The wrinkled, time-dimmed eyes looked towards the back of the church where the baby cried.
Slowly they searched until they found the source of the sound. Unconcerned of social protocol, he stared.
The cry...was that his son? His firstborn son, crying, as the doctor handed him over to his wife who lay under the patchwork quilt in their bedroom?
No. Wait..that was not right. He had held his wife's hand six months earlier as she slipped away. The son was sixty-something years old and largely forgot that he even had a dad tucked away in a nursing home.
Past the blur of age, he remembered the sharp focus his eyes once attained. Once, years ago, he could've seen the color of the downy hair on the little head cradled against it's mother's breast. Now he could vaguely make out the shape of the head. But one day soon his eyes would be sharp again.
The young daddy beside the mom looked uncomfortable. He probably didn't want people staring back their way, thought the loud cries were disturbing everyone. He himself had felt that same way. Sometimes his kids had embarrassed him. Sometimes, during the return from Vietnam in their uniforms, they had made him so proud. Sometimes they had hurt him, deeply.
Hurting. His neck was hurting from being turned to look towards the young couple. Hateful arthritis! Most days it held him, creaking around slowly in his room, a prisoner in his own body. Once, though, he had ran through corn fields, skipped between the fallen logs in the woods behind his home. One day soon he would do that again.
But for now he would cheat old age. With painful effort, he pushed off of the pew, balancing as he walked with a wrinkled, blue-veined hand on the wall. It seemed a million miles, one shuffling step at a time. He would be there long before service actually started.
With each step, the focus became clearer. The young husband had sandy blond hair. So did his tiny son. The young wife looked at him with gentle eyes as he approached. Lilly? Is that you honey? I thought you were in Heaven. The baby stopped crying, whatever hurt nursed away by the cuddling of his mother. His own knees seemed stronger, more agile. Warm arms supported him as he walked along.
He was there. The young couple looked up. The new father looked like him...so much like him. Surely, the caring mom was his wife, Lilly.
Trembling hand met strong calloused grip. "God bless you son."
And as their hands met, he knew it wouldn't be long...one day soon...
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Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanksgiving Memories
Child abuse. Had to be. What kind of mom runs her children outside to play while that turkey scents the whole house? Yeast rolls rise on the counter and our stomachs growl. Mom in her yellow robe, sneaks us a biscuit and sends us on our way. In our home, no breakfast was a rule on Thanksgiving. By the time 12 rolled around, we could hardly stand it. But oh, it was so worth it!
And so outside we would go, to play, or fuss, or carry in wood for the wood stove. I might stand on Joe's toes and push him backwards. We might take off to the woods where a spring trickled, looking for crawdads. We might head to the barn to play in the loft or jump out the upper doors. Dad might even join us outside to play kickball or money bat. Finally, it was time to pack up all the food, load us kids in the station wagon, and head to mamaw's house.
The memories are so sweet and so close in my mind, like yesterday I played with my brothers. Today when I see Joe, I won't stand on his toes. I will stand back and admire the man he became, one who loves the Lord. I will hug Stacy and laugh as he cuts one of his endless jokes. I will wait anxiously to see what kind of magical dish Nathaniel has prepared for turkey day this year. I will look over at my mom, busily stirring or spooning or talking with her tribe. She won't have the yellow robe on today, but she will have that same loving smile that made my childhood happy. I will look around the room at all of the new additions. My heart will remember with a smile those who have went on ahead of me. We will all squeeze in close to Skype with our soldier who is on the west coast.
Like the Pilgrims on the first Thanksgiving, I will look around the room filled with love and consider myself a very blessed American.
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And so outside we would go, to play, or fuss, or carry in wood for the wood stove. I might stand on Joe's toes and push him backwards. We might take off to the woods where a spring trickled, looking for crawdads. We might head to the barn to play in the loft or jump out the upper doors. Dad might even join us outside to play kickball or money bat. Finally, it was time to pack up all the food, load us kids in the station wagon, and head to mamaw's house.
The memories are so sweet and so close in my mind, like yesterday I played with my brothers. Today when I see Joe, I won't stand on his toes. I will stand back and admire the man he became, one who loves the Lord. I will hug Stacy and laugh as he cuts one of his endless jokes. I will wait anxiously to see what kind of magical dish Nathaniel has prepared for turkey day this year. I will look over at my mom, busily stirring or spooning or talking with her tribe. She won't have the yellow robe on today, but she will have that same loving smile that made my childhood happy. I will look around the room at all of the new additions. My heart will remember with a smile those who have went on ahead of me. We will all squeeze in close to Skype with our soldier who is on the west coast.
Like the Pilgrims on the first Thanksgiving, I will look around the room filled with love and consider myself a very blessed American.
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Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Pie crusts progression.
The sweetness of ginger and nutmeg are wafting through the air. Homemade pie crusts on the pumpkin pies this year. The potato salad recipe has been improved by adding bacon. (Hey, anything is better with bacon, right?) Over the years, the cook has progressed from oodles of noodles to homemade crusts. Pretty impressive, but it wasn't always so.
Thanksgiving cooking always brings on the ghosts of cooking failures past. Like the first meal I ever made for Frank.
Me: "Frank, I have meatloaf and peas ready for supper. You hungry?"
Frank: "Ummm...no. Not yet."
An hour later.
Me: "Are you getting hungry yet?"
Frank: (Sheepishly) "Sharon, I absolutely HATE meatloaf. And peas. I'm so sorry. I was trying to be nice, but there is no way I can eat that."
(And we still married!)
I've already told you of nearly burning down the house with the Oodles of Noodles. Can't forget the cherry fold-over thingy that I made one year for our pastor. He loved them and I was so proud of the way it turned out- golden and flaky. I carried it, head held high, into the fellowship hall. When he cut into it, the dough (yes, dough, not crust!) stretched like melted cheese. I was mortified!
And my all time favorite (true story here): The year I was out on my own for the first time. I had a brand new coffee maker. My thinking was, 'hey, if it will heat liquid, it should be fine to heat up chicken noodle soup, right?' (Back in the days before microwaves, by the way.) When I came back into the kitchen, soup was running down the top of the coffee maker, where the noodles had blocked the hole, and onto my counter, dripping into the floor. In my defense, the soup was hot.
Many times, more than I can count, I would call mom. "Mom, what is that meat called that you use with the carrots and potatoes?"
"Beef roast?"
"Yes! Where do I find it?"
"In the meat section, Sharon."
Then there were the years when I reasoned, like the M&M's commercial, that if a recipe called for 250 degrees for 1 hour then I could cook it in half the time by cooking on 500. I was the burn queen for a long time.
Now, I watch as the younger women try their hand at cooking, Rebekah surprising us all with the strides she has made. Amber, Lord only knows how, is already an amazing cook. Sarah can make mashed potatoes. They are progressing nicely.
When you sit to eat tomorrow, be thankful for women who have tried and failed, but kept on trying so that you could enjoy your meal :)
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Thanksgiving cooking always brings on the ghosts of cooking failures past. Like the first meal I ever made for Frank.
Me: "Frank, I have meatloaf and peas ready for supper. You hungry?"
Frank: "Ummm...no. Not yet."
An hour later.
Me: "Are you getting hungry yet?"
Frank: (Sheepishly) "Sharon, I absolutely HATE meatloaf. And peas. I'm so sorry. I was trying to be nice, but there is no way I can eat that."
(And we still married!)
I've already told you of nearly burning down the house with the Oodles of Noodles. Can't forget the cherry fold-over thingy that I made one year for our pastor. He loved them and I was so proud of the way it turned out- golden and flaky. I carried it, head held high, into the fellowship hall. When he cut into it, the dough (yes, dough, not crust!) stretched like melted cheese. I was mortified!
And my all time favorite (true story here): The year I was out on my own for the first time. I had a brand new coffee maker. My thinking was, 'hey, if it will heat liquid, it should be fine to heat up chicken noodle soup, right?' (Back in the days before microwaves, by the way.) When I came back into the kitchen, soup was running down the top of the coffee maker, where the noodles had blocked the hole, and onto my counter, dripping into the floor. In my defense, the soup was hot.
Many times, more than I can count, I would call mom. "Mom, what is that meat called that you use with the carrots and potatoes?"
"Beef roast?"
"Yes! Where do I find it?"
"In the meat section, Sharon."
Then there were the years when I reasoned, like the M&M's commercial, that if a recipe called for 250 degrees for 1 hour then I could cook it in half the time by cooking on 500. I was the burn queen for a long time.
Now, I watch as the younger women try their hand at cooking, Rebekah surprising us all with the strides she has made. Amber, Lord only knows how, is already an amazing cook. Sarah can make mashed potatoes. They are progressing nicely.
When you sit to eat tomorrow, be thankful for women who have tried and failed, but kept on trying so that you could enjoy your meal :)
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Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Spicy 1986
Are you kidding me?
I showed Amber the date stamp on the bottom of the metal spice can: 02 Jan 86.
The Oregano in the back of my cabinet was 25 years old. 25!
"Mom, have you carried that thing through all the moves?"
No, Amber. I would've barely been 18 when I started toting that thing around. This spice had come to me from Granny's kitchen when she passed; along with her flour sifter. Pretty sure it was expired when I received it.
Wow. 1986.
That year I remember walking down a dusty driveway, 19-month-old Shane toddling beside me. Coty flipped and kicked in my belly. I remember it was summer, it was African hot, and sweat dripped off of me.
In 1986 I remember falling asleep on the sofa while a pot of oodles of noodles boiled on the stove. I woke to smoke filling our trailer. The pot had burned completely through and was literally sitting on the eye without a bottom. It's a wonder I did not die. I'm sure that in 1986 I wasn't using any spices, except maybe salt and pepper.
1986. I have a picture of Shane sitting on the sofa beside a teddy bear that is bigger than he is. In 1986 ALF was my favorite TV show.
I looked at the can again. Just like the memories, it had served its purpose but long since outlived its usefulness. With a last smile, I tossed 1986 in the trash and moved on, continuing to clean out, clear out and make room for other things in my cabinets...and in my life :)
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I showed Amber the date stamp on the bottom of the metal spice can: 02 Jan 86.
The Oregano in the back of my cabinet was 25 years old. 25!
"Mom, have you carried that thing through all the moves?"
No, Amber. I would've barely been 18 when I started toting that thing around. This spice had come to me from Granny's kitchen when she passed; along with her flour sifter. Pretty sure it was expired when I received it.
Wow. 1986.
That year I remember walking down a dusty driveway, 19-month-old Shane toddling beside me. Coty flipped and kicked in my belly. I remember it was summer, it was African hot, and sweat dripped off of me.
In 1986 I remember falling asleep on the sofa while a pot of oodles of noodles boiled on the stove. I woke to smoke filling our trailer. The pot had burned completely through and was literally sitting on the eye without a bottom. It's a wonder I did not die. I'm sure that in 1986 I wasn't using any spices, except maybe salt and pepper.
1986. I have a picture of Shane sitting on the sofa beside a teddy bear that is bigger than he is. In 1986 ALF was my favorite TV show.
I looked at the can again. Just like the memories, it had served its purpose but long since outlived its usefulness. With a last smile, I tossed 1986 in the trash and moved on, continuing to clean out, clear out and make room for other things in my cabinets...and in my life :)
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Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Christ with coffee in hand.
The peach-skinned sky met with a cup of coffee and a cold metal bistro set to greet me this morning. Still early enough that light only tinged the eastern sky and darkness wrapped the corners, I couldn't hear any roosters yet. A cow, oblivious to time, lowed from the pasture, probably desperate for a milking.
In the early pre-dawn, birds were still asleep. So were my neighbors. No car engines. No children talking on their way to the bus stop, no ramblings in the house. Aside from the cow, the only sound was my dog licking his paw.
If ever there is a more blessed time of day, for me it would be the still, chilly early morning, when light starts winning the battle with darkness. These are my times of prayer. Quiet. Still. Just me and Christ. These are the times when, without thought, people come to heart; my aunt Shefy who will have surgery this week, Joshua out on the west coast in the Army, Zach up in Canada waiting for an important phone call.
These are the times when wind blowing over the trees and sunrise peeking over the pasture mimic past beautiful sunrises at the beach with my loved ones, especially Amber and Mom. Coffee in hand, we would walk through wet, night-chilled sand, watching a sky come to life. The memories are vivid in my mind's cinema.
In these times it appears to the outsider that I am doing nothing more than sitting, drinking coffee. I am really raging war. I am pushing Satan away from my loved ones. I am pleading for souls precious to me. I am granting grace and healing sick. I am holding the hands of the feeble.
When you see me sitting, coffee in hand- look a little closer. You may just see nail prints in my hands. You may just see scars on my forehead. If you look really close...you may just see Christ setting here, coffee in hand.
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In the early pre-dawn, birds were still asleep. So were my neighbors. No car engines. No children talking on their way to the bus stop, no ramblings in the house. Aside from the cow, the only sound was my dog licking his paw.
If ever there is a more blessed time of day, for me it would be the still, chilly early morning, when light starts winning the battle with darkness. These are my times of prayer. Quiet. Still. Just me and Christ. These are the times when, without thought, people come to heart; my aunt Shefy who will have surgery this week, Joshua out on the west coast in the Army, Zach up in Canada waiting for an important phone call.
These are the times when wind blowing over the trees and sunrise peeking over the pasture mimic past beautiful sunrises at the beach with my loved ones, especially Amber and Mom. Coffee in hand, we would walk through wet, night-chilled sand, watching a sky come to life. The memories are vivid in my mind's cinema.
In these times it appears to the outsider that I am doing nothing more than sitting, drinking coffee. I am really raging war. I am pushing Satan away from my loved ones. I am pleading for souls precious to me. I am granting grace and healing sick. I am holding the hands of the feeble.
When you see me sitting, coffee in hand- look a little closer. You may just see nail prints in my hands. You may just see scars on my forehead. If you look really close...you may just see Christ setting here, coffee in hand.
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Monday, November 14, 2011
Depression flies in with the leaves
As Fall gives way to the blustery days
and leaves in a whirlwind blow
My moods change as fast as the Autumn trees
chilling winds will soon bring the snow.
Looking out at the grass crunchy beneath my feet
I long for the shores, sand, ripples in water
sun beaming down on the beach.
Another summer is dying around me
No planting of pansys or bare feet will help
And I feel my spirit within crying
Coats and mittens my sword now, against the winter to weld.
-Sharon Raines
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and leaves in a whirlwind blow
My moods change as fast as the Autumn trees
chilling winds will soon bring the snow.
Looking out at the grass crunchy beneath my feet
I long for the shores, sand, ripples in water
sun beaming down on the beach.
Another summer is dying around me
No planting of pansys or bare feet will help
And I feel my spirit within crying
Coats and mittens my sword now, against the winter to weld.
-Sharon Raines
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Sunday, November 13, 2011
Change
It's like eating sushi for the first time. You go into it open-minded. Your daughter loves it. Your mother loves it. Surely, it can't be that bad. So, with chopsticks full of seaweed-wrapped goodness, you pop it in your mouth...only to gag so badly that tears stream down your face and the lady at the next table turns green watching as you spit it into your napkin.
Change.
It's inevitable, but I still kick and fight against it most of the time. Daylight savings time is a perfect example. I'm happily rolling along, enjoying long summer afternoons, taking walks at 9 o'clock, liking the good life. Will life be satisfied with that? Well, no! First thing I know, someone has set the clocks back and it's getting dark at 5 o'clock and by 6 I'm ready to go to bed, only to be awake at 3 in the morning. Combine that with a dreary, overcast day like today and it's a mixture for a great depression cocktail.
There are some changes I like, though. I like it when the scales change to the lesser side. I like it when the Word advances further than what we previously were able to see. I like seeing my husband get a little gut after years of being fit.
Time change is definitely on my list of don't likes. I don't like shoes that pinch my toes. I don't like weak coffee or coffee with no creamer. I don't like false people. I don't like cold dreary days and long, boring evenings stuck in the house.
Maybe I can embrace the change, though. Maybe I can gather up some kindling and newspaper and make a fire in my fire pit this evening and watch the sparks fly upward in a winter sky. Maybe I can look at the clouds overhead and hope for snow, which I love to watch as it coats the dead grass and hides the evidence of a summer past. Maybe I could throw my scarf around my neck and take a dark walk, looking at stars that are so much brighter on cold nights. Perhaps I can take the long winter evenings to read more of the Word. That definitely drives the depression away.
And maybe, just maybe, I will make it through all of this until a change for the better comes along about springtime.
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Change.
It's inevitable, but I still kick and fight against it most of the time. Daylight savings time is a perfect example. I'm happily rolling along, enjoying long summer afternoons, taking walks at 9 o'clock, liking the good life. Will life be satisfied with that? Well, no! First thing I know, someone has set the clocks back and it's getting dark at 5 o'clock and by 6 I'm ready to go to bed, only to be awake at 3 in the morning. Combine that with a dreary, overcast day like today and it's a mixture for a great depression cocktail.
There are some changes I like, though. I like it when the scales change to the lesser side. I like it when the Word advances further than what we previously were able to see. I like seeing my husband get a little gut after years of being fit.
Time change is definitely on my list of don't likes. I don't like shoes that pinch my toes. I don't like weak coffee or coffee with no creamer. I don't like false people. I don't like cold dreary days and long, boring evenings stuck in the house.
Maybe I can embrace the change, though. Maybe I can gather up some kindling and newspaper and make a fire in my fire pit this evening and watch the sparks fly upward in a winter sky. Maybe I can look at the clouds overhead and hope for snow, which I love to watch as it coats the dead grass and hides the evidence of a summer past. Maybe I could throw my scarf around my neck and take a dark walk, looking at stars that are so much brighter on cold nights. Perhaps I can take the long winter evenings to read more of the Word. That definitely drives the depression away.
And maybe, just maybe, I will make it through all of this until a change for the better comes along about springtime.
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Thursday, November 3, 2011
Nothing like a husband to keep you humble.
The gist of the letter read: "We are finalizing the details, notifying winners and arranging the top stories for publication in Monday Escapes. Since you emailed me I will tell you, your story was chosen as one of our top stories and we would like to publish it--however, it didn't win."
When the words "your story was chosen" popped out, the heart started racing. I won? I'm a winner? Me? When the words, "you didn't win" slapped me, the old heart stopped racing and slunk back into place. Then it started jumping again.
I did win. Sure, maybe it wasn't a prize or money, but this was an international contest. I was up against writers from all over the world, and my story made it into the top stories. That is an accomplishment. It would be published. That is an accomplishment! I was so excited I could barely contain it.
Who could I call? Who could I tell? Well, at 2:30 in the morning--nobody. Rats!
I didn't sleep at all for the excitement. As soon as my daughter stumbled to the bathroom I grabbed her, showing her the letter from the editor. "That's great, mom", she mumbled as she staggered back to bed.
Finally, the light in our bedroom came on. 30 minutes later, Frank swaggered through to his favorite chair.
"Guess what, honey? I entered a writing contest, you remember?, for a chance to win travel certificates. Well, I didn't win, but my story was one of the top stories! They are going to publish it on their website in the 'Monday Escapes'! And...It was an INTERNATIONAL contest. I was up against writers from all over the world!" I bobbed up and down as I told him this.
He scratched his belly, sat down, and took a long drink of Cheerwine. "So, you aren't getting paid for your story? They probably didn't give out any prizes, just told everyone they made the 'top stories' and they would publish them, for free."
Psssszzzzt! You could hear the air squeezing out of my balloon.
Never mind the honor of being published. Never mind that it was an international contest. Never mind that thousands would read my work online. Heck! It could've been Pulitzer Prize material. But...without pay, what was it?
It was free writing.
The first thing you learn as a writer, while dreaming of fame and recognition, is to have thick skin. Editors are sometimes brutal. Learn from your critics but don't let them crush you. Writing is subjective. You will be rejected.
Doesn't stop you from dreaming of contracts and loads of money and book signings on tropical islands. Doesn't make you long for the day when someone will say, "Hey, aren't you that author? Oh, I love your work!" It would be easy, in that position, to get the big-head, to start thinking, Man! I'm really somebody!
But that is why God gave me Frank. To keep me humble. To keep things in perspective.
To say: "So, it's free work?"
To keep me striving for the day when I can say, 'Keep your Pulitzer, just give the check to my husband.'
When the words "your story was chosen" popped out, the heart started racing. I won? I'm a winner? Me? When the words, "you didn't win" slapped me, the old heart stopped racing and slunk back into place. Then it started jumping again.
I did win. Sure, maybe it wasn't a prize or money, but this was an international contest. I was up against writers from all over the world, and my story made it into the top stories. That is an accomplishment. It would be published. That is an accomplishment! I was so excited I could barely contain it.
Who could I call? Who could I tell? Well, at 2:30 in the morning--nobody. Rats!
I didn't sleep at all for the excitement. As soon as my daughter stumbled to the bathroom I grabbed her, showing her the letter from the editor. "That's great, mom", she mumbled as she staggered back to bed.
Finally, the light in our bedroom came on. 30 minutes later, Frank swaggered through to his favorite chair.
"Guess what, honey? I entered a writing contest, you remember?, for a chance to win travel certificates. Well, I didn't win, but my story was one of the top stories! They are going to publish it on their website in the 'Monday Escapes'! And...It was an INTERNATIONAL contest. I was up against writers from all over the world!" I bobbed up and down as I told him this.
He scratched his belly, sat down, and took a long drink of Cheerwine. "So, you aren't getting paid for your story? They probably didn't give out any prizes, just told everyone they made the 'top stories' and they would publish them, for free."
Psssszzzzt! You could hear the air squeezing out of my balloon.
Never mind the honor of being published. Never mind that it was an international contest. Never mind that thousands would read my work online. Heck! It could've been Pulitzer Prize material. But...without pay, what was it?
It was free writing.
The first thing you learn as a writer, while dreaming of fame and recognition, is to have thick skin. Editors are sometimes brutal. Learn from your critics but don't let them crush you. Writing is subjective. You will be rejected.
Doesn't stop you from dreaming of contracts and loads of money and book signings on tropical islands. Doesn't make you long for the day when someone will say, "Hey, aren't you that author? Oh, I love your work!" It would be easy, in that position, to get the big-head, to start thinking, Man! I'm really somebody!
But that is why God gave me Frank. To keep me humble. To keep things in perspective.
To say: "So, it's free work?"
To keep me striving for the day when I can say, 'Keep your Pulitzer, just give the check to my husband.'
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Heels to Hell with Carolynn.
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A good moan escaped as I lay sprawled across our bed, lobster red from a really hot bath. The moaning, the bath, and the Naproxen all failed to relieve the screaming muscles.
"Why? Why did you do this to us?" my 40-something body asked me accusingly. "We didn't do anything to you."
It was true. My muscles and joints had been on their best behavior, lounging in the chair, occasionally helping me to the bathroom or the kitchen. They hardly ever complained, although the knee went woppy a couple of times, pretending like it would toss me down in our yard on the way to the mailbox.
So why now, after years of easy living, had I decided to torture my body with exercise? How long had it been, exactly, since I last exercised? Well, let's see...it was in a very difficult period of marriage. Yeah, that was it. About 7 years ago. I had let myself run down and I needed to spruce up mentally and physically. So, I had dropped 30 pounds, exercised, and toned up. The marriage got much better, (not due to the weight loss), I got happy, started eating and gained back all of the weight. *Sigh*
Before that, my exercise kick was triggered by the big 3-0 looming in the horizon. Before that, well...I don't really remember.
This time though, there was no trigger. No emotional need to lose weight. No bombs going on in my life.
This time, it was an entirely different animal. I found an exercise program that I absolutely loved! Zumba. One class of jumping and kicking and sweating and swaying and I was hooked. I found myself looking forward to the class, to seeing all of my zumba buddies. Together we laughed as we stumbled and fumbled along, toning up and losing weight and--having fun!
Alas--my muscles didn't take the Zumba nearly so well. Each class found them protesting, sweating and trembling, hating me and my instructor. My heels ached from worn out shoes. My knees throbbed from lunges and side twists and jumps. But the kicker--the real reason for laying on the bed incapacitated would be 'Heels to Heaven' as our instructor, Carolynn calls it. (Shelley and I figure it was actually 'Heels to Hell' but we aren't going to argue with Carolynn the Cruel, as she is known after an ab workout.)
To do this move, you must lay on your back... on a towel... on the floor. (Did I mention the floor is a long way down when you have creaky knees? I'm certain one of these days the knees will stage a protest and just collapse and I will fall face first onto my towel on the hard gym floor. Please, Shelley, just leave me laying there, okay?)
After getting down on all fours and, slowly, a peice at time, making my way to a supine position, I look up at the ceiling. Hopefully Shelley will be able to get off of her mat and help me back up after this is over.
"Okay ladies, 'heels to heaven'." We lift our legs, the object being to pick up your rear-end and lift it off the ground with your abs, hence the 'heels to heaven'. My abs have been on vacation since childbirth. With great grunting and struggling, I manage to get going. "Shelley, can you look and see if my bottom is actually coming off the ground or not?" Shelley grunts in return, murmuring "Jamiaca, Jamaica" as sweat rolls down her face. Her goal is a skinny body by cruise time. Mine is to get my 50-pound rear end off the ground with my flimsy, uncooperative ab muscles.
Finally, we hear the "You did great, ladies!"
Yay! It's over. I wobble to my car, wiping sweat, high-fiving other sweaty, mentally broke down ladies, who, like me, think this is fun.
Tonight will find all of us, pleased as punch with ourselves as we lay sprawled and helpless on our bed or couch, unable to move, and looking forward to the next Zumba class with Carolynn the Cruel.
A good moan escaped as I lay sprawled across our bed, lobster red from a really hot bath. The moaning, the bath, and the Naproxen all failed to relieve the screaming muscles.
"Why? Why did you do this to us?" my 40-something body asked me accusingly. "We didn't do anything to you."
It was true. My muscles and joints had been on their best behavior, lounging in the chair, occasionally helping me to the bathroom or the kitchen. They hardly ever complained, although the knee went woppy a couple of times, pretending like it would toss me down in our yard on the way to the mailbox.
So why now, after years of easy living, had I decided to torture my body with exercise? How long had it been, exactly, since I last exercised? Well, let's see...it was in a very difficult period of marriage. Yeah, that was it. About 7 years ago. I had let myself run down and I needed to spruce up mentally and physically. So, I had dropped 30 pounds, exercised, and toned up. The marriage got much better, (not due to the weight loss), I got happy, started eating and gained back all of the weight. *Sigh*
Before that, my exercise kick was triggered by the big 3-0 looming in the horizon. Before that, well...I don't really remember.
This time though, there was no trigger. No emotional need to lose weight. No bombs going on in my life.
This time, it was an entirely different animal. I found an exercise program that I absolutely loved! Zumba. One class of jumping and kicking and sweating and swaying and I was hooked. I found myself looking forward to the class, to seeing all of my zumba buddies. Together we laughed as we stumbled and fumbled along, toning up and losing weight and--having fun!
Alas--my muscles didn't take the Zumba nearly so well. Each class found them protesting, sweating and trembling, hating me and my instructor. My heels ached from worn out shoes. My knees throbbed from lunges and side twists and jumps. But the kicker--the real reason for laying on the bed incapacitated would be 'Heels to Heaven' as our instructor, Carolynn calls it. (Shelley and I figure it was actually 'Heels to Hell' but we aren't going to argue with Carolynn the Cruel, as she is known after an ab workout.)
To do this move, you must lay on your back... on a towel... on the floor. (Did I mention the floor is a long way down when you have creaky knees? I'm certain one of these days the knees will stage a protest and just collapse and I will fall face first onto my towel on the hard gym floor. Please, Shelley, just leave me laying there, okay?)
After getting down on all fours and, slowly, a peice at time, making my way to a supine position, I look up at the ceiling. Hopefully Shelley will be able to get off of her mat and help me back up after this is over.
"Okay ladies, 'heels to heaven'." We lift our legs, the object being to pick up your rear-end and lift it off the ground with your abs, hence the 'heels to heaven'. My abs have been on vacation since childbirth. With great grunting and struggling, I manage to get going. "Shelley, can you look and see if my bottom is actually coming off the ground or not?" Shelley grunts in return, murmuring "Jamiaca, Jamaica" as sweat rolls down her face. Her goal is a skinny body by cruise time. Mine is to get my 50-pound rear end off the ground with my flimsy, uncooperative ab muscles.
Finally, we hear the "You did great, ladies!"
Yay! It's over. I wobble to my car, wiping sweat, high-fiving other sweaty, mentally broke down ladies, who, like me, think this is fun.
Tonight will find all of us, pleased as punch with ourselves as we lay sprawled and helpless on our bed or couch, unable to move, and looking forward to the next Zumba class with Carolynn the Cruel.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
A jellyfish in the bushes.
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The misty morning hours often hold gifts for the coming day. This morning, however, held a little something extra special. Floating between two Leland Cypress, barely noticeable if not for the dew outlines, was a translucent jellyfish spiderweb. It quivered with the little breeze, flowing, then deflating, then puffing up again.
How amazing that God would make not one, but two beautiful, delicate, creations--each mimicking the other. See-through. Fragile. Floating, one on air, one in water, and hardly noticed except if you walk into it.
Walking into either, though, results a much different outlook at the delicate creature/creation. A spiderweb will cause immediate swatting and slapping, chills and heebeegeebies. Stepping on or swimming into a jellyfish will cause struggling, high-stepping, yelling, and scraping of credit cards along the now stinging area. Both may cause a need for medication, depending on the injuries directly resulted from stings or perceived spiders running loose in your shirt collar.
Yes. A gift. One to be admired from the safety of my porch as I sip my coffee and watch the sunrise glint off the outer edges of the nearly hidden web.
The misty morning hours often hold gifts for the coming day. This morning, however, held a little something extra special. Floating between two Leland Cypress, barely noticeable if not for the dew outlines, was a translucent jellyfish spiderweb. It quivered with the little breeze, flowing, then deflating, then puffing up again.
How amazing that God would make not one, but two beautiful, delicate, creations--each mimicking the other. See-through. Fragile. Floating, one on air, one in water, and hardly noticed except if you walk into it.
Walking into either, though, results a much different outlook at the delicate creature/creation. A spiderweb will cause immediate swatting and slapping, chills and heebeegeebies. Stepping on or swimming into a jellyfish will cause struggling, high-stepping, yelling, and scraping of credit cards along the now stinging area. Both may cause a need for medication, depending on the injuries directly resulted from stings or perceived spiders running loose in your shirt collar.
Yes. A gift. One to be admired from the safety of my porch as I sip my coffee and watch the sunrise glint off the outer edges of the nearly hidden web.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Psychopathic/Schizophrenic grits loving woman.
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The first bowl of buttery cheese grits of the year. Yep. Fall is fast approaching. Time for comfort foods and good books. It don't get much more 'comfortable' than cheese grits on a chilly night. I love the little lumps that don't get stirred out completely--like finding little prizes tucked into the mix.
Weird? Well, maybe. I did get a comment on my last post that I could be borderline psychopathic/schizophrenic. Ha! Ya think? You've met my family, right?
I will admit to some weird quirks. Especially food quirks, where I am definitely a texture-eater instead of a taste-eater. Like the lumps in grits. Or burnt toast. Burned black bologna--I can't eat it just 'warmed'. If I have fried bologna, it better be crispy and have lots of mustard. Coffee beans, well, we've discussed that before. It is no secret that I like to eat coffee beans. I can't eat anything with skin or fat on it...*shudder*. I will gag immediately. I love tiny corns in my salad and blue cheese dressing. When I eat 'cardboard pizza' I drowned it in ketchup. I love boiled okra and tomatoes.
Other psychopathic tendencies besides the boiled okra? Hmmm...well, I sleep two hours when I go to bed, and then my eyes pop open all by themselves and I have to get up, wait about an hour, and then I can fall back to sleep. I can't sleep when the moon is full. I can't stand being sticky and a sucker in my hair is the equivalent of falling into mommy hell.
I like to go barefooted and as soon as I enter my pew at church, I kick my shoes off (like Moses did). The freer my feet, the happier I am. I dream in sand and ocean colors. I like to bargain hunt online and I have been known to challenge cashiers over a quarter coupon.
I try to be peaceful. Really. I will avoid conversations that I know lead to controversy, but if you back me in a corner, I will tell you exactly what I think. I like to be out on my porch at night or in the wee hours of the morning, when all the world is quiet. I love hearing the first bird of the morning sing to the Lord. I get nostalgic hearing a rooster crow at sunrise. I have the heart of an artsy-craftsy person, but the outcome is never...well...like I pictured it.
With certain people, I don't care what my house looks like, I welcome them on in. But let me find out my Aunt Dee is on the way and I go into a cleaning frenzy. I prefer a worn out Marine's tee-shirt over any other shirt in my closet. I prefer my own solitude to lots of company. I prefer my cat over ANY of my dogs. I like to think my petunia and my algae eater love and appreciate me. I befriended a writing spider at the first of spring (although she didn't return the sentiments).
So, quirks? Sure I have them. Everyone does. Even those who won't admit them. Psychopathic/schizophrenic? Only if I don't have coffee, a little solitude, and a comfy shirt.
The first bowl of buttery cheese grits of the year. Yep. Fall is fast approaching. Time for comfort foods and good books. It don't get much more 'comfortable' than cheese grits on a chilly night. I love the little lumps that don't get stirred out completely--like finding little prizes tucked into the mix.
Weird? Well, maybe. I did get a comment on my last post that I could be borderline psychopathic/schizophrenic. Ha! Ya think? You've met my family, right?
I will admit to some weird quirks. Especially food quirks, where I am definitely a texture-eater instead of a taste-eater. Like the lumps in grits. Or burnt toast. Burned black bologna--I can't eat it just 'warmed'. If I have fried bologna, it better be crispy and have lots of mustard. Coffee beans, well, we've discussed that before. It is no secret that I like to eat coffee beans. I can't eat anything with skin or fat on it...*shudder*. I will gag immediately. I love tiny corns in my salad and blue cheese dressing. When I eat 'cardboard pizza' I drowned it in ketchup. I love boiled okra and tomatoes.
Other psychopathic tendencies besides the boiled okra? Hmmm...well, I sleep two hours when I go to bed, and then my eyes pop open all by themselves and I have to get up, wait about an hour, and then I can fall back to sleep. I can't sleep when the moon is full. I can't stand being sticky and a sucker in my hair is the equivalent of falling into mommy hell.
I like to go barefooted and as soon as I enter my pew at church, I kick my shoes off (like Moses did). The freer my feet, the happier I am. I dream in sand and ocean colors. I like to bargain hunt online and I have been known to challenge cashiers over a quarter coupon.
I try to be peaceful. Really. I will avoid conversations that I know lead to controversy, but if you back me in a corner, I will tell you exactly what I think. I like to be out on my porch at night or in the wee hours of the morning, when all the world is quiet. I love hearing the first bird of the morning sing to the Lord. I get nostalgic hearing a rooster crow at sunrise. I have the heart of an artsy-craftsy person, but the outcome is never...well...like I pictured it.
With certain people, I don't care what my house looks like, I welcome them on in. But let me find out my Aunt Dee is on the way and I go into a cleaning frenzy. I prefer a worn out Marine's tee-shirt over any other shirt in my closet. I prefer my own solitude to lots of company. I prefer my cat over ANY of my dogs. I like to think my petunia and my algae eater love and appreciate me. I befriended a writing spider at the first of spring (although she didn't return the sentiments).
So, quirks? Sure I have them. Everyone does. Even those who won't admit them. Psychopathic/schizophrenic? Only if I don't have coffee, a little solitude, and a comfy shirt.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Cricket detonators in my coffee.
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Maybe the late night/early morning sleep routine was cause for deep reflection. Surely, the news, saturated and sopping with terrorist alerts and warnings didn't help. Being an overactive thinker just added a cherry on top of this peculiar mental sundae.
In the pre-dawn hours, of literal time and of 9/11, a mind will run with irrational thoughts. Thoughts like: Is that really a cricket chirping in my bathroom or is it the mechanical chirping of some kind of detonator getting ready to blow my house to Kingdom Come? Did the panther I saw last week snoop around my house in the murky darkness? Could it get into the house by coming under my bathtub?
The last thought to stagger through my over-achieving mental faculties before I gave up and got up? Was that truck really lost yesterday as it sat at the top of our cul-de-sac or was it waiting for other terrorist so that it could blow our little town off the map? And was that thought so irrational?
It was a large truck, but not an 18-wheeler. It was an old refrigerated truck. I remember this because my husband and I sat on our porch when it turned in. "Did Chuck get a new truck?" Then, "No. That's not a new truck." And Chuck wouldn't be caught driving something like that. He had a nice, new truck. And he was out on a run. So who was this? What were they waiting for?
Still, none of this was given much thought until the wee hours of morning when my mind suddenly leaped to life, connecting the dots. Hmmm...terrorist warnings by vehicles. Strange, old refrigerated truck setting at the top of a drive, waiting. White driver, foreign-looking passenger (did he look middle-eastern?).
I had to leave while the truck still sat there. Zumba called. As my friend and I pulled out, it appeared the passenger was motioning us to stop. We pulled up beside them. "Hey, whatcha need?" I figured they were wanting directions to something. He looked at me funny, then replied "Oh, nothing." He was waving us around, not stopping us. We went on and I never thought of it again...until the inky black hours before sunrise.
Should I call the sheriff and tell them I have a cricket/detonator chirping in my bathroom and that an ancient refrigerated truck that stopped at our driveway yesterday was working the detonating device? Perhaps that panther was also part of the plot, trained to come in under bathtubs, sneak around the house and plant teeny-tiny web cams so that terrorist can watch our news cast on my TV and one-up all the American intelligence.
Should I text a close friend who is a cop, tell him my suspicions and have him call a sheriff to come out here? After all, those guys running the panther and cricket are surely setting out there in that truck, adjusting the refrigeration unit so they can pick up scanner calls from people huddled in their beds calling cops, right?
Hmmm...If my thoughts are indicative of 'American intelligence', we are a country in big trouble! I'm going back to bed. After some sleep, a good cup of coffee, and sunrise, I have a feeling I will see things much differently.
Maybe the late night/early morning sleep routine was cause for deep reflection. Surely, the news, saturated and sopping with terrorist alerts and warnings didn't help. Being an overactive thinker just added a cherry on top of this peculiar mental sundae.
In the pre-dawn hours, of literal time and of 9/11, a mind will run with irrational thoughts. Thoughts like: Is that really a cricket chirping in my bathroom or is it the mechanical chirping of some kind of detonator getting ready to blow my house to Kingdom Come? Did the panther I saw last week snoop around my house in the murky darkness? Could it get into the house by coming under my bathtub?
The last thought to stagger through my over-achieving mental faculties before I gave up and got up? Was that truck really lost yesterday as it sat at the top of our cul-de-sac or was it waiting for other terrorist so that it could blow our little town off the map? And was that thought so irrational?
It was a large truck, but not an 18-wheeler. It was an old refrigerated truck. I remember this because my husband and I sat on our porch when it turned in. "Did Chuck get a new truck?" Then, "No. That's not a new truck." And Chuck wouldn't be caught driving something like that. He had a nice, new truck. And he was out on a run. So who was this? What were they waiting for?
Still, none of this was given much thought until the wee hours of morning when my mind suddenly leaped to life, connecting the dots. Hmmm...terrorist warnings by vehicles. Strange, old refrigerated truck setting at the top of a drive, waiting. White driver, foreign-looking passenger (did he look middle-eastern?).
I had to leave while the truck still sat there. Zumba called. As my friend and I pulled out, it appeared the passenger was motioning us to stop. We pulled up beside them. "Hey, whatcha need?" I figured they were wanting directions to something. He looked at me funny, then replied "Oh, nothing." He was waving us around, not stopping us. We went on and I never thought of it again...until the inky black hours before sunrise.
Should I call the sheriff and tell them I have a cricket/detonator chirping in my bathroom and that an ancient refrigerated truck that stopped at our driveway yesterday was working the detonating device? Perhaps that panther was also part of the plot, trained to come in under bathtubs, sneak around the house and plant teeny-tiny web cams so that terrorist can watch our news cast on my TV and one-up all the American intelligence.
Should I text a close friend who is a cop, tell him my suspicions and have him call a sheriff to come out here? After all, those guys running the panther and cricket are surely setting out there in that truck, adjusting the refrigeration unit so they can pick up scanner calls from people huddled in their beds calling cops, right?
Hmmm...If my thoughts are indicative of 'American intelligence', we are a country in big trouble! I'm going back to bed. After some sleep, a good cup of coffee, and sunrise, I have a feeling I will see things much differently.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Silent Thunderous Memories
I remember hearing the classic 'train whistle', running with the kids downstairs, and sitting in an open fireplace as the tornado cut a path beside the house. That was Hugo.
I was homeschooling my two children at the kitchen table when the phone rang. "We've just been attacked. Turn on the news." It was my sister-in-law calling and the day was Sept. 11.
I was on the second floor of the hospital eleven days ago when the midwife said "that's a little butt, not a head, that I'm feeling". The baby was breech and my daughter was headed to an emergency C-section.
When the train whistle stopped and the eye was over us, we peeked outside. Everything was black dark, but we could see that the oak in the yard had been picked like a daisy and plunged into the pool. It would be almost eight more hours until we would look on the total destruction. We would feel very blessed to be alive for a long time.
I stepped out onto my porch after the call from my sister-in-law, looking up to the sky, watching for...what? Rogue planes? Even weeks later we would still look over our shoulders, watching the skies, watching the mail for suspicious powdery anthrax, ...always watching. And we would feel very blessed to still be alive as our country mourned and quaked with fear.
I stepped helplessly aside as they wheeled the gurney out, my daughter clad in a hair net, her husband in scrubs. I would wait by that nursery window, watching for a glimpse of my grandchild, but my heart was in the OR with my baby girl. Was she scared? Would she get to kiss her precious baby before they took him from her? When my son-in-law finally wheeled the cradle past us and I got the first glimpse of my grandchild, I experienced euphoria. When I finally saw my precious daughter holding her son and smiling so big...well, I knew I was so blessed that she and the baby were still alive.
Today, silent thunder shook our house from one end to the other. Tremors? In NC? This is the south, not California. Yet, the news reports confirmed it was, indeed, an earthquake tremor. While it shook, we couldn't wrap our heads around what was happening since this is the south and stuff like that don't happen here.
But it did. Over and over it does. What we expect and what happens are hardly ever as planned. I will remember this day, like all the others. And we will feel blessed to still be alive.
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I was homeschooling my two children at the kitchen table when the phone rang. "We've just been attacked. Turn on the news." It was my sister-in-law calling and the day was Sept. 11.
I was on the second floor of the hospital eleven days ago when the midwife said "that's a little butt, not a head, that I'm feeling". The baby was breech and my daughter was headed to an emergency C-section.
When the train whistle stopped and the eye was over us, we peeked outside. Everything was black dark, but we could see that the oak in the yard had been picked like a daisy and plunged into the pool. It would be almost eight more hours until we would look on the total destruction. We would feel very blessed to be alive for a long time.
I stepped out onto my porch after the call from my sister-in-law, looking up to the sky, watching for...what? Rogue planes? Even weeks later we would still look over our shoulders, watching the skies, watching the mail for suspicious powdery anthrax, ...always watching. And we would feel very blessed to still be alive as our country mourned and quaked with fear.
I stepped helplessly aside as they wheeled the gurney out, my daughter clad in a hair net, her husband in scrubs. I would wait by that nursery window, watching for a glimpse of my grandchild, but my heart was in the OR with my baby girl. Was she scared? Would she get to kiss her precious baby before they took him from her? When my son-in-law finally wheeled the cradle past us and I got the first glimpse of my grandchild, I experienced euphoria. When I finally saw my precious daughter holding her son and smiling so big...well, I knew I was so blessed that she and the baby were still alive.
Today, silent thunder shook our house from one end to the other. Tremors? In NC? This is the south, not California. Yet, the news reports confirmed it was, indeed, an earthquake tremor. While it shook, we couldn't wrap our heads around what was happening since this is the south and stuff like that don't happen here.
But it did. Over and over it does. What we expect and what happens are hardly ever as planned. I will remember this day, like all the others. And we will feel blessed to still be alive.
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Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Huggies and Depends, bonding time.
(To the tune of 'Rawhide')
Sneezin, Sneezin, Sneezin,
Keep my legs a squeezin'
Gotta keep from pee-in'
I've tried!
In laughin and in crying
Depends I am a tryin'
Gotta be a dry spot on my hide
Sneezin', Sneezin' Sneezin
Gotta keep a squeezin'
Hope I'm not a pee-in
On this ride~!
Okay, the old, over-40 female brain kicked in long before the coffee this morning. This little diddy was rolling around in there (been watching to many Westerns) and the words were altered to, well, let's just say a really active bladder. The way some of us women dribble when we run, we should probably try out for Tarheel Basketball.
It's not just the dribbling, though. Does the bladder shrink with age? Apparently it does-to 3/4 the size of the glass of water I had before bed. The other 1/4 glass absolutely cannot, under any sleeping circumstances, be held until 7 a.m. It must be emptied at 4:15. Sorry- I don't make the rules.
And so, after flipping and tossing, trying to keep from squishing said bladder so I can get 14 more minutes of sleep, it never fails- Frank will toss the old leg over me. Ooh! Gotta go now! It's amazing how much air a fat woman can get while leaping out of bed on a mission.
It's also amazing how stupid a wiener dog (who was hiding under the bed) can be at that time of the morning. He sees this moment as his opportunity to greet me and weave between my feet. But nothing, not even a wiener-dog faux bearskin rug, will stop my appointment with the toilet.
I probably wouldn't step on him (well, purposely anyway) if I could see where I was going. Alas, it is one of Frank's set-in-stone constitutional rules: No lights in the bedroom at night. Nothing. Not even a night-light. If you think seeing a fat woman catch air as she leaps from bed is something, you outta see the 'fat-woman-running-in-the-dark-dance'! Leaping, climbing (over the laundry basket left in the path), kicking (your littlest toe on the door frame) and plunging (into the toilet where the seat was, once again, left up)- it's all in this newest dance that I discovered in my 40's.
But, don't feel sorry for all of us (and certainly don't laugh since you will be here too!). One day very soon, say 50-ish or so, I will get another good night's sleep. And thanks to Depends, my little grandson and I can spend 'quality time' together, shopping for our diapers.
Now, don't that just make you feel all better about old age?
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Sneezin, Sneezin, Sneezin,
Keep my legs a squeezin'
Gotta keep from pee-in'
I've tried!
In laughin and in crying
Depends I am a tryin'
Gotta be a dry spot on my hide
Sneezin', Sneezin' Sneezin
Gotta keep a squeezin'
Hope I'm not a pee-in
On this ride~!
Okay, the old, over-40 female brain kicked in long before the coffee this morning. This little diddy was rolling around in there (been watching to many Westerns) and the words were altered to, well, let's just say a really active bladder. The way some of us women dribble when we run, we should probably try out for Tarheel Basketball.
It's not just the dribbling, though. Does the bladder shrink with age? Apparently it does-to 3/4 the size of the glass of water I had before bed. The other 1/4 glass absolutely cannot, under any sleeping circumstances, be held until 7 a.m. It must be emptied at 4:15. Sorry- I don't make the rules.
And so, after flipping and tossing, trying to keep from squishing said bladder so I can get 14 more minutes of sleep, it never fails- Frank will toss the old leg over me. Ooh! Gotta go now! It's amazing how much air a fat woman can get while leaping out of bed on a mission.
It's also amazing how stupid a wiener dog (who was hiding under the bed) can be at that time of the morning. He sees this moment as his opportunity to greet me and weave between my feet. But nothing, not even a wiener-dog faux bearskin rug, will stop my appointment with the toilet.
I probably wouldn't step on him (well, purposely anyway) if I could see where I was going. Alas, it is one of Frank's set-in-stone constitutional rules: No lights in the bedroom at night. Nothing. Not even a night-light. If you think seeing a fat woman catch air as she leaps from bed is something, you outta see the 'fat-woman-running-in-the-dark-dance'! Leaping, climbing (over the laundry basket left in the path), kicking (your littlest toe on the door frame) and plunging (into the toilet where the seat was, once again, left up)- it's all in this newest dance that I discovered in my 40's.
But, don't feel sorry for all of us (and certainly don't laugh since you will be here too!). One day very soon, say 50-ish or so, I will get another good night's sleep. And thanks to Depends, my little grandson and I can spend 'quality time' together, shopping for our diapers.
Now, don't that just make you feel all better about old age?
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Monday, August 1, 2011
Oh, Canada!
Oh, Canada!
Well, at least the National Anthem is catchy. That's about the only tourist catcher in Ontario. Unless wide open fields of soybean and old red barns are your cup of unsweetened tea. Or maybe you enjoy photographing growing fields of carrots and yellow peppers in fertile black soil reclaimed from the bay.
The bay. A place of solitude with one dock, one fisherman and a dog who loved to swim. That was my favorite part of the trip. Small bream hovered just below the surface, hiding in the seawee--uh, lakeweed beds. Spiders had taken a chance against being washed away, making their webs around and in the rubber tires that lined the sides of the docks, (dangerously near my dangling legs I discovered too late!).
Tippy, the mixed mutt that followed along, jumped from the rocks, splashed in and paddled around, swimming and enjoying herself, much to the chagrin of the lone fisherman.
A cool breeze blew across the water and cooled the walk home past drainage ditches filled with cattails and frogs. And of course, Tippy helped out, shaking mucky, green slime water in all directions.
The vacation rental homes that lined the road jiggled out an unanswered question: Why would anyone want to vacation here? No shopping (unless you count the Looney Loonie). No eating joints besides Tim Hortons. No T-shirts, ashtrays or magnets.
Nothing but pure hospitality. A clean room with a vase of fresh flowers when I arrived. Apple muffins. Homemade lasagna and dinner around the table with new friends. A Filipino supper with the best spring rolls I have ever eaten.
Nothing but vast openness. Fields and barns and homemade maple syrup and candies. Fishing and swimming and solitude. Otters and Tippy playing in the bay waters.
The 12-hour trip home provoked mixed feelings. Seeing the United States just across the lake. A sign reading: Bridge to America. Old Glory flying proudly still just past the border guards. My throat tightened down and I fought not to cry.
Detroit brought feelings of great fear when we stopped in a very unwelcoming area to get gas. My daughter locked the doors and slid down in the seat, not making eye contact. People shouted and revved motors, glared at the only white boy walking in to pay for gas. I prayed.
Abandoned buildings bejeweled with graffiti and busted windows stared out from behind the highway barriers, much like an abused child peering out of a closet. No wonder the people were daunting and scary. Their world was daunting and scary and hopeless.
Ohio lit up the night sky for us with fireworks shows in the distance, a celebration for some unknown ball team, maybe?
West Virginia was all curvy roads and vast stretches of darkness as I watched for bears to dart out into the road.
Virginia was unnoticed as I slumbered.
North Carolina was unfettered joy. Three members of the canine greeting club welcomed from behind the fence. The Diva...aka, my cat... allowed me to pet her for exactly ten seconds before informing me of her empty bowl. My bag was forgotten on the floor as I plowed my bed, inhaled the smell of my husband on the pillow next to me and peaceful sleep took over an exhausted American returning from Canada.
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Well, at least the National Anthem is catchy. That's about the only tourist catcher in Ontario. Unless wide open fields of soybean and old red barns are your cup of unsweetened tea. Or maybe you enjoy photographing growing fields of carrots and yellow peppers in fertile black soil reclaimed from the bay.
The bay. A place of solitude with one dock, one fisherman and a dog who loved to swim. That was my favorite part of the trip. Small bream hovered just below the surface, hiding in the seawee--uh, lakeweed beds. Spiders had taken a chance against being washed away, making their webs around and in the rubber tires that lined the sides of the docks, (dangerously near my dangling legs I discovered too late!).
Tippy, the mixed mutt that followed along, jumped from the rocks, splashed in and paddled around, swimming and enjoying herself, much to the chagrin of the lone fisherman.
A cool breeze blew across the water and cooled the walk home past drainage ditches filled with cattails and frogs. And of course, Tippy helped out, shaking mucky, green slime water in all directions.
The vacation rental homes that lined the road jiggled out an unanswered question: Why would anyone want to vacation here? No shopping (unless you count the Looney Loonie). No eating joints besides Tim Hortons. No T-shirts, ashtrays or magnets.
Nothing but pure hospitality. A clean room with a vase of fresh flowers when I arrived. Apple muffins. Homemade lasagna and dinner around the table with new friends. A Filipino supper with the best spring rolls I have ever eaten.
Nothing but vast openness. Fields and barns and homemade maple syrup and candies. Fishing and swimming and solitude. Otters and Tippy playing in the bay waters.
The 12-hour trip home provoked mixed feelings. Seeing the United States just across the lake. A sign reading: Bridge to America. Old Glory flying proudly still just past the border guards. My throat tightened down and I fought not to cry.
Detroit brought feelings of great fear when we stopped in a very unwelcoming area to get gas. My daughter locked the doors and slid down in the seat, not making eye contact. People shouted and revved motors, glared at the only white boy walking in to pay for gas. I prayed.
Abandoned buildings bejeweled with graffiti and busted windows stared out from behind the highway barriers, much like an abused child peering out of a closet. No wonder the people were daunting and scary. Their world was daunting and scary and hopeless.
Ohio lit up the night sky for us with fireworks shows in the distance, a celebration for some unknown ball team, maybe?
West Virginia was all curvy roads and vast stretches of darkness as I watched for bears to dart out into the road.
Virginia was unnoticed as I slumbered.
North Carolina was unfettered joy. Three members of the canine greeting club welcomed from behind the fence. The Diva...aka, my cat... allowed me to pet her for exactly ten seconds before informing me of her empty bowl. My bag was forgotten on the floor as I plowed my bed, inhaled the smell of my husband on the pillow next to me and peaceful sleep took over an exhausted American returning from Canada.
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Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Marriage Cocoon
If there is anything more comforting than pulling a warm comforter around you and snuggling into your pillow after a hard day, what is it? Well, of course it's feeling that husband (or wife) sleeping beside you.
Marriage is a cocoon for two people who love each other. The vows are the webbing that are mutually spun around you as you enclose yourself totally with that person. With the world firmly placed on the outside, the transformation begins. Sure, the sounds from the outside world can still be heard. And it gets hot sometimes. Really hot.
But there is also safety in that cocoon. When a problem rises, two are there to confront it, work on it, and fix it. If an enemy would try to tear into that safe haven, there are two to repair the holes.
There is a total sharing, so much so that two bodies will morph into one. A sentence started by one will be finished by the other. Sorrows will be borne with twice the strength. Joys will be doubled. Thoughts, dreams, and accomplishments will be intimately shared with the one who actually holds your heart in their hands.
The cocoon is a safety net. A haven. A place of peace in a world of torments. It's a comforting arm around you when you have a nightmare. Someone to get you a glass of cold water and aspirins when you are sick. It is someone caring.
Changes will be less noticeable in here since they are going on simultaneously. While I am graying, he is gaining weight. While I gain greater confidence, he is cheering me on. There is no jealousy. Only a deep desire to see the other fulfill all their dreams and potentials.
And when the cocoon is finally split open, it will reveal that the two worms have became one butterfly with two beautiful strong wings. The wings will work together, flying toward heavenly places.
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Marriage is a cocoon for two people who love each other. The vows are the webbing that are mutually spun around you as you enclose yourself totally with that person. With the world firmly placed on the outside, the transformation begins. Sure, the sounds from the outside world can still be heard. And it gets hot sometimes. Really hot.
But there is also safety in that cocoon. When a problem rises, two are there to confront it, work on it, and fix it. If an enemy would try to tear into that safe haven, there are two to repair the holes.
There is a total sharing, so much so that two bodies will morph into one. A sentence started by one will be finished by the other. Sorrows will be borne with twice the strength. Joys will be doubled. Thoughts, dreams, and accomplishments will be intimately shared with the one who actually holds your heart in their hands.
The cocoon is a safety net. A haven. A place of peace in a world of torments. It's a comforting arm around you when you have a nightmare. Someone to get you a glass of cold water and aspirins when you are sick. It is someone caring.
Changes will be less noticeable in here since they are going on simultaneously. While I am graying, he is gaining weight. While I gain greater confidence, he is cheering me on. There is no jealousy. Only a deep desire to see the other fulfill all their dreams and potentials.
And when the cocoon is finally split open, it will reveal that the two worms have became one butterfly with two beautiful strong wings. The wings will work together, flying toward heavenly places.
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Friday, July 22, 2011
How can I lose?
100 degrees outside today. Humidity the equivalent of the equator. I'm outside walking the track, huffing along, and yes...still trying to lose weight.
When the phone rings I can barely answer because I am breathing so hard. My aunt Shefy thinks I'm having a heart attack. No Shefy, (huff, pant) don't worry.(Gasp!) I always breathe... like... this when I exercise. Worry if (wheeze) I quit breathing, okay?
Shefy goes on to inform me of (yet another) new diet. Apparently college girls (supposedly smart girls) are wrapping their bodies in black trash bags and then going to exercise in this heat. Are you kidding me? They lose 7 to 10 pounds per workout.
If I wrapped in a black trash bag to work out, it would only be a convenience measure. The EMS could just tuck me in the bag and zip it up after I died in the heat.
Sure, maybe they do lose the weight. But, it's all water weight. The minute I licked the sweat off my upper lip I'd be right back to the starting point.
The truth of the matter is there are no miracle workouts. The only miracle is that I live through the workout.
I have a support buddy. She is dieting and helping me stay encouraged. I have a sister who goes to the same track. She's the same age I am. She runs the track! That is motivating to me.
And most of all, I have so many women who understand how frustrating it is to try, over and over again, to lose weight. Women I can whine too.
And with that kind of support, how can I lose? Pun intended :)
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When the phone rings I can barely answer because I am breathing so hard. My aunt Shefy thinks I'm having a heart attack. No Shefy, (huff, pant) don't worry.(Gasp!) I always breathe... like... this when I exercise. Worry if (wheeze) I quit breathing, okay?
Shefy goes on to inform me of (yet another) new diet. Apparently college girls (supposedly smart girls) are wrapping their bodies in black trash bags and then going to exercise in this heat. Are you kidding me? They lose 7 to 10 pounds per workout.
If I wrapped in a black trash bag to work out, it would only be a convenience measure. The EMS could just tuck me in the bag and zip it up after I died in the heat.
Sure, maybe they do lose the weight. But, it's all water weight. The minute I licked the sweat off my upper lip I'd be right back to the starting point.
The truth of the matter is there are no miracle workouts. The only miracle is that I live through the workout.
I have a support buddy. She is dieting and helping me stay encouraged. I have a sister who goes to the same track. She's the same age I am. She runs the track! That is motivating to me.
And most of all, I have so many women who understand how frustrating it is to try, over and over again, to lose weight. Women I can whine too.
And with that kind of support, how can I lose? Pun intended :)
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Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The price of success
I have to wonder why some people seem to have things so easy. Personally, I have a few Facebook buddies who have been beautiful all of their lives. As far as I know, they never diet. They never count calories. They never exercise. They just naturally look great all the time.
Me--not so much. I count calories. I exercise. I diet and get discouraged every day of my life. I lose four pounds only to gain it right back. *Sigh*
There are others who are just successful naturally. J.K. Rowlings comes to mind. Just a regular Jane housewife. A regular Jane who happened to become an overnight sensation (and millionaire) with her FIRST book ever, Harry Potter.
I'm on my third book and let's just say I haven't become a millionaire yet.
What about Rachel Ray? Never went to cooking school. Just hit the big time with a huge smile and an ability to talk while she fries stuff.
Me...well, remember the fire on my stove that nearly took out my kitchen?
So what about the rest of us? I don't quit dieting because others are skinny. I haven't quit writing just because the dough isn't rolling in. And, I certainly can't quit cooking just because of one (thousand) kitchen accidents.
The rest of us common horde will just have to keep pressing on, counting calories, writing into the wee hours, cooking like we're Chef Gordon (goodness forbid!). But, when we finally reach success, I believe we will out-do the non-tryers with our enjoyment of our success.
Keep pressing guys! We're almost there!
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Me--not so much. I count calories. I exercise. I diet and get discouraged every day of my life. I lose four pounds only to gain it right back. *Sigh*
There are others who are just successful naturally. J.K. Rowlings comes to mind. Just a regular Jane housewife. A regular Jane who happened to become an overnight sensation (and millionaire) with her FIRST book ever, Harry Potter.
I'm on my third book and let's just say I haven't become a millionaire yet.
What about Rachel Ray? Never went to cooking school. Just hit the big time with a huge smile and an ability to talk while she fries stuff.
Me...well, remember the fire on my stove that nearly took out my kitchen?
So what about the rest of us? I don't quit dieting because others are skinny. I haven't quit writing just because the dough isn't rolling in. And, I certainly can't quit cooking just because of one (thousand) kitchen accidents.
The rest of us common horde will just have to keep pressing on, counting calories, writing into the wee hours, cooking like we're Chef Gordon (goodness forbid!). But, when we finally reach success, I believe we will out-do the non-tryers with our enjoyment of our success.
Keep pressing guys! We're almost there!
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Thursday, July 14, 2011
The 'Raise Your Hand' Diet
Diets, diets and more diets. Come on! When will we finally learn they don't work?
Finally there is a diet that will work, though. It is called, 'The Raise Your Hand' diet.
Now sister sufferers, raise your hand if you have ever done "The grapefruit diet'. (Makes my stomach burn just thinking about it).
Raise the other hand if you have ever participated in the Liquid diet. Makes you feel all warm and runny, doesn't it?
Okay, Ladies--both hands in the air if you have ever been wrapped in Saran Wrap from head to toe and left laying like a stick of melting butter on the counter.
Oh, wave those hands ladies if you ever did the Cabbage Diet! (burp, poot!)
Next, give those fingers a little action! Wiggle your digits if you have ever ate the AIDS chocolates (Before the AIDS disease came out).
Okay, lets do the wave y'all! Altogether now if you have ever done Fat Free.
Can I get a 'Haaay'? Haaay
When I say fat, you say 'Low Carb'! Fat! Low-Carb! Fat! Low-Carb!
Wave those hands if you've ever sang in a Weight Watchers meeting! Awh, you know you have now!
I want a chin wave if you've ever did the Diarrhea Diet (also known as the Laxative diet).
Okay, we're sweating it out now, ladies! Whoohoo! Keep moving!
Give me a shout out in the back if you have ever silently cursed Leslie Sansone, argued with Billy Blanks, or (anonymously admit to this one, okay?) sweated to the Oldies with Richard Simmons.
Let me hear you scream if you have ever counted calories, watched your fat intake and exercised daily!
*Chirp, chirp* (Crickets...Pin dropping in the back) * Stunned Looks*
Uh...well...That concludes our workout for today ladies. Don't forget to join in tomorrow for the 'Raise Your Hand' diet.
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Finally there is a diet that will work, though. It is called, 'The Raise Your Hand' diet.
Now sister sufferers, raise your hand if you have ever done "The grapefruit diet'. (Makes my stomach burn just thinking about it).
Raise the other hand if you have ever participated in the Liquid diet. Makes you feel all warm and runny, doesn't it?
Okay, Ladies--both hands in the air if you have ever been wrapped in Saran Wrap from head to toe and left laying like a stick of melting butter on the counter.
Oh, wave those hands ladies if you ever did the Cabbage Diet! (burp, poot!)
Next, give those fingers a little action! Wiggle your digits if you have ever ate the AIDS chocolates (Before the AIDS disease came out).
Okay, lets do the wave y'all! Altogether now if you have ever done Fat Free.
Can I get a 'Haaay'? Haaay
When I say fat, you say 'Low Carb'! Fat! Low-Carb! Fat! Low-Carb!
Wave those hands if you've ever sang in a Weight Watchers meeting! Awh, you know you have now!
I want a chin wave if you've ever did the Diarrhea Diet (also known as the Laxative diet).
Okay, we're sweating it out now, ladies! Whoohoo! Keep moving!
Give me a shout out in the back if you have ever silently cursed Leslie Sansone, argued with Billy Blanks, or (anonymously admit to this one, okay?) sweated to the Oldies with Richard Simmons.
Let me hear you scream if you have ever counted calories, watched your fat intake and exercised daily!
*Chirp, chirp* (Crickets...Pin dropping in the back) * Stunned Looks*
Uh...well...That concludes our workout for today ladies. Don't forget to join in tomorrow for the 'Raise Your Hand' diet.
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Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Fat thighs, Hell-highs, and the diet wagon.
It's African hot outside. How is a person supposed to work out when it's Mojo hot? There are those who find pleasure in the workout, though. Masochist? Sadistic? What is that word for self-torture-ers?
Me? Not so much.
Along about Spring every year I give myself a stern talking to. Sharon, we have to shape up. Summer is coming. Do the math, girl! Fat thighs +high temps + friction= 'been in the saddle all week' walking. Not going to do it this year.
And so I exercise for at least a week. Hard!
But then disaster will strike. Call it water weight. Call it too much sodium intake or say I'm building muscle. Whatever you call it, the scales say "Your weight is up three pounds, Chubby."
3 pounds! How can it be up? I have been working out. I fell to my knees yesterday during the workout, begging God to just kill me. It would have been more merciful than working out with Billy. And now this!
So, I take it for what it is...a sign.
It's a sign from above that I shouldn't be working out. I should love myself in this jelly-fish gelatinous blob I call a body. A sign that if I keep pushing my fat to work that hard I will have an early death. And who knows? By working myself so hard to keep from having a heart attack, I might actually provoke one, right?
So I quit. (Safety first after all!)
Then, out of nowhere, the temperatures soar to Hell-highs. Pavement starts melting. I start sweating. And then...then...I have to walk! I have to walk to the mailbox every day. At least 50 steps and then a painful climb back up the hill to my porch. The old thighs greet one another with hugs of joy. They hold hands all the way home, rubbing and catching up.
The next day will find me walking all sprawl-legged and hunting the cornstarch, wishing fervently I had kept up the exercise routine that was going to kill me.
Solutions? Well, just so happens I have one.
I figure bouncing on and off of the diet wagon is as good an exercise as any--and it is one exercise that I am good at!
I will let you know how it works out.
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Me? Not so much.
Along about Spring every year I give myself a stern talking to. Sharon, we have to shape up. Summer is coming. Do the math, girl! Fat thighs +high temps + friction= 'been in the saddle all week' walking. Not going to do it this year.
And so I exercise for at least a week. Hard!
But then disaster will strike. Call it water weight. Call it too much sodium intake or say I'm building muscle. Whatever you call it, the scales say "Your weight is up three pounds, Chubby."
3 pounds! How can it be up? I have been working out. I fell to my knees yesterday during the workout, begging God to just kill me. It would have been more merciful than working out with Billy. And now this!
So, I take it for what it is...a sign.
It's a sign from above that I shouldn't be working out. I should love myself in this jelly-fish gelatinous blob I call a body. A sign that if I keep pushing my fat to work that hard I will have an early death. And who knows? By working myself so hard to keep from having a heart attack, I might actually provoke one, right?
So I quit. (Safety first after all!)
Then, out of nowhere, the temperatures soar to Hell-highs. Pavement starts melting. I start sweating. And then...then...I have to walk! I have to walk to the mailbox every day. At least 50 steps and then a painful climb back up the hill to my porch. The old thighs greet one another with hugs of joy. They hold hands all the way home, rubbing and catching up.
The next day will find me walking all sprawl-legged and hunting the cornstarch, wishing fervently I had kept up the exercise routine that was going to kill me.
Solutions? Well, just so happens I have one.
I figure bouncing on and off of the diet wagon is as good an exercise as any--and it is one exercise that I am good at!
I will let you know how it works out.
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