blog posts from the archives. This is one of them. Enjoy!

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All my dogs have been neurotic. Many people have, rudely I must say, suggested the obvious common denominator, but I’m still of the opinion it was just a freaky coincidence that they were all weirdos in one way or another. There was Pepper the beagle mix who ate more Tupperware than most people own and did so creatively. There was Lady the boxer who never begged for food, but would drool for ice cubes. Then Camry the boxer who could devour one of those 3-foot rawhides in zero time, but had a 3-inch soft chew “baby” that only had the tiniest (accidental) hole in it. Grace the miniature pinscher looked like a tiny Doberman, but would only sneeze when threatened. Tank the boxer would pin my daughter down and tear the ponytail holders out of her hair and pin my son down and aggressively lick his ears. Smokey the labrador who didn’t retrieve and was  terrified of water, Mac the boxer who put himself in time-out and pouted when he was unhappy, and Abbey the Shih-Tzu mix who ran a post-dinner “schnoozle” on the couch that sent pillows flying and the bigger dogs running for cover.

But the worst of all was Mercy, the Boston terrier mix who was born deaf. In her defense, we believe she was oxygen deprived during delivery when the sibling before her got stuck in the birth canal. Mercy had to be delivered by cesarean section, hence her name. My boy suggested it, saying she was born by the doctor’s mercy just as we’re born again through God’s mercy.

Well. End of name search.

Mercy was a hotbed of neuroses. She licked her feet constantly. She never barked, but had a growl that sounded like a tenor motorcycle motor. Although she would follow hand signals, if she was mad at you, she would look toward you then, as soon as you lifted your hand to signal her, turn quickly away. I swear she rolled her eyes.

Mercy was a hotbed of neuroses.

Mercy’s biggest neurosis was she could not tolerate anything touching her she couldn’t see. Wearing a collar was practically torture for her and that cute game where you drape the tug-of-war rope across their back and watch them spin in circles would send her tearing through the house in a full-out panic attack.

We had large sliding glass doors leading to our backyard. One day as I was letting Mercy out, I noticed one of those cute little green tree frogs sucked up onto the glass at eye level. His legs were tucked up under him and I could see his little heart beating. When I slid the door open to let the dog out, the little froggy startle-reflexed, his legs going out to the side. After I carefully slid the door shut, he scootched his legs back in until they were tucked back up under him.

Cute. Totally cute.

I looked around for someone to impress. Hubs was at the end of the couch engrossed in a tv show. Not a good cute candidate anyway. So I called my teen daughter out to see. She stopped at the couch, frozen.

“Is it outside?”

I rolled my eyes. “It wouldn’t be cute if it was inside. Now come here.”

She reluctantly came over. I moved her closer to the little guy, pointed out the cute tucked-in legs, the little heart beating. She still wasn’t convinced of the cute, but was trying to be polite and placate me. Then I said, “Now watch,” as I reached for the door handle.

Mercy had her front feet on the ledge at the base of the door, ready to come in (she hated out – would have been happier litterbox trained). In order to guarantee that the little froggy startled sufficiently to earn the highest cute points, I jerked the door a little harder as I opened it.

Well.

Apparently it was too hard. Little froggy startled himself right off the door… And right on to Mercy’s back.

Double well.

Mercy flew in the door in a panic and started a mad-dog run in huge circles, causing the frog to lose his balance yet again. Hubs became conscious of activity in time to see the frog in mid-leap and yelled, “There’s a frog in the house!” at which point HE leaped after the frog which jumped again and they both went up-and-down bouncing through the room. My daughter had made it the ten feet from the door to the couch without touching the floor and was hugging her knees and rocking. I think she was whimpering.

A few moments later, Hubs had Frog and deposited the poor thing back outside, and he stood, hands on knees and puffing. Mercy was puffing in the middle of the floor, her eyes wild, tongue lolling out. Daughter was still rocking and puffing on the couch. I’m sure the poor little frog was puffing in the grass outside as he high-tailed it out of crazyland.  I, on the other hand, was standing calmly in the same position, my hand still on the door handle.

“See?” I said in the now-silent room. “Wasn’t that cute?”

It’s probably best to just end the story there.

Wasn’t that cute?

A Chip off the Naughty Ol’ Block (repost)

November bring cooler weather, holiday preparations, and novel writing. While I’m hammering away at the keyboard writing the next Great American Novel, Caleb has kindly agreed to repost two of my favorite blog posts from the archives. This is one of them. Enjoy!

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One night a few years ago, as the eldest grand and I were crawling through slow traffic toward the roller skating park, I began to belt a little ditty I learned from my grandmother. Sung to the tune of “Humoresque” —

Passengers will please refrain

From flushing toilets on the train

While standing in the station I love you

We believe in constipation 

While the train is in the station

Roses always make me think of you

[Note: I googled the first line and found out Grandma wasn’t quite as clever as I thought. I assumed she’d made up this song. Turns out, Oscar Brand beat her to it. Similar to the effect of the old game “Telephone,” the lyrics have been changed from his original, so apologies to the songster.]

The grand: “Um…what is that?”

Me: “A classic song.”

Grand: “Where did you get that?”

Me (proudly): “My grandmother.”

Grand: “Sounds like you.”

This pronouncement pleased me much more than it probably should have. Buoyed by the fact that the grand was still looking at me and, thanks to highway traffic and the inability of my audience to escape, I went on to sing a few more Grandma Tunes. Then, the memories cascading through my heart and mind, I began to tell stories about her.

This pronouncement pleased me much more than it probably should have.

Grandma had it rough. Rough. As a girl, she was unloved and abused by her mother. But she was a tough cookie and went on to live 85 years and raise four sons (one who preceded her in death) who practically worshiped the ground she walked on.

As I talked and Grandkid turned slightly in the seat to watch me more closely, I remembered one of my favorite stories about Grandma. When my grandfather died, Grandma was 75 and had never driven. Even at that age, she took lessons, bought a little car, and got herself where she needed to go. One day (this was in the late 60s), she saw a woman she knew walking down the sidewalk. It was raining, so Grandma pulled over and called her to the car.

The woman seemed a tad reluctant, but got in and they chatted as Grandma headed toward the neighborhood the woman indicated. As they approached, Grandma asked for directions to her house. The woman told her to just let her out on the next corner. Grandma protested – it was still raining, but the woman was insistent that it was close enough and wouldn’t give any more information. She climbed out on the corner, expressed her gratitude and good wishes, and went on, as did Grandma.

Later, it hit her. I remember her face clouding with anger as she shared with me years later. The woman, her friend, was black. These two women were from a different time. Suddenly Grandma realized the woman hadn’t wanted my white Grandma’s reputation sullied by being seen driving a black woman to her home. She was so angry at herself for not realizing at the time what was happening that even as she told me, she was still fired up about it.

I remember her face clouding with anger as she shared with me years later.

“If I’d realized,” she growled to me, “I’d’ve driven straight up her driveway, walked her arm-in-arm right up to her door, and kissed her smack on the lips when I said goodbye.”

Grandkid’s face had been reflecting the same shock at this type of racism that I’d felt the first time I heard the story. Then, at the finishing line, exploded in laughter just as I had lo these many years ago. I had never been more proud of this feisty little Irishwoman I was honored to call Grandma. She was the kind of person I hoped to be one day.

Grandkid turned in the seat, still smiling while looking out the windshield, the red of the taillights in front of us reflected on his face and in his eyes. “She sounds just like you.”

Well.

Those five words burrowed into my heart and blossomed there. I thought about the little heart beside me, how it now held another treasured story to be retold another day to yet another generation. About two feisty Irish grandmothers.

Ho-Ho-Hum?

I’m pretty sure I’ve never had a chestnut, much less one roasted on an open fire. And yet, growing up, my family was very big on tradition.

We did the holidays the same every year. I knew what food would be on the Thanksgiving table and practically where it would sit on the table. At Christmas time, we decorated our tree the same way, put the household decorations up in the same places, and followed the gift-opening traditions to the letter.

I carried on holiday traditions with my children, and now that they are grown with families of their own, new traditions have been established. Thanksgiving is the huge turkey meal with the immediate in-house family. Then the next day a Gulf Coast shrimp boil dinner with the extended and all the grands. Sometime before Christmas we pile into vehicles and go to the mall for an annual grandbaby group picture for me and then a Build-a-Bear spree for each of them, even the teen. A Christmas Eve gumbo dinner with the extendeds and another big spread on Christmas day for the home crew round out the holiday meal traditions.

And decorations! Oh the decorations! Some of them date back three generations. We all have our favorites. Ask my kids about who will inherit “The Monks,” then stand back and watch the fur fly.

But last year, with all the Covid Crap as we’ve come to call it, everything was changed. The stress level was sky-high and the weird-o-meter was off the charts. My in-house family came to me meekly and asked my matriarchal permission to skip the decorating all together. I quelled the temptation to immediately question their sanity and refuse. Instead, I agreed to give it a polite think.

And here’s what I thinked: This year more than any don’t we need that kind of tradition? But we’re all grown ups at our house. And there would be no multiple trips to the storage unit to pull out all those boxes and the huge bag holding the artificial tree. No going through and deciding which to use and which to not then finding someplace to stack the boxes. Then there would be no taking it all down, repacking it in the boxes, and making the return trips to the storage unit. Just thinking about that in the light of everything else that year caused my stress and blood pressure levels to rise. The thought of NOT doing it brought peace to my troubled heart.

Sold. No decorations last year.

And you know what? Just like we learned from the Grinch, Christmas still came. This year when they came to me and suggested we do the same thing, they added: “Last year, we felt none of the stress. We just celebrated Jesus.”

Just like we learned from the Grinch, Christmas still came.

Well.

Storage unit it going to be lonely.

We have no new grandbabies photo from last year, but the Build-a-Bear experience still happened. They were piled on their couch at their house, an iPad up and projecting FaceTime and a computer open to the BaB website. We were piled on our couch at our house with the same. Each baby went shopping through the site and when decisions were made, I put it in the cart on my computer. There was much laughter and much noise and no other people at the mall getting in our way. The big box came to my house and the plushies were delivered during our front porch drive-by Christmas celebration.

It was delightful.

This year is more of the same. We have unvaccinated littles – one with a big risk factor – and grandparents out in the contaminated world and unable to quarantine, so the chances of any 2021 holiday get-togethers are pretty slim. Plus I now have my nightly visits with Dad to help him stay safe and get to sleep. That doesn’t change just because it’s Turkey Day or Christmas. So even the in-house family won’t be able to be together at the same time since we’re currently in two houses and the schedule is, in a word, impossible.

So my daughter asked the oldest grand what he wanted for Thanksgiving dinner. We’re getting pretty comfortable with turning traditions on their ear, so did he want something different this year? I was expecting pizza or hamburgers or maybe lasagna, but the answer rocked me. And blessed me. “I want to do the whole usual meal because I get to make it with Nana and that’s my favorite part.”

Well again.

This Thanksgiving I will be making (with the greatest – and cutest – sous chef in the world) a full Thanksgiving dinner which I will eat in installments with various family members. Instead of getting together for a shrimp boil, we will FaceTime with the extended family the next day and perhaps do our BaB shopping. Between then and Christmas, I will not be making trips to the storage unit, but will be on-line shopping for carefully curated gifts for my beloved family and focusing on, as the well-used phrase says, the reason for the season.

And when the holiday season slips off behind us, we will look back on 2021 and see, much as we did in 2020, a time of family, love, and Jesus in a more stress-free environment.

Sounds perfect to me.

Sounds perfect to me.

The Big Race

As previously blogged and readily admitted, I am not now, nor have I ever been, an athletic type. I was, however, in one great race. And – spoiler alert! – I won.

It was fall of my kindergarten year so I was all of five years old. Don’t judge – it really was a great race.

I walked to and from school that year. We lived four blocks away, the path a straight shot. My older brother was too cool to walk with the little kid, so, although the sidewalk was full of students, I bopped along on my own, the sun behind me, the day before me. Yes sir, the world was my oyster.

One morning I happened to look behind me, no doubt checking the foot traffic. With the sun bright from that direction, all the moving bodies were shadows of varying sizes. That’s when I noticed the taller one, and he was running. Obviously a high schooler late for practice or something.

My five-year-old brain said, “We can beat him to the corner. Even walking.”

The race was on.

Gripping my metal lunch box (I wish I knew what the character on that box was. Heck, I wish I still had the box!), I picked up my pace a bit. I looked back and could see the tall, running shadow kid, weaving around the walking shadow kids on the sidewalk. I moved a little faster. Two blocks to go and he was gaining on me.

The race was on.

I renewed my commitment to beat him to the final corner and doubled down on my effort. I leaned into it, pushing without running. I kept glancing behind me, watching my nemesis bobbing and weaving and decreasing the distance between us. I looked forward, no doubt a frown of determination on my face.

My inner coach also kicked into gear: “You can do this, kid! You’re still in the lead! The checkered flag is right there, within reach! Push, kid, push!”

I pushed.

The last block I experienced my first (okay – my first and only) speedwalk. I made it to the crossing guard who was ushering us across the street.

My little (and fast-beating) heart thrilled. I’d done it! My first race and I won. Poo on you, high school kid! The winner and champion – ME! Ha!

I walked into the school and stopped outside my classroom door to put my lunchbox in my cubby and get whatever I needed for the day. The outside door opened and I looked up to find – to my surprise – my Dad. He was gasping and panting, stopping beside me, bent over a bit to catch his breath.

“You…forgot…this…,” he said, and held up the apple I had planned to bring to my teacher. “I thought…I could catch you before…you got here.”

Oh.

It didn’t take long for my little brain to put together what had happened. I thanked him and accepted the apple. Dad turned and started the much more leisurely walk back to home.

Through the years, that memory has frequently run through my brain. Besides just being stinkin funny, did I learn anything from it? Well sure! First, it’s good to challenge yourself. Second, I can do what I set my mind to. Third, I’m great at inner pep talks. Fourth, victory is sweet.

…victory is sweet.

But I also learned that, although challenge is good, it helps to know who your adversary is. It may have an impact that changes everything.

I know Dad wished I’d learned that last one a bit sooner.