Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Difference between Adults and Children

Here's a picture of pure childhood joy standing on an inflatable in a lake.


Here's a picture that further contextualizes that joy.


Children do not feel cold. Adults, however, do not consider it advisable to get into a lake when the air temperature is 65 degrees F and the breeze is gusting to twenty miles per hour. Instead, adults put on a coat.

Joy comes in many temperature settings.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Fitting in and Group Think: Family

The story of fitting in begins with family, and my family set me up for both belonging and not belonging in some very useful ways.

My mother’s family, though quirky and unique as all families are, always felt like home to me. My grandparents set the tone for the group as far as I was concerned, although I caught glimpses of the source of their attitude every time we gathered with extended family. Grandma and Papa loved being surrounded by their family, and the power of their love drew all of us together over food and games and celebration at every opportunity.

My life took me places that my grandparents never went. I remember Papa telling me that if public school was good enough for him, it should be good enough for me. But he never said another word about my private education again. He celebrated my graduation from Charlotte Latin School proudly and helped host a pound party for me when I moved into my first apartment at Duke. (For those who don’t know, at a pound party, people give the new house-keeper a pound of this and a pound of that to fill the pantry and cleaning closet with staples.)

After I earned my master’s degree, Grandma told me she couldn’t talk to me or write letters anymore because I knew too much. When I pointed out that I knew a whole lot about a very narrow subject 99.9 percent of the planet didn’t care a fig about and promised that I would never, ever take a red pen to any letter she sent me because I just loved seeing her handwriting so much, she said, “Well, in that case….” And she wrote.

Love and acceptance are powerful forces to unite a family, or, for that matter, any group of people. My mother’s family modeled love and acceptance for me in powerful ways, but my father’s family operated on quite a different dynamic, one that demonstrated the negative forces of judgment and amputation in a group, and took every bit of the fun out of dysfunctional.

Again, from my perspective, it was my grandparents who set the tone. Details are unnecessary, but the first time I remember meeting my grandmother (I was around ten or eleven), my first thought was, “Do not ever trust this woman. She will hurt you.” And she eventually did try. My grandfather was a benign, gentle man, a poet, and far too weak to stand up to my grandmother and rein in the worst of her meanness. He loved her, if his poems are any indication, but she came to him horrifyingly damaged by her father’s abuse and neglect.

This is what the Old Testament means by the sins of the parents being visited on succeeding generations. It takes generations to heal this level of damage, generations for enough love and acceptance to grow over bald patches of ground repeatedly scraped bare by hate and judgment.

Healing does happen, though.

Eventually.

Considering my bipolar family situation, it’s little wonder that I’ve dealt pretty well with belonging and not belonging as an adult. Sometimes, as with my membership in Alpha Phi Omega, belonging felt wonderful and easy. Sometimes, despite my best efforts, belonging never happened. I can’t say that not belonging is pleasant, but at least I never took it personally. And that’s the subject for next week’s essay.

Please share an example of belonging from your own childhood, a time when you felt safe and secure and loved and a part of something bigger than yourself. How has that positive sense of belonging carried into your adult life?

Saturday, December 11, 2010

O' Christmas Tree

We went to a tree farm today and chopped down our Christmas tree, a tradition that pre-dates our children. This year, Daisy joined us. The horses pulling the hayride really freaked her out so much she couldn't even bark loudly. She just sort of woofed in awe.




Jack didn't wear his Santa hat because he didn't want to lose it, and George knew he would be lying in the mud to cut down the tree. Nick and I, however, wanted to wear Christmas on our heads. We were not the only ones, either.

We found our tree, which is a lovely blue spruce. I left the chopping to the manly man and his assistant.


Jack sang Christmas carols with an occasional Blue's Clues song thrown in for a little variety while his brother hauled the tree to the service area, where very nice teenage boys cleaned up the bottom, shook out loose needles, and wrapped the tree into a tidy package. 


The tree farm also has a couple of reindeer. Now I know it's Christmas.


We came home before the great midwest storm hit. For us, it's supposed to start with rain (already happening), followed by ice, then snow, wind, and general winter mayhem. I'm not leaving my house for weeks.

Neither is Daisy, who was completely worn out after a day of woofing at giant quadrupeds.


Be safe, folks. Wherever you are.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Things on Thursday: A Love Letter

Looking back through old family scrapbooks can be quite illuminating. You can uncover amazing treasures that give you a glimpse--just a glimpse--into the past.

My grandmother, Ann Willis, received a two-page letter dated October 12, 1943, when my mother was just over a year old, and signed by someone named Johnson.


The letter passed the Army censors. Johnson was a friend of Ann's husband, my grandfather, D.L. Willis.


Here's a photo of the letter, the second page of which is permanently glued into the scrapbook (woe is me!).


Here's a transcript of the letter:

Dear Anne,

I am writing you in order to release my mind of a thought that has been in my heart for some time.

It hurts me to write this, but the time has come when I can hardly stand it any longer. I am asking you while I am in a serious mood, something that has caused me many nights of restless sleep. It may be discouraging to you, but also interest you to know the pleasures of life depends on your ability to give me a truthful answer. Honey, I hate to say this but my heart has taken advantage of my thoughts and I am forced to beg you to give an answer that will send me to the well known seventh heaven or to the eternal depths of hell. In fact, my interest in this world and in the future depends on you.

Little did I know that such would ever cross my path in regards to you, and I know you will be kind enough to give me the answer that will make me very happy or miserable.

Promise me that you will consider the issue with an open mind and not let former loves or courtships influence you. Honey, from the bottom of your heart, I want to know the truth. Do you think Lil' Abner will ever marry Daisy Mae?

Johnson

P.S. I saw D.L. the other day and he looked fine. He gave me your message about snatching both my hairs out. Too late, Annie, the rigors of war have beat you to both of them. How's that baby. I miss her slobbering on my blouse. Bye now, J


When George first perused this scrapbook, he read this letter with huge eyes and shocked expression...right up to the line about Lil' Abner. He said that, as he was reading it, he couldn't believe Grandma had put the letter in a scrapbook for all to see. Those of us who knew Grandma well expected some sort of punch-line, though. Nor are we surprised that she was threatening to pull out Johnson's remaining hair. Papa always teased her that she had yanked out all his hair, too.

I asked my Mom if she knew anything about Johnson. She said no. She believes there is a photo of him somewhere, but she's not sure. If there is, it's likely not labelled. Johnson is probably one of the nameless faces in the many war-era photos that my Grandmother put in albums. The Greatest Generation is becoming the Lost Generation. But this letter gives us a glimpse into that time. And that makes it a precious thing to hold.  

Monday, September 6, 2010

Gratitude Journal #56

Today, as we take a rest from labor, I am grateful that George has a job. So many who want jobs don't have them. I pray they soon find work.

Today, I am grateful for yesterday at the park, a day of perfect temperatures, blue sky, and peace...

of laughing at Daisy chase leaves in a perfect fall breeze...





and of boys climbing trees.



This boy is wide-open and WYSIWYG. He's happy to be.



This boy is complex. Deep. Thoughtful.


And afflicted by a tummy ache because his daddy spun him a little too long on the tire swing.

Today, I am grateful for skirt steak and a husband who can whip up perfect guacamole without a recipe.

What are YOU grateful for today?

Friday, August 13, 2010

Words, Words, Words about Family

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them." Desmond Tutu


"Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one." Jane Howard


"And thank you for a house full of people I love. Amen." Terri Guillemets

These quotations apply to the week in June that we spent with George's side of the family. They also apply to the time I'm spending right now with my mom, sister, brother-in-law, niece, and two nephews. That's right. I'm in Grady-land! Pictures will be coming your way soon.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Door-to-Door Waffles, Anyone?

My son desperately wants a new rapid-fire Nerf gun. He was, however, four dollars short of the needed cash to purchase one.

This kid always has an idea. "Mom, guess what? I'm going to make money selling Cherry Delight! You remember the recipe I invented?"

Before I continue, allow me to share his recipe for Cherry Delight.


Nick's Cherry Delight


Ingredients:
waffles
cherry pie filling
powdered sugar

Directions:
Mom makes waffles using the recipe on the Bisquick box. Nick pops the top on the cherry pie filling, spoons some on each waffle, sprinkles each with powdered sugar.

That's Cherry Delight.

My response to his plan was annoyingly socratic.

Me: How are you going to get the waffles and cherry pie filling?

Nick: You're going to get them for me.

Me: Are you going to pay me for the ingredients?

Nick: That wouldn't work! I wouldn't make much money that way!

Me: Who will buy your waffles?

Nick: The neighbors.

Me: How will they know you have waffles to sell?

Nick: I will take them to their door.

Me: How will you keep them warm? How will you deliver them? Are you going to use paper plates? Who will pay for the paper plates?

Nick: [crickets]

Then I explained that, logistical difficulties aside, most people wouldn't want to buy cold, sickeningly sweet waffles from a door-to-door salesman trying to make money for a Nerf gun. Plus, we don't allow our children to go door-to-door anyway.

Me: I have another idea. Why don't we make the chocolate dumplings Ms. Debra made? They are easy, make a bunch, and you can easily sell them from a stand at the four-way stop by the pool.

Nick: Sure! I can sell them for a dollar a piece!

Me: Um. No. A quarter a piece would be better.

Nick: How 'bout 50 cents?

Me: A quarter.

He did make the chocolate dumplings but charged 50 cents each. He also tried selling at our pool first, but of course, as we had told him, no one takes money to a neighborhood pool that has no vending machines or snack bar. Finally, he admitted that the four-way stop would be best. He spent three hours in the hot, hot sun trying to sell chocolate dumplings (devil's food cake mix and one can of pumpkin...they're healthy and taste good, too!).

After an hour of no takers, he called me on the cell phone I loaned him, and told me things were not going well.

Nick: I thought I'd change the sign. [Smart kid!]

Me: What does it look like now?

Nick: It says, "50 cent chocolate."

Me: What did you write it with?

Nick: Blue marker.

Me: Can drivers read it? Are the letters really big and dark?

Nick: [pause] No.

Me: Make your letters bigger and darker and add the word dumplings to it. People may just think you're selling chocolate bars, which might not sound appealing at 9 in the morning.

Nick: Great idea, Mom! How do you spell dumplings?

I told him, and he went back to work.

One kind man took pity and bought two, which resulted in a jubilant phone call to update me on his victory. After that bit of success, the market dried up. After several hours, Nick's friend Jacob offered him $3, and Nick gave him the entire box.

He had earned his money by the sweat of his brow and the generosity of a friend, so I took him to Target, only to find two empty shelves where the gun he wanted should have been.

He took it like a man and said we can check back another day.

I'm proud of my boy and hope he eventually gets what he wants. But I hope his career takes a different path.

Perhaps contract negotiations.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Picking a Daisy

As soon as Hoover was diagnosed with cancer, the three boys in my life started talking about getting a puppy. My heart and head screamed "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" to this suggestion, both because my heart was breaking and because it's been 13 years since I had a puppy but I remember how much work it was and ohmygosh give me a break.

Then, when George took my Furry Golden Sunshine to the vet for the last time, my heart well and truly broke, and all I could do for days on end was cry. In the nadir of my own grief, I noticed how mopey George was, how he kept surfing the Internet for Burnese Mountain Dog and Great Pyrenees breeders in our area.

Huh?

George has always wanted a huge dog. I believe this is a direct result of testosterone and I have vigorously fought his big-dog yearnings for years. I do not want a dog that weighs more than I do. I do not want to clean up horse-size piles of poo from my yard (or carpet). I do not want to buy the mega-size bags of Iams, or pay more expensive kennel and vet rates, either. But most of all, I don't want to have a dog whose life expectancy is shorter than the average dog.

Dogs don't live long enough as it is.

Fortunately, George pulled out all the golden-retriever-themed books we own and reread them in the week after Hoover left us, and having him in this vulnerable state, I decided to compromise. We could get a golden puppy after Ironman in September. Yeah, that would work.

But George kept moping. The boys kept talking about puppies. And George's training for Ironman, which had already taken on a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for root canals and April 15, started petering out. His heart just isn't in the race this year.

Then it dawned on George that if we didn't go to Madison this year, we could get a puppy NOW. His enthusiasm for the race became more or less nonexistent at that point. His enthusiasm for making a list of contacts for golden breeders, however, blossomed like the giant hybiscus in our neighbor's yard. It was beyond human power to contain.

To exercise some damage control, I said okay, we can get a puppy under two conditions. First it's got to be a girl. I wanted to rub a dog belly again (males have that furry penile sheath thingie that gets in the way of a good belly rub...ewwww). Plus, because females are in greater demand than males, I figured it would take a while to find a female at the right age to leave her mother, so I'd have a little time.

My second condition was that we name her Daisy. At that point, George's puppy lust was such that he would have agreed to naming her Doo-Doo Face if it got him what he wanted. George agreed to Daisy and sprang into action.

This is when Hoover exercised his influence with the angels, who, I am sure, would agree to anything the Furry Golden Sunshine wanted if he would just stop jumping up and licking their noses and knocking their halos askew.

The very first breeder George called, from a town 30 minutes north of ours, had one puppy left in a litter she co-owns in Michigan. A girl. Nine weeks old. Bred from a Westminster champion named Stormy. The breeder, who is married to a veterinarian, only breeds when she wants a new dog for conformation or agility shows. All the other pups are sold as pets with spay/neuter contracts to families with fenced yards who want a dog to live in the house with them as a member of the family.

Um. HELLO!?! Does that sound like a family you know?

I couldn't believe it. Three weeks and a day after Hoover left us, we're picking a Daisy.

The Michigan breeder sent us a picture of our Daisy yesterday. One look at her sweet puppy face and I was lost.

A goner.

Fallen.

Hopelessly yearning to smell frito paws and puppy breath.

And crying anew over the loss of my Hoover.



It's all very complicated and sad and joyous at the same time. We're picking Daisy up tonight, and the madness of puppydom begins. But one thing is certain. We are a very lucky family to have the Furry Golden Sunshine watching out for us.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Random Minnesota: Part 2


Here are the players in this post. Barb and Roger are the parents of George and Angela, Mike is married to Angela, Eli and Matt are Angela's children, I'm married to George, and Nick and Jack are our children. Don't worry. There are no quizzes on this blog.

Our visit to Minnesota began with a visit to the nursing home to visit Great-Grandma Angela. She turns 99 next month and had never met Jack.



After this visit, we headed to Pehrson's Resort. As soon as the whole family had arrived safely at the cabin after long, long drives, George’s father announced that this vacation was a trial run for Hawaii in two years. He and George’s mom would only invite us all to Hawaii to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary IF we behaved for the week at the lake.

This is an excellent way to bribe eight other people into behaving well while sharing a cabin for week.



The water of Lake Vermilion is cold, cold, cold. Neither Matt (above) or Jack (below) cared.


Nick, however, had a harder time adjusting to the cold. When swimming with George one day, he was easing into deeper water when the cold hit his privates. That’s when he suggested that, when he grows up, he wants to invent “’nad-heated swimwear.”

I’ve never heard the word “’nad” so much as on this vacation.


Eli (above, center), George’s nephew, didn’t feel well the first day and woke up the second with a fever. Of course, this meant a trip to the Cook Medical Center, along with lots of jokes about quality medical care in small-town emergency rooms from his mom, who works at a large and well-respected big-city medical center. Poor Eli. The ER doc took one look at his throat and said, “Well, that’s nasty.” Then the doctor prescribed antibiotics and narcotics. Woohoo! The drugs knocked Eli out until the fever came back, necessitating a return to the Cook Medical Center for more powerful antibiotics that included a shot in the butt. Not very dignified for a 20-year-old man, do you think? After another day of sleeping it off, Eli emerged with feeling much better and joined the fun, after enduring lots of jokes for his bare-butt medical adventure.

Bare butts and ‘nads. Can you tell the boys in the cabin out-numbered the girls 7 to 3?

Matt, George’s other nephew, spent hours every night up the hill behind the cabin to talk to his girlfriend on the phone. None of us but Angela had cell phone service in the cabin, which was in a bit of a dead zone. He proudly showed off his mosquito bites after the first night, until his mom started wiping him with bug wipes each night before he headed off to converse with his lady-love.

Most of us thought Matt’s young love was cute, but his brother found it revolting, which reminded me of how my sister felt when George and I were young and silly. Isn’t this the universal condition of siblings, who suddenly have to share their closest living relative with a virtual stranger?



Anyway, Matt’s girlfriend sent a text message to Angela (above, right) asking her to find out Matt’s ring size so she could give him a promise ring before he headed off to college in July. Angela, not surprisingly, was baffled by how she could surreptitiously find out her son’s ring size and discussed the request with me, Eli, and Barb while we sat at the table together. By lucky coincidence, Angela was playing with a twist-tie from a loaf of bread when Matt walked in. She said, “Matt, give me your hand. I want to put this on your finger.” Eli, Barb, and I started laughing hysterically at the subtlety of Angela’s tactic, which pretty much doomed it to failure because Matt got all suspicious and wanted to know why his mother needed to put a twist-tie on his finger.

One evening, George teased and tickled Jack, who pretended to be angry but kept going back for more. Then, suddenly, Jack stomped away and said, “I am walking crossly away!” The adults all laughed, but unfortunately, Jack’s imaginative play had transitioned to real and righteous anger in a flash none of us adults understood or even caught until it was too late. Our laughter suddenly seemed ill-timed and hurtful, and we all felt bad. But honestly, how can you NOT laugh when a child narrates his actions as if he were in a Thomas the Tank Engine story?


Extreme ping pong (that is, ping pong played without rules of any kind) is far more fun than regular ping pong. Mike and Nick (above) invented the game, and Angela and I joined them for extreme doubles play. The ball seemed to resent the lack of rules and kept escaping out the porch windows to hide in the shrubbery.

George and I really, really need a ping pong table in our basement. Extreme ping pong is a sport I can get excited about because you cannot lose or even do it badly.


Pontoon boats are just cool. Thanks to my father-in-law Roger (above) for giving us an awesome morning on one. The resort also had kayaks, paddle boats, and canoes which we took full advantage of. I love kayaking. It’s the most peaceful activity, unless, of course, you are out with a ten-year-old who decides that it’s a perfect opportunity for an epic whine-fest. I stayed with Nick while watching George and Jack, in the two-person kayak, go merrily off across the water. I finally convinced Nick to go back to the dock, escorted him there and handed him off to his kind aunt while I paddled back out to meet George and Jack. At least Nick tried.







My sister-in-law and I walked out on a dock. “Oh, look at the mallard!” I said. “Yes,” she replied. Then, a few seconds later, she noticed that it was bobbing oddly. “Uh, Susan, I don’t think it’s real. It’s a decoy.” I looked again, and felt stupid. Angela is so sweet…she didn’t even laugh at me. Fortunately, we did see many living, breathing birds, including several families of ducks—moms with their babies—that more than made up for my moment of stupidity.

Sometimes, transitioning Nick and Jack to a fun activity is a real challenge. I KNEW they would enjoy the kids’ nature cruise the resort offered, but both acted like all I was asking them to write a book report. I dragged them kicking and whining to the waiting pontoon boat where both of them were forced to have a good time entirely against their wills. Here's photographic proof of their initial reluctance.





How did I keep on living under the weight of their scorn?

Once they got over it, we learned how beavers affect the landscape over time, how loons are very territorial and bicker with each other (oh, we know about bickering!), and how Black Bay got its name. We saw herons, an eagle sitting in a nest, and a bunch of loons (including a baby on its mom's back). Nick even got to drive the boat. Twice. That certainly put a smile on his face. Both admitted that sometimes, mom is actually right.





Nick wanted to learn how to fish while on vacation.


George and Grandpa took him out and he was very enthusiastic, saying he would bring back dinner. After he caught a fish, however, he realized that to eat his catch, he would have to kill it. My son, bless him, discovered that he’s more of a catch-and-release kind of fisherman. Like me, he would much rather purchase his formerly-breathing food neatly prepared by someone else and packaged in nice, sterile Styrofoam trays. We would both starve in a survival situation.

We’re totally okay with that.

This was the first time Barb and Roger had all four of their grandsons in one place at the same time. Don't they look happy? Well, not Roger so much in this picture, but I assure you, he was happy as a golden retriever with a stick.



It was also the first time Great-Grandma Angela had all four of her great-grandsons in one place at the same time.



It was a great pleasure to spend time with George’s nephews. They are grown men now, and they reminded me what our goal is with our boys…to raise adults we want to spend time with. Plus, they were both really kind to their much younger cousins.

The sunset view out of our cabin was beautiful each night. A picture of it (taken by George) pretty much sums up the beauty of our whole vacation.



What most marked our week at Lake Vermilion was the laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. Isn’t it great to be part of a family that knows how to laugh?

I’m happy to report we all passed Barb and Roger’s test for Hawaii. At least for now. Two years is such a long time for us all to be on our best behavior….

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Things on Thursday: A Love Letter




A letter from my grandfather to my mother, dated 4 May 1949. Papa was participating in the Berlin Airlift at the time. The airlift ended just eight days after he wrote this letter.

The letter is written on very thin air mail paper. The ink must be acidic because there are tiny holes in places on the letters.

The Parker 51 fountain pen belonged to my grandfather (and may or may not have been the pen he used to write this letter). I've had the pen since his death in 1987.

The letter reads,

Hi Dianne

I received your letter today, I sure was glad to here from you. I think you can write very good and I bet you can read pretty good too if you are in the Blue bird class. How are you and your little sister geting along? I sure would like to see both of you.

You sure did look dressed up in that new Easter outfit. I am sending you a paper with this letter it has some pictures of old funny men on the back of it. Write real soon.

Love Daddy

---------------------------------

Do you have a special letter or pen you cherish? Please share something special that speaks of love to you in the comments.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Gratitude Journal #40

Today, I am grateful for time spent with family doing nothing particularly special.

Today, I am grateful that George tried to buy a book yesterday...one I already own. It gave me a little thrill to be reminded again that the two of us, so different in so many ways, have some common interests, too.

Today, I am grateful that 42 years ago, my sister was born. She's my Best Friend for Life and an amazing, smart, funny, and kind person. Sorry I pushed you down the stairs all those years ago, Lisa. Big sisters can be so annoying.

What are you grateful for today?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

When Snuggle-Bunnies Goes Bad

George and I lay on the boys' bed last night for Snuggle-Bunnies (our nightly ritual of tucking the boys in and spending what is supposed to be a little quiet time with them). During Snuggle-Bunnies, George and Jack often play a variation on "Got Your Nose!" with Jack stealing various facial parts off George. Last night, it went too far.

Jack: Got your butt!

George, Nick, Me: GROSS!!

Jack (cackling gleefully): I got your BUTT!

George: My butt just farted in your hand.

Jack: GROSS!!

Nick (laughing): "My butt just farted in your hand!" That's so funny! Say it again, Dad!

George: My butt just farted in your hand.

Just wanted you to know I'm running away from home. The testosterone in my house has carried butt/fart humor too far.... I need some estrogen.

Anyone know a good convent that will take a Methodist?

Monday, April 19, 2010

Gratitude Journal #39

I love having botanical gardens close. Our own yard will not be featured in Better Homes and Gardens anytime soon, and so we visit botanical gardens to see and photograph flowers. At our area arboretum Saturday, we walked among blooming trees and bushes and a field of tulips dancing in a crisp breeze and bright sunlight. Of course, there were no daisies yet, but there were pansies...one of my favorite flowers.

Today, I am grateful for time spent in the flowers.







Today, I am grateful for another weekend with Hoover at a nearby park, where he was loved on by lots of kids. One girl even gave him enthusiastic butt scratches and earned herself a kiss!



What are you grateful for today?

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Stuff and Things

Have you ever felt like you were drowning in a sea of your own stuff? I read years ago that an archeologist tried to inventory the average American home, just as archeologists had meticulously inventoried the contents of the Great Pyramids and King Tut’s tomb. The intrepid archeologist of a modern homo sapiens habitation quickly gave up because the average American home has too much stuff.

If our house gets buried in a freak sandstorm and is excavated two thousand years from now by an intrepid archeologist, I hope he or she has lots of enthusiastic graduate students to help catalog all the stuff. It might take a while.

Two things lead me to believe that our house has more stuff than the average American home. First, I’ve always been an overachiever. Second, George has a gene for hoarding that came to him via both his maternal grandfather and paternal grandmother, both of whom saw collecting stuff as essential to life.

Since George and I married almost 24 years ago, I’ve been an unpaid Inventory Manager, reorganizing an ever-increasing quantity of stuff in a fruitless attempt to fight entropy. Entropy is the force of nature that moves matter from a state of high order and energy to a state of low order and energy. It takes a bunch of energy to fight entropy and restore order.

I’ve been pouring my energy into organizing our inventory for 24 years in a monotonous cycle of chaos-order-chaos that makes me feel like Sisyphus. No matter how much time I spend organizing, the contents of our house always slide back down the hill into the pit of chaos.

For the last six months or so, I’ve neglected to organize very much, and now the house is so chaotic I simply can’t stand it anymore. I am going crazy and cleaning out and organizing and throwing out and making multiple runs to Salvation Army to shed stuff. My muscles are sore, and I am crabby.

Much of my crabbiness comes from the realization that the rest of my life will be more of the same. It will never get any better.

How have I, a woman whose general attitude toward life positively reeks of optimism and sunshine, lost hope? It’s complicated. Last week at Barnes and Noble, as I stood in line for my mocha, I saw this:


It called to me. It said, “Susan, I am yours and you are mine and we should be together for all eternity.” I was helpless under its persuasive call, and given that my sister-in-law gave me a gift card for just such splurges, I don’t even have any guilt about spending money on it.

What makes this coffee cup particularly obnoxious, however, is that I have two shelves of coffee cups in my cupboard. I ask you, how many coffee cups does a family of four need?

Answer: fewer than we have.

Another component of my despair was realizing that the stuff in the following picture is precious to me:


Here are old shaving mugs and a razor used by my grandfather and great-grandfather. At least the coffee cup is useful, but the razor should only be used by someone who is suicidal. That blade is scary-looking, isn’t it? And no one uses shaving mugs anymore. George squirts his shaving foam into his hand like everyone else does these days.

I brought the mugs and razor to live with me after my grandmother’s funeral almost a year ago, along with a bunch of other knick-knacks I did not need such as a kitchen canister set, a green cut-glass candy dish, a Marjolein Bastin jar, and a small bust of my grandmother’s hero, Abraham Lincoln. We have lots of other stuff from my family and George’s family hanging around as well. Plus, George is currently campaigning to make space in our mess for the wall-mounted moose antlers from a moose his grandfather shot, oh, a hundred years ago. They will coordinate with the stuffed duck his grandfather shot, oh, a hundred years ago that currently resides on top of George's bookshelves in our library.

The past keeps jumping into our house, just like coffee mugs. And it’s not just small stuff (although the moose antlers aren’t small). Two weeks ago I retrieved a bedroom set and grandfather clock from the old homesteads in Charlotte. Here’s the clock, which was built by my grandfather.


Isn’t it beautiful? Its colonial styling doesn’t match a single blessed room in my house, but really, that’s perfectly in keeping with any blessed room in my house. Our décor is best described as Early Modern Attic. The word eclectic is a bit too high-brow for us. What we have is a mismatched jumble of stuff. Big stuff like furniture. Little stuff like memorabilia, statues, a baby gargoyle, photographs, pillows, baskets, toys, and books…lots and lots of books. Everywhere.

Really, no one would notice the moose antlers.

As I despair of ever finishing cleaning and organizing all this stuff, I’m reminded of the quotation I put on the sidebar of this blog: “What we see depends mainly on what we look for.” I’m looking for a mess, and by golly, I’m seeing one.

So what sort of logical, optimistic, puppies-farting-rainbows perspective can I pull out of my present situation? If you’ve been reading Questioning for a while, you know I’m all about finding the silver lining. Since this problem isn’t going away, how can I look at it differently so I don’t die of despair and frustration?

First, I must recognize that not all stuff is created equal. Some of the things in our house are just that: things. They don’t have any sentimental value or practical worth to anyone under our roof, and these things need to go away. Salvation Army is a good place for many of them, at least the ones that don’t belong at the dump.

Those things that do have meaning or are at least useful deserve to stay and be loved. Who cares if Nick has a Victorian bed and dresser, Colonial desk, and Mission bookshelf in his room? Each piece is useful and necessary, and three of the four have the weight of family history behind them. Who cares if my fireplace mantle contains a couple of Willow Tree figurines, an Inukshuk from British Columbia, four family portraits, and a piece of North Carolina pottery? Each item means something to us.

Second, instead of seeing all this meaningful and useful stuff as an albatross around my neck, perhaps I should look at it as the treasure it is. I don’t get annoyed when I have to organize my craft supplies (we can analyze the twisted psychology of that another time), so why get annoyed when organizing my kitchen cabinets or the knick-knacks on my bookshelves? Instead of an inventory specialist, I think I’ll call myself a curator of a lived-in museum. That certainly puts a pleasant spin on the situation, don't you think?

Finally, next time a pretty coffee cup calls seductively to me, I probably need to shut my eyes, put my fingers in my ears, and sing LA LA LA at the top of my voice. People might stare and move away from me, but if it keeps me from buying more stuff we don’t need, it’ll be worth it.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Picture of Health

Back in October, I asked for prayers for my sister and her premature son, Grady. Many thanks to all who took up that request; my gratitude is immeasurable. Our prayers were answered, and little Grady is now the picture of health and happiness.


Here's Grady with his mommy, who is also very grateful for all your prayers.


And here's Grady with his proud aunt, who loves him very, very much.



My mother, Lisa, and her three children visited us this week. I got my baby fix with feeding and burping and swaying and changing Grady's clothes...but not his diaper. Being an aunt is way easier than being the mommy. Grady is such a happy little guy, unless, of course, he is hungry or tired or dirty. He is also very considerate, sleeping through the night and letting my sister (and the rest of us) get some sleep.

Their visit was filled with much laughter and giggling and silliness. My favorite moment came when my mother, who is the quintessential sweet mommy type, totally got us rolling on the floor with with an out-of-the-blue wisecrack about herpes. But, really, you had to be there to appreciate that one.

Upcoming on Questioning: I'm working on a new essay for the blog about wine snobs (MUST revisit that topic because it's so rich in comic potential!), as well as an update on Hoover. Many thanks to all of you who have expressed sympathy for his situation. He's still with us and doing pretty well.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Knowledge of Good and Evil

Yesterday, I took Hoover to the vet because he has a swelling on his left shoulder blade. The x-ray showed a mass consistent with either osteosarcoma or chondrosarcoma.

Damn.

He's the same dog he was two weeks ago when he wrote this essay, before I saw that x-ray and heard those big ugly Latin words. He is still happy, loves to go for walks in the spring sunshine, and clearly has a lot of life in him.

But every time I look at him now, I want to cry. And feed him bacon. And ice cream.

And scratch his butt until he collapses in ecstasy.

From all we know right now, we have two options. Option #1 We could have his left leg and shoulder blade amputated and treat him with chemo. This might give him another year. Option #2 We could give supportive care as the cancer metastasizes. The average life expectancy would be about four months in this case. Given that his cancer does not appear to have metastasized yet, he might have longer. The vet emphasized that there are lots of medicines and supportive care to keep him comfortable and happy.

Unless the orthopedic surgeon has another more hopeful option, we're leaning toward Option #2. Neither George nor I want to make Hoover's last months of life miserable, and while young dogs handle amputation very well, old dogs have a much tougher time.

Death is inevitable for all of us. We don't want to think about it until we have to because the illusion that we are immortal is precious. We can't imagine what comes next, in that last undiscovered country. We sweep it under the rug, deny the possibility, work hard to ignore it, try to cheat it however we can.

I don't think this is smart. Our last dog, Shemya, didn't give us a chance to fight her death because her heart gave out suddenly, in the span of hours. She died at home, with me by her side. She made it easier for us because we didn't have to watch her suffer and we didn't have any decisions to make or long-term care to provide. But the shock was so very hard.

George and I are working on a Bucket List for Hoover. What are the things that he loves, and how can we make them happen for him in the time he has left? We know and accept that he can't be with us forever, so we're determined that when his time comes he has as much dignity and love as we can give him.

Having knowledge of the evil mass on Hoover's scapula sucks. It changes how we look at him, and I hate that. How can we turn that to good? How can we make the right decisions for him? It's tough, but we'll do our best.

Because he's a very good dog. Our furry golden sunshine.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Days of Whine and Tears

Will the flippity-flip-flip-flap snow ever end? When will we get back to some sort of routine? Oh, the freakin’ white! Oh, the freakin’ cold! Oh, the freakin’ whining! Make it stop! Please!

I feel a bit better now. Thank you for listening.

You see, this is the first winter in memory when we’ve had snow on the ground and then received more snow, and then more snow again, on top of that. We’ve lived further north in Michigan and South Dakota, but I simply can’t remember this ever happening before. Of course, who am I to be astonished when our snow total is in the neighborhood of eighteen inches? It’s not the most snow I’ve ever seen at once by at least a foot. Besides, my sister and mother in Maryland have over thirty-six inches of snow. They have something to whine about.

So why am I whining? Because whining is highly contagious, and I just experienced two days trapped in my house with two little boys who whined and fought about every little blasted thing they could possibly whine or fight about.

I feel like Mrs. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice: “Oh, my nerves! If I could just get them married off, they would be someone else’s problem!” But they are seven and ten, too young for marriage, even by Mrs. Bennett’s easy standards.

I wanted children. I must remind myself of this. Frequently.

First thing yesterday morning, they fought over who got to pick a movie first. (“It’s my turn!” “You always get to pick first!” “Do not!” “Do, too!”) Then they fought over the movie picked. (“Not Thomas the stupid Tank Engine! You always pick that! I hate Thomas!” “Not Eragon! I hate Eragon! You always watch movies I hate!”). Then I said, “If I hear one more word of bickering about the television, I will turn it off and neither of you will watch a single movie for the rest of the day!”

That shut them up.

For five minutes.

Nick: You can’t eat ice cream for breakfast!
Jack: I can, too!
Nick: No, you can’t. You need to eat something healthy!
Jack: FINE! I’ll eat pretzels.
Nick: That’s not healthy!
Jack: Yes, pretzels are healthy. Mom, are pretzels healthy?
Me: No, Jack, they aren’t. You need to eat a bar, a banana, or cereal.
Jack: Nooooooo!
Nick: See, I told you, Jack. You have to eat healthy.
Me: What are you having for breakfast, Nick?
Nick: Goldfish.

And so it went. On and on. Nick actually broke down in tears and cried because…are you ready for it?…Jack ate the Starbursts Nick had been saving since Halloween. Can you believe the hideousness of the crime?!? Then Jack pitched a complete tantrum because George wanted him to put on his clothes before heading out to play in the snow.

Parents are so unreasonable.

There were moments of joy, such as when Jack caught a fish on Wii Play. They were cooperating and getting along, mainly because Nick was fishing for unearned time on the Wii. We make him read to earn limited time every day, a restriction explained to him in detail before the Wii entered our house. Jack, however, wants nothing to do with the Wii anyway. By getting his brother to play, Nick snuck some extra time because he was “helping” his brother.

This might not have been so bad, except that the last two weeks have been a Groundhog Day of whining and tears. Oh, the circumstances vary a bit when the weather permits us to make it out of the driveway, such as on Saturday when we spent three hours at the optometrist’s office. The happy conclusion of much whining there: both my children have 20/20 vision. Both, however, deeply desire glasses. Nick pretends indifference, but he malingered (a fancy medical term for lied), pretending he was both colorblind and couldn’t read the big E. When he thought Dr. Hampton had his “prescription” in front of his eyes, he saw 20/20.

Jack, on the other hand, walked into the exam room, climbed in the chair, and announced, “I’m ready for my glasses now!” Dr. Hampton asked why he wanted glasses. “I want to show my friends at school. My friend has glasses. I want glasses.” She had him cover one eye and showed him the last line on the chart. He read the tiny letters perfectly. He repeated this performance with his other eye. Oh, the tragedy of perfect vision! So many tears!

Other tragedies hit my house-bound children yesterday which provoked whine and tears. We ate all the brownies, and there were no more! They couldn’t watch movies or play the Wii every second of the day. Our firstborn had to shovel a path on the deck so the old, arthritic, crippled dog could get out into the yard to do his business. Nick also couldn’t have a play date with a friend who lives in another neighborhood. Jack couldn’t go on a nine-hour road trip to see cousin Rory or scream “Pikachu, I choose you!” over and over and over and over again.

Even over dinner, Nick whiningly insisted that he did not owe me extra reading for the extra time he snuck on the Wii. I swear that boy should be a lawyer when he grows up. I can see his television advertisement now: "Wish you were injured in the workplace? Talk to Raihala Law. We can make that worker's compensation happen for YOU. Malingerers welcome. I understand your suffering!"

George and I finally got the two whiny ones in bed, and we sat peacefully watching the Olympics while waiting for Lost to start. Lost is our one network-television indulgence these days. Nick interrupted the peace and called me upstairs, where we had the following conversation.

Nick: Mom, you’re probably going to say no, but I’m going to ask anyway. I don’t like the rule about having to read to earn time on the Wii. Can we just agree that I’ll read more but not have to read to play the Wii?
Me: No.
Nick: Please!
Me: No. You must read to earn time on the Wii. We’re done.
Nick: This stinks!

Oh, son, you have no idea.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Crushing the Dream

Actual conversation at our dinner table tonight...

Jack: I want to go see the dragons.

George: [looks at me, confused]

Me: He means the Dayton Dragons. We pass the stadium on the way home from Children’s Hospital.

George: Oh! Jack, you want to go see a baseball game?

Jack: No. I want to see the dragons.

George: The Dragons are a baseball team. There aren’t any dragons, buddy.

Jack: [very quiet] Oh.

The disappointment was palpable, and utterly, horribly funny. Nick, George, and I dissolved in uncontrollable laughter. Jack asked, "What's so funny?" Which only made us laugh harder. When I said, "We love you soooo much!" and gave him a hug, he said, "Thanks, Mommy." No hurt feelings for our insensitivity. Whew.

The week's essay is coming. Ironically, it seems since I decided to make my theme for 2010 WRITE, I'm ten times slower cranking out words. Go figure.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Lucky Zen State

I am in a Zen state as I reheat leftovers for dinner. We sit down, and the following conversation occurs:

Jack: I want to pee on the floor.

Nick [laughs hysterically]: He wants to pee on the floor!

George: I think he said he wants to be on the floor. What did you say, Jack?

Jack [slight impish grin]: I said, I want to pee on the floor.

Me: You would be in big trouble if you did.

George [teasing]: Yeah, we’ll treat you like a dog. We’ll rub your nose in it and throw you outside. [both boys laugh hysterically]

Me [Zen state compromised]: Let’s not talk about pee at the table.

At the end of the meal, my Zen state has been recovered by George’s brilliant chicken and dumplings. Hoover is begging, so I blow on his face. Dogs hate that, but in his beggarly intensity, Hoover barely reacts.

George: That was mean! Why did you do that to the dog?

Me [still Zen]: Because he’s an obnoxious beggar. [Look at dog, who is totally fixated on the table and more energized and alert than usual]. Are you going to jump on the bed all by yourself tonight, Hoover?

George: He looks like he could. He’s all full of piss and vinegar.

Nick [laughs hysterically]: That’s funny! Piss and vinegar! Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha.

Me: Do not repeat that, Nick.

George: Why not? It’s not bad.

Me: It’s not appropriate for school.

Nick: Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha. That’s funny!

Me: My Zen state is rapidly deteriorating.

George: You live in a house with three boys. Four if you count the dog. You’re lucky to have any Zen moments at all.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Christmas Haiku

Christmas Eve

Candlelight service
sermon on things going wrong;
pastor is prophet.

The Wii does not work,
scene rated R for language
late night Christmas Eve.

Daddy is a grump;
mommy needs a vicodin.
Ho ho ho. Bite me.

Anticipation
of disappointment and loud
winds make sleep a dream.


Christmas Morning

Asleep (finally),
then Jack’s face inches from mine
“Mom, it’s Christmas Eve!”

“No, hon, it’s Christmas
morning and time to open
your gifts, minus Wii.”

The jolly elf leaves
laser tag and spark scooter.
Santa saves the day.

Snowfall of tissue
and wrapping paper litters
the floor—White Christmas.

Children bicker, play,
Bicker, laugh, bicker, bicker,
Play, bicker, “I’m bored.”

Self-discipline goes
Up the chimney as roast beef
Goes straight to my hips.

Doesn't matter now.
Soft glow of the Christ candle
brings peace, joy, and love.


Angels say fear not,
Good tidings, great joy, a sign.
Hark, herald angels.


Note: I'm not a poet, but I can count syllables. Haiku is highly formal with lots of rules I chose, respectfully, to ignore. I hope I don't offend any haiku purists with my silliness.