Not a Creature Was Stirring...

January 10, 2011

We have a mouse in the house. Or maybe a whole mouse family, I don't know. OK I see the little smile on your face as you are picturing an old Tom and Jerry cartoon and the cute little gray mouse running amuck around the kitchen table with a smirk on his snerk while my cat Patty Cake gleefully chases it and almost (but not quite) catches it. Well slap that smile off your face. Mice are NOT cute. They are dirty rodents who leave their little mouse droppings behind the fridge and out-wit even my most fail-safe mouse traps.

January 18, 2011

I am decidedly a captive in my own house. Last week I set out 12 mouse traps around the house and in the garage. Every day I inspect them and they remain empty. My home used to be my sanctuary, the home that Mike and I built with love and have worked hard to keep—we've kept it relatively clean and artfully decorated (she said humbly). My house is a reflection of who I am. My place of Solace and Zen when I come home from a stressful day out in the cruel world. Or at least it was. We have been invaded. I am determined to evict the varmint(s) and I am not going down without a fight. This is our territory and just like the last episode of Little House, I'll blow this town to pieces before I let any mice keep permanent residence here.

January 27, 2011

Not my house but isn't this cute?

I admitted defeat and called Pest-Be-Gone. The fellow came out the next day and the fact that his name was Ben did not escape my attention. After a thorough inspection he declared that we don't have mice. (No no no, that would be too easy.) What we have is a big RAT he announced with a toothy grin. (did he say ONE? Oh please God let there be just one) My stomach turns at the thought. Evidently the rat has been living in the house for some time now. I'm going to puke.

Truth is I should have guessed. Last week I caught my cat staring at the crack between the stove and the refrigerator. Staring intensely and in her best Pouncing Position. She has no claws. How can she expect to catch a rat half her size? But stare and threaten to pounce she must. I think its in the cat handbook.

So Ben set out several packets of Extremely Lethal RAT poison in tucked-away places around the house and in the garage. He told us RATS are difficult to catch, then quickly looked at his watch, slithered out the door and bade us good luck. Um...bye Ben.

January 30, 2011

Still no dead RAT(s) (please GOD let there be just one) I checked the poison packets. All in place. I called Ben for the fifth time. No answer. I recollected how day before yesterday, Patty Cake assumed the Pouncing Stance next to the couch, staring underneath it. Last night she sat on the couch in my bedroom staring, unblinking, back behind it. That doesn't bode well. Did Ben leave me his cell number? No.

With new determination, I schlepped to Lowes and bought 6 RAT traps. The most expensive ones. Humungous things that sharply snap with enough authority to kill a small child. YES! I set them out in the house and garage, wondering who the patron saint of Rodent Killers is and if Protestants are allowed to pray to saints.... I am officially in panic-mode.

Jan 31, 2011

I pulled out the refrigerator this evening to inspect the packet o poison behind it. (It's on wheels, it's not that heavy) As I did so THE RAT RAN OUT FROM UNDER THE FRIDGE, SKITTERED ACROSS MY TOES AND RAN UNDER THE COUCH. I screamed bloody murder, jumping up and down. It was HUGE and it was HORRIBLE. Mike came running into the kitchen with the stun gun. I don't know if it was for me or the rat. He quickly assessed the situation and said he would call our son, Shane and together they would get rid of that rat for good. I grabbed my purse and marched out the door, vowing not to return until the R.A.T. was D.E.A.D. Driving away (perhaps forever) I thought nostalgically that we've had 12 years in this house. It's been a good run, good times and great memories but every party has to end.

Is it legal to buy dynamite?

Patty Cake....skulking

Two hours later I called my husband needing a status update. It turns out that Project DEAD RAT was a Fail. He said he and Shane tore the living room apart to get it out from under the sectional. Patty Cake was standing by in anticipation and when the RAT finally did emerge in panic from under the couch, she was on the job. She chased it down the hall and into the laundry room. Mike and Shane were on those critter's tails and quickly slammed the laundry room door shut, trapping the RAT inside.

Now here my Fool-proof Plan; shove a towel under the door to the laundry room and never ever go in there again. That room is now dead to me.

February 5, 2011

It's been five days since "Operation RAT in the Laundry Room". The door remains firmly shut. I considered putting yellow police tape over it in case anyone forgets The Plan. Our dirty clothes are beginning to smell. This morning I suggested we toss them into the trash and buy new clothes. Mike thought that was funny. I am dead serious. He then told me not to be such a wimp and go into the Laundry Room. He said surely the RAT is dead by now.

No one calls me a Wimp so with pride intact I mustered my courage, cracked open the door and peered inside. I had little hope at this point and assumed the RAT had chewed a hole in the dryer vent and escaped to the roof. But NO. THERE HE WAS D.E.A.D on top of the dryer. Victory at Last! O Happy Day! Hallelujah Jesus! I screamed...er I mean politely called for Mike and he took care of the disposal of the Deceased Body like any good husband would...after snapping a photo with my iphone so I could post it on Facebook.

Adios  D.E.A.D.  R.A.T.

Thank you Jesus. Kudos to Mike. Props to my son Shane. A tiny sliver of thanks to Ben (who turned out to be a disappointment for the most part and quit taking my calls after the third day). But most of all, loads of thanks to Patty Cake for waking up and moving her lazy butt off the sofa long enough to do what a cat is supposed to do!

Judy! Shake Me Up!

BBC Mini Series of Bleak House

Last week I watched the BBC miniseries Bleak House, written by Charles Dickens. And I am still smiling over the scroogey and dilapidated character of Mr. Smallweed.  He is obstinate and full of bossery vileness. My mom would say he's full of spit and vinegar but he's way worse than that and full of a lot more than spit and vinegar. And to top that off, he's crippled and lives completely reliant upon the generosity of others to move him from one place to another.  Have I described him well enough? Here's more. He's grumpy and cranky and ugly and horrifically hygiene deficient. He is carried from here to there in an old wooden chair held up by more ugly holding long handles that secure the chair to prevent any spillage. (Just think Arc of the Covenant.) This man embodies the definition of a curmudgeon. Don't you love that word? I do. And so you see that Mr. Smallweed is just a horrible horrible curmudgeon of a man. And I love him! He is assisted in his loan sharking business by his granddaughter, Judy.  "Judy! Shake me up!!" he yells to her every time he's thrown a fit over pretty much nothing. She dutifully grabs him under the arms and literally yanks him up and shakes him until you hear some bones crackling. I don't know why, but it's just funny. And it keeps getting funnier. Today, with a full day to vedge out, I watched the whole thing all over again with my daughter, Carissa. Soon enough Mr. Smallweed is introduced into the story. I'm all set to laugh again. I sneek a smiling glance over and see that my daughter is not smiling at all. Don't you hate that?

Mr. Smallweed and his dutiful granddaughter, Judy

As this character further develops I realize she is now fast-forwarding through the meat of Mr. Smallweed's scenes. "He's so horrible", she tells me. YES, I thought. That is exactly what he is. Don't you just LOVE him? But no, she don't. She's a much kinder soul than I and I'm thinking his orneriness was nothing short of rude and irritating (which is true) and I wondered why it was just me who thought this crust of a man was so darn funny? And as my researcher mind got the better of me I started googling him, trying to find out what in the world ailed this old crank that required him to be 'shaken' up every so often. Sadly, I never did find a sufficient answer, but I did happen across this wonderfully refreshing blog called, Code Yellow Mom. Turns out she's seen that mini series too. Back in 2006. And she loves Mr. Smallweed! It was great! I laughed out loud, threw my head back, raised my hands into fists and yelled, "COMRADE!"

So I share her blog with you here in the hopes that it might shake you up at least a little. I think being shaken up now and again may not really be such a bad thing.  Code Yellow Mom doesn't think so either. Comrades must stick together. (BTW, Carissa loved the series, despite Mr. Smallweed and his gnarly and wretched behaviors.)

 ~Susan

http://codeyellowmom.blogspot.com/2006/04/shake-me-up-judy.html

Mary Mary Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

I love to garden. I love the feeling of dirt between my fingers, the smell of tomato plants with ripened tomatoes waiting to be picked and the reward after every winter of springtime with green trees, ever-faithful daffodils and flowering roses. My yard is like an artist's canvas to me and I love coming up with new ideas for plants and flowers whenever a spot becomes available. It soothes my soul. And I like to think that gardening somehow connects me to my ancestors, my grandparents, my father, and most of all my mother.

We always lived in the suburbs growing up, and my earliest memories of mom and dad were out in the yard. On any given summer day, there my mother would be with her horn-rimmed glasses, short auburn hair, and beige pedal pushers on her hands and knees with a kitchen paring knife digging weeds out of the yard. “Come and help me, Cathy” she'd urge. Bah. That was the last thing I'd want to do on a sunny summer day. Sometimes she'd force me—hand me the knife and make me do weed duty. I was good for 5 minutes top then wiggle my way out of it. It was an endless chore for her but mom was tirelessly vigilant. I remember my parents sitting in lawn chairs at twilight on the front lawn after working in the yard—sipping a drink and proudly perusing their verdant domain. We kids would be playing on the grass as well, doing cartwheels and playing hide and go seek. I always loved it when they sat outside and desperately wanted them to watch me play. But my memories do not include their sitting there as having anything to do with us kids. Looking back I imagine my father's purpose there was to watch the grass, flowers and shrubs with a jealous need to protect them from overly playful and exuberant children.

We visited my paternal grandmother once in 1960 on a family vacation to Missouri. She lived on a farm without running water, but she had a two-seater outhouse and a good sized vegetable garden with a root cellar to boot. She must have sensed a kindred soul in me because she used to write me long letters after that visit which, for the most part, described her garden, her dog and various wildlife they'd see on the farm. Her world seemed so small to me, yet so content and always filled me with wonder.

As my parents got on in years, they eventually acquired a gardener and discovered Weed n Feed. Mom's weeding days were over. I'd go visit on the weekends and she would talk to me about what she'd want to do in the yard. Even though she couldn't get down on her hands and knees and garden much anymore, she still had plans. “I want to hire someone to tear up that concrete patio and re-do it right this time. And plant some gladiolas and Easter lilies along the back fence. I do love Easter lilies.” I'd listen and nod my head, knowing the desert terrain would not support those flowers but determined not to burst her bubble.

My dad did put in a rose garden on the large lot on the side of their house several years before he died, along with a vegetable garden. He tilled it and cared for it and it was quite lovely—a rock path around each section that was squared off with railroad ties. I expect his green-thumbed ancestors called to him down through the years to do that just like they do me.

After dad died the vegetables went to seed but the rose garden still grew. Beautiful apricot, yellow and red roses. I'd cut them now and then and take them to his grave. I never felt his presence there. Although I feel no guilt, I took him flowers too seldom. But on the up-side, it was always quiet and windy and lonely in that graveyard. Just he way he would have liked it. And I imagine he would have preferred I not trample that beautiful cemetery lawn too much anyway.

Towards the end, mom became pretty much bed-ridden but never gave up her love of her flora and fauna. About two months before she died, she had the gardener plant rows of yellow and orange marigolds in the spot outside her bedroom window where she could see them from her bed everytime she looked outside. She was so proud to show them off to me next time I visited. She knew she wasn't long for this world and I think they soothed her soul in those final days.

I expect when I get to heaven she'll be there to greet me with open arms and that big smile that I remember so well. “Come here Mary Catherine” she'll say with delight as she tucks my arm under hers and leads me to her backyard. “Come and see what I've done to the yard. Just like I told you—gladiolas and Easter lilies. You remember—I've always loved an Easter lily!”


~ Mary Catherine

The Mystery of Motherhood

Lisa and me in 1977

I have always loved kids. As a young teen I made a bunch of money babysitting kids. I like the idea of children; their infectious giggles, wobbly first steps, and matter-of-fact honesty that we all lose as we grow up. (well, except Chloe O'Brien. Hers is totally intact.) I can't begin to imagine a world or a society without them. I loved being a mommy, though my boatload of doubts over my mothering abilities point to the contrary. So it's natural to say I assumed I would have had a dozen of my own kids. Half a dozen at least. But, it turned out, two were my quota. Two had to suffice. And the two I have are more than enough for me. They fill my heart with joy and pride. They have brought experiences to my life that are incomparable to anything but a mother's world. It can sometimes be the most simple and intoxicating kind of love imaginable. But honestly, a mother's love is such an impossible kind of love. Just when you learn how something works, it all changes. You hang on tight, then it's time to let go. You want our children to grow up, but it's too soon to cut out naps. You pack up boxes of their outgrown clothes and later remember you weren't quite ready to let that little striped shirt go. You hug them close and risk being pushed away. But only you know their fears and their faces, in ways no one else ever could.  It's a mystery that is really no mystery at all. Not to you. Not to a mother.

Waiting for the countdown. SMILE! ~ 1983

It takes a lifetime of learning a simple truth. You will never, ever, ever learn it all. And before you're ready, before you've planned your next step, they're grown and they're moving on. And they don't need you in ways you were not prepared for. They're doing the adult thing, just like you taught them. And it's too late to take it back. And it hurts. Sometimes the ache is so deep you feel as if your heart will break in two. And then someone shares a glimpse of the love that is waiting for you. A love that cuts through the pain if only you can wait for it. It's the love for your grandchild. You hear the stories and you watch the incredible joy spread across the face of a sister or a friend when they describe the realities of being a grandma. And, for me at least, the wait can seem an eternity. But then it happens. You find out that your baby is having a baby. It doesn't seem real and it doesn't make you feel so different. Not yet. But slowly, your own child's heart turns back toward you and you find that you are needed again, but in ways that are richer, and deeper, and you wonder if your heart can possibly ever hold all the love and warmth and blessings that you begin to feel. A new mystery begins and you have learned to set a slower pace in finding all its facets. There is a child within your child. And it's real. And he kicks and he hiccups and he has his own name. And he has a beating heart with sounds that fill your ears with wonder and excitement. And there is that specialist of bonds now. The love you feel for your grandchild is new and different and sweet. It's blossoming. But you find that the bond you feel now toward your own child has changed. 

Relaxing with my daughter ~ 2010

You feel a connection with someone who knows that no one else will ever, ever, ever love their child in the way that only you can. It's a new kind of mother's love. And maybe it's a mystery. But it's really no mystery at all. I love you, Lisa Marie.  

~Susan Renee

Grampy's Story

Mandee and Grampy (Lorynne in background)

Grampy is almost 86 years old and not too happy about it. He doesn't like the kinks, jabs and irritations that come with living inside an 86 year old body. He told me he looked in the mirror the other day and wondered who that old man was. But then, Grampy's not too happy about anything and never has been. As long as I've known Grampy he's been a whining, foul-mouthed cantankerous old goat—and that's when he's in a good mood. But I sure do love him. 

Being so hale and hearty for most of his life, old age has fiercely walloped him hard and completely taken him by surprise. He finds his life revolving around doctor visits, prescription pills, Gunsmoke and naps, leaving less time for his favorite past-time—lunch at Der Wienerschnitzel. He used to take his little dog to Der Wienerschnitzel every day to get chili dogs. One for him and one for Mugsy. They'd go park the car in the shade by Longs Drug store and eat their hot dogs. Only he had to lick the chili off Mugsy's dog as the puppy didn't like chili. In all my infinite wisdom, I finally told him one day “Why don't you get yourself a chili dog and that dadburned dog of yours a mustard dog, hold the mustard?” (I used to work there. I know the lingo). He stared at me for a few seconds like I was a complete idiot then shouted “Hell no. I LIKE licking the chili off!” But now that his little dog is gone, even during a good week some of the charm has worn off and Der Wienerschnitzel visits are sporadic and farther between. 

Grampy was born Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. Everyone calls him Tex. Quite a handle for a man who is 5'3” and weighs 120 on a good day. A strong wind could blow him over and we are careful to keep him inside on windy days. He is French Canadian which he's very proud of and speaks a strange dialect of French I don't understand and one they never taught me when I took four years of French in High School. So he'll come over in the summer and walk through the front door proclaiming it's hot outside “Ill faw fret!” He says. I told him his French doesn't make sense and that's not how I learned it. He told me the nuns in my high school were damn fools and lesbians and that they never lived in France. Well he's got me there.

He ran away from his violent, abusive father and none-too-happy home at the tender age of 13, taking his little brother Willie with him. They traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in search of kinfolk in Dallas who they were hoping would take them in. This was 1938, during the Great Depression. Two boys could travel with the hobos, jumping trains and sleeping out in the open around campfires without being bothered by the police. But they weren't scared of the police. They were scared to death their father would find them and really kill them for good. He didn't. They made it to Dallas. At 18 Tex was drafted into WWII which he refers to as “The war to end all wars”. I told him “No. They actually called WWI 'The war to end all wars',not WWII”. (Wikipedia Dad, it's called the Internet) He didn't buy it. He gave me that long, hard stare and none-too-gently reminded me again of the mentally deficient, wayward nuns who taught me a whole crap load of nuthin' in school. He's got me there. 

Grampy raised his three boys by his cardinal rule “Do as I say or find yourself on the wrong end of my belt”. Period. Oh the stories I've heard of Grampy chasing one of the boys down the desert road they lived on, waving his belt over his head, cussing at the top of his lungs. His boys learned early on how to run and run FAST. Two of them won medals on the High School Track team. You could say they were motivated to succeed. He taught his boys to fight, be strong, work hard and to do anything for your family, even if they are no account idiots who never appreciated their parents. He told me once many years ago (when he had been drinking) that being a father was not his best accomplishment. D'ya think? He looked sad and forlorn when he said it. I felt badly for him. Or maybe his eyes were just glazed over from the tequila. I don't know. 

Tex has been my father in law for almost 39 years now and he's the only parent we have left. The others were too nice to last that long...Grampy's just too honery to die. I told him once he's going to out-live us all just to spite us. He got a little twinkle in his eye then took out his teeth and started preaching to me about flossing and brushing. He did that at the dinner table one Easter Sunday when we had all the kids, grandkids and “company” over as well. I consider “company” people who don't know us well enough to discern our dysfunctions yet. They still think we're pretty normal. And especially people who have never met Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. He pulled out his dentures during dinner, wanting to show his great-grandkids what happens from a lifetime of not brushing your teeth on a regular basis. (hobo's don't have toothbrushes don't you know) I saw the wide-eyed, horrific stare from our "company" sitting across from him and quickly re-routed Grampy into another conversation, desperately trying to steer him, and us, away from the precipice of utter social doom. Our "company" has politely declined any further invitations to dinner. 

Tex has taught me many things that are check-listed on the hard drive of my memory. He's taught me to “look before you leap” and the pitfalls of jumping to erroneous conclusions, making a fool out of yourself in the grocery story when you raise a commotion at the check stand, swearing the carrots are on sale only to be calmly shown they aren't. He's taught me not to take life too seriously when, at that same check stand, he has no reservations about pulling up his threadbare, flannel shirt to show the astonished cashier the scar from his quadruple by-pass surgery. That's quadruple he says to emphasize the fact that his surgery was one better than triple. He's taught me that the acquisition of money is not the end-all to our existence and that the simple pleasures in life are not bought but they are enough. Watching the western channel with a good dog and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on your lap is as good as it needs to get. It's enough.

Grampy lives in a single-wide trailer in a Senior's mobile home park, pretty close to us. He calls Mike (My husband, his son, his caretaker and lifeline) on the phone at least once a day. He leaves angry messages if it goes to voice mail, wondering why the hell Mike's not answering. Then he calls me. I think I'm the next best thing. Oftentimes I'm in a meeting at work. I always take his call. "Hi dad, what's up?" "Well I forgot—what day is it today?" "Tuesday Dad. It's Tuesday". "OK thanks". click. Or, more importantly, "I pressed the wrong damn button on this clicker here and now all I have is snow on the TV and Touched By An Angel. I'm missing the Rifleman and I don't even like Touched By An Angel!" So I step out of the meeting and talk him through the buttons on the remote control. 

I like to think he needs us, that we are his raison d'etre—his reason for existence. And maybe it's true. He would say "Ray zone du et! What the hell kind of language is that?" I have experienced enough parental loss to realize he won't be around much longer so I try to savor and even enjoy him while he's here. He makes us laugh at his eccentricities. He tests our patience and makes us better people. And every once in awhile, every once in a blue moon when his defenses are down, he'll come over to watch Bonanza with Mike and when he leaves he'll give me a hug, call me darlin' and tell me he loves me. And that makes it worth it. That's enough.

~ Mary Catherine ~

Guilt-Free Blogging For Dummies

Let me start off by saying that I really have nothing to say.  And because of this, I have nothing to blog. I feel dried up and newsworthless. [Yes, a word. I just made it up.] And it's not like there's nothing going on in my life worth noting. I have lots of that. Too much, really. But it gets all jumbled up in my head and I have no filtering system. I can't compartmentalize like Lorelei Gilmore; her greatest trait, in my opinion. But the worst part of my non-blogging is that I feel so guilty about it. Like, it's my turn to blog, so what's the hold up?  "You should be blogging", I admonish myself. I feel the weight of those four little letters hanging heavy on my weary shoulders. In my mind's eye I see my head slumped over in shame. I feel the lurking guilt from my catholic upbringing pulling on my shirt. Will I ever be entirely rid of it? I don't know. But I'm not carrying my share of the blogging duties. I'm being flaky and irresponsible. I hate me! And moreover, I have absolutely no reconciliation plan. Non-blogging has become my new sin. Oh woe is me. And just now, as I type this, I realize how absolutely ridiculous this all sounds. When I say it out loud it's even sillier because who the heck is waiting for me to blog? Seriously. Well, other than my sister who joined this bloggish undertaking at my request because "wouldn't it be fun to have our own blog?" And it really has been fun. Until the fall. (That's  trip and fall, not the beautiful season that comes after a hot summer.) So today, by golly, I sat down on my bed, opened my laptop and just started writing. Bam! BLOG. This is it. And it's perfectly imperfect. Just like me.

This is me. Smiling.

I still feel the writer's block, but the guilt is gone. I'm free. For now. And somewhere deep inside I think I have accomplished something big. Monumental, even. I have stuck my tongue out and spat upon whatever it is that makes me feel so obligated to blog. I am breaking the insipid spell on this guilt-laden blogger. Whew. See. Me. Smile. I actually FEEL 10 pounds lighter. Awesome. Now, only 50 pounds to go. 
[See? Still lurking.]


~Susan Renee

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.