Thanksgiving - 1977

I just set out the frozen turkey on the counter overnight to thaw. I've done this every Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. (But really my memory isn't all that great...). Setting out the turkey every year always reminds me of the Thanksgiving of 1977. We had just moved to Fort Worth, Texas. Mike had gone to Texas first that summer, looking for a job, then after he was employed and somewhat settled in (about 4 weeks) he came back to California and got the rest of us. That consisted of me (25), Jenny (4), Shane (2) and Mandee (a few month's old). We rented a flatbed trailer to hold the minimum of posessions we owned, then we all climbed into the cab of our brand new red pick up truck, and schlepped the three days to Texas. I had no idea where we would be living, or what Texas was like. All I knew was that our family was back together again and life was an adventure.

We arrived at our new home about 10:00 at night —in the pitch dark. Mike had rented us a small 2 bedroom house and I immediately went inside, laid out blankets on the floor in the second bedroom and settled the kids in for the night. Then Mike and I unloaded the trailer. It wasn't until the next morning that I was able to get a good look at where we would be living. It was in a poorer, neglected section of Forth Worth and it showed. The house was a ramshackle dump with a dirt yard and none-too-savory looking neighbors. But it was our first home in Texas and I was game.

Mike didn't make much money and worked most nights so I was home alone with my brood. It was cold that Autumn in Fort Worth. After the kids were in bed I'd sit on the couch wrapped in blankets and turn the TV up loud, trying to drown out the skittering sound of the mice running inside the walls. At least I HOPED they were mice. Pretty quickly after we moved in my next door neighbor showed up at my door asking if she could attach her garden hose to my outdoor water spigot. Her water had been shut off. “Sure” I said in wonder. No water? How does one live without water? She quickly attached it then drug that hose from my house to hers and strung it through her kitchen window. It stayed that way for weeks.

Her little tow-headed son was around 4 and quickly made the acquaintance of my kids. He'd come over every day and stay all day. His mother never came looking for him. I'd finally make him go home after dinner. He was filthy and constantly hungry. "Would you make me a peanut butter sambich?” he'd ask the minute he'd walk in the door, then again—several times a day. Of course I fed him. We didn't have much but it was evident he had nothing. I debated bathing him. Was that overstepping my bounds? Finally I figured his mother was too busy doing Lord Knows What and I started giving him baths. I taught him to pray with my own kids and told him about Jesus. He was usually glancing toward the kitchen during my lessons, no doubt wondering what was in there to eat. It was hard for me to do this with a glad heart. What kind of mother neglects her child like this? He was a nuisance. He cussed. He had no knowledge of manners. He smelled. But the little part in me that Jesus occupies would rise to the surface and I took him in. Now I realize that Jesus wanted to occupy all of me but I'm stubborn and hung onto my hateful bits in spite of His love for me. He took me in when I was stinking, foul mouthed and ill-mannered. He bathed me in His blood and gave me new life but it was still a struggle for me to really care about that little boy.

Come Thanksgiving I had saved a little extra money, went to the store and bought two turkeys. One for me and one for my neighbor — little peanut butter boy's mom. I knocked on her door a couple days before Thanksgiving, bird in arms, to deliver my present. “Oh” she said with a sad smile when I offered her the turkey, “I don't have any electricity or gas. I have no way to cook it but thanks anyway”. Then she shut the door.

I walked back home stunned and wondered what kind of life she was living. I'd never known anyone like that before. The boy had said his father was in prison. She was living in a cold house with no water, gas or electricity. So I took her turkey back home and cooked it in my postage stamp sized stove. That night I set out my own turkey to thaw on the counter. In the morning, Thanksgiving Day, I saw a nibbled hole in my raw turkey that had been sitting out to thaw. A mouse (Lord I HOPE it was a mouse) had eaten a quarter size hole in that raw bird. Nevertheless, I put it in the oven to cook and decided to ignore the mouse's thankgiving feast marks. Turkeys are not cheap. I bundled up the other turkey in tin foil and headed out the door into the cold to take it to my neighbor. One step out my door onto my front porch and I noticed a commotion next door. A large white van was there with “official” looking people in dark coats milling around it. They were putting the little boy in the van. I walked over and asked “What's going on?” The mom had been arrested for drugs and taken to jail, they said. Little peanut butter boy was headed to foster care. He didn't look scared or upset. I imagine he wasn't surprised at any turn of events in his short life. He just smiled and waved goodbye as the van drove away.

We didn't stay in that house for too much longer after that. We've moved a lot since and never again lived in a house with mice in the walls (SURELY they were cute little mice) or unwashed, hungry, foul-mouthed boys next door. But every year I get out the Thanksgiving turkey and set it out on the counter to thaw no matter where we're living. And every year I am brought back to that Thanksgiving in Fort Worth and remember that mom and little peanut butter boy. I have so much to be thankful for. My three kids are grown and I have grandkids now. None of them are ever hungry or wanting for water or a warm home. They are blessed, as am I. They don't realize it. They have no measuring stick to go by except what their sheltered and comfortable lives have offered them. No knowledge of how frail life is and how ignorant it is to take happiness for granted. They have no peanut butter boy in their lives to remind them of how insecure life can easily and quickly be —but for the grace of God. 

 Oh the grace of God. That grace has followed me my whole life and I am thankful from the bottom of my heart. My measuring stick is a little broader than my grandchildren's is. Thankful can't begin to describe my feelings of gratitude toward a loving Father this year and every year. I am blessed beyond measure. I hope little peanut butter boy came to know that grace as well and is sitting in his own home with his own family, thawing the turkey on the counter and giving thanks. The odds are against it. But I hope and pray the odds are wrong.

To Sleep Perchance to Dream...

I didn't feel well today so I came home from work early and promptly fell asleep on the couch. I dreamt that I was sleeping on the most comfortable couch in the world under grandma's quilt —in my mom's house. I kept drifting in and out of sleep (in my dream) but I could hear the door open and Susan walked in, picked up the phone and started talking to a Realtor about selling the house. I could feel her presence in this awsomely comfy home and there were soft yellows and cool breezes all around me. She kept talking on the phone, laughing and chatting and I didn't wake up but could sense that she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. It felt so good being asleep on the couch in my mom's house. Then other scenes came and went (like dreams do—disjointed weird other stuff that might not even fit in with the plot of the dream)

Finally my mom came home. She was about 50 with highlighted short brown manicured hair and had on a cute yellow suit. She set down her briefcase and evidently was just coming home from work. And right then I understood it was me, Susan and my mom living in this house where the sun shone so prettily on the flower garden in back and filtered through the gauzy curtains hanging on the patio door. Susan was off the phone by then and she and mom started talking about their day and I could hear them relaxing at the kitchen table with their coffee and laughing together. The world was a good place to be in, like it was on a summer day when you were a kid and your friends were outside calling you to come play. I could hear my mom's laugh again. I could actually HEAR it. I knew if I could wake up, I could run across the room and go hug her tight and talk to her. I was right there. But I couldn't wake up. I couldn't wake up. So I let the love in the room swirl about my head and just enjoyed their company in my dream.

At some point I began to slowly climb my way up to the surface of being awake. Slowly, slowly. And as I began climbing I half realized I was waking and started crying as the dream let go of me. The reality of just being at home and the day to day hurdles and disappointments that exist in real-life began to crowd back into my subconciousness. I wanted to shout —“No wait!” I could almost touch my mom again! Let me just hear her laugh one more time!

Then it was gone. I was on my own couch in my own house. No sister. No mother. No sunshine. Just me. That would have been a good time for my little dog to jump up on my lap and lick my face. Shoot I don't even have a dog.

Now anyone that knows me understands that I put a lot of stock in dreams. Especially my dreams. I know for a fact that God talks to me in my dreams from time to time. Sometimes my dreams are a reassurance of something I needed divine confirmation on. Sometimes they give me an answer to something I haven't been able to puzzle out. Sometimes they are a warning of something that will happen. 

But sometimes the meanings are just for me to know and keep close to my heart, look back on from time to time and smile. That's what this one was. Just a little kiss from God on the cheek and a peek into what's in store for me. Some day.

Sisters In Arms

Me (Mary Catherine) and Susan Renee 1955

I love my sister Susan. I always have. She's two years younger than me and even now, in our 50's, she is still my “little sister”. I have vague memories of myself standing outside on the back porch in Maine at 3 years old and one-year old baby Susan sitting on the inside of the screen door crying because I was going outside to play and she couldn't go. “Don't cry Tu-inay” (Susan Renee) I'd beg her. Even then, playing by myself just wasn't as much fun.

When she finally got old enough to walk, talk and be of some use to me it was great. Here was someone I could hang with, boss around and get away with it. She loved me unconditionally. I had the coveted position of being the “Older Sister”. I could play with her—or not. I was in charge. And Susan always wanted to play with me. “Let's play house” she'd say. “OK but I get the biggest bathroom”. We took our dolls and a bathroom each for a “house” and set up shop. It was great. The bathtub was the bed, the sink was the kitchen and the toilet was a chair. “OK” she'd say. As long as I'd play with her she would do about anything I asked. Sometimes other family members needed to visit our “homes” and sit on our “seats”. We obligingly allowed them access and would take our baby out “shopping” to give them some privacy.

Susan on the turtle at the San Diego Zoo 1958?

Most of the time Susan and I shared a room and for awhile slept in the same double bed. We would talk and giggle and draw letters with our fingers on each other's back. The older we got, the wider the chasm of age became. As teenagers, she had her friends, I had mine. Occasionally I deigned to hang out with her. It was with Susan and a friend of hers that I smoked marijuana for the first time. (shh...mom never knew) It was with Susan that we almost got arrested once at midnight for starting a campfire at Jane Reynolds park. It was Susan and me that cried together late one night when our mom told us she thought our brother loved her more than we did.

We grew up, dropped out, tuned in and turned on, then thankfully tuned back into another channel and both came to know Jesus and give our lives to Him. We both married and raised our own families. Although we've had separate adventures as adults and usually lived in different cities and states, the tie is still there across the miles.

Then my mom died—the one uniting force in our family, the anchor that kept us grounded as a family— and I felt a bit adrift. I was alone in California with my siblings scattered across the United States. Mom's fear in her latter days was that we would all lose touch as a family after she went home to Jesus. I scoffed and promised her we wouldn't, pushing down the doubt in my voice as I did so.

After she passed it felt like Susan and I only grew closer. We have mourned our mother's loss together and are marching on as matriarchs of our own little families as comrades in arms, feeling that mom is watching and cheering us on. Just like those times drawing letters in the double bed, we have each other's backs and we still recognize each other in the dark. We would defend each other to the death. When I forget who I am, Susan grounds me. She reminds me of our mom with her strength, determination, and leadership skills. She reminds me of our dad with her intelligence, dry sense of humor and gift for music. The bond we share is one of a kind and fiercely unwavering.

Life is fragile and short. Oftentimes our paths are rife with potholes and in the end, none of us get out alive. It's so nice to have a best friend in my little sister while I'm here.

~ Mary Catherine

Let's Cut To the Chase

 

The current size of our house since it's original purchase in 2007

Jim and I are in the process of (most likely) losing our home due to these wearisome and troubled economic times. It's not really a matter of "if". It's most likely WHEN. And we realize this. We're even learning to accept it. "As far as I'm concerned," I tell Jim, "let's at least have some fun with it, for cryin out loud", knowing that the bank will, in the end, have the last word.  I look at Jim and can see that he wholeheartedly agrees with me. He disappears onto his studio and returns with a 6" stack of paperwork regarding our mortgage. [I'd put an adjective to that but I'd have to just bleep it out later.] So, this can only mean one thing. I am being handed a baton that I really do not want, but must grab hold of and run with. It's only fair. When it comes to the bank, Jim is short on levity. And really, it's my own fault. I asked for it. Why can't I just keep my mouth shut? 

Today I begin. I grab the recent letter received from the bank, along with all the mismatched paperwork that has previously been mailed, faxed, or filed, go into my office and lay it all before me. I push papers here and toss papers there. I arrive at the five significant dates I am looking for. These five dates represent hours spent pulling together paperwork, hunting down pay stubs, and answering the myriad questions banks love to ask, but don't really want until they really want them. These dates are the proof we need to show out Lender why they are wrong and WE are right; that we have done what has been requested of us. We have been responsible. We have shown due diligence. And, we've shown it f-i-v-e separate times! Same information, same house, and same occupants. Only one thing has changed. Our income, which has been very recent. So why five times? Because over at the bank, none of the departments talk to each other.  They have not learned to share information either. I briefly picture these "bank people" (said with a snarl) surrounded by tall plastic building blocks, each one sitting on a single carpet square. Now I put them all in a time-out. Then I go home and forget they are there. But really, if I had to do what these folks are doing nowadays, I'd surround myself with plastic blocks and each my lunch in the closet. 

So, now I'm armed with the pertinent information I will need to address this matter and get on with my day. I call the number noted on the letter and have my first phone conversation with an "Yvonne" from Chase Bank (our lender), regarding our (delinquent) home loan. In the past I have learned that, when calling a business to discuss any type of unpleasantness, it is helpful to develop a casual and friendly relationship with the customer service rep. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it don't. Our conversation lasted for 45 minutes. These are the highlights.

September 8, 2010  9:06 a.m. 

I call the number as directed on the letter admonishing us to "Act now to Avoid Foreclosure". A female with a thick Asian accent answers and begins asking her memorized questions. We spend the next 5 minutes verifying that I am, indeed, who I claim to be. Seriously, what would be my motive to lie? I'm the one who owes all that money on a house worth only half of it.  I soon realize that up until this moment I did not exist to them. Jim handled all this banter and double talk, so why should they suddenly start speaking to ME? Like it or not, I'm all they got. Sucks to be them today. And the dialogue begins with me.

"Well, I'm calling regarding the letter we received today telling us to call immediately in order to avoid foreclosure?"  Why do I say this as if it were a question? 

"Oh," she replies, "that's just a computer-generated letter. You can disregard that."

"So, I didn't really need to call you?"

"No, you needed to call so we can tell you how late you are on your payments and how much you owe." Yvonne isn't showing a glimmer of mercy here.

I turn the letter over in my hands. "You mean you're going to go over the stuff that's in this letter? The one I should disregard?" I toss it in the trash. 

Yvonne proceeds to read me my outstanding balance as I follow along with her from the letter I have quickly pulled from the trash can. 

"Yeah." I agree. "That's what it says alright. Oh, can you give me your name? Just for my notes here." I am a steadfast note taker. I quickly pat my diligence on the back.

"It's E-bon" she tells me. 

"Can you maybe spell that for me?" She spells it and I discover it is not E-bon at all. Her name is Yvonne. "Thank you. OK, great. Now, is there something else I need to know?" 

Yvonne answers my question with a question. "No?" Are we on Jeopardy? I want to ask if that's her final answer.

"Can you tell me the status of our loan? I mean, are we in foreclosure?" 

"Oh! No." (I'm sure I hear a faint "not yet" through the receiver.) "You are in early loss mitigation. Just today your escrow account is being reviewed to see if you qualify for a loan modification." I can almost hear the crackle of the paper she is reading from.

"Early Loss Mitigation. Now what exactly is that?", I ask.  "I mean, how early is Early? And when does Late come? Is there a Late Loss Mitigation?" 

exactly? Early and then, NOT early. Can you give me some kind of timeline? or a line graph? I'm really good with line graphs." Can she appreciate the fact that I'm a detail kinda gal?

"No, it's all the same", she says. Hold the phone. Two minutes earlier she says its all different. Now it's all the same. What changed? Was there an eclipse I'm unaware of? 

So I  repeat her words back to her. "It's all the same". I'm trying to jot down those illusive details but can't write anything besides Yvonne's question marks.  "It's the same? Wait. What?" 

Yvonne moves on. "I do see here we need updated information from you." 

"You mean since last Wednesday?" Sadly, I actually expect this comment to come from her.

"Uh...yes." She names off the information needed which is just about everything we have already sent five times. I glance quickly at those dates I've jotted down. September 1st is the latest. Last Wednesday. 

Not Yvonne.

"That's exactly what my husband faxed to the bank last week on September 1st." (I wisely refer to "the bank", rather than "you". No need to get personal.) "Oh, and just an FYI, he also sent it on 4 previous occasions. I have the dates here. Would you like the dates?"  

Yvonne decides she doesn't want the dates, as if they could later become incriminating evidence. "No, don't concern yourself with that right now." she says calmly. 

"Right. Can you tell me when to be concerned about it? I should probably note that in my calendar." I protect the list of dates by covering them with the palm of my hand.

Yvonne ignores my 'idiotic' question. "So, as I was saying, we got some information, but not all." 

I have no recourse but to ask, "What part didn't you get?"

I imagine her skimming the monitor. "Your pay stubs", she says. I look through the packet that was faxed on September 1st. There they are. Pay stubs. Right there. AHA!

"You didn't get copies of recent pay stubs?" I ask, already knowing the answer. 

"Yes, but they aren't on the proper form." Yvonne is not even close to sounding convincing.

"There's a FORM for that?" I ask. Incredulously would fit here. 

"Well, no. Let's see here. OK. We did get all of your information, but SOME of it is on the wrong form. Your income and monthly expenses. We need it on a new form. A 2010 Form." she tells me.

"You need the same information we sent, but you need it on a new form. A Chase form?" I ask.

"Yes." I sense she's feeling that self-assurance coming back. "Also, we need a 4506-T."

"You need another request for last year's tax return?" I know exactly what a 4506-T form is because we've already sent it, yep, you guessed it. 5 times. And I have DATES. "Did you know that we've sent "the bank" (still in neutral corners here) five signed requests AND (♪ta da♫) an original transcript of last year's tax return. As far as I know, our tax return hasn't changed. Can they even do that?" I quickly look at my dates again. Oh please ask me for those dates. I'm so ready. 

Apparently Yvonne doesn't like tax questions. "M'am," she says firmly, "I'm just telling you what we need from you to help you."  

I think, but do not say, "What we're doing right now? This? This is VERY helpful to me. And I imagine it will continue to be more helpful if no one thinks to hang up."

Instead, I continue on with the form crap. "So, this new Chase form. The bank has been using this for several months now? Is it a secret form? Is it encrypted? We've never heard of it before." 

Yvonne replies curtly. "I really can't answer that."

"oh. Uh. OK, hmmm", I blather. Apparently Yvonne has signed some sort of confidentiality agreement I am unaware of. "Never mind then. Back to the forms. What you're saying is, even though you have all the information you need to proceed with whatever it is "the bank" is doing, you need us to take that information and put it on different forms; Chase forms. Then we are to fax it all again. But not to the number we used last week. To a different fax number. A better fax number. Is that correct?" I'm smiling now because of the absurdity of this entire line of questioning. I'm imagining having lunch with Yvonne and us laughing over this silliness. 

"Yes. That is correct." she says. What I really hear is, "No duh!" Psh. Our lunch is definitely off.

"Where can I get these new forms of yours?" I ask. I've decided to stop saying "the bank". Yvonne and I are now clearly in each other's lives.  

"They're on our website at blah-dot-blah-blah-blah." Now we're getting somewhere. Thank God. I fold up the paper with my five dates scribbled neatly in the margins. Evidence to be introduced at a later date.

"So. I can just download them and fill them out online?" 

"Yes. Right online." I think Yvonne is feeling hopeful about wrapping this up.

"Sweet! These are writable Adobe files, right? So I'll just put the same information on the new forms and then I just send them back to you online?"

"No, you have to print them out and fax them." she sighs. Will this ever end?

Before I can stop myself I say, "Wait. What year is this?" What a complete and colossal waste of time, I'm thinking.  I want to quiz her on adobe files, but I realize that would just be rude. 

"OK, I'll print them out and fax them. But there goes another tree." I wonder if they are going green where she comes from.

"If you would prefer to talk to someone else who you will believe, I can leave a message for someone to call you." she tells me.

"Oh no no, I'm totally invested now. Yvonne, may I call you Yvonne?, why do you think that I wouldn't believe you? This is completely believable.  It's been believable since last year. Do you have any job openings? Because I could do this job even better than you. I confuse people just by entering a room. Where are you located?"

I love line graphs. Color me red.

"Pardon me?" she asked.

"Located. Like, on a map. What continent are you on?"

Yvonne offers a long pause. "Uh, well,  I'm... off coast."

I get the distinct feeling I am gaining ground on some top security Intel. "Off coast. What coast?" I ask casually. 

"Well, I'm in the Philippines."

"No kidding. Really? Where they make sushi and stuff? Perfect! Because I am totally willing to relocate." I tell her. This is fun. 

Yvonne offers a long, long silence. I thinks she's finally done with me. Did I insult her without knowing? 

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" I want to say, "You mean aside from a job in the Philippines?

"Seriously? You still want to help me? You're very sweet. OK, let me think. Hmm. Tell ya what. I'll give it some thought and get back with you. Will you be there?" 

Yvonne is quick to answer this one. "I'm sorry. I can't guarantee that you'll be speaking with me." 

I can do ya one better and guarantee that she WON'T be. Alright then, no birthday card for YOU.

"OK then, thank you for calling Chase Bank."

"Wait!" I pleaded. "Don't I get to do the survey or something now?" 

9:51 a.m. Next thing I hear is a click, followed by an automated recording. "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and... blah blah blah." 

I guess I called "the bank" after all. And things were going so well with me and Yvonne. Now I'm wondering if her name is really Yvonne at all. 

~Susan Renee~

p.s. you can see that there was no "cutting to the chase" in this foot-long posting. I wrote it mostly for the Mustache Man and me so we will never forget the importance of maintaining a good sense of humor. It's critical.

Who Let the Dogs In

I don't like dogs. There, I've said it.

                              

Their barking is annoying. They leave dirty paw marks on my couch and pee on my carpet. They jump up on me uninvited when I visit their homes and they leave hair on my black pants. I don't like dogs. I get the stink- eye when I bring this subject up so I usually don't. Silent snarls from people who then cross me off their Christmas card list. I realize that I share this opinion with an extremely small, unpopular group of people who have been ostracized to the non-conformist corner of the room. The same corner we send the cigarette smokers and mac-users to. It's OK. I'm comfortable there. Don't judge me.

Over the last several years we have seen an un-precendented increasing popularity of the breed canine. In a world where we kill babies and save the kangaroo rat this should come as no surprise. And we are not content with only one dog, we must have at least 3. And we must buy bacon flavored dog food for them, hang bandanna kerchiefs around their necks, create parks exclusively for them, establish doggie daycare centers for them and even buy leopard print doggie-snuggies for these furry babies to keep their iddy biddy backs warm. I blame Sheryl Crow and that sappy, sad, feel-guilty commercial she made about abused animals.

Leah and Gram (me) 2010

Having said that I am jumping trains and boarding another subject: my granddaughter Leah. She is 12 years old and as long as I can remember Leah has wanted a puppy. As long as she can remember she's never had one, or a glimmer of hope in getting one. Getting a puppy has been her birthday wish every year when she blows out her candles. She's created Power Point slide shows on the subject. “Oh Gram...look how CUTE!” she beseeches me as she forces me to look at yet another googled image of a golden labrador puppy.

She hangs out with me some Saturdays and always has the same item at the top of her to-do list....go to the animal shelter and visit the poor miserable, abandoned dogs and cats. I cringe cause I know what's coming. The shelter stinks. The dogs bark in cadence, bruising my ear drums and irritating my ulcer. But my grandchildren have me wrapped around their little fingers so go we must. I can't resist her. I love her so much I'm willing to do that for her and if I had a kitten for everytime we've gone to the animal shelter since she was old enough to ask to go, I'd be neck deep in cats. She has to stop at every cage and talk to each animal. I am usually trying to plug my ears, standing by the entrance of the corridor of cages, and rushing her through the visitation, repeating my "animal shelter mantra" every other second - “For the love of Lucy, don't TOUCH him Leah!” (I should have that tatooed on my forehead.) One especially heart-breaking Saturday, mid-way through the visit, she stood in the corridor between the cages, pressed her hands to her heart and exclaimed “Oh Gram, I Can't Stand It!” She wants to take them ALL home. No dog or cat shall be left behind.

All this being said, I started slowly, almost imperceptibly noticing a change in me. About a year ago on one of our outings I started looking at the dogs and cats and wondering what course of events brought them there. I noted the ones that looked exceptionally scared or abused. I stopped for a couple seconds in front of one or two cages and I actually felt sadness for them. A few months later I started actually talking to them. “Hello little puppy. What brings you here today?”. Then I began commisserating with Leah on the sadness of it all. I stopped rushing her through the process and toward the door.

We went again today and I found myself driving in the direction of the pound without the normal sigh of despair and feeling of reluctance. When we got there, I was actually talking baby talk to some of them and calling to Leah “Oh look how fluffy this one is! Oh look this one has a floppy ear!”. I felt an unusual, strange feeling — a very tiny twinge indicating that I might actually want to adopt one. But reason quickly rushed in and shoved that feeling back down where it belongs. Oh my gosh, what was that? Phew, it's gone. That was a close one.

No matter how alluring the howl of Darth Vadar's chihuahua, I am resisting going over to the “bark” side. I just don't know how much longer I can hold out. How many more trips to the animal shelter will I be able to take?

God help me. Tomorrow I'm throwing out all my Sheryl Crow CDs.


Mary Catherine~

Growing Up

It's becoming a reality to me that I am no longer a child. I used to be a child. Even in my 50s, I was someone's child. I was someone's baby girl. The invisible covering of my mother, though we were miles apart, still hung over me in that maternal protective way that only a mother can understand. But then my mother died. I didn't go through denial, or anger, or the other stages of grief. I felt the sadness one feels when the thought of calling her ended with the realization that she would not be at the other end of the phone to answer. It's not an uncommon feeling. Most anyone who has lost their mom will relate. The difference is, they haven't lost MY mom. The mom who called me because she understood the emptiness a mother feels when her children no longer need her in the same ways. She was my mom, and she hurt for me. And, because I had grown up and moved away too, I imagine she still felt a bit of pain because of me. 
   The mother I knew could often remember details of my childhood that I would never remember. While she's more than a memory, she's no longer in my world, and I find it interesting that no matter her flaws, no matter her failures, I remember her now with a sweet joy and an enduring contentment. I remember the mother who last smiled at me with eyes filled with love, only hours before she left my world. My mom left me a heritage. And because she is gone I have learned that I am no longer a child. I am now the adult, with all of its duties and benefits. I am required to be the grown up. It's my turn to be strong and resourceful, as she most certainly was. It's my responsibility to remember that, though my children are grown and no longer need me in the same ways, I am still their mother. And I love them, no matter what. 
   
    The hardest part about growing up now is knowing that my phone call won't be answered and I will never again be greeted with a warm hug when I appear at my mom's doorstep. As the adult I will miss that huge smile and deep hug that says more than words could ever say. But isn't that the way life was meant to be? Isn't this God's design? Not to just take away, but always to replace. I am not a new mother. I have carried out all these motherly duties and felt these motherly feelings long before. My own children are now adults. But they are still my children. Somehow, in some indescribable way, I am now fully a mother. It's my turn to answer the phone and to greet my children at the door with a mother's hug, knowing my own mother's hugs have ended. I will hurt when my children hurt, and rejoice with them in their successes and happiness. But the mother who knew what I would feel, long before I would feel it, will not be there to share in my joys and heartaches. It's knowing that the pain, as well as the joy, stops with me. For now anyway. And it's OK. The jumble of all these mysteries brings me to a place of strength and peace, knowing that I can do all of these things because of a mom who showed me how. Being a mother requires an impossible kind of love. Knowing when to let go and when to hang on tightly; when to advise, and when to just listen. Being a child doesn't seem to require near so much. It just takes longer to do one (seemingly) simple thing. It requires learning, when your time comes, how to be the grown up. And so I am learning. Every single day.


~Susan~

B-Bye Bummer

Life is a trip and it sounds like a plan,

just to get up to go to find out where you'd land.

Chances for riches are scattered and few.

And what's a mere buck, when you've

no time to do

all the things that you want?

Live the life that you've dreamed?

What's a mere buck when your

own mouth ain't screamed?

So, soon when your head says

your mind's gonna slip, tell the people who care

that you're taking a trip.

You gotta give in, and you just gotta say

that you gotta go dream, 

be it just for a day.

bdelany~1973

Our Dad's 19th Anniversary

My father was born on Aug 29, 1921 and died on Aug 26, 1991. Most of what he did in between those dates has already been forgotten by most people and very little will be remembered by the rest of us. I loved my father and coming upon the anniversary of his passing I find myself thinking about him and re-visiting my life with him. I consider him circumspectly—not as a loving father or a strict disciplinarian for he was neither—but as the man he was.

Although he didn't hug us, tell us he loved us, or pay much attention to us, he wasn't a horrible father as fathers go. He didn't abandon us, beat us, come home drunk or fritter away his paycheck on whatever it was those “bad” fathers spent their hard-earned money on. These facts, and others, our mother carefully reminded us of whenever we doubted his love. “Of course he loves you” she'd convince us “he put up that swing set in the backyard for you didn't he?” Yes, of course. How could I forget that. And that would suffice.

No, dad was just a man, struggling with his own demons and, as Kramer would say, “emotionally unavailable.” I always had the impression he was extremely busy with something obscure and important and I was an annoying fly buzzing around his head when I'd seek his attention. If I had a nickel for every time I've asked him a question only to be ignored, I'd be a nickel-aire. His demeanor continued throughout my adult life. Although I did visit on holidays and other times, I never depended on my father for anything—money, advice on how to set up the VHS player or even a kind word. It would have been an exercise in futility. I left home at 18 and never looked back. Which was a good thing because dad shut the door firmly behind me. He didn't slam it or lock it. Just made sure it was closed.

After my own children were born and grew out of the cute dimpled-baby stage and into the whining, demanding, muddy shoes, argumentative kid-stage I began to see my dad re-surface....in ME. I saw myself reacting at times to my kids the way he did to me. Many times I have forced myself answer my children, and even my grandchildren's questions when I desperately wanted to ignore them and walk away. Times when I've reluctantly put off doing “obscure and important things” in order to have a tea party with them or watch them sword fight or tell them endless bedtime stories. It is my secret struggle, and although I don't always triumph, I am loathe to allow my dad to loom up in me unawares and I refuse to leave my children and grandchildren with the same memories he left me. Knowing I am like him in that way has helped me to forgive and make peace with the father of my childhood.

Nowadays, whenever I begin to consider my parent's shortcomings the good Lord immediately reminds me of my own. I'm no cake-walk. We're all just trying to do our best with the baggage we've got. We're all going to screw up our kids to some degree or other. We can only pray they'll forgive us someday and end up well-adjusted in the end. And in the end I hope my own children can remember me with generous grace and a smile on their face.




~ Mary Catherine ~

A Formidable Bond (The Night We Got Hammered)

The "Hammer" (courtesy of auburnxc-Flickr Photos)

Cathy and I recently took a stroll down memory lane, via old postcards on the Facebook page of an unknown alumni from Lancaster named Tom. There were a few comments here and there from other Facebookies (who actually knew Tom), but once we started chiming in with our own memories, the strings of comments from other friends (who did not know Tom either) began to grow. Tom was delighted. We were enthralled. As you can see, we are not followers in Facebook Land. We. Are. Leaders.


As it turns out, Tom proved to be quite the lover of the annual Antelope Valley Fair and Alfalfa Festival. If you grew up in the high desert of southern California, known as the Antelope Valley, you would not be unfamiliar with this annual fete’ celebrated at the end of every August and runs through Labor Day. We all called it "the fair." Some call it the Antelope Valley Fair. Out of respect I included Alfalfa Festival for those cowboys and ranchers who still participate in tractor pulls and cow pie tossing. Soon enough, Cathy was commenting on how much she had loved going to the fair each year. I was like, what? huh? Did we go every year? I'm not remembering this... Did we go as a family? As kids? Did Jim and I ever take our own kids? I couldn't remember. So it got me thinking, gees, I really don’t have any memories of us going to this stinkin fair. That’s when I remembered the 4H booths and the livestock buildings. So yeah, I did go to that fair. And it really did stink. The "Alfalfa Festival" remains intact. Then I had a flashback to the 60s of a time when I did go to the fair, and Cathy was with me. In honor of the 2010 AV Fair AND Alfalfa Festival arriving this month, I share this with you.

I only have one memory of my sister, Cathy and me at the fair. Now that’s just sad, isn’t it? Only one. But it’s significant because it drew a strange bond in my childhood mind to a sister that I had considered invincible. My best guess is that we were probably 11 and 13? Not much older if that. So the year was close to 1965. At that age we must have been with our parents. I'd love to make up something really interesting here but the truth is, I honestly don’t recall the details. (are you sensing a theme here?) What I do remember is the two of us deciding to ride "The Hammer", located in the SCARY section of the midway. It consisted of a cage at the end of a long iron arm. There were two arms that rocked, scissor-like, back and forth opposite each other, as each built up speed that eventually caused the cage to turn full circle and spun round and round. In each cage sat two people who were fastened by a single lap belt. When it was our turn we climbed into the cage. I remember the carnie who belted us in was a huge, ugly, hygiene-deficient jerk who would NOT listen to our pleas that the belt he had "secured" was NOT TIGHT enough. We looked at each other and felt helpless. Because we were! That's when I noticed the open area in the front of the cage. It was certainly large enough for me to slip through, and definitely big enough for the both of us to fall out of. OK. Changed my mind. I wanted OFF.

Then the Hammer began to move. Our cage began to rock. We swung up; we swung down. And we were not enjoying this one bit. This was not fun. And as that stinking "Hammer" began to move towards it’s 360 degree turn, our lap belt began to feel looser than before we stepped in. We hung upside down hanging onto that belt for dear life. Seriously. I was plastered to one side of the cage with my feet pressing firmly to anything that would keep me from falling through that hole in front of me. Cathy was plastered elsewhere and we were unable to reach each other. More importantly, my big sister couldn't reach ME. All we could do was white knuckle that lap belt and keep our legs outstretched in a determined effort to remain inside a cage we desperately wanted out of. It was truly terrorizing. In my mind there was no question of whether or not we'd fall to our deaths. It was just a matter of when.

We both began screaming for it to stop! And of course, it didn’t. We'd paid for this thrill with two ten cent tickets and apparently we were going to get what we'd paid for. NO EXCEPTIONS. I finally caught a glimpse of Cathy and the fear on her face made this all too real. It wasn’t long before we were both screaming for our mom. Literally. It just seemed the natural thing to do when all hope is lost. Did we think she could hear us? Could anyone hear us? The funny things is, I knew that my sister could hear ME. Strangely, that gave me some slight comfort, though we were both facing the same demise. Eventually and mercifully, the ride ended. Why is it that rides you hate always last twice as long as the ones you love? It's one of those childhood anomalies. It's like a parent telling his crying kid to be quiet or "I'll give you something to cry about." It makes no sense. So, we wobbled out of the Hammer, happier than life itself to have our feet on solid ground. I gave that creepy carnie the meanest look I could muster. He'd nearly killed us and he didn't even seem to care. He didn't. He was already lap belting his next two victims. I hate him still.

I don’t remember anything else that happened after that. Perhaps it was the TRAUMA. I don't know. What I do remember is - that was the night I learned something amazing. My invincible big sister was capable of the same fear that I was. Together we had gotten hammered at the 1965 Antelope Valley Fair (and Alfalfa Festival). Together, we had faced death, and together we had survived. We now shared a bond that I have since to share with anyone else. And I'll have it for the rest of my life. Now how cool is that?

And Facebook Tom, I don't care if I ever go to another AV Fair (and Alfalfa Festival) again. But I do hope you have a blast. If you pass by "The Hammer" please do me a favor. Keep Walkin...

~Susan~ 

Grampy Drinks the Koolaid

My father in law, Tex is 84 years old. He's a widower and lives in a senior mobile home park a couple miles from us.  He's old enough to be bitter and honery and get away with it. He's 5'3" tall, and loud; cranky as an old rooster with a hangover. But he's the only parent Mike and I have left so we do love him and patiently tolerate him, knowing first-hand that parents only come once in life and don't last forever. And we also know that our adult children are watching us and getting clues on how to treat their aged P's (parents). 

     Grampy has 27 great-grandchildren. Every time a new one is born we sit down together and count them all up again. We start with the oldest and name them all down to the new one. He never remembers how many he has. He just knows he has "too damn many." "Well" he says "At least most of them are boys. Girls are trouble. I never wanted girls". (He had three sons) Seeing the illogic behind that reasoning and having had two daughters of my own who are and were NOT trouble (well not much) I just nodded my head and changed the subject. I used to argue with him. I don't have the energy anymore. He's as stubborn as dried egg yolk on a fork sitting three days out in the sun. Unlike God, who changed His mind about destroying the golden calf-worshiping Hebrew children when Moses beseeched Him not to, Grampy does NOT change his mind.

     We had my grandson Jared's 8th bday party here at my house, weekend before last, We had a piñata and all the kids got cellophane treat bags with all kinds of candies and prizes that fell from the piñata, plus other goodies Sarah (Jared's mom) stuck in the bag. Well Grampy came to the party. He says there are too damn many kids underfoot so leave him out of the parties...But he comes over anyway. Nevertheless he had a swell time, even took a whack at the piñata, entertained us with stories of his youth, and was the last to leave. 

Grampy Bustin Up the Piñata

     Mike (my husband) gave one of the leftover candy-filled treat bags to Grampy as he was walking out the door. Grampy came over this weekend shoved the treat bag he'd received in my face and said "Your husband tried to kill me with this candy" There was no candy left in the bag - he'd eaten it all. There were only two balloons and a small yellow bottle of bubbles (the tiny kind with the wand in the lid) "What?" I asked eagerly, knowing I was going to get a great reply and gearing up for it. "Yeah!" he continued, pointing to the cellophane bag "I tried drinking that yellow lemonade and it tasted like soap! I hope none of them other kids got sick on it!" Well I had to hahaha in his face and that only made him spittin' mad. He stormed out of the room in search of Mike to give HIM an ear-full. How on earth did that man make it to 85 years?

          

~  Mary Catherine