Crazy, I Know!

 Growing up, I didn’t have a lot to spend on luxuries of any sort. I certainly didn’t buy clothes since most of what I wore were hand-me-downs or bought new by my parents. I was trying to remember as a college student and young adult whether I bought clothes then. Hmm. I did buy those purple hot pants and leggings when I left college to sing full time, second billing to a hard rock band. (Never wore them on stage, though, since long hippy dresses were more the thing in Christian rock circles.)

No, I didn’t shop a lot. My biggest expenditure other than food and rent was stationery and empty journals. There was just something about the blank page.

As a young mother busy raising kids, I didn’t buy much for myself. Part of it was thrift, part of it was busyness. I did sew some, but my needs weren’t great. When I got into quilting, I did spend money on fabric, but that is art, so it doesn’t count. Maybe.

When my husband and I retired, we allotted ourselves mad money accounts, and most of that has gone for photography equipment, which is indeed a luxury. But every expenditure came with a twinge of guilt–like this was unnecessary, and what about all those worthy causes out there, and what about all the needs and wants of my kids and grandkids.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought myself an air fryer. I don’t need an air fryer. I mean who needs another appliance to cook a better French fry? I have gone back and forth about its usefulness, my worthiness, my . . . who knows what! But I have decided it is just plain fun to have something new–something to experiment with. I went on Amazon and bought myself two 100% cotton nighties (not made in China!). And I am thinking that though I don’t need it at all, I may just go out and buy myself some expensive non-stick frying pans! And I may even buy the domain for this blog rather than just using the freebee.

It’s not that I am throwing caution to the wind, but I have decided I might deserve a little extravagance that goes beyond need. Crazy, I know.

Grey Moments of Life

 

The whup, whup of the medivac helicopter matched the beat of blood, pulsing in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. My hands were clenched in front of me. A position of prayer, I think. A blur. Help, Jesus.

They were talking to him in his shredded blue Grand “Was.” He was alive, but he looked dazed, moving in slow motion, or else I was seeing in slow motion.

The officer kept asking me stupid questions, keeping me from running to the car. I answered with one part of my brain as the rest of my soul and mind searched the accident scene for hope that my boy was going to be okay.

*********************

It was a long journey, but he survived. That was one of those grey moments of life, though, when peace and ease are exchanged in a moment for panic and desperate prayers.

I Want to Return

 

I want to return to that place—

the comfort and ignorance of childhood,

the rooftops, the trees, haylofts, and attics,

the fast river and railroad tracks that led nowhere and everywhere,

green fields and barbed wire fences, and salt licks for sampling.

Free days.

I remember the scent of my father, the oil and hay, stale manure, and Old Spice.

In church, I explored weathered hands with blackened nails,

sucking Lifesavers while adults thought about Jesus.

I remember mum in floral house dresses with sensible shoes,

baking cookies, tender crusted pies, and fried bologna we thought was a treat,

berry picking and chauffeuring to Jeffrey’s Lake for a muddy swim with leeches.

Free days, happy days—at least for a child.

I want to return to that place before the angry shouts of opposition parties,

the heated debates about border, fentanyl, and sex trafficking,

the hot tears and anger with mass shootings and invasion robberies.

To the place with unlocked doors and no coded security systems,

to the place where every neighbor was a friend and helper and

not suspected of being on some sex offender’s registry.

Free days, ignorant days.

But there is no going back, I guess;

there is no unknowing and unseeing what the world has become,

and we would desperately protect our own,

hold off the darkness as long as possible; but

somehow it seems we have dragged our little ones along to this troubled place.

But I would return if I could.

 

 

Mail Domination!!!

Posted on April 29, 2012 

I wonder if they make femail boxes in this rural setting?  

This scene is very nostalgic for me, except for the locks on some.  Growing up you would never see that!  However, many a mailbox ended up stuffed with manure or firecrackers on Hallowe’en.  Delinquents!  . . . Not me.  . . .  What are you looking at?  I only used hay!

We collected our mail at the general store a mile from home.  I felt disenfranchised not having a shiny mailbox at the lane.  Finally, we got one!  Said “Cr____ and Son” on the top.  Nice try, Dad.  Your only son would run off and become a space-age scientist engineer person.  It must have been a sign that a month after the mailbox was up, somebody threw it in the river.  At least, that’s what we suspect.  A Hallowe’en trick.  Sometimes, pranksters would just exchange mailboxes so you found it a few farms over.  We never found ours, and the river was so handy.

Now if it had said “Cr____ and 6 wonderful daughters and one son,” no one would have dared such a sacrilege.  Oh, well.  Back to the general store.

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Daddy’s Tears

Posted on March 16, 2012by apronheadlilly

Daddy was not one to cry needlessly, but when his kids were injured, sick, or received unfair treatment, he cried. When we made tacky Father’s Day cards, blue eyes misted. When he dropped me at college tears fell, and when I lost my baby, though miles away, in my heart I know he cried.

Once sitting in the airport waiting to board, the family started a round of good-byes. Daddy cried. I cried. Soon everyone was crying.


“He started it!” I blurted, pretending to lay blame. I was right. He did.

Overwhelmed with emotion, I made my way to the restroom to freshen up. I knew something was wrong when I saw the urinals. My eyes had been so blurry, I’d stumbled into the men’s restroom. At least now everyone was laughing.

Daddy is older now, his broad muscular body weakened from disease. But Daddy still has tears. He still cries for his kids – an overflow from a tender heart.

He can’t understand what he did to deserve our love. But I know. He possesses the Father’s heart. He has allowed God’s love to permeate his soul, and it just seeps out through the cracks as Daddy’s tears.

(He is gone now, and I miss him. Jan. 15, 2008)

More Rockin' Monsters!

I found a few more monsters that were hiding out!



This one below is still on the loose, but seems more tame.

I don't need a dog whisperer . . .

I don’t need a dog whisperer; I need a dog yeller!

Okay, I know he’s from Texas, but that alone should not be reason enough for the bizarre behavior our wonderful pet displays.

We bought our tricolor collie off the Internet, which is maybe a bit risky given we couldn’t really see how he interacted with his siblings and parental units.  However, he has been a lover—an ideal pet and so perfectly spoiled!  That is until we changed the flooring.

When we took out the carpeting and put hard floors in, all of a sudden he became afraid of his dog bowl.  We really didn’t realize he wasn’t eating till a friend commented on how skinny he had become.  With his big fur coat, the gradual reduction in weight had not really sunk in.  Hubby thought I was filling his bowl; I thought he was.

Panic mode.  Rescue mode.

He went from only pure (expensive) dog food—no scraps—to food laced with eggs, feta cheese, and beef gravy!  (Okay, don’t tell my husband, but I did accidently regularly drop food he might like just a bit as I prepared meals.  But that is a secret!)  We coaxed and cajoled (Yeah, they are synonyms.  It’s for emphasis!) and got him to eat out of our hands, and eventually the bowl.  Problem solved.

At least you would think.

He got some kind of intestinal bug.  We think it’s from his disgusting habit of licking other dogs’ urine.  His tongue lolls out of his mouth, his eyes glaze over, and he drools as if in some kind of drug-induced stupor.  I’d say it is a doggie sexual thing except he does it with bird poop, too.  Like I said, he’s from Texas!  (Kidding.  Don’t throw things.)  The gas he got from his addiction made him think that he was being chased by demons.  Or else he’d look at me as if I’d poked him or something and take off out the door!

Expensive vet type pills took care of those demons, but amazingly the demons were cast out of his butt and into his water bowl!

Current dilemma:  He will lick water from the sprinklers and off the concrete, and occasionally even drink from his bowl as if nothing is wrong.  But more often than not, he will lie in front of his water and whine.  Or bark.  And look ever so pathetic.

Solution:  By going over and standing by the water, he will drink.  But apparently some doggie demons only come out with exotic rituals, which in this case means you lean over (must hurt lower back or it doesn’t work), put a finger actually touching the side of the bowl, and then he will drink.  Or at least till the bowl gets about halfway down.  Then somehow the waves . . . or his reflection . . . or the dip in publicly traded stocks stirs the water and he jumps back!

So since Caesar the Dog Whisperer is not available, and I’m not so sure a whisper is what we need anyway, we are thinking of lacing his bowl with antidepressants for dogs (which come in little cat-shaped pills).  And if that doesn’t work, we’re back to yelling . . . at each other!

P.S.  Don’t tell us to get a stand for his food and water.  Done that.  Returned item.

Don’t tell us to buy a fountain that circulates refreshing water into the bowl, simulating a Canadian mountain stream.  Well . . . you know.

Don’t tell us he will drink when he’s thirsty.  Held out as long as possible, but the SPCA was doing drive bys.

Don’t tell us to change the bowl or get a rug or put the bowl outside.  Tried and failed.

And remember:  This is the dog that was attacked a few days ago by a pit bull boxer type big muscular meanie, driving me into hysterics trying to club the dog with my bicycle and a pine tree!  Okay, I was trying to hide behind the pine tree.  When we get ready for our rides now, me armed with an 18” steel pipe that gives me hand cramps, he looks at me with the same jubilant eyes that he always has had.  Me, I’m still in shock and fighting nausea.   But give him a bowl of water to drink . . . and my neurotic goes into hysterics! 

Help me!

Voices

I hear the voices from fairytale days

of bruised knees and bloody noses in the night,

of dogs and games and Disney

to pouts and pen and ink on walls—

and happy endings to bursting and weary days.

I hear the voices of sweet Camelot hours

of swings and things dirty and germy,

of teeth brushed and songs sung

to whines and colds and sorrys—

weary endings to full and happy days.

Now worlds distant in faith and place,

there’s weakness in these spiraling days,

and all I can do is cry and pray

when I hear them in the night—

I still hear the voices.

1-30-12

Home: January 15, 2008

A wonderful husband and father,
an inventor,
a farmer,
a life-long-learner,
a joker,
a story-teller,
at home with his Lord.

Miss You, Dad!

"Irvin, button up your shirt."
"Irvin, comb your hair."  That was Mom and their generation of picture-taking.
This was mine.

This photo and the next one were caught by other family members.

One of the things I loved most about my dad was how he cherished my mom . . . and loved his kids and grandkids!

Daddy, You're Not Alone

(This song was written for my father during one of his critical hospital stays.  He passed away January 15, 2008, and I miss him.)

1. I know you never thought it would be like this,
You never thought you’d be so weak.
Never thought you’d be dependent.
I know through all the years when you felt so strong,
It must’ve never crossed your mind
That you’d face this moment.

Chorus:
In these midnight hours, I know it hurts.
In the pain and tears, you’ve got to wonder what it’s all worth;
But remember you’re not alone.
Even through the blackest night,
Even through the deepest water,
Daddy, you’re not alone.
You are in the arms of God,
Loved by your Heavenly Father.

2. I guess I never thought it would be like this.
Never thought you’d grow so old,
Always thought you’d be my shelter.
And it never crossed my mind when you walked so tall
That your world could shrink so small;
I kinda thought you’d live here forever.

Coda:  “Daddy, you’re almost home.
             And Daddy, you’re not alone.”

Lilly 2-02

Givin' Him the Boot!

. . . at least the doc did.  We're on the homeward LEG of this medical journey! :-)

Meatloaf--Not the Archie Bunker Kind

I cooked meatloaf this week.  Ta-da!  To show you how rare this is (infrequent, not the doneness of the meat):  My son did not really recognize it and didn't ever remember me serving it before.  He's 22.

Okay, it's been awhile for this vegetarian-wanna-be, kind-of, some-of-the-time person.  But I was listening to Melinda Lee's food show on KNX in LA on the way to pick up my organic vegies (Read:  redeeming myself), and she was talking about meatloaf.  I had this sudden urge for comfort food.  So for supper I pulled out some turkey sausage and organic ground beef (Organic is supposed to make them feel better about their demise.) and whipped up some.  It was a delicious, hearty meal, served alongside 3 different kinds of squash.  Very winterish.  Very nostalgic.  No side dish of guilt.

Of course, my son needed verification that there were indeed no soy granules in it, and I assured him it was indeed the real thing!  And hormone free!

Funny how certain foods conjure up warm and fuzzy feelings.  Feelings of childhood--feelings of home . . .

Except that I don't remember my Mom's meatloaf either.  She was a good cook, and I know she cooked all manner of meats--a good farmer's wife.  But I don't remember meatloaf.  One delicacy that does come to mind, though, is fried balogna.  And I never have any urges for that!

Something old, something new . . .

This reproduction of an old illustration by Bessie Pease Gutman has been on my Habersham desk for years.  I like the mood, the color, the innocence, et al.  It kind of dawned on me recently that I had taken a couple of photographs last spring of my granddaughter, which quite resemble this print.

See what you think.

Need some help here . . .

If you were an intelligent, creative, almost 3-yr.-old, where would you hide a thumb drive that looks like a cow?  Mmm?  Suggestions?

Winter White

This is a photo shot on film and scanned, so does have a bit of a grainy feel.  But I love it.

It was taken at the corner of my baby sister and brother-in-law's farmhouse in Ontario in a windy snow storm.  This is before they sold the farm and moved closer to the city to be yuppies.  :-)  We were all hurrying to get into the house, but the landscape was calling me.

Migraine Morning

Since I battled a migraine early on, I will only post these pics of my grandbaby.  She is sweetness and hot sauce! :-)

Straddling the Fault

My boys come by their crazy death-defying ways genetically.  The tiny speck of white in the notch at the top of the far off jutting rock at Vasquez Rocks is my hubby--pre-surgery, of course.




When you hike around here, you are sitting on top of the San Andreas Faultline.  We like to live dangerously apparently!  Of course, any place in California is dangerous.  Remember, we have Hollywood! 





It is always best to come when the rattlers aren't active.  Of course, we were wrong about this excursion.  It was April and apparently they are early risers!

Follow the white dot!

More evidence is in . . .

Here is more evidence that wind farms are a really good idea in the California deserts!

Grandbabies Rule!

Don't get me wrong:  I know Jesus is the reason for the season!  But my grandbaby is definitely the cream in my coffee!