Thursday, November 16, 2017
Thursday, August 21, 2014
I know it was you who left what could have been mistaken for an owl pellet in the middle of the living room floor for me to discover as I was battening down the hatches for the night. As I sifted through said pellet, I realized it was actually a jumble of fur and bone too mangled to fully recognize as the mouse it once was. I know it was also you who just last week brought in another dead, deflated, dehydrated mouse. Your antics of tossing it jubilantly in the air and pouncing on it gave you away.
I realize that you alone possess sharp claws and hideous fangs and that you are capable of death and destruction. Exhibit A: the back of the couch. I realize that every night I sleep prone and vulnerable while you roam with your concealed carry weapons in search of your next conquest.
What you fail to realize is that I am much larger than you. Due to our sheer size difference, the chances of you subduing and conquering me are slim to none. What you also fail to realize is that I know how to open up the magic closet that contains cans and bags of tasty tidbits you call food. It is I who retrieves this food and stocks that closet for your pleasure and nourishment.
It is because of all of these things that I ask you to refrain from leaving anything resembling a mouse carcass in the living room. Simply put, please, stop bringing in dead mice from the garage. Better yet, feel free to eat as many dead mice as your little heart desires.
I'm glad we've had this little talk because if I see any more mice miscellany, I may forget how to open the cans from the magic closet, and stray mice that happen into the garage may be your only recompense. Good luck with those claws and fangs.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
She was a tough egg to crack, let me tell you. She was to be feared, and most of us with a lick of sense truly did. Who know what she would make us do if we didn't get our homework done or show all our work. She was driven and tenacious, and she knew how to use that furrowed brow when she needed it.
Looking back, she was my favorite teacher although at the time, I was too petrified of her to realize it. She made you work, baby. Blood, sweat, and tears.
I gushed unabashedly on her ability to get the most out of a kid. She was touched, I could tell, almost brought to tears. It had been nearly thirty years since I'd been in her classroom, and I don't know how long since she retired.
She couldn't have known how much I respected her because I didn't realize it myself until after I left much, much later.
Then I thought to show her my children. I told her that we homeschool, and she shrunk back in visible discomfort.
What is it, Mrs. Deason? What troubles you so? Have a little faith in me. I was a good student, remember? I was in National Honor Society two years running. I got good grades. I could have done better. Yes, but even though the lightbulb often didn't come on until after the test, I showed great promise, did I not?
What then should be troubling you? Is it the fact that I was just feverishly looking for the $5 coupon I knew I had floating around in my purse. Was it the flurry of cards and papers and personal effects that had erupted from my pocketbook? Honestly, my life isn't really this cloud of confusion you see before you now. It gets better.
Here, go ask my children. Ask the young one if he knows how to do long division. See for yourself. Ask them what the capital of Florida is. Don't worry now. Have faith in the system. I know what I'm doing. I'm a degreed librarian. If I don't have the answer at my fingertips, I sure as shootin' know how to find it.
Don't wince like that, Mrs. Deason. There's hope for the future. My own children love math. Why, it is actually their favorite subject. And just think, I'm sure somewhere right this very minute there is a calculus class undergoing a grueling pop-quiz. Doesn't that make you feel better, Mrs. Deason? Somewhere an entire classroom of highschoolers is cutting their teeth on the quadratic formula. There, there, steady now. O lady, weep no more. It's all just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream.
link: life of fred, weep no more
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
I wanted to write this post before my mama died, so I could share it with her. But the words never came. Apparently God wasn't finished with me yet. I don't really have a problem with that. By the time she died, she knew I was crazy about her.
Early in November, my mama passed away much like my dad did six months prior. Let’s just say this year has been mighty eventful. Cancer got both of them, but it didn’t get all of them. Some things cancer can’t kill. It can’t kill love. Doesn’t even touch it. Magnifies it, in fact, in exponential proportion. Cancer can’t kill a soul either. That goes on forever. Thankfully, I can look forward to seeing my folks again because they were both believers. Yes, Virginia, this Thanksgiving I have much to be thankful for.
I had the honor of serving my mama in her last days. She chose to spend them at home instead of going to a hospital. My two sisters and I helped her fulfill this, her last wish. I’ve never felt so close to her or adored her more fully.
When her pain subsided, she was beautiful, absolutely radiant. I couldn’t stop kissing her. To an onlooker, it would have seemed as though her beauty had wasted away long ago. Unable to eat for weeks, she was frail and thin, emaciated, but my mama still held her head high. She was humbled by the need to have help for every little thing in life, but she accepted help gracefully, kindly, with dignity.
She had an iron will and stamina to match, and she loved her Lord unequivocally. He’d seen her through her darkest days when classmates would make fun of her for having buck teeth and dresses made out of potato sacks. The Depression took poor to a whole new level. She actually danced down the sidewalk when she realized that God loved her, as is, and regarded her special. In return, my mama loved everybody, as is. Especially those of us who weren’t exactly beautiful by the world’s standards. Especially the underdogs. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses. If you ever ate her food, you knew you were loved since cooking was her love language. Man, was she ever good at that.
My mama was also physically strong and had a high pain tolerance. Two things she’d need desperately until she drew her last breath. God gifted her with the skill set required to end it with grace. Go gracefully, she did. She waited until my sisters and I had removed ourselves a bit. We’d all watched my daddy pass away, and she knew how traumatic that scene could be. So she waited until she was calm, and we had drawn away to rest, and then she bowed out. Quietly, without fanfare, so we didn't have to watch. Her last labor of love.A lady always knows when to leave.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My favorite Christmas decoration is the lighted wreath on the back of my SUV.
My Beloved - bless his geeky, little heart - MacGyvered a way to make the wreath light up anytime the vehicle's ignition is engaged. Now I can make merry without having to worry about switches and batteries and such. Isn't he wonderful? He enables my goofy, little whims.
Yes, I realize I am odd. In all the years I have done this, I don't recall seeing another wreath like it. Could be because it is perhaps, shall we say, a little bit, um, illegal? Well, I don't know that it is illegal, but it could be. Maybe that's why I've never seen another one like it. Or maybe it is legal, and I'm the only loon out there. No, that can't be it. Just the other day, I saw an older gentleman with antlers affixed to the sides of his car to make it look like a reindeer. The antlers were on backward. That's what I call loony. Festive but loony.
I'm calling myself an entrepreneur. Living on the edge. Dig that paradigm. Everybody wants to be me.
If I had half a brain, I'd probably try to sell these things. Yet it is that little issue of legality that stops me. But, c'mon, folks, what officer who is sound of mind would stop a merry citizen who is just trying to spread a little Christmas cheer even if it is in the form of a small traffic diversion, eh? "Would you care for a Christmas cookie, officer, or maybe some figgy pudding, hmmm?"
link: nat king cole
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Yes, I can see a couple of you wincing and smacking your foreheads at the thought of me at high tea in my Peanuts shirt. But this is me, y'all.
High tea. Now there's something I never thought I'd find myself doing. I loooove tea; don't get me wrong. I'm just, well, not prim and proper. You read the above paragraphs, right? I'm comic relief, not high tea material.
Even so, I was flattered beyond belief that I was invited to such an event. It was amazing. Little finger sandwiches, scones, chocolate-covered strawberries, and tea, of course. The tablecloth alone was gorgeous. (Why is it that I can't remember the last time I sat at a table that donned a tablecloth? Oh yeah, probably has something to do with my Peanuts t-shirt. Ahem.) The dishes were dainty. The company was fun, and there was a lot of laughter.
Is it OK to laugh at high tea? There weren't any guffaws. Don't recall any chortles either. Maybe some snickers. Plenty o' mirth. Just the right mix of joviality for the occasion, methinks. But, hey, this is me here. Consider the source.
A part of me has always wanted to be dignified in an Anne Shirley sort of way. Now, there's a gal I can relate to. Just enough mischief to make her interesting. Beautiful with a wild imagination. A fire in her heart and a gleam in her eye. Yet she knew how she was supposed to act in social situations. Whether or not she always carried it off with dignity, she knew.
Me? I don't quite know. I'd like to know, but I don't. I haven't been properly trained.
This is me, y'all. What you see is what you get. Hope you like it. Love me or leave me.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Camping with the extended family is always a rollicking good time. So is camping. Period. For that matter.
This time, it didn't go so well really, not for Dave. He suffered with the worst migraine of his four-year old, little life. Lots of pain and puking. Sorry. No nice way to put it.
That's all behind him now. I think. I hope. I pray.
He was a new man today. No more agony. Just lots of full-throttle silliness. That's my boy.
The camping trip was an odd mix. Check that. I'm not speaking of my relatives in this instance, although "odd mix" would not be a stretch. Ahem.
It rained often if not much. Enough to dampen the feet. Inwardly, I laughed at the rain. It was either laugh or cry. I'd much rather laugh.
I had my husband's baseball hat to protect my curly locks. Dry bangs = happy woman.
All told, dry ankles = happy woman too. Every morning I had clean, dry pants to don. No matter that within minutes I'd step out into sogginess that would eventually soak my ankles because, for the moment, my pants were clean and snug and unsaturated by rain slosh.
These, I found, were the essentials: my baseball hat, clean pants, and a pain-free Dave. Unfortunately I got the latter far less than I would have liked. C'est la vie.
Last year at this time, all was right with the world. I don't recall that it rained. Even more of the extended family was on hand to add to the aforementioned odd mix. I most certainly had a pain-free Dave then. Yet, he didn't quite make it through the canoe trip.
It was the best of times.