I warn you - this post might be considered irreverent by some people, especially if you are unfamiliar with me or my family; however, it's something that I think is rather funny in a weird kind of way so I'm going to share it.
First of all, I have to back up a few years to about 1999 (I think). We were living in Texas and my grandmother passed away. My mother was an only child and she and my grandmother did NOT get along. My grandmother had been taken care of by my brother and I for several years, but my brother took over when we moved to Austin. My mother did not have much involvement with Mommo (what we called my grandma) but when Mommo died, it was up to Mom to take care of the final arrangements because she was the direct next of kin.
My grandmother had always loved a good funeral. We called her a professional funeral-goer. She'd often go to funerals of people she had never met but were friends of friends. She just loved the socializing they offered. When my grandfather died, she made sure that the traditions were followed and she was in high cotton because at that funeral, she was the center of attention. She made the most of it, too. She could be a bit of a drama queen and a good Southern funeral was just the stage she needed.
Needless to say, my mother had little patience with all that. She considered it a waste of time and good money (Mom was cheap). Therefore, when my grandmother died, my mother didn't do the whole funeral thing but rather just had Mommo cremated (because it was cheaper), gave away her few possessions, and was done with it. When the remains (funeral professionals call them "cremains", I've discovered) were returned to Mom, she simply put the box in the trunk of her car. And that is where they stayed until last month. That's nine years, people. For nine years, my mother rode around with my grandmother in the trunk of her car.
Mom's original intention was to take the ashes to Alexander City, Alabama and have them buried next to my granddad but somehow she just never got around to making the trip. So Mommo rode around in the trunk of Mom's car for years. She even got transferred from one trunk to another when Mom bought a NEW car. It got to be a bit of a family joke, really. I always told Mom that if she was ever in an accident she would have a hard time explaining when the police asked her what was in the box - "Uh, well officer, that would be my mother".
In a way, it was rather appropriate (remember, I said you have to know my family) because my grandmother was a big traveler. She was always on the go and moved a LOT. Once she even moved from one side of a duplex to the other side - just because. We kind of figured she was having a good time sitting there next to the spare tire. I told Mom "what goes around, comes around" and that I had every intention of riding her around in the trunk when she died. Mom thought that was pretty funny.
Well, on January 5th Mom passed away. Her written directions were to be cremated. So now I was stuck with both Mommo in a box and Mom in a box. When we went to pick up Mom's "cremains" Scott carried the box out to the car for me. As we were nearing the Honda, he said, "Do you want me to put her in the backseat?" and I said "Nope. She goes in the trunk. I always told her I was going to ride her around like she did Mommo and I'm keeping my promise." And by golly I did - at least for a few hours. I brought her in the house at the end of the day and sat her box on top of Mommo's box on the floor under my desk with strict instructions to the two of them "No fighting, you two. I've had enough of your antics already."
A week after Mom died, we held a memorial service. Cremation is a relatively new thing for Southerners. We are accustomed to the traditional funeral process. You know - the visitation, the open casket, the service at the funeral home, the graveside service, and then the big dinner spread afterwards. People flood the family with casseroles and cakes. Everyone talks about how "good" the dead person looks, discusses the choice of flower blanket and casket, etc. It's a good gossip fest.
All Southern women can put on a funeral with little to no problem because we know the routine. Southern funerals are big occasions to see long-lost family, catch up with friends, eat big, and generally give the deceased a good send-off. When you have someone cremated, you can't really do that. What do you do? Put the box on the table at the front of the church? Remark how "good" it looks? The whole process is odd. I mean, really, I wrote a check for cremation services and they handed me my mother in a box in return. How weird is that?
I wasn't about to hang on to both Mom and Mommo for another nine years with both of them sitting under my desk. In my normal fashion, I was going to take care of disposal of "cremains" as soon as possible and move on. (How can people put their family members in an urn on the mantel? I just don't get it.) The day after the memorial service, my brother, my nephew, my son and I took both boxes and rode up into the Smoky Mountains where I knew of a good mountain stream that was easily accessible from the road. I figured this was as good a place as any to "bury" them both. Mommo could travel all the way to the Gulf of Mexico eventually and Mom had always enjoyed camping in the mountains in her younger days.
It was a very cold January day - clear, with temperatures in the teens. When we got to the spot, I was elected to do the honors. We decided we would start with Mommo first since she had been dead the longest. (We're making this up as we go along because we've never done anything like this before.) When I went to open the cardboard box she was in, I discovered to my dismay that Mom had taped her in. And I mean she had done a REALLY good job - she was being absolutely positive Mommo wasn't getting out. My goodness, she could have passed FedEx standards! I had to get my son's pocket knife to cut through the packing tape and once inside, I discovered she'd done the same to the plastic box on the inside! It took me fifteen minutes of hacking with a Swiss army knife to get in to the "cremains".
Okay, morbid curiosity abounds and I know you are wondering what it looked like. We did too. Basically, it looked like what you would expect it to look like - gray powder. I held the plastic bag out over the river and dumped it in. My son and nephew threw flowers in after. And the cloudy water just sat there. Without thinking about it, we had selected a spot where the current wasn't very strong so when dumped in, a big cloudy area resulted. Ahh, crap.
Learning as we went along on this, we decided it would be best to dump Mom a little further upstream and out a little further in the current. That meant me, the elected one, had to walk out on these slippery rocks over the sub-freezing temp water coming down from the mountains. I was saying a prayer - "please don't let me fall in" and then "please don't let me fall in after I dump Mom because that would just be too icky". Forget anything appropriate like the Lord's Prayer or the 23rd Psalm. I was concerned about myself at this point.
I made it to the appropriate place and opened the box. To our amazement, Mom didn't look like Mommo. Mom looked more like black volcanic sand. I commented "You don't think they gave us the wrong person do you?" but then I decided it was irrelevant at this point. I'm balancing my big ol' butt on a tiny, slippery rock over rushing freezing water and I was anxious to get this done and back to shore safely. We were going to dump SOMEONE even if it wasn't Mom.
I go through the same process and my son and nephew throw in flowers. I make it safely back to the bank and we stand there watching the stream. Now, this entire thing has been surreal from the start but here's where it gets really weird. As "Mom" and "Mommo" start mixing together in the stream, whirlpools start to form and the floating flowers actually start floating UPSTREAM. The three of us look at each other with eyes like saucers and we all exclaim at once "They're fighting again!"
Rapidly we backed up the bank out of the way and watch as the water seems to boil and churn and the flowers are going every which way but downstream. We are afraid we've created an EPA supersite or some sort of space/time wormhole by letting these two mix together.
We stood and watched for about 20 minutes, our noses turning blue and our breath freezing in the air until finally, finally, the flowers move on downstream and the waters smooth out. Not a word has been spoken. My son bends down and with a stick writes in the mud beside the stream "NO SWIMMING". I get the car keys out and say "Anyone up for Sonic? I could use some ice cream."
By the way, in case anyone needs to know, I've left written instructions for my burial. I want to be buried, in a casket, in jeans and a t-shirt, and I want chicken and dumplings served for dinner. And banana pudding. Just want to make that clear.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Plastic People Patrol on the Prowl
I suppose you've probably figured out by now that we are a bit of an odd family. It might have to do with having been military for so long and moving around so much that we have to make our own fun or at least come up with some innovative ways to entertain ourselves.
The Plastic People Patrol started several years ago when we lived in Texas. We were riding high on the dot-com bubble and were living in a fairly upscale neighborhood like all the other stock-option people in Austin. We had just finished hanging up our Christmas lights and were heading to the pool (Austin was 80 degrees at the time) when we walked past a house and were stopped in our tracks. The lawn (which was the size of a postage stamp in this zero-lot-line development) was absolutely FILLED with "internally illuminated" Christmas decorations - plastic people. How the communist-led neighborhood association had let this one get past their keen radar was beyond me! It was a sight to behold!
This family had the traditional nativity scene with Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus PLUS the wisemen, their camels, Santa and sleigh and all 9 reindeer (Rudolph included), Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, a full choir, an army of nutcracker soldiers, 3-foot-high candles, a snowman army, candy canes, and a Grinch. It was so red-neck, the ginormous modern house to which the lawn was attached was incongruent. It should have been a single-wide instead of a 5-bedroom, 3-car mortgage broker's dream. Even the Mercedes parked in the driveway now seemed out-of-place situated among the Plastic People population.
We counted up the number of Plastic People in that yard that year and came up with 34. The next year, the group had reproduced somehow (maybe Snow White and one of the dwarves?) and stood at 36. We started riding around the neighborhood and other developments in southwest Austin looking for another house that beat that record of 36 Plastic People. The Plastic People Patrol was born and a family tradition was launched.
That year in Texas, we decided the 36-count Plastic People home deserved a tribute for starting a family tradition so we printed up an award on Christmas paper, tucked a twenty-dollar bill in the envelope with it, and left it anonymously in the mailslot of the front door of that house. The Plastic People Patrol had awarded it's first annual recognition award!
Now, every year we go on Plastic People Patrol looking for the house in the county that has the most Plastic People included in their holiday exterior illumination display. Lighted things like Christmas trees, hanging icicles, and wire figures do not count. Plastic People have to be made out of plastic to qualify. With the advent of the blow-up holiday decorations, we've included them as qualifying Plastic People since they do contain some sort of petroleum-based or synthetic product in their covering and are illuminated internally. No matter the size, though, they only count once. A 14-foot inflatable carousel, while impressive, cannot count twice.
We've seen some interesting decorations in our yearly quest to find the winner of the Plastic People Award. The house that turned it's trampoline on it's side and put lights around the outside edge to make a 12-foot wreath was inventive. The house that just left up the Halloween decorations and added Christmas decorations to the mix was a bit schizophrenic. Some houses rival Clark Griswald's and you have to wonder what the electricity bill runs for the month of December.
It's been several years now that our Plastic People Patrol has been in operation. Families in two states and three counties have earned places in the Plastic People Award Hall of Fame and been awarded certificates placed in their mailboxes. Son has hit his teenage years so we are now making it a team effort among his group of friends. We'll be making our final enumeration tour one night soon. The boys will be piling into the Denali, hyped up on energy drinks while Mom (that's me), hyped up on Prozac to survive 5 teenage boys hyped up on energy drinks crammed into an SUV, drives them by all the houses they have noted as contenders. Head counts of Plastic People will be executed as a group and the contender with the highest population will win the coveted 2007 Plastic People Award and the cash award of $20 that accompanies it. A family tradition survives another year and perhaps will be passed on to future generations.
Are we weird or what?
The Plastic People Patrol started several years ago when we lived in Texas. We were riding high on the dot-com bubble and were living in a fairly upscale neighborhood like all the other stock-option people in Austin. We had just finished hanging up our Christmas lights and were heading to the pool (Austin was 80 degrees at the time) when we walked past a house and were stopped in our tracks. The lawn (which was the size of a postage stamp in this zero-lot-line development) was absolutely FILLED with "internally illuminated" Christmas decorations - plastic people. How the communist-led neighborhood association had let this one get past their keen radar was beyond me! It was a sight to behold!
This family had the traditional nativity scene with Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus PLUS the wisemen, their camels, Santa and sleigh and all 9 reindeer (Rudolph included), Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, a full choir, an army of nutcracker soldiers, 3-foot-high candles, a snowman army, candy canes, and a Grinch. It was so red-neck, the ginormous modern house to which the lawn was attached was incongruent. It should have been a single-wide instead of a 5-bedroom, 3-car mortgage broker's dream. Even the Mercedes parked in the driveway now seemed out-of-place situated among the Plastic People population.
We counted up the number of Plastic People in that yard that year and came up with 34. The next year, the group had reproduced somehow (maybe Snow White and one of the dwarves?) and stood at 36. We started riding around the neighborhood and other developments in southwest Austin looking for another house that beat that record of 36 Plastic People. The Plastic People Patrol was born and a family tradition was launched.
That year in Texas, we decided the 36-count Plastic People home deserved a tribute for starting a family tradition so we printed up an award on Christmas paper, tucked a twenty-dollar bill in the envelope with it, and left it anonymously in the mailslot of the front door of that house. The Plastic People Patrol had awarded it's first annual recognition award!
Now, every year we go on Plastic People Patrol looking for the house in the county that has the most Plastic People included in their holiday exterior illumination display. Lighted things like Christmas trees, hanging icicles, and wire figures do not count. Plastic People have to be made out of plastic to qualify. With the advent of the blow-up holiday decorations, we've included them as qualifying Plastic People since they do contain some sort of petroleum-based or synthetic product in their covering and are illuminated internally. No matter the size, though, they only count once. A 14-foot inflatable carousel, while impressive, cannot count twice.
We've seen some interesting decorations in our yearly quest to find the winner of the Plastic People Award. The house that turned it's trampoline on it's side and put lights around the outside edge to make a 12-foot wreath was inventive. The house that just left up the Halloween decorations and added Christmas decorations to the mix was a bit schizophrenic. Some houses rival Clark Griswald's and you have to wonder what the electricity bill runs for the month of December.
It's been several years now that our Plastic People Patrol has been in operation. Families in two states and three counties have earned places in the Plastic People Award Hall of Fame and been awarded certificates placed in their mailboxes. Son has hit his teenage years so we are now making it a team effort among his group of friends. We'll be making our final enumeration tour one night soon. The boys will be piling into the Denali, hyped up on energy drinks while Mom (that's me), hyped up on Prozac to survive 5 teenage boys hyped up on energy drinks crammed into an SUV, drives them by all the houses they have noted as contenders. Head counts of Plastic People will be executed as a group and the contender with the highest population will win the coveted 2007 Plastic People Award and the cash award of $20 that accompanies it. A family tradition survives another year and perhaps will be passed on to future generations.
Are we weird or what?
Monday, November 26, 2007
What Would the Holidays Be without Firearms?
Ahhh, Thanksgiving Day has passed and the stampede on Wal-mart has passed for the moment. It is time to sit back and enjoy the essence of a Southern Christmas. Living in the bastion for the Second Amendment, firearms and the holidays have always been woven together around here.
For example, the Saturday after Thanksgiving is opening day for duck season. It's a wonderful tradition to be awoken at the lovely hour of 3:00 am as husband and son try to "quietly" gather all their equipment for a day of duck hunting. "Dad, did you get the Beanie Weanies?" and "Where did you put my socks? I laid them right here!" whispered sotto voice are common in Southern households everywhere. Once the dynamic duo are out the door and sleep mercifully returns, the annual recreation of the Battle of Chickamauga launches out on the river with shotguns blasting away at unsuspecting waterfowl. Said unsuspecting waterfowl get wise after losing a few of their comrades and decide to fly to other places less dangerous (like the wildlife refuge a half-mile away), leaving the ghosts of the Confederate Army (now dressed in camo and bright orange) to pretend they see a duck and just shoot to be making noise. The windows of the house rattle and the dogs hide under the bed all day. Yes, it's Christmas-time!
Another good example arose around here this past weekend after football games were over and turkey eaten. As I'm struggling to get the Christmas tree up and the decorations out, dearest son decides he's going to rid the household of that pesky varmint the skunk, affectionately known by me and our dog Buster as The Devil Incarnate after our little dustup a few weeks ago. Son has a complex plan of action. First of all, reconnaissance is required to determine just where the creature is sheltered using the highly developed olfactory sense. In other words, dear son went around the yard sniffing. He narrowed it down to several potential locations, with the two prime spots being the ivy covering the wellhead and the culvert under the road at the bottom of the orchard.
The next step of the battle plan is armament. Son spends some time on expedition inside his closet and emerges with his camo, paintball helmet, 20-gauge shotgun and 12-gauge shotgun. Pockets bulging with shells, he declares he's ready but explosives are needed. What's a good skunk hunt without being able to blow something up, right?
Son pulls the last remnants of his Fourth of July firecrackers from the box under his bed and is heard mumbling "Man, I wish I had some M-80s..." as he rummages through the junk drawer looking for the lighter. The Plan (note the capitalization because now we have form to this endeavor) is to flush the skunk out with the firecrackers and then shoot him with one of the two shotguns as he goes running across the yard. Bottle rockets were considered but rejected because of their unpredictability and proximity to firearms. In other words, mom (being me) said "no".
As dad and I stand at the back door - inside of course - watching the last male member of the family line stomp around the back yard looking like a skinny Rambo, we decided there was the potential here for side-splitting humor. We started wagering on which gun he was going to drop first in his flight from the skunk and which tree he'd run into during his getaway. There was no doubt in our minds that the skunk was going to come out on top if his Tora Bora cave was exposed.
Alas, the depth charges did not serve to flush out Mr. Stinky and son had to return to the house defeated and dejected, having used up all his explosives. However, the shotguns are handy and ready at the backdoor just in case the opportunity arises for battle. You can never be too well-armed, you know. The Battle of the Backyard shall continue another day.
And finally, it just wouldn't be a Southern Christmas without all the flyers arriving in the mail from Cabela's and Bass Pro advertising the latest and greatest in deer rifles, scopes, and intruder-deterrent pistolry. With Sharpies and ads in hand, the males of the species retreat to the "reading rooms" to make out their Christmas lists by circling the weapons of their dreams while taking care of other business. Man, if only I had some M-80s....
For example, the Saturday after Thanksgiving is opening day for duck season. It's a wonderful tradition to be awoken at the lovely hour of 3:00 am as husband and son try to "quietly" gather all their equipment for a day of duck hunting. "Dad, did you get the Beanie Weanies?" and "Where did you put my socks? I laid them right here!" whispered sotto voice are common in Southern households everywhere. Once the dynamic duo are out the door and sleep mercifully returns, the annual recreation of the Battle of Chickamauga launches out on the river with shotguns blasting away at unsuspecting waterfowl. Said unsuspecting waterfowl get wise after losing a few of their comrades and decide to fly to other places less dangerous (like the wildlife refuge a half-mile away), leaving the ghosts of the Confederate Army (now dressed in camo and bright orange) to pretend they see a duck and just shoot to be making noise. The windows of the house rattle and the dogs hide under the bed all day. Yes, it's Christmas-time!
Another good example arose around here this past weekend after football games were over and turkey eaten. As I'm struggling to get the Christmas tree up and the decorations out, dearest son decides he's going to rid the household of that pesky varmint the skunk, affectionately known by me and our dog Buster as The Devil Incarnate after our little dustup a few weeks ago. Son has a complex plan of action. First of all, reconnaissance is required to determine just where the creature is sheltered using the highly developed olfactory sense. In other words, dear son went around the yard sniffing. He narrowed it down to several potential locations, with the two prime spots being the ivy covering the wellhead and the culvert under the road at the bottom of the orchard.
The next step of the battle plan is armament. Son spends some time on expedition inside his closet and emerges with his camo, paintball helmet, 20-gauge shotgun and 12-gauge shotgun. Pockets bulging with shells, he declares he's ready but explosives are needed. What's a good skunk hunt without being able to blow something up, right?
Son pulls the last remnants of his Fourth of July firecrackers from the box under his bed and is heard mumbling "Man, I wish I had some M-80s..." as he rummages through the junk drawer looking for the lighter. The Plan (note the capitalization because now we have form to this endeavor) is to flush the skunk out with the firecrackers and then shoot him with one of the two shotguns as he goes running across the yard. Bottle rockets were considered but rejected because of their unpredictability and proximity to firearms. In other words, mom (being me) said "no".
As dad and I stand at the back door - inside of course - watching the last male member of the family line stomp around the back yard looking like a skinny Rambo, we decided there was the potential here for side-splitting humor. We started wagering on which gun he was going to drop first in his flight from the skunk and which tree he'd run into during his getaway. There was no doubt in our minds that the skunk was going to come out on top if his Tora Bora cave was exposed.
Alas, the depth charges did not serve to flush out Mr. Stinky and son had to return to the house defeated and dejected, having used up all his explosives. However, the shotguns are handy and ready at the backdoor just in case the opportunity arises for battle. You can never be too well-armed, you know. The Battle of the Backyard shall continue another day.
And finally, it just wouldn't be a Southern Christmas without all the flyers arriving in the mail from Cabela's and Bass Pro advertising the latest and greatest in deer rifles, scopes, and intruder-deterrent pistolry. With Sharpies and ads in hand, the males of the species retreat to the "reading rooms" to make out their Christmas lists by circling the weapons of their dreams while taking care of other business. Man, if only I had some M-80s....
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Keeping It in Perspective
Last night after a very long day and few sales (I work on commission), I was lying in bed watching Fox News and thinking about the upcoming holidays. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I've already purchased all the groceries for a traditional meal. Everything is ready to go and I'll start today with the things that can and should be done ahead of time for a good Southern Thanksgiving dinner.
As these fairly random thoughts are running through my head, my subconscious is set on "worry" mode. Day before yesterday, I got word that my aunt had had a stroke. I got a call yesterday from my nephew concerning an issue that my brother is having with his landlord. I realized that my quarterlies are due next month. And I haven't started Christmas shopping. My house is a wreck and I have a mouse that so far only I have seen (my husband and son think I'm hallucinating and who knows - I might be!).
Problems, problems, problems. I started thinking "if only I had a lot of money, most of these problems could be solved". I could hire a housekeeper for my house, not to mention a mouse-hunter (or a psychiatrist if the mouse is truly a figment of my imagination). I could afford to move my brother and mother into nice assisted living facilities where they would both be well-cared-for. I could not worry about a budget on Christmas and how I'm going to afford everything. Taxes - well, if you listen to any liberal Democrat I wouldn't be paying taxes because I'm rich but the reality would be that I would be paying an accountant and financial advisor to find as many tax breaks as possible so I wouldn't be supporting Sierra Leone all on my own. As for my aunt, not much money can do on that except help with expenses if needed.
Being human, I decided I had come up with the perfect solution. Money would solve all my problems. In my mind I said, "God, I need to win the lottery or something. Think you can arrange that?" Then one of those rare moments occurred. I heard God talking back to me. No, not out loud but in my head, very clearly and very distinctly. He said, "Okay. But which blessing do you want to give up for it?" What? What did He mean give up a blessing? He had my attention.
He went on to say "Here are the major blessings which I've given you: a good job, a great house, plenty of food, a great husband and a terrific son, enough income to meet all your bills and then some, two vehicles that operate well and look decent, good health, and good friends and neighbors. I've surrounded you with animals of both the domestic and wild variety which calms your spirit. I've given you the opportunity to pursue hobbies you enjoy. I've brought you home from around the world and settled you in one of my favorite spots. You are warm, clothed, fed, and loved. I can arrange the lottery or the windfall but which of these blessings are you going to give up for it?"
There's nothing more humbling than when God shows you your own lack of faith. I was so embarrassed and it's not a good feeling to be ashamed before the Lord.
So this Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for all those blessings AND the problems because God's got it all under control. I just have to remember that and stop thinking that I have all the answers. Thank you God for letting me still have my brother and mother this side of heaven; I know my time with them is limited. Thank you for the income that is high enough that I have to pay quarterlies. Thank you for the mouse because, let's face it - he's cute as a button with those big ears. Thank you for the mess because it is in a wonderful house. But most of all God, thank you for Jesus, without whom we would have nothing for which to give thanks and certainly no Christmas to celebrate.
As these fairly random thoughts are running through my head, my subconscious is set on "worry" mode. Day before yesterday, I got word that my aunt had had a stroke. I got a call yesterday from my nephew concerning an issue that my brother is having with his landlord. I realized that my quarterlies are due next month. And I haven't started Christmas shopping. My house is a wreck and I have a mouse that so far only I have seen (my husband and son think I'm hallucinating and who knows - I might be!).
Problems, problems, problems. I started thinking "if only I had a lot of money, most of these problems could be solved". I could hire a housekeeper for my house, not to mention a mouse-hunter (or a psychiatrist if the mouse is truly a figment of my imagination). I could afford to move my brother and mother into nice assisted living facilities where they would both be well-cared-for. I could not worry about a budget on Christmas and how I'm going to afford everything. Taxes - well, if you listen to any liberal Democrat I wouldn't be paying taxes because I'm rich but the reality would be that I would be paying an accountant and financial advisor to find as many tax breaks as possible so I wouldn't be supporting Sierra Leone all on my own. As for my aunt, not much money can do on that except help with expenses if needed.
Being human, I decided I had come up with the perfect solution. Money would solve all my problems. In my mind I said, "God, I need to win the lottery or something. Think you can arrange that?" Then one of those rare moments occurred. I heard God talking back to me. No, not out loud but in my head, very clearly and very distinctly. He said, "Okay. But which blessing do you want to give up for it?" What? What did He mean give up a blessing? He had my attention.
He went on to say "Here are the major blessings which I've given you: a good job, a great house, plenty of food, a great husband and a terrific son, enough income to meet all your bills and then some, two vehicles that operate well and look decent, good health, and good friends and neighbors. I've surrounded you with animals of both the domestic and wild variety which calms your spirit. I've given you the opportunity to pursue hobbies you enjoy. I've brought you home from around the world and settled you in one of my favorite spots. You are warm, clothed, fed, and loved. I can arrange the lottery or the windfall but which of these blessings are you going to give up for it?"
There's nothing more humbling than when God shows you your own lack of faith. I was so embarrassed and it's not a good feeling to be ashamed before the Lord.
So this Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for all those blessings AND the problems because God's got it all under control. I just have to remember that and stop thinking that I have all the answers. Thank you God for letting me still have my brother and mother this side of heaven; I know my time with them is limited. Thank you for the income that is high enough that I have to pay quarterlies. Thank you for the mouse because, let's face it - he's cute as a button with those big ears. Thank you for the mess because it is in a wonderful house. But most of all God, thank you for Jesus, without whom we would have nothing for which to give thanks and certainly no Christmas to celebrate.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Red Letter Day
I love living in the country. While I was raised within the city limits of a small town, our environment was still fairly rural and my grandparents lived on a farm so I have always considered myself a country girl. I am beginning to suspect, however, that the years of city-living I've had over the past twenty years have softened me up too much.
Yesterday at the pre-dawn hour of 5:30, I took my dogs out for their morning potty break and sniff session. Our biggest one, Buster (who has the personality to match his name), took off after something in the dark. Buster is an 8-lb. Chihuahua who thinks he's a pit bull. There was a huge ruckus and I decided to go investigate thinking he'd maybe actually caught one of the wild cats that hangs around our bird feeders. Wrong. It was not a nice kitty. It must have looked kind of like a kitty to bird-brained Buster in the dark, but it was the devil in disguise. It was Pepe LePeue on steroids.
Oh heavens. I got close enough for my nose to tell me the story and I turned tail and beat it back to the house. The other two dogs (who have more than 3 brain cells) followed right along. They didn't want any part of this dust-up. Buster was on his own as far as they were concerned. There's fraternal loyalty and then there's stupidity.
I got them in and finally Buster comes dragging back to the porch looking shocked and appalled. His expression said it all - "What the heck WAS that thing? And how did it arm itself with pepper spray? Cats are supposed to run and then you get a nice chase in but this thing zapped me!" Poor Buster looked like a police academy cadet who had just undergone the pepper spray training exercise. His eyes were red and swollen, his chest and ears were cherry red.
My sympathy was only half-hearted, though, because I knew now I had to clean up this eight-pound mass of stink. Then I committed a cardinal sin - I brought him inside. Big, big mistake. Not only did I then have a contaminated dog but the house was soon an EPA Supersite, too. The husband comes downstairs clutching a wash rag over his face, gagging and saying "what are you doing???"
I guess my old vet-tech mindset had kicked in and I wasn't thinking that skunk smell permeates EVERYTHING. Those molecules are relentless. I had cleaned up enough skunked dogs when working for the vet as a teenager and I wasn't thinking "house" but rather "what was that deskunkifier recipe??" It had been twenty-five years since I'd last made a batch.
The rest of the story is a lesson in hazardous material handling. The house was unlivable for the rest of the day. Lucky for me, I had to drive 200 miles yesterday to pick up my son from grandma's house so I was out until afternoon. I stuck Buster in the basement, turned on the big house fan (1948 a/c) and left. Of course, those molecules were everywhere - in my hair, my clothes, my nose, and my purse. I finally stopped at a McDonalds and transferred the contents of my new leather purse to a Wal-mart bag and tossed the purse in the dumpster. It was a total loss. I rolled down all the windows in the Denali and put the seat heater on so I could see to drive without the fumes tearing my eyes too much. Ever drive 78 mph in 42-degree weather with all the windows down? Not fun.
When we got back to the house yesterday afternoon, it was possible to be in the house but we were all dripping Visine every fifteen minutes like dope heads and burning every candle we can find. Everything made of cloth has to be washed now. I want to kiss whoever decided to put Febreeze in Tide and Downy.
And to top off this lovely Red Letter Day in our household - Al Gore wins the Nobel Peace Prize. Good God.
Yesterday at the pre-dawn hour of 5:30, I took my dogs out for their morning potty break and sniff session. Our biggest one, Buster (who has the personality to match his name), took off after something in the dark. Buster is an 8-lb. Chihuahua who thinks he's a pit bull. There was a huge ruckus and I decided to go investigate thinking he'd maybe actually caught one of the wild cats that hangs around our bird feeders. Wrong. It was not a nice kitty. It must have looked kind of like a kitty to bird-brained Buster in the dark, but it was the devil in disguise. It was Pepe LePeue on steroids.
Oh heavens. I got close enough for my nose to tell me the story and I turned tail and beat it back to the house. The other two dogs (who have more than 3 brain cells) followed right along. They didn't want any part of this dust-up. Buster was on his own as far as they were concerned. There's fraternal loyalty and then there's stupidity.
I got them in and finally Buster comes dragging back to the porch looking shocked and appalled. His expression said it all - "What the heck WAS that thing? And how did it arm itself with pepper spray? Cats are supposed to run and then you get a nice chase in but this thing zapped me!" Poor Buster looked like a police academy cadet who had just undergone the pepper spray training exercise. His eyes were red and swollen, his chest and ears were cherry red.
My sympathy was only half-hearted, though, because I knew now I had to clean up this eight-pound mass of stink. Then I committed a cardinal sin - I brought him inside. Big, big mistake. Not only did I then have a contaminated dog but the house was soon an EPA Supersite, too. The husband comes downstairs clutching a wash rag over his face, gagging and saying "what are you doing???"
I guess my old vet-tech mindset had kicked in and I wasn't thinking that skunk smell permeates EVERYTHING. Those molecules are relentless. I had cleaned up enough skunked dogs when working for the vet as a teenager and I wasn't thinking "house" but rather "what was that deskunkifier recipe??" It had been twenty-five years since I'd last made a batch.
The rest of the story is a lesson in hazardous material handling. The house was unlivable for the rest of the day. Lucky for me, I had to drive 200 miles yesterday to pick up my son from grandma's house so I was out until afternoon. I stuck Buster in the basement, turned on the big house fan (1948 a/c) and left. Of course, those molecules were everywhere - in my hair, my clothes, my nose, and my purse. I finally stopped at a McDonalds and transferred the contents of my new leather purse to a Wal-mart bag and tossed the purse in the dumpster. It was a total loss. I rolled down all the windows in the Denali and put the seat heater on so I could see to drive without the fumes tearing my eyes too much. Ever drive 78 mph in 42-degree weather with all the windows down? Not fun.
When we got back to the house yesterday afternoon, it was possible to be in the house but we were all dripping Visine every fifteen minutes like dope heads and burning every candle we can find. Everything made of cloth has to be washed now. I want to kiss whoever decided to put Febreeze in Tide and Downy.
And to top off this lovely Red Letter Day in our household - Al Gore wins the Nobel Peace Prize. Good God.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Home Work a Hassle?
I was reading a blog posting this morning in our local large city newspaper concerning homework and how kids these days are bogged down with it. Read it here. A Wall Street Journal article (read it here) and the general consensus of parents seems to be that homework is just a time-consuming hassle. It interferes with life and stresses out kids.
I'm a former middle school teacher and the mother of a 14-year old so I have some exposure to this situation from both sides of the fence. When I taught in the public school system, I taught in a rural middle school where the majority of the students came from impoverished backgrounds. Today that would be called an at-risk school but at the time (twenty years ago) we weren't sweating over test scores so the term never arose. I would say we had a good school. We had dedicated teachers, a great administration, and average students. We had an exceptional program for the gifted and talented and for the "educationally challenged" students, too. Some parents were involved but most weren't (not any different than today).
What we DIDN'T have were students whose lives were scheduled down to the last second. If a student played a sport, it was a school sport. There were no community soccer associations or karate schools or other such things. If a student played an instrument, it was in the band. No violin lessons or trumpet lessons after school. A student went home, did homework, and hung out. Parents came home, fixed supper and hung out. There was no "living in the mini-van" as mom carted kids from one activity to the other all afternoon, every afternoon.
The writer of the WSJ blog probably doesn't realize it but his child has just caught his and his wife's anxiety disease. The parents have communicated that the child must get As and Bs and makes it such a priority that they are constantly in the kid's face with flashcards and lists of spelling words, even in restaurants. The school work isn't stressing the kid out - it's the parents! Give the kid a break! Let him do it on his own. How is he going to learn to study on his own if his parents are constantly there pushing this stuff down his throat? He's not anxious because he's getting Ds - he's anxious because his parents are getting Ds! They need to back off.
Home work has it's place. It provides additional practice for new concepts learned at school that day. It can provide supporting learning opportunities for concepts with which the student struggles. Should a parent be involved in all home work activities? NO! Let the child do the work! A parent should be there if the child has a question but the parent should butt out otherwise. Be encouraging and help when needed but let the kid do the work and shoulder the responsibility. The child isn't going to have the parent there by his or her side when they are away at college and then what will happen?
As to the amount of home work. I suggest the parents cut out all after-school activities and just have the child come home and do homework and see what that does to the pace of their lives. I bet they will discover that the home work wasn't the problem after all - it was the million and one activities they had the child doing after school that was sucking up time and creating stress.
It's a documented fact that American children are over-scheduled. Parents use after-school activities as a baby-sitting service. When people my age (41) and older were in school, most moms didn't work so you came home, ate a Twinkie, did your home work and then got to watch an hour of Gomer Pyle and Bewitched before going outside to play with your friends until it was too dark to see. If you had trouble with your home work, you asked mom but otherwise she was probably busy making supper or doing laundry. If it was a math problem, you waited for dad to come home.
Now, moms work so they have to put the kids somewhere until they get off work so they enroll them in after-school programs that are glorified day cares (or even real day cares). To assuage their guilty feelings, parent put pressure on their children to perform in school so they can prove that the lifestyle they've chosen is not detrimental to the child and that they can produce "super kids". Remember, those test scores are all important and now the fever that has infected our educational professionals has spread to the parents. Johnny has to score high on those tests in the spring or he'll be an outcast, won't get into a good college, blah, blah, blah.
What a load of crap. I'm sorry, but there are some children that should just be left behind. It's a good wake up call that no one uses anymore. It was embarrassing as heck to fail a grade when I was a kid and usually it took just once to wake you up. No one is left behind now. It would be too detrimental to the child's self-esteem. (read heavy sarcasm there)
But that's another soapbox for another day. Back to the home work issue. Did I assign home work as a teacher? Yes, when I thought it was necessary which was often. Many of my students didn't have a home life that was conducive to sitting down and studying (as in their parents were drug addicts, etc) so I kept it to a minimum but I did assign it when I felt it was called for. I often provided opportunities to work on it in class simply because I knew what their home lives were like. We also had study hall (something else that is disappearing from the educational landscape) where the student had a chance to work on home work.
Home work teaches a lot of things, but primarily it teaches responsibility. When a parent takes over the responsibility for homework, one of the main purposes of homework is nullified. Do I welcome homework for my own son? Absolutely. In fact, I don't think he gets enough home work assigned.
Bottom line is parents need to stop blaming teachers for trying to teach something to their children and instead cut out all the extra-curricular activities that they've laid on their children in the effort to produce super-kids. Give the kids a break. Moms - get your butts home by 3:00 so your kid can have a normal life if you are so concerned about the kids' stress level.
Beaver Cleaver didn't seem stressed out much. Wonder why?
I'm a former middle school teacher and the mother of a 14-year old so I have some exposure to this situation from both sides of the fence. When I taught in the public school system, I taught in a rural middle school where the majority of the students came from impoverished backgrounds. Today that would be called an at-risk school but at the time (twenty years ago) we weren't sweating over test scores so the term never arose. I would say we had a good school. We had dedicated teachers, a great administration, and average students. We had an exceptional program for the gifted and talented and for the "educationally challenged" students, too. Some parents were involved but most weren't (not any different than today).
What we DIDN'T have were students whose lives were scheduled down to the last second. If a student played a sport, it was a school sport. There were no community soccer associations or karate schools or other such things. If a student played an instrument, it was in the band. No violin lessons or trumpet lessons after school. A student went home, did homework, and hung out. Parents came home, fixed supper and hung out. There was no "living in the mini-van" as mom carted kids from one activity to the other all afternoon, every afternoon.
The writer of the WSJ blog probably doesn't realize it but his child has just caught his and his wife's anxiety disease. The parents have communicated that the child must get As and Bs and makes it such a priority that they are constantly in the kid's face with flashcards and lists of spelling words, even in restaurants. The school work isn't stressing the kid out - it's the parents! Give the kid a break! Let him do it on his own. How is he going to learn to study on his own if his parents are constantly there pushing this stuff down his throat? He's not anxious because he's getting Ds - he's anxious because his parents are getting Ds! They need to back off.
Home work has it's place. It provides additional practice for new concepts learned at school that day. It can provide supporting learning opportunities for concepts with which the student struggles. Should a parent be involved in all home work activities? NO! Let the child do the work! A parent should be there if the child has a question but the parent should butt out otherwise. Be encouraging and help when needed but let the kid do the work and shoulder the responsibility. The child isn't going to have the parent there by his or her side when they are away at college and then what will happen?
As to the amount of home work. I suggest the parents cut out all after-school activities and just have the child come home and do homework and see what that does to the pace of their lives. I bet they will discover that the home work wasn't the problem after all - it was the million and one activities they had the child doing after school that was sucking up time and creating stress.
It's a documented fact that American children are over-scheduled. Parents use after-school activities as a baby-sitting service. When people my age (41) and older were in school, most moms didn't work so you came home, ate a Twinkie, did your home work and then got to watch an hour of Gomer Pyle and Bewitched before going outside to play with your friends until it was too dark to see. If you had trouble with your home work, you asked mom but otherwise she was probably busy making supper or doing laundry. If it was a math problem, you waited for dad to come home.
Now, moms work so they have to put the kids somewhere until they get off work so they enroll them in after-school programs that are glorified day cares (or even real day cares). To assuage their guilty feelings, parent put pressure on their children to perform in school so they can prove that the lifestyle they've chosen is not detrimental to the child and that they can produce "super kids". Remember, those test scores are all important and now the fever that has infected our educational professionals has spread to the parents. Johnny has to score high on those tests in the spring or he'll be an outcast, won't get into a good college, blah, blah, blah.
What a load of crap. I'm sorry, but there are some children that should just be left behind. It's a good wake up call that no one uses anymore. It was embarrassing as heck to fail a grade when I was a kid and usually it took just once to wake you up. No one is left behind now. It would be too detrimental to the child's self-esteem. (read heavy sarcasm there)
But that's another soapbox for another day. Back to the home work issue. Did I assign home work as a teacher? Yes, when I thought it was necessary which was often. Many of my students didn't have a home life that was conducive to sitting down and studying (as in their parents were drug addicts, etc) so I kept it to a minimum but I did assign it when I felt it was called for. I often provided opportunities to work on it in class simply because I knew what their home lives were like. We also had study hall (something else that is disappearing from the educational landscape) where the student had a chance to work on home work.
Home work teaches a lot of things, but primarily it teaches responsibility. When a parent takes over the responsibility for homework, one of the main purposes of homework is nullified. Do I welcome homework for my own son? Absolutely. In fact, I don't think he gets enough home work assigned.
Bottom line is parents need to stop blaming teachers for trying to teach something to their children and instead cut out all the extra-curricular activities that they've laid on their children in the effort to produce super-kids. Give the kids a break. Moms - get your butts home by 3:00 so your kid can have a normal life if you are so concerned about the kids' stress level.
Beaver Cleaver didn't seem stressed out much. Wonder why?
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Death Penalty Painful? Well, DUH!
I love being from Tennessee. It's a beautiful state and the people are friendly. Most of all, people in Tennessee are generally sensible and down-to-earth. We are the Volunteer State and that's a well-earned title. If you need help doing something, we're there. I think half the state headed south in the wake of Katrina. We have high numbers of men and women who volunteer for the military. If your car won't start in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart in Tennessee, you don't even have to ask someone to jump-start the battery. At that first "click" of the starter, the good 0l' boy in the pick-up next to you is already grabbing the jumper cables out of his truck box. We're just sensible.
Why in the WORLD then has some judge ruled the death penalty as conducted by lethal injection unconstitutional on the basis of "cruel and unusual punishment" but Old Sparky, the electric chair was drug out of the closet and used to zap a killer 'til his eyeballs popped out a couple of weeks ago? Does anyone besides me see the stupidity here as demonstrated by our judicial system?? How about the sheer irony? Does that not just baffle you?
What is the deal with these judges legislating from the bench? Our legislative process is such that it takes a bill through both houses of the state legislature and then in front of the State Supreme Court to "vet it for constitutionality" before the governor signs it into law. This is how all our legislative processes in this country work. The death penalty law has been passed and used for YEARS and now some judge takes it upon his subjective mind to declare it is "unconstitutional".
What's so funny is that he bases that subjective opinion on "cruel and unusual punishment". What can be more humane than lethal injection? Let's get real here - the most cruelty that could be involved would be if the doc doing the IV missed the vein. Shoot, if that's the case, then I should have several viable lawsuits against dingaling nurses in my doctor's office and at the Red Cross for jabbing me full of holes in search of the "disappearing blood vessel". (Honey, I just know it was there. I could feel it! Let me try one more time...)
Hey, I have an idea. Let's do away with lethal injection altogether and just run with Ol' Sparky. He obviously still works after 45 years and he's easy to use. Strap 'em in and flip the switch. Wait a few seconds. Repeat. The ultimate 'taser! Woo hoo! And he's much more entertaining and dramatic. It gives the families of the victims better "closure" to see the murderer of their precious loved ones fried like a green tomato. Fires up the protesters more, too. Nothing gets liberal leftists more riled up than a good zapping.
Alternatively, we could go with one of the various middle eastern methods. Hanging seems common and so is beheading. I personally like Saddam's old method of getting rid of people he didn't like - shredding them starting with the feet. I really wish they'd used that on him. The phrase "hanging is too good for him" was very applicable in his case.
I know the argument against the death penalty in general is that some innocent people get "sent on" by accident. That's probably true, especially in the days before DNA and high tech forensics. That's where Barry Sheck (sp?) and his Innocence Project comes in. I'm all for them going over old cases and funding DNA testing just so we make doubly sure we got the right low-life to zap or hang or shoot or whatever we end up as an alternative to the cruel and unusual lethal injection.
Yeah, right...
Why in the WORLD then has some judge ruled the death penalty as conducted by lethal injection unconstitutional on the basis of "cruel and unusual punishment" but Old Sparky, the electric chair was drug out of the closet and used to zap a killer 'til his eyeballs popped out a couple of weeks ago? Does anyone besides me see the stupidity here as demonstrated by our judicial system?? How about the sheer irony? Does that not just baffle you?
What is the deal with these judges legislating from the bench? Our legislative process is such that it takes a bill through both houses of the state legislature and then in front of the State Supreme Court to "vet it for constitutionality" before the governor signs it into law. This is how all our legislative processes in this country work. The death penalty law has been passed and used for YEARS and now some judge takes it upon his subjective mind to declare it is "unconstitutional".
What's so funny is that he bases that subjective opinion on "cruel and unusual punishment". What can be more humane than lethal injection? Let's get real here - the most cruelty that could be involved would be if the doc doing the IV missed the vein. Shoot, if that's the case, then I should have several viable lawsuits against dingaling nurses in my doctor's office and at the Red Cross for jabbing me full of holes in search of the "disappearing blood vessel". (Honey, I just know it was there. I could feel it! Let me try one more time...)
Hey, I have an idea. Let's do away with lethal injection altogether and just run with Ol' Sparky. He obviously still works after 45 years and he's easy to use. Strap 'em in and flip the switch. Wait a few seconds. Repeat. The ultimate 'taser! Woo hoo! And he's much more entertaining and dramatic. It gives the families of the victims better "closure" to see the murderer of their precious loved ones fried like a green tomato. Fires up the protesters more, too. Nothing gets liberal leftists more riled up than a good zapping.
Alternatively, we could go with one of the various middle eastern methods. Hanging seems common and so is beheading. I personally like Saddam's old method of getting rid of people he didn't like - shredding them starting with the feet. I really wish they'd used that on him. The phrase "hanging is too good for him" was very applicable in his case.
I know the argument against the death penalty in general is that some innocent people get "sent on" by accident. That's probably true, especially in the days before DNA and high tech forensics. That's where Barry Sheck (sp?) and his Innocence Project comes in. I'm all for them going over old cases and funding DNA testing just so we make doubly sure we got the right low-life to zap or hang or shoot or whatever we end up as an alternative to the cruel and unusual lethal injection.
Yeah, right...
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