A Facebook friend challenged me to write a companion piece to his “Uncomplicated” poem. Here ‘s my take on it.
Uncomplicated
Old Ford truck, tailgate down
Levis and a faded chambray
Flip flops, goosebumps
Two Buck Chuck in a Dixie cup.
Fire pit in October
S’mores well done,
Sitting on the back porch,
Drowning in the stars.
Church on Sunday very last pew
Singing all the old hymns
I’ll fly away, oh glory,
Amazing Grace,
And you.
In my childhood, picking out a Christmas tree was a family affair, but everyone knew that the ultimate decision was made by Dad. He had this great ability to find the perfect tree every year. And decorating it was his thing.
We could help as long as we followed two basic rules:
1. Evenly space out the ornaments,
2. Make sure the various colors of ornaments were distributed appropriately (i.e. No two reds too close together)
Mom never approved of the way Dad tossed the icicles onto the tree, so he’d wait until she went into the kitchen and with a mischievous grin he’d fling a handful here, another there until it was to his liking. We never had an ugly tree. And, if the eggnog was flowing, the tree became a true work of art.
Perhaps this is why I pretty much spoiled the joy of tree decorating for my own family. So intent was I on trying to make the tree perfect, like Daddy did, that nothing short of perfection pleased me. All moms have regrets, this is one of my biggest: that my children never wanted to help decorate the tree because I had an unattainable image etched in my mind.
My apologies kids. Maybe this year we can have our laid back tree.
You’d never know it by looking at him, but the man was a tree decorating genius. I miss him so much.
Today is my mom’s birthday. How old would she have been? Well, let’s see, she turned four years old on the day that the Japanese launched a devastating attack on Pearl Harbor launching our country into World War 2. That year was 1941, so Mom was born in 1937. She’d have been 77 today. Sadly, Mom passed away in her mid-50’s, a victim of cancer.
I miss her every single day. I’ll never forget when it hit me that Mom was gone. Many days after her funeral, Studly, the kids, and I were back in Kansas, and one of my students said something funny to me in class. When I got home that afternoon I picked up the phone to call Mom. I even started dialing her number before I realized that I’d never be able to do that again. That’s when I cried until I thought my head would implode.
Now Mom and I were often at odds. As much as we look alike we had very different approaches to life. Mom was a perfectionist, and she never quite understood my haphazard ways. She had the subtlety of a sledge hammer, so even when she thought she was correcting me in gentle ways her message came through like a bullhorn in a closet. But, and every mother and daughter will understand this: Mom was my best friend.
My fondest memories of my mother:
Anytime I was sick my Mom was the very best nurse–she should have been one, but circumstances prevented that from happening. Instead, she worked for doctors for most of her life. There was nothing quite as comforting as having Mom lovingly placing cool cloths on my forehead when I had a fever or cradling me when I had a bad cold. Honestly, sometimes I played sick just to get the attention.
One Christmas, I think I was 7, my California cousins came for a visit. My cousin Gail was a year older, and we were great friends. On Christmas Eve we were excitedly discussing our presents while snuggled into the twin beds in my room. I said I couldn’t wait to see what Santa would bring. Gail told me, in no uncertain terms that there was no Santa, and that parents who told their kids there was a Santa were liars.
My sobs brought Mom in from the living room where the grownups were enjoying an adult beverage or two. I told her what Gail had said, and Mom told me the truth–that parents did provide the gifts from Santa, but that Santa, would always be in our hearts as long as people did good things for one another. I could live with that, and I still believe it was the best Santa explanation ever given.
One of the very best times I had with Mom was the December we camped out all night at a local retailer in order to secure a Cabbage Patch doll for my daughter. I’d gotten a tip from a co-worker that a store in Amarillo was getting in a shipment of 100 of those much coveted dolls. Casually I mentioned to Mom that I was thinking about getting up extra early to try and get a doll. She immediately went into action and said she’d go with me. She packed a bag like we were going into battle: Thermos full of coffee? Check! Two warm blankets? Check! Cushioned seats? Check! Reading material? Check! Extra heavy gloves? Check! Snacks? Check!
We arrived at the store at midnight thinking that we’d be able to sit in the car for a couple of hours, but there were already 20 or so people in line. As we watched, a few more joined the queue, so we quickly grabbed our supplies and staked out our spot. I can’t remember everything we discussed that night, but we talked non-stop. I’m pretty sure most of the world’s problems were solved. Thanks to my mom, we never got cold or hungry, and we each ended up with a doll–one for my Ashley and one for a friend’s daughter.
I’d love to have that impromptu camp out one more time. I’d make sure Mom knew just how much she meant to me, and how much I loved her.
Peace, People. Please let your family members know how much they mean to you. Right now.
Below: Mom and Dad circa 1957.
My daughter Ashley, Cricket the doll, closed-eyes me, and Mom.
Mom with her family, from left, her brother Jackie, my Grandaddy Carl, Mom, and my Nanny Grace holding my Aunt Nedra.
When Studly and I decided to have grandchildren we didn’t waste any time. Our Dominique was born on September 13, 2002, and our grandson Garrett followed just short of three months later on December 6.
Garrett wasn’t our first grandchild, but he was our first grandson. He restored symmetry to our family. From the beginning our Garrett was a fascinating kid. He started talking very early and his curiosity was boundless. He questioned everything from the moment he started talking, and that continues to this day.
He taught me all the ins and outs of Thomas the Tank Engine, such as the names of every engine and how to lay down a good track. When he outgrew Thomas and Friends Garrett became a Lego aficionado, a true master builder who once told me that every set must be built according to the directions at least three times before the pieces can be used for other purposes.
Nowadays Garrett is a spelling hotshot. He practically eats words for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After winning his school’s spelling bee as a fifth grader, he went on to place in the top ten at the regional bee. He’s also a budding oboist AND he can ride a motorcycle. Pretty well-rounded kid. Oh, my favorite thing? He still says, “Nana, I love you.”
There is something he’s not fond of doing–math homework, so awhile back I wrote this little story.
“Garrett Battles the Math Monster”
No one knew about the monster in Garrett’s bedroom except for Garrett. He’d almost told his parents, but he didn’t think they’d believe him. He thought his sisters might be scared if he told them, so he kept it a secret.
As monsters go this wasn’t a particularly awful one. It had but one purpose in life–to prevent Garrett from completing his mathematics homework. The monster didn’t care about English, science or social studies assignments; it just didn’t want him to tackle math.
When the monster first moved into his room Garrett thought he could just ignore it and it would go away. He could see the enormous beast from the corner of his eye as he worked on assignments. It had silver scales, almost like mirrors that winked merrily as long as Garrett practiced spelling words or memorized state capitals. But as soon as Garrett pulled out his math textbook, the scales turned blood red and began pulsing with a menacing intensity. The monster would snarl angrily and poise for attack. Quickly Garrett closed his book and watched the monster mellow out.
“Ok,” thought Garrett. “No math, no problem.”
But there was a problem. Garrett’s math grades began to slip. Then to slide. Then to plummet. Things were serious. It was time to banish the math monster.
Every afternoon Garrett entered his room with the intention of driving the monster out. First he tried to reason with it.
“Hey there,” he said. “I’m in need of a break here. Do you think you could go mess with someone else for awhile?”
The monster showed his fearsome teeth and howled.
Next he tried fighting his scaly nemesis with fists. All Garrett got out of that idea were bruised knuckles and a black eye.
Maybe the monster was afraid of animals. Garrett brought in his cat Lucy to test his hypothesis, but Lucy took one look at the monster, screeched and scampered upstairs to hide under the sofa.
Nothing was working. Then Garrett had an idea. Maybe he needed to attack the math monster with words.
“Hey, Scale Breath,” said Garrett. “Can you spell extrudable?”
The monster looked perplexed. “How about excruciating?”
The monster started growing smaller.
“What kind of monster are you if you can’t handle a little spelling contest?”
The monster shrugged.
“Try this one,” continued Garrett. “Esophageal.”
The monster’s scales began to lose their luster.
Feeling more confident, Garrett said, “Spell Feuilleton.” The monster grimaced and seemed to shrink even more.
“Stichomythia!” Garrett crowed. The monster’s scales were now a dull brown and he was half the size he’d been just syllables ago. “Knaidel!” Shouted Garrett, and the monster shrunk again.
Sensing victory Garrett asked, “What do you have against math?”
The monster hung his now tiny head and said, “I didn’t want you to be good at math. You’re so good at everything else, I just thought that if I could keep you from being a star math student that it would make me feel better.”
“And did it?” asked Garrett.
“Not really,” admitted the monster. “But I did enjoy hanging out in your room.”
“Look man, you can hang out here. Just don’t interfere with my homework anymore. You’re making me look bad.”
“Ok,”said the monster. “Could I ask you a favor?”
“Sure,” said Garrett.
“Teach me to spell?”
Happy birthday, Garrett! I love you! Don’t let the Math Monster win!
Below: Spelling bee stud; Big boy sliding; Hanging out with Dominique
Studly Doright, (my first and current husband), our two children, and I have moved many times in our 38.5 years of marriage, so we’ve never become overly attached to any one residence. Home has always been wherever our little family is at any given time.
A friend wrote something on Facebook the other day, though, that made me wonder what it would have felt like to have stayed in one home for all of our married lives, raising a family and watching them grow, and helping them leave the nest. I wondered what it would be like when eventually one of us had to face the task of selling the home. Ok, I got a little teary eyed.
The poem below is what came of my reverie. Parts of it are gleaned from true events from my own childhood–I drew the mountains, my brothers and I played for hours and hours under a big old pine tree in a long ago front yard.
Please pardon our dust
The old house has been closed up for a long, long time.
But if you close your eyes
You can almost feel the love that once lived here.
Over there our children played
At make-believe
Before they made their own lives
And their own dust in their own homes.
Please pardon my tears
I really thought this would be easier,
But remembering is both sweet and hard.
You see these marks on the wall?
Our oldest drew ‘mountains’ there
When she was barely three.
I kept meaning to paint over them
But thirty years later you can still
Pretend to take a trip to the summit
And ski down the slopes to drink
Hot chocolate at the lodge.
Please pardon my lapse
I just can’t go through the rest
Look around on your own
Take your time.
Be sure to visit the backyard and
Swing on that old tire,
Maybe dig in the sand,
And carve roads under the pine.
It’s a fine place for kids
It was a fine place for us.
Our lives have not always been easy. We struggled financially for many years. We failed each other many times, but we always got up and made things right. There were many times when it would have been easy to give up, to quit, but we refused. We were never satisfied with failure or with doing things half-assed.
So today I’m thankful for a certain willful stubbornness. A refusal to accept the status quo. Studly and I are living proof that if you work hard and treat others as you wish to be treated that there’s a good chance you’ll do okay in this world. No, we aren’t wealthy. But we are comfortable. We won’t have a fortune to leave our kids. But we have a whole lot of love to leave them. And stubbornness.
Here’s hoping that this Thanksgiving Day allows each of my readers to take a moment to think on all the really good things in their lives. I’m thankful for each of you.
Thanks, people!
The market on love
Has been cornered
By those of us
Who know that
Sometimes the clouds threaten
And the sky goes sunless
Day upon day
And all that holds the storm at bay
Are the winds swept aloft
By shared laughter.
So what if we can’t live
On love alone?
Honestly we never even tried.
Some days we might have
Forgotten to remember, though
The importance of just looking
Into a smile and seeing
The world we’ve created
From no more than a pair
Of long ago I do’s.
Happy birthday Studly!
Married folks tend to learn each other’s tics and tendencies over time. I’ve made note of some of the things that we just do because we’ve been yoked together for so long. Some of it isn’t all that pretty, but some of it is just right. I guess you’ll have to decide which is which.
Crack each other up with just the right facial expression.
Fart and/or belch freely, then apologize sincerely before farting and/or belching again.
Steal each other’s portion of the blanket.
Hold hands unselfconsciously.
Snore unabashedly.
Find each other’s lips on the first try in the darkest of rooms.
Know exactly where to scratch when their partner has an itch.
Finish each other’s sentences. Sometimes correctly.
Elaborate on one another’s stories.
Watch a program they don’t want to watch because their partner wants to watch it.
Understand the “look” and adjust as needed.
Commiserate with one another’s angst, even if it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you.
Be the bright spot when the other’s is dim.
Anticipate the other’s needs, such as bringing home a new bottle of wine without being asked.
Refrain from making a joke at the other’s expense.
Gladly be the butt of a joke when necessary.
I’m sitting at Whole Foods enjoying a non-fat chai latte, medium, almost too hot to drink, and checking my email on my phone. There’s a funny message from Studly Doright. It was sent to three recipients: our son, our daughter, and me. It struck me how much I love that–that our family group is united in that email. Even though we’re hundreds of miles apart, Studly knew we’d all find the message amusing. At some point today each person will read, giggle, and perhaps shake his/her head at what our well-loved patriarch has wrought.
Yes. This is something I love.
The meat in my sandwich
The cold in my ice
The onions in my taco
The dots on my dice.
The biscuit ‘neath my gravy
The tootsie in my roll
The water in my ocean
The statistics in my poll.
The sand in my bucket
The flowers in my vase
The chocolate in my chip
The smile on my face.
Love you, Studly.
Peace, People!
Praying for Eyebrowz 