When I’m 92

I am blessed that both of my grandmothers are still alive. They are women I truly admire. My mother’s mother came to visit this Christmas and I love spending time with her. I named my daughter Vera after her and she is one of my favorite people to spend time with. She is almost 92, still lives alone, still drives herself to church on Sunday, still goes on mystery trips, ballgames and to the theatre with friends and family. She is a live wire. I can only hope to be the woman she is.

Grandma and I were Christmas shopping and she wanted to buy something for my son Codi. He loves music and movies and that was what was primarily on his list. Now I was pretty sure that Grandma, no matter how hip she is, didn’t know who U2, Elvis Costello, New Order or The Clash were. But she wanted to pick out the gift. We went to Best Buy and I took her to look at the Elvis Costello cds. She looked at them all carefully and picked out the one she thought was best. Don’t ask my how she knew what to pick. He loved it and all the better because she really did pick it out.

Grandma didn’t miss one activity, one event or one chance to visit with family while she was here. Why should she? She didn’t let her age get in her way, never let being tired slow her down and never thought that it was too far to go to be with someone. I love that.

When I am 92, I want to be like her. She values others just for who they are, uses her time to have fun and be with the people that are important to her and is there for them when it’s important to them, doesn’t let much get in her way. She loves the Lord, her family and life. I would guess in that order too. I just hope I make it to 92.

Where is baby Jesus?

I love nativity sets and have quite a few. I have the set my grandparents started in 1938 on their honeymoon in Italy and one from Central America my friend Judy gave me to name a few. When my children were younger I just had two and would lovingly put them out each year. And each year baby Jesus would disappear. My daughter Vera would take the holy child and hide him. Why? Because Jesus was born on Christmas and it wasn’t Christmas yet! I spent a good deal of time convincing her to give my baby back before Christmas. She would return the figurine and then it would disappear again. Things you never thought you would yell as a parent: “Where is the world is baby Jesus?”

P.S. I didn’t tell Vera until years later that it took the wise men almost two years to make it to the holy family. You can guess why.

Where there is a smoke alarm…

My husband, Pete is a contractor and works primarily on restoration, specifically fire and flood damage. I can’t tell you the number of times he has come home and told me of the house he is working on with fire damage and the number one cause is candles. Yes, candles. A dog will knock the candle down with it’s tail, the wind will blow the curtain over the flame and poof!, someone will leave the candle burning when they leave the house and poof! again. Who knows how it all happens, but it does and often. To say the least, I can’t light a candle in my house without hearing a lecture on the dangers of fire. You would think I was lighting a campfire in the middle of the carpet and hoping for the best. I usually just nod my head and smirk.

I had been cleaning all day and the house was looking good and smelling good (thanks to French vanilla candles) when Pete came home last Friday and stated we were babysitting for a friend while he went to his company Christmas party. The boys had already eaten, so Pete and I fixed a favorite snack of tortillas warmed on the stove burner, add cheese, avocado and salt. Yum!

The boys came prepared with video games and with Pete in tow, went to the basement to play games. I was upstairs enjoying a much deserved quiet moment. When what to my wondering ears should I hear, but a smoke alarm. At first it was just the beep, beep, beep, you hear when you burn something, but there isn’t too much smoke. I thought to myself; that crazy Pete, he forgot to turn off the burner and it got too hot and smoked. Then, BEEEEEEEEEP. Wow, there must have been some extra tortilla on the burner and it is really smoking. I come out of the upstairs room, start to run down the stairs and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but FIRE! Flames! Smoke! It was a Christmas stocking that had fallen down from the fireplace onto… A candle I had burning behind the nativity I had set up on the fireplace hearth.

I ran for the fire extinguisher, I always have one, (that’s another story) and start screaming “FIRE, FIRE”. Now Pete knows when I am screaming fire, I mean it. (I told you there was another story). But this is a new fire extinguisher and I can’t figure out how to work it. Very useful, I think I better take classes. I shove it into Pete’s hands and run into the livingroom where the fire is. Our young charges are bouncing around, not quite sure what to do. This is very exciting and actually a little scary if we are all honest. (except for Pete maybe, it’s hard to fluster him now, reference story again) Pete saves the day, puts out the fire, gets rid of the charred mess of a stocking as I clean up the fireplace and hearth. He was very gracious. Pete looked at me with a smile, maybe a smirk, I’m not sure and said, “All I have to say is… Candles.”

I’d like to think there is a moral to this story, but alas, other than watch out where you put your candles and what is near them, I have none. Wait maybe I do. Think before you smirk.

I used to be an early riser

NOTE: When I took my GED about ten years ago, you have to write an essay as part of the process. You have 45 minutes in which to plan, write, and revise your essay on a general interest topic. My topic was a favorite childhood memory. I still like it, so I thought I would pass it along.

I used to be an early riser. When I was very young I remember greeting each day with an enthusiasm I only catch a glimpse of now. Saturday mornings were the best. I would wake before dawn and dress quietly in my favorite clothes. A red and blue striped T-shirt, blue jeans and my red tennis shoes. These were my Saturday clothes. School days and Sundays always had a dress code, but not Saturday. No one could tell you to wear something suitable on Saturday. I crept carefully down the rickety wooden stairs of our old house. I knew just where to walk in our broken home so that I would not make a noise and wake my little sister. I didn’t have to worry about waking my mother. Single working mothers loved Saturdays too. She slept in every Saturday morning. She wouldn’t be awake for hours. The front door had three slender vertical windows and I would peek out the middle one before opening the door. Inching the heavy front door open, I felt the moist, cool air of the morning hit my skin. I held my breath in excitement as I stepped out the rickety wooden screen door to the porch. The best place in the world was the front porch. Still safe, the front porch was the first step to venturing out in the world. It extended the full length of the front of the house. I stepped out on warped wooden slats, protected in my red shoes. If you ran too fast in your bare feet, you were sure to get a sliver or two. I would sit on the broken, green sofa, under the front window, listening to the birds call and wait for the day. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and listen closely for the birds. If I couldn’t hear their calls, I would fall back to sleep with the intention of waking again before they did. But try as I may, I never beat the birds to the morning. Their chatter filled the air, even before daybreak.
I went straight to the sofa and pulled my knees up to my chin. I would make myself as small as possible. I hadn’t really joined the day yet. I was just watching it. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the newness of the day. As the sky lightened and the birds became boisterous, and the dogs would join the symphony. You could hear them greet each other from hidden back yards, barking loudly. This was not the threatening bark of the evening, not the menacing bark of sentries protecting their territory, but comrades beginning a new tour of duty. When a few cars would pass by the house, I knew he would be here soon. I uncurled myself and took the few steps to the banister, leaning over the porch, looking up and down the street. I couldn’t see him yet. I couldn’t even hear him coming. My heart would beat a little faster and I would take my place on the porch steps. That’s where I waited for him. Saturdays were the only day I could see him. If I didn’t get up early enough, sometimes I would miss him. He didn’t have much time for me, but I didn’t care. I understood he was busy, he had an important job.
The lady across the street walked slowly out of her house, catching my eye. Usually I thought of her as “Miss Prissy”, but this early in the morning , she was “Miss Prissy in a Housedress and Rollers”. She was always correct, so right about everything. She knew all the neighborhood gossip and passed judgment on everyone. My grandmother, who lived directly across the street from me, used to roll her eyes when she talked about Miss Prissy. Miss Prissy was a heavy woman, usually dressed in the newest fashions and always “put together”. Her husband was a quiet man, probably because he couldn’t get a word in edgewise, if you asked me. No one ever did.
As I watched her walking down her sidewalk, she scratched her back, and I was sure she couldn’t see me. Miss Prissy would never have let anyone see her like that. She walked to the end of her sidewalk and collected her newspaper. On her way back to the house, she bent over to pick a weed out of her lawn and as she bent over, the back of her housedress revealed her.. OH! She wasn’t wearing any underwear! From my vantage point across the street and three houses down, I couldn’t see details thankfully, but there was enough pink to know there wasn’t anything else there. I was shocked and then I giggled to myself. A hidden world revealed, Miss High and Mighty wasn’t so high and mighty anymore. She wasn’t so put together after all. I felt a kind of power with the knowledge that Miss Prissy was so human. A secret no one else had. I never did tell anyone my early morning secrets, I would just smile when she yelled at all of the neighborhood children for whatever infraction we had committed. The other kids would ask me why I wasn’t scared of her and all I could say was that she was no different than the rest of us. They would take issue with that, telling me all kinds of stories that proved her omnipotence, but I had seen her before the world woke up and I knew she was human.
More neighbors started to emerge from their homes, collecting newspapers, turning on lawn sprinklers, or packing their cars for a weekend of travel. Some would see me on the steps of the porch and wave. I waved back. We never said anything then, voices weren’t welcome yet. And then I heard it. The deep rumble of his vehicle. It made a sound no other did. I got excited and moved from the top step to the bottom one. From the bottom step I could see up and down the whole street. I looked again and I could see him coming now. Him and his yellow machine coming slowly down the road. When he was a few houses away, I would stand up and start to wave. He would see me then and smile. A beautiful smile, white teeth in a black face. His brown eyes sparkled and as he got closer to the house he waved back. I would run down the walk to the parkway, careful to stay on the grass, just a few paces from the curb. He never stopped, but he does slow down. I run along the parkway, up the street, until I reach the giant palm tree five houses down. It blocks my path and I wave goodbye. I can’t catch him after running all the way around the big tree back to the parkway.
“How are you this fine morning little miss?” he would ask me.
“Good, how are you?” I would breathlessly ask him.
“Mighty fine morning, I’m ahead of schedule and if this keeps up, I might go home early today. We havin’ a baba Q. My Lizzie says hi to you. She wonders if I ever meet nice people along the way and I always tell her about you. Watch out for the tree now.”
“Tell Lizzie hi for me. Tell her I’m glad she got a puppy. Have a good week Daniel. Thanks so much for cleaning the street. It looks so much better after you have been here. See you next Saturday.” I yell because I’ve stopped at the tree and he keeps slowly rumbling on. I know he hears me though, because he always waves behind him one last time. I walk slowly back to the house. The air is different now, not as crisp and the chill is leaving. Soon the day will be awake and the magic of the morning will be gone. I will have to share the day with the rest of the world. But for a few more moments I sit on the bottom step and watch the world come alive.
Even though an early morning on a Saturday is rare now, I have still kept a few things sacred from years ago. Saturday’s still have no dress code and a T-shirt and blue jeans are still the best outfit. And while a sofa on my porch doesn’t hold the same charm as it did when I was seven, I still love the crispness of the air when the morning breaks. I don’t see as many daybreaks as I once did though. Life held a mystery and hope back then that seems harder to find now. Maybe all I really need to do is get up early enough to wave at the street cleaner man.

In the eye of the beholder

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of taking some photos for a friend. She wanted to send her husband a picture of the Christmas present she bought for him, but can’t send. You see, her husband is one of my son’s best friends and they are serving together in Iraq. So she rented a costume, a wonderful old fashioned western dress, a sombrero and bullet sashes. Actually I don’t know what they call those, but you know, the leather straps with bullets all over them. I know you know, the ones Banditos wore in all the old movies. I see you nodding.

We headed for the county fairgrounds, where there are old wagons, a historical home and lots of open air and trees. Perfect for a Bandita. As I began to pose Luly (short for Lourdes) I started to see her, not as the subject of my photos, but with the eyes of her husband. How would he see these pictures? How does he see her? Through the eyes of love, I knew that. It changed my poses and angles. I took pictures through his eyes, not mine. Now you have to know, she is already a very attractive woman, but I saw her as radiant, beautiful beyond compare. She was glowing. We had a great afternoon, posing, laughing, taking pictures and then talking to the director of the small museum. Dixie. We were asking Dixie if we could go in the historical house and take a few pictures in a house decorated from the 1870’s. As we explained what we were doing to Dixie, she began to see what I saw. She took down the barricades to an exhibit with a piano and desk from the 1870’s. We hadn’t even dreamed of being able to take pictures in the museum. She ordered, really, she got a little bossy, she ordered Luly to sit on the piano bench and then took charge of the poses. I just smiled. This was great. All of sudden Dixie exclaimed, “My goodness, she is so beautiful.” The eyes of love again. Then it hit me, what if what we were seeing was the love Luly felt for her Edgar? Her love emanating from every pore.

I realized that the eyes of love, change those around them. Whether the eyes are looking at you or you are able to see what the eyes can see, the eyes of love change your perspective. I thought about the Lord. He has eyes of love for all of us. And he has given us a picture of that love so we can see others with His love.

Take a picture today. Take a picture in your mind’s eye with the eyes of love. I guarantee you will see something wonderful. It’s all in the eyes of the beholder.

Any Question

A friend emailed the other day with yet another survey, but this one was a little different from other surveys I have received. This one asked for me to pose the questions. Five questions about anything. I thought hard and tried to be witty and clever. I was stumped, I couldn’t think of anything. Then it came to me. Who has all the answers? God. So I asked, “If you could ask God one question right now, what would it be?” I waited for his reply. I got his response and something more. What I hadn’t expected was that my friend would ask the question back. Another chance to be witty and clever. Again it didn’t work. I think I should quit trying to be witty and clever. I thought hard. What would I ask the creator of the universe, the one that held time and eternity in His hands?
Can you imagine asking God about anything? Any question, guaranteed answer in your lifetime. Ideas raced through my head. I would examine them and throw them out. I thought I only have one, it has to be great. I was out of ideas. Then I thought, what do I really want to know? And then it hit me, “Who am I?” That’s what I need to know.

The last part of Revelation 2:17 states:
“I’ll also give a clear, smooth stone inscribed with your new name, your secret new name.” (The Message)
“I will give him a white stone, and a new name written on the stone which no one knows but he who receives it.” (New American Standard Version)

So my question for God is “What is my name?” I am positive the moment HE whispered it in my ear, everything I should be, want to be and was created to be, will not only become clear, but it will wash over me like a beautiful tidal wave. Tsunami of the soul. I will be complete because He has uttered who He made me to be. I have wondered what it would sound like. Wonderfully exotic? Just a breath or as long as eternity? Or maybe all he will say is, “Mine.”

Football Season… Again

Recently I watched the Giants vs Jaguars game with my husband. Can I just say, now that my sons are grown up and I don’t have to keep the charade going any longer, I don’t understand what is happening on the field most of the time. When my sons were younger, I would say the right things, act very interested like a good mom and listened carefully because they were excited about the game. I could say all the right things, but really, I can’t tell who has the ball most the time. I don’t’ know why they are throwing flags unless someone gets hurt and really, why can’t we cheer on anyone who makes a touchdown? Good for them, I say.

Now after years of watching football, I told my husband I am going to write to the NFL and institute the GO-AROUND play. Everyone tries to run the ball right through a big bunch of guys. Why? GO AROUND! I would say from the untrained eye, it looks like a bunch of puppies fighting over a bone, but my eyes have been trained by very persistent, patient loving male family members. I guess my brain didn’t get the training. It just seems logical, if there is something/someone in the way, GO AROUND.

Now for the announcers; if those announcers are going to get a butt load of money just to state the obvious and give their opinion, I want that job. “Well Bob, they ran the ball down to the 35 yard line. That’s good for them, because they are closer to the goal line. I think I like Joe Smith for this play, he did a good job running the ball. Maybe next time the quarterback should throw the ball.” See, I could do the job. And I would yell from the announcer’s booth, GO AROUND!

Hello world!

I’m a blogger, she’s a blogger, wouldn’t you like to be a blogger too?! Welcome to the wonderful world of my blog. Be patient, I have no clue how to do this.