The Dishes Will Wait

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh.

2012-01-20T21:37:00.000-06:00

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. No, it wasn’t the ancient oil furnace in the dirt floor basement firing itself up. Although, it sure sounded like it. My pursed lips tried to hold back the snicker that was on the verge of bursting through my mouth. I had to compose myself. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral was a no-no. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral when you were over forty-nine was really forbidden.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I glanced at my sister Kathy. Our eyes met for just a second. Mistake. The giggles were instant. And explosive. I slammed my hand onto my mouth. Maybe no one noticed as my shoulders rocked up and down. I looked down at the wood floor. Years of varnish had collected in the spaces between the maple boards. The white baseboard along the wall was draped with cobwebs. Kathy once sat in this same pew, her short legs swinging back and forth in anticipation as she waited her turn to file up in front of the pulpit to say her part of the Christmas story. She did a good job. And as soon as the program was finished, she vomited. Stage fright? Or too much Christmas candy?

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I couldn’t look at Kathy again. I grasped my forearm with my two fingers, digging my fingernails into my flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Would that stop the laughing? I winced, and for a second – the uncontrollable laughter bubbling inside me subsided. The picture of Jesus still hung on the wall between the two arched windows in the same place it was forty years ago. Except now the windows were trimmed in peeling white paint. I glanced at the second pew from the back. That was our spot. My cousin Jane and I sat between Grandpa and Grandma that Sunday. Grandpa handed me a cherry lifesaver. “Hold it in the palm of your hand like this,” he whispered. “Then slide it into your mouth.” I did what Grandpa said and coasted the piece of sweet candy between my lips.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Compassion for my brother, as he fought the invasion of the post-cold coughing fit, enveloped me. At the same time the giggling reiterated itself. I put my finger in my ear and pressed it tightly. It was Easter Sunday. We’d just filled our tummies with pancakes and sausages in the church hall next door. My brother David was fiddling with the blue egg-shaped container of Silly Putty that the Easter bunny had left in his basket. He rolled it into a ball and squished it onto his hand, leaving a replica of his fingerprints in the putty. And then he rolled it into a ball again. Kathy tried to grab it. David resisted. The Silly Putty dropped to the floor. And bounced. And then rolled. All six of our eyes peered up over the heads of the congregation as we watched the little ball make its trek toward the pulpit. It stopped next to Oscar, the usher – and then rolled into the corner.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I bit the inside of my lip until my cheek twinged in distress, focusing my eyes on what extended beyond the window. The teeter-totter was long gone, as well as the summer Bible school kids that took turns going up and down on it. The chocolate chip cookies and the milk for dunking them in hadn’t been around for ages.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Water. I wished I could get my brother a drink. But the square oak table in the corner of the entrance was empty. The white enamel, blue rimmed water pail and tin ladle that we took our drinks from had succumbed to days gone by – long ago replaced by a modern kitchen in the church hall. The tiny little church that I grew up in all those years ago is still tiny. The hustle and bustle of the congregation has since moved on.

As a lone tear escapes the confines of my eyelid and slides down my cheek, I foster the fond memories that are still alive in the tiny church.

And no disrespect was meant as I uncontrollably giggled through the solemn funeral service.

In fact, in an odd sort of way – thank you God, for helping me remember a very special time in my life.

The Smokestack

2011-07-07T08:23:00.006-05:00

“Wanna drive by yourself?” Dad asked back in ’68.

“No, I can’t!” I cried.

“Sure you can.”

My legs were jelly. My hands were flopping. “No, no, I can’t.”

But Dad let go of the wheel despite my begging him not to.

My heart was in my throat and my toes were nervously dancing in my tennies. I had no choice but to steer the monstrous piece of equipment. Thus, I learned to drive the tractor at about age eight, standing in front of my Dad as he was seated on the black naugahyde seat in the big red tractor with the cab on it – the IH 806.

Two years later, my friend Zoe and I sat pretzel-legged in the brown loose dirt next to the tractor pulling track at the county fair. My tummy was full of cotton candy and caramel apples, and my bare feet wore the brunt of the day’s grime. At almost midnight – way past my bedtime - the finals had turned into a pull-off between Dad’s red 806 and the enemies – Dux & his brother. Dad told the sled crew, “load ‘er down!” The sled was weighted down with tons of bagged lime. The bugs swarmed around the street light shining down on the sled’s hitch as Dad backed the 806 up to hook.

The engine revved in second gear as Dad thrust the throttle wide open – torque back. The back wheels were weighted down with a thousand pounds of solid cast iron and the lugs quickly dug in. The RPMs wound out and the tires squatted as the straight-off-the-farm tractor went heaving down the track. As Dad passed each mark, two more men jumped on the back of the skid, increasing the load he was pulling by whatever those guys happened to weigh. At the 17 foot mark, in the black of the night, the red 806 bit its tires into the dirt, thrusting the tractor ahead its final inch.

“Whrrr…whrrr,” went the whistle. The official holding the red flag batted it up and down. A rope and tape measure revealed the results.

Dad took home the trophy that night, beating Dux and his brother by less than two inches. The trophy was a maple block of wood with a shiny gold tractor perched on the top and a gold plate engraved with “Buffalo County Fair 1970.” The trophy stood about five inches tall – pretty small.

But it was huge. The trophy was the carrot dangling in front of my dad’s nose.

It wasn’t long before Dad’s Farmall 560 graduated from the cultivator to the pulling circuit with me in the driver’s seat.

On a Saturday afternoon in Downsville, circa 1976ish, I was concentrating so hard on the sequence: listen for the gear to softly grind into third, slip the clutch until the tires started squatting, quickly move the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, I reached down for the governor wire. I tugged on the wire until my knuckles turned white, squeezing out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

As the tractor lugged down the clay track, its monster roar reverberated inside my rib cage. Almost in slow motion, it seemed to be taking forever. I saw my brother and one of his friends standing on the sidelines. Dad didn’t say a word about the fact that I had the tractor in first gear instead of third gear – he just smiled, knowing I wouldn’t make that mistake again. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In the 1980s my brother David caught the tractor pulling virus and was handed down the reins to the 560. The pulling circuit became more sophisticated. David and my dad tinkered and toyed with the red tractor. The block was bored, three carbs stood in line under the hood, and a secret weapon - nitrous oxide, shot itself into the air intake. Down the track David went. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

The trophies came in droves. Some towering over two feet tall, they lined and overflowed the shelves in Dad’s office.

My brother quickly graduated from farm puller to NTPA puller as the innate desire for more dirt flinging sprouted within him. The speed necessary to generate that dirt took on the form of the Acme Wildcat, a 1066 International diesel, rightly named. After a few wild, hair-raising rides, things settled into place with Mr. Ed, “the horse with a name” a 766 IH. With plenty of horses sending a black column of diesel smoke towering above the crowd, Mr. Ed brought my brother numerous honors.

Despite the fact that David roared from state sanctioned tractor pull to tractor pull, the 560 gathered no dust.

My son, Nathan, then seventeen, sat in the driver’s seat. Nathan was a natural tractor puller – wearing the genes of the third generation of family to drive the notorious tractor. Local fairs, county fairs and tractor pulls nearby all welcomed this familiar tractor into their gates.

Countless hours of tweaking the 560’s well-worn parts went deep into the afternoon. Its pistons, frequently charred from the high heat generated by the nitrous were replaced time and time again. The tires grew in width, creating more bite into the clay track. Its wheels revolved at warp speed, compared to the early days of the tractor that came straight off the cultivator.

In 1998, as I stood watching my little girl ride the merry-go-round at the local fair, I could hear Nathan revving up the tractor. Its distinctive roar was ingrained in my head. Other tractors tried to mimic Dad’s 560, but came up short.

Michelle and I quickly scooted from the carnival rides to the tractor pulling track and took a spot by the wooden snow fence that lined the track on both sides. The old fashioned lime-weighted sled was replaced by a modern, mechanical version for safety. As Michelle pressed her face between the slats of the fence, I stood beside her, my heart pounding inside my chest. “We’re just in time,” I said. “Here he comes!”

Nathan listened for the gear to softly grind into third and slipped the clutch until the tires started squatting. He quickly moved the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, he flipped the nitrous switch. He squeezed out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

The familiar monster roar still reverberated inside my rib cage. A quiet sort of pride burst from within. My toes danced in my shoes as I shouted silently to myself “that’s my son – and that’s my dad’s 560!”

My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In 2007, as I stood watching my teenage girl ride the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair the pulling track was silent to me. For the first time in over thirty years, I didn’t hear the distinctive roar that was forever ingrained in my head. For the first time in over thirty years, the smokestack on Dad’s 560 was silent. The red tractor took its position of valor in the shed, while cobwebs draped themselves from the smokestack to the steering wheel. The dust was thickly piled on top of the greasy hood. The red paint was faded to a pinkish-gray and the white 560 painted on the side of the tractor was barely visible.

For a second I was crushed. It was the end of an era – the end of a most exciting time in our lives. The 560 snuck onto the pulling track straight out of the cornfield and surprised ‘em all. Likewise, the legendary tractor disappeared without notice, to put its weary pistons to rest after one heck of a thirty year run.

But I grinned as I remembered the five inch maple trophy that still remained on Dad’s desk. Tractors will come and go – but the monster roar of the red 560 will remain in my head forever.

'68 Firebird

2011-01-22T19:31:00.002-06:00

“Look at his drawing, Mom. Isn’t it good? He loves old cars.”

The car drawn in pencil came to life on the paper. Perfect shading defined where the hood of the car met the fender. Each headlight popped out in front of the car, encased by the trademark grill design made famous by Pontiac. The grill that I waited to see coming around the corner of my parents’ driveway on a Saturday night.

Yes, the drawing was good. It was very good.

“Go show your dad,” I told Mickey.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the display that hung on the wall in back of the high school gym.

“Look at this one, Dad,” she said.

He looked, and with a gleam in his eye replied, “I used to have a car just like that. It’s a ’68 Firebird. Mine was green.”

He went on with more details.

“Yeah, I put a 428 in it.”

I remembered that it went pretty fast.

“And a 3 deuce carb.”

I remembered that it was really loud.

“Had a 3-speed on the floor.”

I remembered him shifting the car effortlessly as we cruised down the highway, while the two of us smiled and laughed.

“I put on quite a few miles with that car,” he finished.

I remembered all the fun times. And shenanigans. And things I probably don’t want to tell Mickey just yet.

Her friend’s drawing took her parents back in time. To a time that doesn’t seem so long ago. A time separated only by the years of raising children, working hard and surviving what life has thrown our way.

The drawing was good. In more ways than one.

Someday I’ll tell Mickey the rest of the story.

A Lie From Day One

2010-12-05T22:04:00.004-06:00

“Ma’am, excuse me but I don’t think you filled this out correctly,” the black-haired gentleman with glasses of the same color called out to me as I sauntered away from the counter.

Crap. Now what? My faced turned habanera pepper red.

I slung my purse back up over my shoulder and took two steps backwards.

I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license for ages. Not since they changed the renewal period to eight years. Eight years is a long time to hang on to a piece of plastic. And eight years is a long time to look at a less-than-desirable mug shot. After all, my hair was flat that day. And I never knew that my smile was crooked. Yes, literally, crooked.

Hmmm … I thought I had filled out the renewal form correctly.

Eyes – hazel. Check.

Hair – black. Well, L’Oreal black #4D, but they didn’t need to know that. Check.

Address – yup, that’s still the same. Check.

Weight – well, hello – that’s been a lie since day one, but nobody cares, right?

Oh, my gosh! I’m busted. My face quickly turned from red to white. My mug shot would be plastered in every post office in the tri-state area. I quickly looked for the exit door – so I could bolt out and disappear. Mr. Black-rimmed glasses was going to call me on my weight.

He peered at me through the Coke-bottle lenses. I looked at him, the word GUILTY plastered across my forehead, bracing myself for the condemnation.

“Ma’am, you didn’t write your social in this box.”

“Oops, I didn’t even see that box,” I replied very nonchalantly while my insides jumped up and down shouting 'whew'!

I quickly scribbled the nine digits inside the allotted space and hopped on over to the camera. This was the moment that I’d prepped all morning for – blow drying, straightening, painting on my face. After all, I would have to look at this picture for the next eight years.

A gray-haired lady stood behind the camera. Dressed in a blue flowered dress that was regurgitated from the seventies, she looked as old as my grandma. After all in driver’s license years, I was only about 7. All she had to do was push the button on the digital camera. I guess it couldn’t be any harder than it was for me to use my cell phone for texting.

“Stand on the blue box,” she barked. I looked up, licked my lips to give them a quick shine and faced the camera.

Click. Flash. Done.

My new driver’s license would be good for the next eight years. My hair was black – L’Oreal Black #4d. My eyes were still hazel. My smile was still crooked.

And my weight hadn’t changed at all. A lie from day one.

“Enjoy your birthday,” Mr. Black-rimmed glasses said.

I smiled, shoving my new license into my wallet. “Thanks, I will.”

The Dishes Will Wait

2010-04-30T23:06:00.001-05:00

From time to time a downpour of rain falls from the sky, spattering itself over the edge of the roof, down the porch post and onto the ground below. The rain is a blessing from heaven – providing much-needed nourishment for the spring flowers and a mandatory rest period for the farmers who have been working long hours to get the crops in.

Everyone gets a break.

Except those of us who have been working inside.

(Me, for example.)

I’ve been spending the past fourteen weeks taking an on-line writing class. It’s been a big help with my ongoing project – my book. This endeavor began in 2007. And continues today. No, it’s not that long of a book – it’s just taking me that long.

Because I have to live my life alongside the writing.

My next class begins on May 9th – and goes for twelve weeks.

So my blog posts will continue to be sacrificed. My apologies to those of you who have begged for something new to read.

In the meantime, please click on a couple of the other blog links I have posted right below the picture of the little red tree.

Those who know me well know how important I feel about educating everyone about traumatic brain injury. Visit the blog “My TBI Life” and read about a woman who suffered a TBI after she was kicked in the head by a horse. Her remarkable recovery is inspirational.

Click on “The Dust Will Wait” and meet Pamela, who is a great writer and also a great photographer. The stories about her family will entertain you and touch your heart.

And for those who are interested in parenting, please visit “Pass the Torch” (it's author is the woman who got me started writing) and “My Cup 2 Yours”. Their stories of raising children, homeschooling adventures and empowering youth will enlighten you.

Dig into their archives for some awesome reading.

Until I’m done with my book….the dishes will wait.

Two Minutes of Tears ... Every Two Days

2010-02-22T20:28:00.002-06:00

He would be the first to say he hates living here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And squished into the bedroom in the basement. Most of his stuff is packed in storage. He has had to share the kitchen with us. And the sofa. And our car. For the last six months.

The shower isn’t his either – it’s filled with girl stuff – fruity shampoo and conditioner and perfumed body wash. He stands outside the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his sister to come out. The pink razor pushes his soap off the shelf in the tub, and it slides down the river of bubbles towards the drain.

I would be the first to say I hate having him here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And his stuff is all over the basement. And the kitchen. And the sofa. And the car. For the last six months.

But I don’t hate having him here. I just hate the fact that he had to be here.

And now I hate the fact that he’s leaving.

And most of the time I can take it.

Most of the time.

Except for that time where I cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

Because he’s leaving. And because he’s been through so much. And because I wonder when it will end. And when the door will be opened for him.

The door to success and happiness.

My dear aunt once told me, “Let go and let God”. What comforting wisdom. You have to assume that you’ve given all the advice you can give, you’ve given all the tools for living. You have to let go and let God.

And yes, there are occasional tears as you think of the distance. That time when you cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

The Wreath

2009-12-06T17:49:00.000-06:00

The satin ribbon, months earlier faded from the summer sun beating down upon it, blew haphazardly in the November wind. A dull gold bead, once a glittery spot in a nest of greenery, plopped down onto the floor, rolled into the crevice between the boards and disappeared under the porch. And the ragged pine needles, though artificial, looked weathered and worn from hanging there since last Christmas.

Although I’d turned my head and glanced at this wreath every time I left the driveway, something inside me could not bear to take it down. Not yet.

The wreath was just one of a few Christmas decorations that never made it back into the box that January.

That January, my life stopped in its tracks.

And because of that, I couldn’t take the wreath down. I just couldn’t.

In some odd way, quite hard to explain, I felt like the wreath was a part of what defined my life before, before my life changed that cold and bitter day. Looking at the wreath reminded me of what I had lost and the pain that I still felt.

Taking it down would somehow mean that life was normal again - except it wasn’t. And I didn’t want to pretend that it was.

As the snow melted, exposing the fresh new sprouts of grass, the wreath hung there. Dandelions speckled the lawn like yellow bursts of star light in a dark green sky. And the wreath hung there. Through the hot summer days, the wreath was dry and parched, only to be dampened by the humid clouds that created a hazy backdrop. The seasons came and passed, and still as the cold winds of November rustled through the brown corn tops in the field, the wreath hung there.

My sister was the only one who understood. And she was the only one who knew how to fix it.

And she did.

My sister sent two young men on a mission. A mission to help their mother move on.

That day, I walked up the sidewalk and into the house. As I opened the door, there on the table, I saw a new green wreath, adorned with a red and silver satin ribbon, sparkling burgundy poinsettias, walnut colored pinecones, and shiny red cranberries.

It was beautiful.

And even more beautiful was the fact that my boys brought it for me. To help take away my pain, move on and begin anew.

A heaviness was lifted from my heart that afternoon, as I took the lifeless wreath down from its hanger on the front door. The wreath had served its purpose. A symbol of pain and suffering no longer, I tossed it into the trash, held the match close enough for the flame to set it afire and watched it disappear.

As I hung the new wreath on the front door, I stood back and marveled at its beauty. Its freshness indeed signified a fresh start, a new beginning.

It was a special gift, from two very special young men to their mother. It would have not meant what it did coming from anyone else. And although nothing can take the pain away entirely, this wreath now reminds me of what I have and how thankful I am for it.

It is a circle of joy and unending love.

True Meaning

2009-11-05T20:44:00.002-06:00

The old man sat on the edge of the bed. I watched him with utmost preciseness tear off exactly the right amount of tape. He knew the routine well. Five pieces of tape, criss-crossed over each other in the shape of an asterisk would cover her incision perfectly.

His eyes were filled with love. Love for this woman he met over fifty years ago. A woman he had spent most of his life with.

Fifty years ago, vows were said.

At that time, he probably wasn’t paying much attention to the words. He repeated the words “to love and to cherish”. He repeated the words “in sickness and in health”. And he repeated the words “‘til death do us part”. Fifty years ago they were likely just words.

It would take a lifetime to bring true meaning to them.

A lifetime learning to truly care about this other person.

Caring through sharing life’s experiences – the happy times, the sad times, and even the angry times.

As he placed the last piece of tape over the incision she muttered something he couldn’t understand. To satisfy her inquisitiveness, he calmly agreed with her.

Fifty years ago, vows were said. Today they have true meaning.

The Owner's Manual

2009-10-24T20:11:00.002-05:00

The wiper blades scrambled back and forth, trying to keep up with the raindrops that were pelting the windshield. The outdoor thermometer in the Tahoe read 43 degrees, but even so, the drops kept getting larger and thicker – like tiny snowballs splattering on the glass.

Yes, it was a wet and chilly October morning and Mickey and I were on the way to the orthodontist for her monthly braces adjustment. Mickey sat entranced by the rhythm of the wipers, while I was just plain annoyed that I had to have them on at full speed. A summer as dry as can be, and now – when we don’t need the rain – here it is, and has been for the last couple days.

Rain, rain, go away – come again some other … hey, what is that little red light on my Tahoe’s instrument panel? I’d never seen that one before. Usually the amber colored light indicates whether the vehicle is in 4-wheel drive or 2-wheel drive. It looks like the letter “N”. And it’s red. I press the button for 2-wheel drive. No response. I press the other button for 4-wheel drive. No response.

“Well, I’m going to pull over and stop,” before Mickey could ask me what in the world I was doing.

Just like my computer, I’ll bet this one just needs to be rebooted. So I pull over on the side of the road, put the ignition in Park, and shut off the engine. One, two, three … I count to ten and start the engine again and pull out onto the highway.

Darn, the red light is still on.

“Grab my cell phone out of my purse…I think it’s in there,” I say to Mickey – jolting her out of her trance.

“Call Dad – press 2 – I’ve got him on speed dial,” I add, keeping my eyes on the road – and the red light.

Amazingly, he actually answered his phone!

“Yeah, I’ve got this red light with a little “N” by it on the panel where it should say 2-wheel drive. What’s that all about? It wasn’t there when I left. I’ve never even seen it before.”

“I dunno. Must be in Neutral or something,” is his reply.

“Well, is that dangerous, I mean will it stop moving while I’m driving or something?"

“If it was in Neutral it shouldn’t be moving at all,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Should I stop somewhere and have it looked at?”

“I dunno.”

I could see this conversation was going nowhere. So I said goodbye and shut my phone.

Mickey grabbed the Tahoe owner’s manual out of the glove compartment. She said, “I can look it up.” I thought, why not? So I told her to search the Table of Contents for 4-Wheel Drive, as I continued down the highway.

Oh, she found it right away.

“SHIFT THE VEHICLE’S TRANSFER CASE TO NEUTRAL ONLY WHEN YOU ARE TOWING THE VEHICLE”, read the warning letters in bold and caps.

Well, we were obviously not towing the vehicle, we were bounding down the highway at about 56 miles an hour and all I could think of is CRAP. Now what?

Mickey turns the page. “Oh, here it says what to do!” she exclaims – and begins to read more. “Set the parking brake and apply the regular brake pedal. Shift the transmission to Neutral and turn the ignition to Run with the engine off."

“Wait, I’ve got to pull over,” I beg, “then read it to me again, step by step.”

I quickly exit to the side of the road again and she continues reading – as I follow her directions.

“Press the button for the desired transfer case shift position. After the transfer case has shifted out of Neutral the Neutral light will go out.”

GUESS WHAT - IT DID!

“Now, Mom – release the parking brake. Start the engine and shift the transmission to the desired position.”

All was well except for the red brake light which followed simultaneously. By now, Mickey is flipping through the owner’s manual at an expert’s pace. I know that when I released the parking brake it must not have released fully. But she doesn’t. And so I pull over – again – to fiddle with the parking brake as she is reading me the instructions on how to get rid of the red brake light.

When that was gone, and we were back on the road again, I wasn’t annoyed by the hyperactive wipers anymore. I was just happy as can be that we only wasted ten minutes of our time this morning.

Mickey turns to me and bursts out excitedly, “See Mom, we don’t even need men. We fixed this all by ourselves!”

“Yup, we did a good job, didn’t we?” I agreed, thinking most men don’t usually get the owner’s manual out.

We pulled into the parking lot at the orthodontist right on time – and I added, “See Mickey, that’s why we always leave a tad early – just in case … we have to fix our car or something along the way.”

Maybe Tomorrow

2009-10-16T20:21:00.001-05:00

I’ve driven past the spot many times. No, I will never forget what happened there. Each and every time, my mind pauses for a second as I remember.

But tonight I’m all alone. It’s dark. As I crest the hill, like a skipping record, the scene plays over and over just as it has a hundred times before in my mind. His car was on the wrong side of the road right here. And in a split second, quicker than I can inhale a breath of air, I’m over the hill.

A tear escapes the confines of my body and gently rolls down my cheek. It had to have happened that quickly.

The event had one common thread – it changed the lives of six families forever. Some lost their lives and some lost life as they knew it.

But everyone lost something that night.

Something that they will never get back.

Whether we’re struggling to recapture a piece of ourselves that we lost that night, or struggling to hold on to the memories we have – I’m sure we’re all still struggling.

Because life changed forever that cold January night.

Tonight as my car drives past the spot, I can’t believe I’m still stuck in this whirlwind of life – trying desperately to find something tangible to cling to - something to help define who we are now – anything at all to comfort me and reassure me about the doubts I have for our future.

No, it never goes away.

I wipe away the tear with the back of my hand.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I will find it.

Mmmm...

2009-10-04T19:01:00.006-05:00

I shoved the half-eaten Ghirardelli caramel square in my purse, quickly folding over the opened end of the wrapper. I didn’t want my daughter to see me eating candy, after all, we had just eaten lunch and I wasn’t even hungry. And she is so health-conscious.

Me – not quite so. I mean yes, I am concerned about my health, but for some unbeknownst reason I frequently (every day) feel the urge to finalize my noon lunch with something sweet. Just a bite.

Why? BECAUSE I'M PART NORWEGIAN, THAT'S WHY!

After all, my Grandma Ollie always had to have just a bite of something sweet after lunch. Or with her coffee.

To further validate my theory – the next day at work we somehow got on the subject of those who salt their tomato slices versus those who sugar them. “Norwegians sugar everything,” Jay, a co-worker of mine stated matter-of-factly, as if there were to be no debate on the matter.

Which brings me back to the Ghirardelli square.

I tossed my purse into the back seat, and temporarily forgot about the candy bar until the next day at school.

Bounding into my office between classes, Mickey asked “Do you have any gum in your purse?”

“Yup, here – grab it,” I replied.

Mickey unzips my purse, sticks her fingers into my purse to grab the gum, when she all of a sudden spouts, “Ewwww….what’s this?” Her hand comes out of the purse with a long string of caramel attached to a couple of her fingers.

“Oh, just some candy. I forgot it was in there,” I said, trying to act like I hadn’t snuck it the other day without her knowledge.

She licked her fingers and took a piece of gum. “Mmmm,” she said, turning around and scooting out, just as quickly as she had come in.

When I got home from work I emptied the contents of my purse out onto the kitchen table and proceeded to wash the caramel off EVERYTHING.

Why do I get these urges? Because I’m part Norwegian – yes, I’m convinced.

Today when I grabbed my appointment book out of my purse I struggled to get the October calendar page open.

Because it was stuck to September. And November. And December. And the subsequent three months in 2010.

So I got the scissors out of my desk drawer and cut the caramel off the corner of each page that was infected with this gooey, sweet mess.

Mmmm…

A Special Gift from God

2009-09-27T16:26:00.002-05:00

“Mom, I think he’s the one,” the daughter excitedly bursts out. Mom tries to hold in her joy so as to not look overanxious, even though she’s doing flips in her head. Mom is there for her daughter, her best friend. Mom listens when needed, and gently gives advice. Mom and her daughter are connected, just as they were in the beginning.

Dad watches his daughter from afar. As she matures and blossoms into a beautiful young woman, he can’t help but think of all the times he pushed her on the swing – her feet almost reaching the clouds. He can’t help but think of the times he helped her with her homework – even when he really didn’t remember Algebra that well. He can’t help but think of the times he changed the tires on her car – so that she would be safe on the road. And he can’t help but think of the time he proudly watched her walk down the aisle at commencement.

A mom and her daughter plan the wedding. It will be the day of her dreams. They choose the dresses, the wedding party, the reception, the food. They get their nails done. They get their hair done. A mother and her daughter share each other’s company and each other’s time – precious time together.

Truly, Mom and daughter share a special connection – woman to woman. But Dad and daughter share a special connection as well – he is the man in her life. Dad holds her tightly in his arms so nothing can harm her. He is her rock; her strength.

As she walks down this next aisle – the wedding aisle, Dad will be there to guide her on the way – but then must carefully let her go, as she begins the next part of her journey in life. He will no longer be the only man in her life, and he lovingly entrusts her to another.

God plants the daughter in her mom and dad’s life as a seed and entrusts them to nurture, care for her and watch her grow. God stands by her mom and dad as they protect her from harm. God helps Mom and Dad keep her from growing in the wrong direction, to stand tall and to reach towards heaven.

A daughter is truly a special gift from God, and as my two friends prepare to let go of their baby girl, I wish them all the most joy that life can offer.

Are we coming or going?

2009-09-23T18:49:00.003-05:00

What a week!

Mickey’s week anyway. She was spreading herself thinly between volleyball and football cheerleading. And school. Volleyball practice after school on Monday was followed by a quick shower at school and cold lunch in the car on the way to cheerleading practice at our co-op school, twenty minutes away. Cheer practice was especially important this week - Homecoming Week. The dance routine had to be perfect – the lift had to go off without a hitch. Or Mickey would tumble to the grass.

Game day was Tuesday. This one would be a home volleyball game. Mickey rode home from school with me. She did some homework, grabbed a quick sandwich, her duffle bag and I took her back to school – under directions from the coach to have all players on the floor by 5:30 p.m.

Wednesday was another normal day at school, followed by volleyball practice. The after-practice shower was repeated as the Mickey departed again for her cheer duties, this day with a roast beef sandwich, two pop tarts and a banana in hand. Spirit games for homecoming would begin at 7:00 and conclude at 9:00. Mickey made it to bed earlier tonight – by about 10:00 – and went on her own will – without any prodding from me.

Thursday’s away volleyball game was just about as far away as one could imagine – an hour drive over the hills and through the valleys to a town nestled in the middle of nowhere. With another cold lunch for the bus ride, yesterday’s roast beef was replaced by two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. Homework was completed on the bus. Thankfully for Mom, (but not for the team) the volleyball games were over in three, lending an earlier-than-normal departure for home. As the phone rang at about 9:15 p.m., Mickey was on the other end, “Mom – we stopped for something to eat – but I have no idea where we are. I’ll call you when we get closer to home.” (Mickey only knows the whereabouts of the mall…nothing else.) By ten o’clock the phone was ringing again – this time her call to be picked up at school.

After a quick shower, Mickey was in bed by 10:30.

Jolted out of bed at 5:30 a.m. by her alarm clock – set about forty-five minutes earlier than usual, Mickey had to be at school by 6:30 a.m. today to catch the football & cheerleading bus on its way to an early morning church service and breakfast – a longstanding homecoming tradition. How did she get to school? Her mother had to get up earlier as well. With only one full bath in the house, I didn’t want to be rubbing elbows with Mickey any more than I had to while we were both standing in front of the sink.

So I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and went into the kitchen to brush.
Scrounging through the refrigerator, I decided today we would have turkey and cheese sandwiches. I made one for Mickey and one for myself.

I haven’t seen my daughter very much this week, even though I work at the same school she attends. Even though she sleeps in her bed every night. Even though we bump elbows in the bathroom every morning. When I got to the football game Friday night, I proudly watched Mickey perform her part in the dance routine, flawlessly (from my viewpoint). After the game she came over to me and a friend who were talking.

"I’m so tired," she said. "I was tired all day. I’ve got to tell you what happened during Science class today."

Here’s her story-

After lunch we had study hall in the library. I was so tired, so I got a book and pretended to read it, but really I was just sitting there with my head tilted down so I could rest my eyes. The next hour was Science class. We were supposed to be doing a lab. I sat on the edge of the chair and put my elbow on the table. I could hear the teacher talking, but eventually the sound of her voice started to fade and all I could hear was very far away – words that I couldn’t quite make out. My head nodded a couple times, and I jolted it back, trying to resist the blanket of sleep which was surrounding me, wrapping me tighter and tighter.

A few seconds later I found myself on the floor. Bryce was the only classmate who saw me slide out of the chair and onto the floor. He came to my side and said, “Are you okay?” I looked at him, kind of confused and said, “What happened?” At that point I realized that I fell asleep in class and fell out of my chair onto the floor!

By now Mickey is laughing as she is telling us this story over and over again.

Thankfully, Mickey slept in Saturday morning. And lounged in front of the television all day. Until it was time to get ready for the event which would be the culmination of the whole week – the Homecoming Dance.

We started with her hair at 5:00 p.m. and by 7:00 she was ready to go! I took her to her date’s house where both of us moms took a few pictures of the semi-cooperative couple. I had to stay awake until it was time to go pick them up at the dance at midnight. And take her date and another friend home.

Not all weeks are like this. We crawled into bed at 1:00 a.m.

Mickey’s going to lay low today – after she gets home from church, where she had to wait tables from 10:30-12:30 for the fall festival.

I’m sure next week will be better …

Random Thoughts Not Worthy of an Entire Blog Post

2009-09-11T20:17:00.002-05:00

My son is downsizing. When he moved away he took with him the contents of his refrigerator: 10 bottles of hot sauce. When he moved back a year and a half later, he brought with him the contents of his refrigerator: 6 bottles of hot sauce.

Lest I shall lose my mind over the fact that my back yard is all dirt and grass seed, I decided there is one tiny advantage (only one) to having your back yard torn up. You can shake the rug right out the door without having to step outside. The disadvantage is the need to sweep the floor every 30 seconds.

Just found my husband’s list for hunting in Colorado: reading glasses, long underwear, socks, beer, pop, ice, meat. Looks like all the essentials to me. Wish I could write lists that short.

Sister and I went out on the town this weekend. The walk- in-clinic, Kwik Trip for a cup of decaf coffee, and then home. Nothing like it used to be. Twenty years ago we could be found on a Friday night out on the town with friends, staying up into the wee hours of the morning and repeating the whole thing on Saturday night. Thanks for driving me, sis – and giving up your snoozing time on the sofa! P.S. I’m okay…nothing compared to the lady in the clinic who came in with a mask and sneezing!

Trying to get dressed for work and leave the house on time, I know now why Grandma wore a big string of beads around her neck. She could slip the necklace right over her head without trying to unhook a tiny, tiny, tiny gold clasp. I’ve now added a pair of glasses to my dresser also.

Back to my son – Mickey says most of her friends are sad that their older brothers and sisters have moved away to college. She told them “at least your older brother hasn’t moved back home!” Mainly, she doesn’t want to share the television with him now. And put up with his teasing. But he did let her drive his car on Sunday – just up Grandma’s driveway.

I’ve decided that when you get to be 49, it’s not a big deal what you wear to the class reunion. By this age, everyone’s either got too much gray, not enough gray, or too many love-handles (speaking for myself of course). Most importantly, no one cares anymore. It’s just good to see old friends!

Speaking of 49, I told my granddaughter Chrissy on my birthday last year that I’m not having any more birthday parties “I’m not going to get any older,” I stated to her matter-of-factly. She looked at me, the wheels turning in her head as she tried to create a vision of me getting younger instead of older and said, “well, Grandma, you’d better start eating healthy stuff then.”

Have a good weekend!

Off To College

2009-08-18T20:22:00.002-05:00

Reprinted from August 28, 2008 - in honor of all the moms letting go as their kids pack up and head out to college.

I could just tell they were “college shopping”. The mom and her son were putting a set of bed sheets into their cart. Right away I thought of the day ten years ago that Jonathan went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

Oh my gosh, I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus his school supplies - a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room. Why are dorm rooms always on the top floor?

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s.

That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones, texting and even before instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About twenty-nine miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot of stuff was still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along.

I don’t know why, but I opened his top dresser drawer.

Staring at me were fifty-two white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

Truffles, Anyone?

2009-08-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

I’d been driving for the past two weeks with my car’s amber check engine light staring me in the face. But since the car wasn’t spitting or sputtering, I was in no hurry to take it over the bluff once again to see what the dealer’s computer had to say about the little light. Until I realized that this weekend I would be driving my daughter and a friend, plus my two granddaughters and their mother on a two hour adventure across the Mississippi River into Minnesota. Safety is of course, a top priority.

So I called for a service appointment.

The drive over the hill was pretty. Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susan’s were in full bloom along the roadside. Corn stalks yielded fuzzy tassels billowing in the gentle breeze. I even spotted a white-tailed deer grazing in the soybean field – wary of my passing through, but not quite enough to make him bolt. And as a bonus, the pot holes in the road were freshly filled.

I dropped the car at the dealership and Mickey and I decided to take a stroll around the block. It had been years since I had explored the little town of Wabasha, Minnesota. Lots of things there have changed – the dime store is gone, the grocery store has built a new building closer to the highway, and the local mercantile is now office space. In their place, Wabasha has focused its energy on the new National Eagle Center and several small specialty shops and antique stores.

And a chocolate store. An awesome chocolate store. Filled with chocolate.

I knew right away I was not leaving this place empty-handed. The only question in my mind was - which treat would I choose? The weathered pine floor boards in the old brick building creaked as I paced back and forth in front of the counter. Peering through the glass with my taste buds practically jumping out of my mouth, I spotted some cashew turtles. And some butter almond toffee. And truffles of every flavor – raspberry, mint and even oreo.

A half-pound of turtles lends you about six of them. Of course the box was too big so I told the clerk to add two more. At least that filled the box – and it looked a lot better. The half-pound of butter almond toffee fit into a box about four by six inches.

Mickey and I stepped outside and sat on the bench in front of the bookstore. I couldn’t wait and cracked open the box of turtles. The caramel enveloping the cluster of cashews was homemade as well. Sticky and buttery, it stuck to my teeth. Mmmm. The chocolate melted in my mouth (and my hand). Mmmm.

Back at the car dealership, I was happy to find out that they were able to diagnose and fix my vehicle on-site so I didn’t have to come back tomorrow. The gas cap had a leak in it. Which I guess can be a safety factor should you roll the vehicle over. So they fixed it – with a $81.17 gas cap.

Oh, and don’t forget the $26.95 worth of chocolate.

Hmmm…maybe it would have been fun to have to come back tomorrow.

To try the truffles…

Fancy Schmancy

2009-08-03T07:00:00.000-05:00

A fancy, schmancy storm door sat on my back porch for a month. Until one day when I told my husband that we didn’t need a carpenter, we could put this up ourselves.

How hard could it be to hang a storm door anyway?

Knowing that my husband doesn’t normally read directions, I pre-empted his potential answer with, “if we read the directions carefully and gather all the tools we need ahead of time, I’m sure it will be easy.”

For the record, here are five things the directions don’t mention: a flashlight, reading glasses, caulk (the magic fix-all), shims, shims, shims (I'm counting this as one word), and patience (better know as the ability to re-do something twice without getting mad and throwing hand tools).

He lay down on the deck to try and see the tiny little spot where the bottom screw should go into the frame. But without his reading glasses and a flashlight, this was just a spot in the dark – literally. Like a surgical assistant holding the flashlight, on-cue I handed him first his glasses, then the screwdriver, and finally the screw.

After four hours, we had the frame up. This took longer than expected because we had to shim out the door jamb on the right side to equal the left side. An episode from This Old House? And then I had to paint the shims white to match the frame. Finally, caulk – the magic fix-all – covered the holes where the wood chisel made too deep of a gouge in the jamb.

By now, dusk was slowly drifting the back porch and the glow of the flashlight was no longer enough to see by. We temporarily hung the door in the frame and braced it with a big flower pot, just in case the wind decided to try and take the door away from us overnight
.
Two four-hour-days later, (which equals eight-nine hours) our fancy, schmancy storm door was completely hung and operational, double closer and all.

Nobody will ever notice the shims. You can’t tell because of my marvelous paint job.

Nobody needs to know that we hung the top door closer in the wrong spot and had to re-do it. You can’t tell because of my marvelous caulk job.

Hanging the storm door was not hard - just terribly time-consuming.

But it sure does look awesome. You might even say fancy, schmancy.

The Casino

2009-07-30T18:56:00.001-05:00

Until this past May, I had never been to a casino in my life. The only casinos I’d ever seen were in the movies. You could say it was a life-long dream of mine – to experience it, anyway. To experience the mystery and intrigue of it all... To satisfy the urge to find out what it’s all about...

So, when Jonathan and I attended this year’s Brain Association of Wisconsin’s annual convention in Green Bay, suddenly my life-long dream became reality. Our motel was attached to the casino. We were literally just steps away from potential wealth. (Or more likely from the slim chance that this would ever happen to us.)

With twenty-dollar bills in hand, Jonathan and I made our way past the security guard at the door and strolled on into the casino, trying to look like we belonged there – or at least like we knew what we were doing. We wove our way around the various slot machines, past the black jack table, circled around to the beverage station and then back again. This casino contained probably ninety percent slots, ranging from penny machines to five dollar machines. The slot machines were alive with blinking colored lights, sweet sounding beeps, bells and whistles. And fingerprints.

(Only the second week into the swine flu outbreak, I made a mental note to myself to keep my fingers out of my mouth and to stop at the restroom to wash my hands before we left.)

Neither of us quite sure what to do, Jonathan finally sat himself down at one of the dollar machines.

Twenty seconds later his money was gone.

We walked around some more, thinking and talking potential strategy– we’d better find a different machine or we’d be out of money in a few minutes. Or at least practice on the penny machines first.

He chose a two-cent machine and I sat down beside him. The lady two stools down looked as if she had been there a while. Her elbow rested on her crossed legs as she propped her cigarette precariously on the edge of her lips, leaving her other hand free to spin. Obviously a veteran slot player, I decided to watch this woman.

She had quite a few credits (apparently they don’t spill out buckets of coins anymore) to her favor. When I figured out how she was playing the game, I decided to try it on my own. I decided to go big and risk a five dollar bill. I selected twelve rows and doubled down.

My credits lasted quite a while. I was actually up to $13.85 at one point.

But as my wealth grew, my desire to keep on spinning grew as well. I drove the machine down to zero.

We spent about forty bucks each in two days at the casino. Cheaper than dinner and a movie? Yup. Time spent with my son? Priceless.

Do I need to go again? I think it’s safe to say I’ve satisfied the urge.

Rules, Rules, Rules

2009-07-05T20:10:00.001-05:00

A blog post takes me about fifteen minutes once the idea pops into my head. Writing a short story takes quite a bit longer. Especially if you follow the rules.

That’s the main thing I learned in my online writing class. There are rules. Rules that seem to take the joy out of writing from the heart.

But I guess it’s good to know the rules. Even if you don’t follow them.

My first assignment was to write a 250-500 word story using all five senses to describe things. No problem. I have no problem finding the words. I do have a problem with a particular word count limit. I can get really wordy – you probably know that about me already!

In my second assignment I had to interview someone. I learned from this experience that I definitely need to carry a voice recorder with me if I ever plan to interview anyone. So as to not inaccurately quote someone!

The purpose of assignment three was to give me an idea of the structure of a story. I focused on creating a hook – a grabber lead to a story. I had the hook. But apparently I didn’t have the internal conflict figured out. My instructor gave some very thought-provoking comments and set me on a search for my internal conflict.

I searched all week. Submitting assignment four, I felt slightly confident I had found it. But alas, I didn’t. My instructor again poked away at my brain, sending me back to the drawing board to find my internal conflict to interject into the story.

Rewriting parts of assignment four, she was happy with my changes. At last the conflict was identified!!

Assignment five was a big one. 1500 words - using all rules learned. I worked on it for a long time. I submitted it, not quite sure that it was written correctly. And I was right. I found the conflict, but now I need to define the form. Whose story was it? Mine? Was I going to write it as a personal experience, personal essay, as-told-to, or profile in third person?

CONFUSED, I went back to the drawing board and made the changes I could and resubmitted the same story for the sixth and last assignment.

In the end, my instructor told me a lot about myself. She commented, “You are a strong storyteller. Your storytelling skills are evident in this piece as you use dialogue to build your scenes and create suspense for the reader. But you do need to decide on the form and whose story you really want to write.”

So I finished my online non-fiction writing class a bit smarter, but unfortunately, a bit less enthusiastic about having the ability needed to write a book. And a bit less enthusiastic about writing being enjoyable. I’m currently contemplating if I would like to take another class from her this fall.

But blog posts are much easier.

Oops, this post just went over 500 words. Wordy me.

My Plate is Full

2009-05-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

I’m slacking. In the blogging department, that is.

You may have noticed that my posting has been less frequent lately. I’ve been desperately trying to get my life organized! Literally. I’m tackling years of neglect, closet by closet – room by room.

And next on my plate – an online writing class.

Yes, I finally took the plunge and went ahead with something I’ve been thinking about for the past year. I begin my class on May 21st. Just when my life is always the busiest.

With my job. And my rental properties (my other job).

Only I would have such perfect timing. And yes, I’m being sarcastic!

That’s why I introduced you to Email Notification by Feedburner a few weeks ago. In preparation for what lies ahead.

So you won’t have to wonder if I’ve written anything new. So you won’t get sick of checking my blog for new stuff. So you won’t give up on me!

I don’t want to lose my loyal readers!

So please, sign up to receive email notifications from me.

The Dishes Will Wait has to wait.

While my plate is full, at least.

M-O-M

2009-05-03T09:24:00.003-05:00

Yesterday at a trip to the garden center, I spied something that immediately brought me back about ten years, when Mickey was just four years old.

Mickey and I were shopping. Just like always, I got to push the cart and she got to add things to it. In the same way, she usually got to take the things home and I got to pay for them. (Unless the things I bought were groceries, then I also got to cook with them, do the dishes, plus clean up the kitchen after them.)

Sorry, I got sidetracked.

Back to ten years ago, when we were shopping. This time it was for flowers for our garden. We chose yellow marigolds and put them in our cart. (They don’t smell so pretty, but they are very hardy and look pretty from a distance.) We added pink and purple petunias, which of course were Mickey’s favorite colors. Finally, I spotted a beautiful red geranium – my favorite.

Our cart was full.

At this point, I had to take over steering the cart through the maze of aisles, past the sprinklers and over the garden hoses. Nearing the checkout, Mickey stopped, grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “Oh, Mom, look at this!” she exclaimed. “I want to get you these for Mother’s Day!” (I forgot to mention that at this point in the school year, her four-year-old reading vocabulary included recognizing the important words - Mom and Dad.)

Mickey saw a beautiful flower arrangement, with purple, pink and white carnations arranged in perfect formation, spelling out her favorite word, M-O-M.

I gasped.

What she didn’t know was that it was a memorial arrangement, one made to put in the ground in front of a headstone.

In a cemetery.

I smiled at Mickey, trying not to laugh. “They really are beautiful,” I told her. Hugging her, I added, “you can get me one like that when I’m older … (hopefully a lot older, I thought).”

So Mickey went home with her M-O-M and we planted our flowers. Yellow marigolds, pink and purple petunias, and one red geranium. And they were beautiful.

Faded White Letters

2009-04-22T19:42:00.007-05:00

As we came closer to the homestead in Little Tamarack Valley, a red barn came into view. The faded white letters K.K.J . stood out against the red barn boards. I knew that these were the initials of my great grandfather, Knut K. Jordet.

In 1865, after coming from Norway to America, Knut Jordet and his wife Olia left southeastern Wisconsin and settled on eighty acres of fertile land in west central Wisconsin, in Little Tamarack Valley. On this homestead, my great grandfather Knut K. Jordet was born.

In the front of the house, perched up on the gable of the porch roof, friends and family were greeted with this carving, made by a local woodworker.

Translation:
Knut K. Jordet settled here in the year 1865.
Stands here my house in peace for every envious eye, and to the ground that lets itself be plowed.
Here I eat my bread, Here fear I my God. Blessed is whoever here goes in and out.
Modena 4 December 1896

The year was 1895. Knut K. Jordet and his wife, Gunhild Bjorgo were young newlyweds. They raised seven children here, one of whom was my grandmother Olia, the oldest Jordet daughter. My great-grandfather lived his whole life in Little Tamarack Valley. He worshiped the Lord at Lyster Lutheran Church, just a few miles over the bluff, and in fact, was the first child to be baptized there. He walked this land in Little Tamarack Valley, plowed the soil, and raised his family here. He died on the farm in 1954.

Knut K. and Gunhild Jordet

As we rounded the curve in the patched blacktop road, I couldn’t help but think about my great-grandfather. I wondered if he drove his horses over this road in the cold Wisconsin winter, the sleigh packed with his family as they headed to Sunday worship at Lyster. I wondered what he was like. I wondered what it would have been like to meet him.

Although the buildings at the homestead are still there, visible to anyone passing through, by far the most meaningful to those of us who remain are the faded white letters.

K.K.J.

To most they are just letters. But to me, these letters fill my heart with love for a great-grandfather I never even knew. A man who walked this land. A man who raised a family here. And a man who helps me define my place in this world and who makes me a part of who I am today.

Note: Thank you to my Aunt E. for recording the Jordet family history back in 1978 – where the historical information in this writing comes from.

Food For Thought

2009-04-19T08:00:00.002-05:00

My mom was usually in the kitchen when I got off the school bus, sometimes surprising me with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of fresh, cold milk. Sounds cliché, but really, it’s true.

Other days my sister, brother and I raced into the house, threw our coats haphazardly down on the floor, and high-tailed it to the kitchen. Once there, we flung open the pantry door and fought for the box of Rice Krispies on the top shelf. Mom was at the oven, tending to the dinner. The scrumptious smell of roast beef poured out of the oven door, permeating our taste buds.

In either scenario – Mom was there. And my life was comfortable and secure.

Today my daughter beats me home. I surprise her with a phone call, asking her if we need anything from the store on the way home. She usually says, “Milk”.

I arrive a little later. By then Mickey is doing her homework. Or chatting on the computer. I sort the day’s mail – tossing the junk, keeping the rest. Mickey and I have a short chat about today’s events. We go about our business – homework and the ever-present, burning (no pun intended) question of what to make for dinner.

Quite a different scenario, isn’t it?

Thirty-five years ago my mom being there for me when I got home from school was comforting. It made me feel safe and secure.

Our world has changed.

How can I give Mickey that same sense of comfort and security? Or better yet …

What exactly is the comfort and security – the chocolate chip cookies or the fact that we know what to expect when we walk in the kitchen door?

Think about it. Food for thought, if you will.

A Spur-of-the Moment Disaster

2009-04-09T21:11:00.002-05:00

Mickey loves superheroes. We had to stand in line for an hour at Universal Studios in Florida four years ago to have her picture taken with Spiderman. She plays the Batman DVD over and over again. And she fell in love with the fireball from The Fantasic Four named Johnny Storm.

So when she asked me to make a spur-of-the moment decision on seeing a movie about superheroes, I simply thought - she will love this.

Until I found out it was rated R. I thought, I suppose there is some violence. Can’t be worse than a C.S.I. episode, could it? I thought, I suppose there could be some bad language. Can’t be worse than what I hear in the halls at school. And after all, Mickey was raised in the real world. But she has also been taught that even though it’s all around us, it’s not right. And she lives by that.

Mickey twisted my arm as we stood in line at the box office. My niece was agreeable to whatever movie we decided on. With hesitation in my voice I said, “ohhh, I don’t know…”

She asked for a synopsis of the plot for me. My niece read aloud as I heard the words Cold War and Soviet Union. I thought, this doesn’t really sound that good.

But Mickey persisted….

So we got our popcorn and found a seat.

An hour into the movie, I kept hoping it would get better. I kept hoping the dark, wet streets of the city would lend their way to sunshine and daytime. But they didn’t.

Two hours later I asked Mickey to text her dad to tell her where we were, so he didn’t wonder.

The blue man (a victim of a radioactive accident in 1961) could make himself twenty feet tall. His blue skin was translucent, giving view to his skeleton beneath. He had a gentle voice. He went to Mars, where it was quiet, to think. And he was naked.

The man with the mask cut the villains’ arms off with a grinder. But it wasn’t very realistic … thankfully.

There were a few humorous punch lines. We laughed.

By eleven p.m. I said to the girls, “Oh my gosh - this has to be almost over, doesn’t it?” We decided we all hated it.

Finally as the credits began to roll, we grabbed our stuff and headed to the parking lot.

There the truth spilled out of my mouth.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this movie. I’m picking the next one!”

And more to my niece – “Your dad will never let me take you to a movie again!”

I would bet that spur-of-the-moment decisions in life almost never turn out to be good things. I guess that’s why our parents try to teach us to think first. So our spur-of-the-moment decisions don’t become disasters.

Guess who couldn’t sleep that night?

Mickey slept fine. My niece slept fine.

I kicked and screamed “help!” in my sleep that night - my husband had to wake me from the train ride I was on. And believe me, I was thankful he did.

BECAUSE SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO GET ME!

Next movie? Rated G, please.

And an after-thought: If you don’t like the movie you are in, just get up and walk out for heaven sakes!

Look To The Left

2009-04-01T21:38:00.001-05:00

What is a feed? It could be a cookout. It could be filling the dog dish every morning.

Or not, if you’re talking about the web.

(Oh gosh, not a spider web. The world-wide web. )

What is RSS? It is, and this comes straight out of Wikipedia, an abbreviation for Really Simple Syndication. Further explained in Wikipedia - a family of web feed formats used to publish frequently updated works—such as blog entries, news headlines, audio, and video—in a standardized format.

You can subscribe to this blog by signing up to receive the RSS feed. It’s the little orange square at the top of your browser. But I think that’s kind of complicated. Because then you need Google Reader or some other service to send you the feed.

Enter Feedburner. What in the world is Feedburner? FeedBurner is a web feed management provider.

You’re asking – so what? Where is this going? When is she going to quit talking with all these strange words? Well …

Here is what this is leading up to. If you like reading this blog but get sick of checking it to see if I’ve posted anything new, now you can LOOK TO THE LEFT of this post and click on the link - Subscribe to The Dishes Will Wait By Email.

Fill out the information requested and you’re set!

Every time I post a new blog entry, you will get an email.

Simple as that.

Feedburner makes it possible.

Feedburner, the provider that now manages this web feed.

P.S. A few select people already receive blog notifications from me by email. That is something entirely different. That is a service provided by Blogger that allows me to enter up to ten email addresses that I choose to receive notification. So if you are one of those people, DISREGARD THE ABOVE!!