Movie picks

I haven't seen any of NPR's David Edelstein's top movie picks for 2005. The good news is that I have 10 more movies to put in my Netflix queue, but the bad news is that I'm years behind with no hope in the near future to catch up and stay current with newly released movies. By the time I've watched something, it's been too long for anyone else on the planet earth to remember the details to discuss it with me. It's been 12 years since I could step outside my house without finding a brave sitter, and it may be several more years before I can leave for enough hours to take in a film and popcorn alone with my husband. Who wants to babysit an hour away from civilization for three all rough and tumble boys and an opinionated strong five year old girl?
I can only watch DVD's after 10:00, so the movies need to be interesting enough to keep desperately worn out woman nearing fourty awake.
Here are the four movies I enjoyed the most in 2005.

Crash- I found myself yelling like a mad woman outloud alone in my bedroom "No! Please No!" at the television during a particularly poignant scene. The plot twists and turns like a Tennessee country road around conflict issues of race,class, culture, and religion. If you can't deal with sex, language, and violence, tis not a picture for you, but far beyond these things, is the wake up call to America for the harm caused by stereotypes and labels.

Maria Full of Grace- Intriguing, incredible realism of a young girl's pull to become a "mule" to transport cocaine from Columbia to the U.S. Also contains language, sex, and violence, but worth it in telling the whole story behind the story. It didn't leave me with a single question like "How would someone actually do that?" or "What could lead anyone to such decisions?". I was left only with an awe and passion to stop drug corruption on this earth.

Star Wars Episode Three- Okay, I'm a sci fi geek, and I will never forget my Aunt Artful taking me to see the very first SW movie when I was twelve. I longed to grow hair long enough to stick out like giant headphones from my ears and a laser gun to shoot the evil Empire down. So this year, I certainly didn't want to miss the opportunity to make memories with my boys on the big screen opening night. No, we didn't dress up like a family of Ewoks, but several people did don Darth Vader gear. I cannot separate my nostalgia from my opinion, but SW3 nicely tied all the loose ends of all the movies for me while tying my stomach in knots watching Annakin's decent to darkness. Showed how evil can appear good, yet ultimately destroys.


Narnia: Lion, Witch, Wardrobe I am not ashamed to say C.S. Lewis captured my heart as a child and still holds it tightly as an adult. I am a bit ashamed to admit what a big baby I am. I felt tears on on my cheeks when Aslan roared in durn PREVIEWS during SW3, because he was just SO beautiful. At the Narnia movie, my children spent a good deal of time squinting over at me in the darkness of the theater whispering, "She's crying again." Tears started with the opening scene, but intensified with my first glimpse of the wardrobe. I cried seeing Tumnus and his magnificent horse legs for the first time outside my mind's eye. I sobbed just like Lucy and Susan at the stone table. I think the tears came, because Narnia had always felt so very real to me. I look forward to the coming years and sharing the next stories in the series on screen with my children. My favorite book of all has been the Magician's nephew, when the trees dance and when Aslan breathes Narnia into existence.

2005 Top 20

The top things I've enjoyed over this year. I'm sure I'll miss a few I just can't think of just now, but here goes:
1. My few and far between dates with Buck. Remember Buck, you owe me a "do over" from the last one.
2. Welcoming Baby Saul to our extended family through adoption.
3. Riding Thunderhead roller coaster with my boys at Dollywood.
4. Watching Pooh Bear dance when she thinks noone is watching.
5. Sliding down from the Great Wall of China with Peace.
6. My first whale watching experience and finding the perfect red clogs in Solvang.
7. Finding a work-out buddy after years of going solo.
8. Making Christmas cottages at Meredith Lee's.
9. Crab Fest!
10. Hanging out with Tami and fam at the pool.
11. Cheering as Wise One conquered the pool.
12. Watching the sweat fall from David Crowder's brow onto his guitar with Tator and Buck.
13. "Remember, sisters, tears are the water of life."
14. The choreography process and dancing with Carol at a conference.
15. Introducing my meditation work to catechist friends.
16. Creating on a blog.
17. Grandpa M sharing his music and soul with me in his car one afternoon.
18. Compliments from my mother on my writing.
19. Making jewelry with Miriam and dear friends.
20. Families worshipping together in the cool of the evening in our yard.

Frankenbelle

Remember the Gender Issue post about Pooh Bear's chicken? Here is Frankenbelle in all his rooster glory.

a favorite project

Christmas Elves

Now that the packages are sent, I can show the gifts my children made.

Old Dog, New Tricks

Harry, keeper of the Loudon gym, claimed he was "too old to change" this fine December morning. "Well, Harry, seems to me you have changed quite a bit over this year? Haven't you lost tons of weight?"
"Yes, I'm proud to say I lost an entire foot in my waist line. I found out last week being measured for the tux for my daughter's upcoming wedding. Four more inches and I'm back to where I was at 18 years old."
I argued, "If you can change your body that much, you can surely change other things about your life."
The conversation started when I pulled my ipod earphones off while doing my keep-the-tummy-jelly-roll-to-a-minimum ab crunches and asked Harry if he was ready for Christmas. He leaned back in his chair, leisurely put his arms up behind his head and eventually replied, "Oh, I guess."
From his lazy response and generally laid back personality I clued in. "Oh, Harry, you're not one of those husbands who just show up at Christmas after your wife has done all the work are you?"
He got a little animated in his reply, "Well, I can't change now after all these years. It's not easy like losing weight. I'm too old to change who I am. I can't change my behavior."
"Oh, yes, you can. Losing weight is an incredible behavior change. If you can change your exercise and eating habits, you can change your marriage for the better. Don't tell me you don't even buy your wife a present?"
"Truevyne, don't get on me. If I go to all that trouble, she won't like whatever I buy her. But I did I tell Jason (excellent owner of the gym) I was going to spend $20 on a present for her this year."
I held back my guffaws out of respect and spoke, "Knock her socks off and give her a diamond solitaire or one pearl pendant."
Harry becomes clearly irritated at this conversation. "I already give my wife my whole paycheck and she has everything there is to own."
"You are a good man, Harry. Good marriages, like everything else worth having, take work. If you need advice on great presents, my husband is the best. He gives me the most wonderful of gifts for every occasion. He never misses."
At this point, three other men heading past us on their way out the door jumped in. "Keep your husband quiet, truevyne. My wife doesn't know any better, and he'll make us all look bad."
Sigh...
I never want the kind of marriage where we share the same house, meals, and bed but not much else. I want the happily ever after, but seventeen years after "I do", I know it takes intentionality. My goal is to keep my husband as my very best friend. If I take him for granted or guess he won't like anything I do for him anyway, then trouble is afoot. If we feel distant from one another, it's time to roll up our sleeves and struggle for as long as it takes to put things right again. As a wise man once said, it's hard to stay "tight as the bark on a tree".

Much ado about nothing

Right now I feel like crawling under a rock. It's raining and cold outside, and somehow that always makes me bone tired. I'm worn out from laundry, checking math and language arts, fussing when my boys won't get along, wiping the kitchen counters and sweeping the floor for the one-zillionth time. Add Christmas and birthday preparations on top of daily life and I'm wiped. Three of my children have birthdays in the next few weeks, and they'd feel slighted if we didn't throw a bash. So, Saturday we've invited one thousand of our closest friends to join us for an indoor swim and icecream sundaes at a community pool.
Another issue wearing me out are the dark vandals of the night who keep smashing our mailbox in and off the post. I've become friendly with the local "law" over the issue, but when it comes down to it, the "law" can't do much about sneaky young boys with baseball bats and a taste for destruction of federal property. The deliquents have finally successfully and officially done in the second mailbox, and Buck is putting up the tester "indestructable" mailbox. I'll let you know how that goes. One never knows where criminal minds will go next...
Speaking of mail, at 4:45 yesterday, I and a helpful son lugged eight packages of mostly home made gifts to the post office only to find the one down the road from us closed at 4:30. As much as I love those kind men who go out of their way for me at the Loudon Post Office, why can't they stay open till 5:00 like the rest of the business day universe? My son and I buzzed over to Lenoir City post office ignoring posted speed limits by 4:58 just before they closed at 5:00. The women behind the counter could not have been much more cheery or pleasant having to wait for the franticly task oriented woman I'd become to fill out handfulls of mailing labels. I made sure to compliment the gracious postal workers on their thoughfulness and patience with me.
Looking over the mundane reasons I find myself tired, I realize I am incredibly lucky. I've been through much more torment than birthdays, Christmas, and mail issues. I think of those in the midst of sickness, family turmoil, death and am grateful to be worn out from simple little things this Thankful Thursday.

Christmas Loudon Style

I wished I'd have brought my camera. I took my children to the Loudon, TN Christmas celebration Friday night, and it was a treat. Small town U.S.A never ceases to amaze me. We found out last year, our first Loudon event, that floats are quite unnecessary in our hometown parade. This year was more of the same. Macy's and the Rose Bowl probably hadn't figured this out, but a meticulously washed and waxed Dooley truck decked out with gold garland and it's driver wearing a Santa hat was plenty Christmas enough without wasting all those beautiful flowers and that expensive and dangerous helium. Decorated horse trailers are welcome too. Of course, Loudon exhibited a few fancy floats hooked to the back of a farm truck on a trailer bed with which one hauls lawn care equipment or hunting ATV's. Inside the trailer bed stood the little Baptist church choir garbed up in it's best bed sheet nativity gear belting out "Oh, Holy Night" on a microphone which was a bit too loud as the P.A. system screeched in protest at intervals, a few flashing colored lights traced the outside to the trailer bed, and a big plastic light up star topped off the vehicle. There were a stunning amount of horses and riders in the procession. "All these syrenes is making Star real nervous like" a cowboy leaned toward a crowd to speak to children on the side of the road watching his wild eyed horse awkwardly jump about, back up, and unpredictably lurch forward. Yes, the Loudon County police had their full force out directing the production and traffic around the parade, and even cars with sirens blasting so loud I covered my children's ears as they passed by. The fire department let the waving Santa ride their sparkle clean truck decked out with wreaths and other twinkling adornments. The outrageous number of ATV riders in the line up who didn't necessarily even bother to decorate their vehicles and wore camouflage instead of traditional red sweaters astounded me for the second time. These boys and men hooted, hollered, and proved their masculine powers in the noisy revving of their engines. All this action was a five year old boys dream. My older boys enjoyed the candy thrown to us. Last year, an unpleasant mother pushed my dear children out of her way to grab candy for her daughter who may have been handicapped. Didn't this grumpy lady know my generous children would have willingly collected more for that little girl than themselves if the mother would have simply asked? We more carefully distanced ourselves from the crowds this year.
After the parade, the town offered a variety of activities. The youngest of my children made foam snowflake ornaments at a craft booth sponsored by a local pediatric group. Sweaty and worn out looking horse drawn carriage toted freezing people around a city block. I warned my children to avoid the manure on the street. My boys toasted, no burned marshmallows over a little stove.
One of two favorites highlights of the evening was a group serving free hot chocolate from a grill. As pastor and city councilman, Charlie Brown, handed out steaming cups of water and powder delight, he invited us to his church, The Solid Rock Cowboy Church of Philadelphia, TN- church with hitching posts so one may ride her horse to service, deer skins, a front porch with rocking chairs, and homecooked potluck each Sunday. Come as the cowboy you are church. He explained his church homecomings each year are held at a local farm with bonfires, hayrides, and the like. My boys instantly begged me to go. I do hope to visit Solid Rock Cowboy Church one fine summer day.
Hot chocolate in hand, our family saw the Grinch at a distance and tried to visit with Frosty. Frosty couldn't see or hear well deep inside his costume, so he was being led around like the blind by an angel. Frosty reached haphazardly out into the cold night air, and the angel would direct a child into his hug.
The Lyric theater hosted handbells,the high school ensemble, and church choirs. My other favorite thing from the evening was stumbling upon the Missionary Baptist Choir at this theater. Unfortunately, I rarely to run into an African American in this predominantly white country town, and apparently I didn't know that the Baptist Missionary Church was a good place to meet fine people of color. Their elegant choir peformed tradtional carols, hymns, along with what I love most, black spirituals. Enhancing the listening experience were the two elderly matriarchs of the church seated next to us responding in song and praise without inhibition to the concert. "Yes, Lawd! You are GOOD to me." Their strength gave Peace, my oldest son, boldness to sing at full spirit of Christmas volume. Nothing tugs at my heart strings more than full on joyful singing from my child.
I truly love a tender Tennessee Christmas.

Regret

I have a regret. I had always inaccurately believed I could live such a good life that I would never have anything to regret. After all, I lived and worked for the least and poor of the inner city. How could I possibly do more? I firmly believed I could look back at my life when I’m old and more grey, pat myself on the back, and say, “Well done, girly!” I didn’t factor in the black heart of man, which surprisingly existed inside of me. Arrogance, impatience, and revenge dwelled, still dwells, right next to kindness, compassion, and wisdom in this mixed soul of mine. When someone, anyone, didn’t behave properly (the precise way I wanted them to behave) I instantly forgot my own faults. I played the old haunting tape in my brain “I would never do that” and worse, “That would never happen to me because…” I am sad and sorry for all the victims I blamed through the years.

When I eventually awakened from the terrible slumber of perfectionism, I realized I could never live as ideally as I thought, I found a stack of my own regrets piled to the moon and back. Remember the scene in Schindler’s List when everyone thanks Schindler and he cries out, “I should have done MORE.”? The load of that stack could have crushed me if I’d have allowed it. Thankfully I’ve learned a way to release the burden- the same grace I offer my dearest beloved friends when they make a mistake, I must offer myself.

Back to my regret. Forlornly, I know there is no way to make this one right.

I had a friend named Danny. As a college student, he worked for me at an inner city day camp, and we became buddies. I hung out with him, his wife, and son in their home in the projects. He taught me volumes about self determination and self discipline amid total chaos and poverty. Because he was real with me, I saw his mess. When he was tough on his son, I played my cynical brain tape, “I’ll never do that when I have children.“ When he had a hard time fundraising at times, I secretly thought he might be slacking. And mostly because I was so good at forgetting my own faults, his mess looked really untidy. Years into our friendship, Danny decided to run for city council when the mayor at that time miffed him. This was my opportunity to personally know a candidate and his views. I knew Danny’s politics intricately, and they did not match mine EXACTLY, tit for tat, and I knew his mess. I believed especially if one is going to take public office, one had to be perfect. I hate this about myself, but I didn’t get involved in his campaigns. Danny certainly didn’t need me (he won his seat twice), but I missed an incredible opportunity because of my dark and judging heart. Never mind his excellence as he and I worked together for years advocating, empowering and educating. I couldn’t get past perfectionism. My loss. If I could turn back time, knowing what I know now- that humans, including myself, come in a bundle of beautiful gifts and tragic flaws- I’d have jumped in and promoted my dear friend best contributions to the city.
So why not go to him and confess what is on my heart now? Ask his forgiveness and get involved the next political go round? Danny lost a noble battle with cancer, and he doesn’t live just down the street from me anymore in a bungalow tastefully painted in African colors. While I got to say goodbye at the amazing celebration of his life in the form of a funeral, I will not get to share my regret looking into his warm brown eyes. So, I’ll offer myself the forgiveness and grace, and more importantly, learn.

So, let’s say I have another friend, a politician who is inspirational and talented beyond measure. He advocates for those who cannot do so for themselves. He wakes up everyday and thinks about making his city a better place. And he doesn’t say things or think about things the same way as I do. I will lay aside my perfect agenda, and stand for him. We’ll talk through our differences privately while I support his good work publicly. And I’ll strongly urge others to do the same.

Adoption Thoughts

Words for the Robinson family importing three new members through adoption.

People adopt children for a variety of reasons. The idea of caring for the orphan is supposed to be noble, and I would say it had nothing to do with why Buck and I decided to adopt. I‘ve always been open to the romance of adoption, because I’m the quintessential cliché woman who loves children of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Then I found my first pregnancy to be unbearable. Never before or since have I ever literally wished to die, but that’s precisely where nine months of never ending violent nausea and debilitating illness took me. It frightened me that I wouldn’t make it through another round of such torture, and I did not want an only child.

Thus, the hard road to adoption became paved with sweet smelling roses.

Ten years later, I’m so very blessed to call my Tator "son", but the honest truth is that it’s never been a walk in the park. In fact, we hit a crisis about two years ago when Boodle was eight which went on for almost a year. Almost daily, he took down the picture of he and his birthmother from above his bed, held it and cried long and real tears. “Where is she, Mommy? Why doesn’t she ever visit me anymore? Doesn’t she want to see me like I want to see her?” Some days, I cuddled him in my arms and cried with him. How could I explain choices I would not make to a little boy? Other days, I was terribly insensitive to my grieving son worried he might be manipulating me. I closed the door to his bedroom and told him he could come out when he was done. Even harder than these moments was the fact that his inborn Curious George personality took a dangerous turn toward greater risk taking and more aggression.

The negative behavior escalated and the sad sessions turned from days into months. I researched and read books on parenting and adoption, and nothing really helped. I considered therapy, and I asked to have coffee with a friend, Kyrie, who is a doctor of psychology. Kyrie has adopted and has birth children of her own and though she offered some helpful advice and her fabulous listening ear, I found she too had the same issues and no great solutions. We ended up agreeing that it would take an exceptional and rare therapist to get the roots we hadn’t been able to find as mothers. We acknowledged (and still do) the lifelong struggle adopted children have with deep rejection issues. Kyrie’s lived in Knoxville all her life and stated she’d never met any therapist with that kind of expertise in her career.

One day, I took the constant reminder of the Boodle's picture of he and his birth mom down from his wall and put it in his photo album. I told Boodle he was always welcome to get out his album and look through it, but it belonged in the photo cabinet when he finished. I can’t remember a time he’s gotten out his album himself, but the crying and questions didn’t stop.


One rescue came in the form of a rather ordinary moment from a dear friend of mine who is adopted herself, Liz. I remember our families being on an elevator together and her bending down at eye level to be with my son. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked directly into his eyes, “I know a way you and I are alike. Did you know I’m adopted too? I know how different I felt from my parents and how hard that is at times. Is it that way for you too?” I’d witnessed a true connection between Tator and Liz in his small yet emphatic, “Yes!”.

I spoke with Liz at another time about her adoption experience. She shared her heart with me that she has always known she was hard wired with a completely opposite set of internal controls than her adoptive parents. She still doesn’t relate to her parents on the level she has with her own children, and she states it’s about DNA rather than parenting style. “It’s the way my brain simply works differently than the mind of my mom and dad. I can see it all over them. They don’t really ‘get me’ at all.” She laughed cheerfully, “Planning my wedding with my parents proved everything I’d thought about our dissimilarities.”

Different hard wiring. I put this in my pipe to smoke awhile and still do. Yes, by age three and up, Boodle had found all my hot buttons, and I believed he deliberately looked for ways to push, jab, and jam them on a daily, no hourly, basis. This hard wiring concept helped me realize what I presumed to be deliberate was actually more the way he was made not matching the way I was made. I know when he heartily jumps on the back of a unaware teenage boy he admires at church, it’s his way of saying, “You are the greatest. Someone I’d like to be.” I cringe inside when he‘s so rough and physical, because I know the injury his thoughtlessness has caused. To my horror and against my thousand warnings not to in the past, he’s jumped on one young man’s back with knee injuries requiring surgery. Tator didn't know about the guy's knee problems and did not cause further harm, but it could have been disaster. I chalk Tator’s required physical ways of relating as a hard wiring difference. I cannot compare him to my other boys, one older and one younger, who understand and respect physical boundaries and limits of others at an internal level.

This concept has also helped me see another disheartening behavior in another light. He is constantly beating, pounding, stomping, bouncing around, banging, belting out “BAH, BAH, BAH” at disturbing intervals throughout the day. He tends to jar everyone in our home at times from peaceful moments into chaos with boisterous noises. While my birth children go around singing or chanting, it’s not at the same intensity, and I rarely notice their sounds. Boodle must be made for at a higher decibel than my genes are used to.

I hope you can stand my candor here. I don’t have the same level of understanding of Tator as I do of my birth children. I’m not proud to say, I lose my insight and temper with him more quickly. While I’ve pleaded on my knees with God, and others have also prayed earnestly on our behalf, I don’t have the same heart connections which came naturally as a result of birthing my other children. So when I’m feeling frustrated with myself and my parenting of this particular blessing of a boy, which happens regularly, I try to step back and consider him for all he is made to be. Not who I *think* he should be according to the skewed grid of my limited mind.

A second rescue meant as much to me as the parted Red Sea meant to Moses. In another ordinary day at lunch, another adopted friend Kate offered profound insight. I unfolded the scenario of my son crying for his birthmother on a regularly basis. She asked a few questions on the ways I handled him during these heartbreaking moments. With these simple words she changed the life of our family,

“True, it’s time to give him in fantasy what he cannot have in reality.”

What? “Instead of offering Boodle your pity, align yourself alongside him and ask, ‘If Momma Shannon were here for your birthday, what present would she bring you?’ ’If Momma Shannon came for dinner, what would we make especially for her?’” Kate also suggested before we begin this process, to have the following conversation with Boodle. “You know how when you are eight, how you are not allowed to drive? Why is that? Not tall enough. Not mature enough to handle all the things driving a car throws at you like crazy drivers and unpredictable scary roads. It’s the same with finding Momma Shannon, you don’t have all that needs to be in place inside you at eight years old to go looking for her by yourself just now. But when you are mature and a man, you’ll have what you need to handle any twists or turns we might find in searching for Momma Shannon. If you still want to see her like you do just now, I promise I will help when you are an adult.” No need to mention the roads may become dead ends or the state we just might find her in at that later date. Ever watch the excellent movie Antwone Fisher?

Kate’s strategy worked like magic with Tator. After our conversation about driving cars and finding moms, he experimented with crying for her. Once he met the pleasant response of “I think it’s around her birthday. If you could give her a present, what would it be?” He suddenly stopped being sullen himself and engaged in the fantasy with me. He no longer cries for her. Her rarely talks about her, though she’ll come up naturally on some occasions. For example, we ran across a memory of her when visited the park we’d had our “surrendering her legal rights to him” on our behalf. He remembers the bubbles she gave him that day. Though I keep it to myself, I vividly remember Momma Shannon solemnly asking me to hold my newborn Wise One, and the faraway look in her pained eyes as she held him close to her wounded heart. I wonder if she’ll ever find the things I take for granted too often in my own life- an education, a home, children, and most of all love.

December 2, Boodle’s adoption day, snuck up on us and flew by before any of us realized it the other day. Buck called from work in the evening to remind us all as we were preparing to leave to see the Knoxville Christmas Parade. So, we’ve planned a make-up celebration for today. We’ll read Happy Adoption Day and think up other special things to acknowledge the gift of Tator to our family.

These words I give you , Robinson family, which have served our family well. I pray for parents hearts molded to the needs of these particular treasures, wisdom, and bonding as you open yourselves and home to the wonder of three great works of God.

How to Dress for a Holiday Party

I half listened as my dear husband phoned the art (pronounced "ot") museum to ask about appropriate attire required for the Christmas Gala tonight. I am not sure what the poor woman on the other end of the line said exactly, but my eyes widened as I noticed Buck dried off his front teeth and put on his best country bumpkin' voice to chortle, "Ya' mean I should wear my very *best* overalls? With a shirt?"

Pause for the fine lady's response- something concerning "No jeans."


Undaunted, Buck continues, "Did you mean my WIFE? She weren't puttin' on no blue jean overhauls. She's already picked out a really festive red sequined tube top and is agonna wear it with her matchin' green hotpants. She'll look mighty Christmasy puttin' on her gold ball Christmas ornaments for earrings."

Pause for God knows how the sophisticated and cultured woman might answer such a comment.

Buck cleared his throat, "My name? My name is uuhhh....it's uhhh....it's ummmm...Steve(lie). See you there tonight. You'll recognize me and my purty wife as soon as you see us I reckon."

So much to do

When my husband dragged the box of Christmas decorations from the attic, my children found a leftover bag of craft items we used last year to decorate gift bags. Chaos ensued as I was unaware of the discovery. By the time I made my way into my kitchen gingerbreadmen and stockings alike were strewn across the kitchen counter and floor with googly craft eyes and rick rack glued in absurd sundry locations.
"Wow, you guys are hard at work. You must be ready to make presents for Christmas already. Let's get this stuff back in the bag and save the supplies for our Santa's workshop." The children's creative energy and desire to tackle our Christmas work
was wildly unleashed before I could say "Hello, Buddy the elf, what's your favorite color?" or "The elves eat from the four basic food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup."

So, I snatched up my elf hat and dashed to my computer for ideas. Not long into the overwhelming online search, I stumbled onto the acmoore.com website. For the first time in my life, I realized I could choose projects and go to a single store (Hallelujah!) and buy everything I needed in one fell swoop(Amen!).

Does anyone else have a bedroom lounge chair heavy laden with art supplies and a homeschool table spilling over to the floor with Christmas crafts yet? That' what makes up Santa's Workshop around here at True Vyne School of Nature. Our relatives are so very generous to me, my husband and my children, and in return I want these precious people who love us so well, something made from our hearts.

This is not an easy task with the mix of temperaments and skill levels of my children. Last year, I took them to a homeschool enrichment teacher's (Penelope's) and they made crafts she choose in one day. The presents made there were dear and handmade, but I want the children to spend more time on fewer things. It's a precarious thing to guide children through this process. Some of my children just "want to get it done fast" while others want to keep going for hours. Some of my guys are thoughtful about each jot and tiddle while others want to blob and pour out the glitter glue everywhere. In this process have to balance carefully on the precarious tightrope of quality verses a child's own ideas and work. I somehow managed to effectively squash my oldest son's genius and creativity when I told Peace, "Stick figures were definitely 'out' at Santa's Workshop this year". He also painted a cheery white snowflake GOTH BLACK. I hope Grandma shines her best patient smile when she opens up that treasure. And I had to very HARD to engage Peace in the art again after giving my unwanted critiques.

So, what fantastic things are you making or giving for Christmas?

These Pictures of You

I get melancholy. It's a fact. My dh turned on home videos of our children from 7 years ago, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My oldest son was 4, and he looked like some other person. Someone I can't remember. At all. On the video, he sang the song from Sesame Street-"I'm a little airplane now" and another diddy he made up on the spot as he heartily rode on the big molded bouncy horse on springs of all childhoods, "This is a song about cowboys and cowgirls."

"Cowgirls! Cowboys! Batman! Robin! Flying through the dessert. To get to the ocean."

"Then the cowboy lost his hat. Now I can't sing."

My 2 year old Tator sang unintelligible lyrics matching the tunes to the songs playing in the background. He strummed a plastic crazy kid rock and roll guitar. I despised that horrible toy which produced Van Halen guitar riffs with the slightest touch. It was evil. My Boodle jumped up and down and rolled his head side to side with the wild music. You'd have thought we frequented heavy metal concerts with him the way he carried on. Currently he is intent to learn the Beatles "Blackbird" and the intro to "Dust in the Wind". I get a giant lump in my throat when he plays with his dad on the green suede couches in our living room. If you only knew what it takes DAILY to keep that boy on the right track, and how the guitar definitely does just that.

My Wise One was a baby just beginning to walk. He was more chunky than I remembered. Now he's only skin and bones with an appetite the size of New York. I constantly carried him in my sling like a smiley kangaroo for years, but he was free to move about in the video. He walked something like a mechanical frankincense duck with his back arched and hands pointing backwards like wings from his hips. He epitomized contentedness as a baby. I highly recommend this temperament for a third boy child to any mother. He's still a contented soul. On his birthday last year he asked for pizza.

"Wait a minute. You don't like pizza," I reminded him.

"I want my guests to enjoy the food and everyone else likes pizza," he soothed.

"For heaven's sakes child, it's YOUR birthday. Have what you like," I joked.

"Mom, it's what I want most for my birthday- to please others."

Can you believe this person? When he loses it, it's because he's really been pushed beyond the natural limits of his giving soul.

The melancholy set in immediately as I watched the rambunctious boys run, jump, bounce, fly. Those days were so very hard. Endless poop diapers and redirecting octopus toddlers till my jello brain hurt made that season in my life a blur. Also, it was not long after this video that my entire world flew apart. A time when I angrily tore all my preconceived ideas about life and faith off the shelf and carefully and thoughtfully put only what was real to me back and trashed the rest. I wouldn't return to those days, just like Neo wouldn't go back into the system in the Matrix. I'd been sleeping to escape the pain of an unexamined life and tragedy woke me up suddenly. The awakened world around me was ugly and grey, but more real than the life I'd lived before those days.

One sign of deep healing originating from that period came in the form of lyrics from a Delirious song "Obsession". One night I sat scrunched on the floor with my back against the wall of a church service, making myself as unnoticeably small and out of the way as humanly possible. My head in my hands, I prayed to God with the song in desperation. God, "What can I do with this obsession with the things I cannot see? Is there madness in my being. Is it the wind that blows the tree? Sometimes you're further than the moon. Sometimes your closer than my skin. You surround me like a winter fog. Your burn me deeper than I know. And my heart burns for you. And *my* heart BURNS for you." So, where are you now, God? Can you possibly love the unlovely, hateful, unholy me? Suddenly,like a ray of light, I had a revelation that there was an angle I had always been missing in that song. God flipped the script and began singing to ME over and over, "And My Heart burns for YOU."

In my most undone state, a pit of despair, God saw fit to love me, deeply. I return again and again to that moment when storm clouds gather around me.

Regardless of...

I have no interest nor aspirations in politics, but I admire those who do. It's incredibly difficult to put oneself (and family) in the daily spotlight. Every word and opinion could potentially make the paper, keeping the representative on his or her toes at all times. Critics and cynics crouch in waiting to destroy. How vulnerable! Public life must be downright painful at times. Though I don't wish to enter politics, I do follow it.

Though I don't live in Knoxville, and I can't even vote there, I love the city and follow it's politics and people. To be completely honest, I've campaigned for city council members in Kville though I'm not a resident anymore. I'd campaign on a state or national level *if* I could actually stand proudly by any candidate. Not holding my breath on this one.

Here's something that went down at the last Knox city council meeting.

Two members, Woodhull and Becker submitted the following:

SECTION 2: City Council hereby expresses its full intent to promote the well-being of all people within the corporate limits of the City, regardless of race, creed, color, disability, national origin, gender, sexual orientation or citizenship status by setting a shining example of showing dignity and respect to all people and by recognizing and celebrating the diversity in our city whenever, wherever and however possible.


The council amended and approved this:

SECTION 2: City Council hereby expresses its full intent to promote the well-being of all people within the corporate limits of the City by setting a shining example of showing dignity and respect to all people and by recognizing and celebrating the diversity in our city.

Let me hit pause to ponder the words intentionally left out in the amended version "regardless of creed, color, disablity, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, or citizenship status...celebrating/respecting diversity whenever, wherever, however". I'll speak to my perspective on portions left out.

I wholeheartedly agree in promoting the well being of people regardless. Nothing wrong with that. However, I'll respect but don't want to celebrate some of the list above.

Take creed for example. I truly admire Ghandi and Malcolm X for the tremendous work they did on behalf of humanity, but I simply not interested in celebrating Hinduism or Islam. I study to learn from these creeds, but I celebrate my own faith with my family. I honor the person of Ghandi or Malcolm X. However, I would say a city needs to keeps church and state at arms length from one another on the creed issue.

Now about race, color,national origin, citizenship. My own family is made up of more than one color. I love international festivals and music. Yep, this one I do enjoy to the full. And I see a need for racial issues to be carefully overseen by the government based on city history. Minorities have a tough row to hoe in this town. In the 90's, the Office of Civil Rights found Knox Co. Public Schools had NEVER made an effort at racial desegregation 30 years after the Civil Rights Movement. The police have been investigated for racial profiling and brutality. I've seen some of each first hand in my inner city work. It would serve the Knox County people for government to intentionally seek balance and justice on these issues.

Disability. Don't want to celebrate disability, just the people who have overcome. And I do want to see the city actively advocating for those who cannot advocate for themselves.

Sexual orientation. This is a private not a public issue.

Gender. I'm a feminist and will be till there is no more need for it.

All that said, I prefer the amended version, because lumping all those "regardless of" catagories together doesn't reflect my whole perspective. However, the empowerment in specifically naming the groups is lost.

What do you think?

Gender issues

Pooh Bear is in crisis. Today we discovered definately her chicken, which she named Belle, is a ROOSTER. For those of you unfamiliar, roosters are male and are the only ones who crow at sunrise. Hens, females have a gentle soft purr when "talking" and only get squawky loud when there's danger. Now this may not bother others, but our four year old girl is quite offended. She only likes girls. Boys are stinky and stupid.

Was it a mistake to take her to window and watch as Belle began to practice his immature crows? To me, it's funny to observe- like an awkward adolescent boy whose voice cracks and squeaks wishing he could simply maintain dignity during this developmental transition.

As she looked down at Belle through the pane, Pooh Bear's lips began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. She exclaimed, "But Belle just can't be a boy. I don't want a rooster." Her daddy comforted her in his arms and said, "Let name him Beast from Beauty and the Beast instead."
"No! He's not a prince. I want his name to be Frankenstein now."

Frankenstein it is. I will blackmail her of this when she's a teenager.

Life as a Princess

I've mentioned my four year old daughter, Pooh Bear many times on this blog. I've lamented and praised her iron clad will and strong opinions...like the ten different colored hair bows she *thinks* make her the cat's meow on her way to ballet class. In reality, she always looks a little undone and scattered- like she certainly doesn't have a mom to brush her hair, match her clothes, or give her socks to wear with her mary jane shoes. I don't like to fix hair- hers, mine, or anyone else's, but I'd do it more often and better, I promise, if it didn't cause such trouble. "Mommy, I don't want to brush my hair today." or "I want this piece of hair to lay this (impossible) way." "Mommy, you always HURT me when you brush my hair." "Mommy, I don't like that bow." "I already fixed my own hair. I want it to look just like this." She's cut her own hair three times in the last three months and it simply looks goofy. About the mismatching of clothes- I often help her match her first outfit of the day, but she changes at least 4 more times into gawd-awful clashing patterns or jumpers without shirts underneath. The sock problem I dread when the first leaf falls from the autumn tree. Pooh Bear says all socks or pairs of tights are "Itchy!" "It squeezes my feet too tight!" or "The seam hurts my toes."

I saw stars last night when my tired Pooh Bear kicked a dear friend's six year old daughter just for daring to talk to her, and told her she only liked her a very little bit.

Why, why, why? When I was a public school teacher, I used to believe children were like this because of their terrble parents. I will fall to my knees and beg forgiveness if I ever come across a former student's parent whom I judged falsely. Kids are who they are from the day they are born.

Here's a story to sum up Pooh Bear's outlook on the universe.

An awesome twelve year old girl, Christy was over helping Pooh pick up her room. You can imagine with all the wardrobe changes the girl executes in one day, that her drawers are in complete disarray. Christy cleverly states, "You know, Pooh, a princess ALWAYS keep her clothes folded and tidy in her dresser. Are you a princess?" To which my dear daughter smartly replies, "Of course, I am a princess. And a REAL princess has servants to clean up after her."

Something True

God does not demand that we give up our personal dignity...that we lose ourselves and turn from all that is not him. God needs nothing, asks nothing, and demands nothing, like the stars. It is life with God which demands these things...God does not, I regret to report, give a hoot. You do not have to do these things -- unless you want to know God. They work on you, not on him.

You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.

~~Annie Dillard
Teaching a Stone to Talk

I read this fabulous quote on Martha, Martha's blog. It says everything I need at this moment, since I won't blog about some deep pain I'm experiencing of late. I can't think of a way to blog it down and keep the dignity of all those involved intact. So I'll let Annie Dillard speak for me today.

Gerbil Tragedy

Peace rushed in my room hysterical this morning. We think Brain ate his brother gerbil Snowball, partly. Ugghh.

My son thinks he forgot to feed them. He plays with those creatures everyday, and I'm just not sure that's what happened. Peace has a shirt dedicated for gerbil use and it's literally in shreds from all their chewing and running about all over my child. All our animals are treasures to him, and I know he would never intentionally harm any living thing, except maybe his annoying brother.

To be perfectly honest, I don't like gerbils. Creeping, fast varmints with long tails always scare me. In my head, I know they are sweet little pets, but in my heart I think Bubonic Plague and Black Death. One of Peace's favorite pasttimes is to sneak up on me, poke his gerbil in my face and exclaim, "Mom, I caught a mouse!"
I scream every last time. He's also repeated this activity with a computer mouse in hand with the same resulting response of real terror from me.

I spent some time talking through tears with Peace. His first response to the whole thing was "Oh, God! I HATE myself. I am a terrible person. I let this happen."

I step in. "Whoa, right there, guy. Let's not say another thing which isn't true."

We talked out all the possibilities. Yes, maybe the gerbils were hungry. Maybe they just fought. Maybe, though highly unlikely, Janet the cat actually got her way this time. She's been stalking the gerbils for years. In fact, Snowball was blind in one eye from being carried around in Janet's mouth. We will never know for sure, but I led Peace to forgiveness of himself no matter the circumstance. God knows his tender little heart never meant this to happen and forgiveness is the only way to go. The other route, self hatred, only leads to deeper places of regret. Peace also prayed to forgive gerbil brother Brain.

So, today my son will bury a friend. Outside the sky is grey to match the mood. I'm sad for my boy but am grateful Peace is learning tough lessons of loving, losing, and forgiving in the small ways before he's a man. He'll have some experience under his belt for the harder things in life to come. They will come.

Blogger I adore

My dear husband set up a blog a while back but honestly couldn't figure out out to use it. I still can't figure out after many tries, how to create a blogroll or put a photo of myself by my blog name. Yet, I taunted my dh about actually posting on his own blog. He's begun and it's a beautiful thing even if I'm ever the only one who reads it.

Svetlana Turns 39

Instead of end times, Knoxville News Sentinel should have been covering a far more interesting story in Deerlodge, TN. Svetlana turned 39 on November 11, 2005. She is a woman of intrigue, great wit, beauty, and perhaps the most clever person I know.
Plans to become a U.S. Ambassador to Russia have been postponed so she can raise her daughter and a little sprout on the way, create and keep a beautiful home for the children and her husband, and carefully build a community college library.
The celebration of her birthday Friday included the following and more: a huge bonfire about which all the boy children asked repeatedly, "What else can I burn? Can I put more wood on? Are there any other items around the farm I can add to the fire?", hotdogs and veggie dogs, every kind of drink you can think of from juice boxes to wine, birthday cake, cookies, chili, something appley, chips.
All Svetlana really wanted for her birthday was a glass nice red wine. However, it's the one thing in her first trimester of pregnancy she could not have. She could only sniff the luscious bouquet of fermented grapes and sob. Unfortunately, morning sickness has been not limited to mornings, and she never tasted a single bite of the birthday cake either. I hope she found some consolation in the antique pale green mug with a spray of lavender painted on inside bottom of the cup which Helen and I had given her.
No one is going to believe she's 39 this year, because other people have ruined that age by lying to conceal their real age. Also, she truly doesn't show age. I've known her since we were 7th grade science lab partners, and she's long outgrown the awkwardness and torture of junior high chunky glasses and skin and bone, to become a svelte, graceful admirable woman. The striking sharp features of an angular chin and nose are softened by milky and clear skin while the nip of winter in the fall wind touches her cheeks and lips with deep red roses. She's known in her daughter's preschool class as "Anna's funky mama". The tiny flowers on her summer shifts and rich wool for cold weather accent her shabby chic classic style.
More than her pure and simple beauty, I love Svet's kind and thoughtful heart. She and Baryshnikov are the kind of folks who love and protect the dignity of those around them. Svetlana's welds her sharp wit to overcome natural discomfort of conflict, but she carefully and consciously avoids aiming at arrows at others. She's a hero to me. How could I be so lucky to call her friend?
Happy 39th Birthday, Svetlana. Here's to another 27 years of youth together. After that, we may call ourselves wise and not old.

The End of the World as We Know It

The story in the Knoxville paper

Knology manager trumpeted visions of end times to media

By LARISA BRASS AND BILL BREWER, brass@knews.com, brewerb@knews.com
November 12, 2005


The general manager of Knology's Knoxville operations has been fired after expressing religious views about the end of time to local media outlets, including the News Sentinel.
John Gilmore, 34, has managed the local office of the Georgia-based provider of cable television, Internet and phone services for the past five years and has been with the company for six years. He was relieved of his duties Thursday.


"Looks like you made it." Clay speaks to me when I walk into his home Saturday morning from a pleasant night of sleep at the guest house.
"Huh?" I had forgotten all about our conversation around the bonfire the night before.
"The world did not end and we are all still alive today. Isn't that something?"
"Oh, yeah! It's good to be alive."

I don't know John Gilmore from the article, but his name, face, and voice had been all over the news in Knoxville last week, because he predicted a major tragedy would happen to end the world on November 11, 2005. I am not sure why he got all this attention except for the fact that people may be feeling shell shocked and fatalistic from the school shooting and three house fires in this area claming many lives recently.

More than likely I do know friends of John, because I know lots of technology wizards like him around town, and I don't want to make fun of him or his beliefs. I'm just sad that when something like that is publicized and nothing really BIG happens, he'll have no credibility. In the future, the label of conspiracy theorist will stick like glue to that man. I suppose his getting fired is something BIG in his life. He'll have to battle crazy reputation verses great talents and gifts from here on out.

Gone, gone, gone

Gone! Gone. Gone. Despite my Norton's hard at work, a horrible virus hijacked my computer, and except for a few files and photos which took hours to download because of the durn varmint inside my machine, Buck and I had to start over from scratch. The good news is that all those lost files of writing are still inside my head. The bad news is that some of that writing I'll need again may take a good long time to get back down in a file.
I tried not to cry as Buck asked me, "Which files do you want me to try and save? And which aren't so important?" Forced 'puter decluttering. I only chose about 10 documents, including one I've been working on for publication for a long while, and it took a very long time to recover each one. My songwriting husband had his recent work burned on a cd which was such a blessing. He told me those were huge files, and I knew most likely he would not have had time to recover them all before the virus utterly destroyed our computer altogether.
I'm taking this as a metaphor for life. I've always said, "I can walk away from everything and not be bothered when it comes to things I own." Today I had to put my money where my mouth is. I had a few minutes to decide essentials and hope for the best to keep them. Whatever was lost, I won't know until I try to find it again. There was simply too much to sort as time marched toward destruction. It was only words, files, work, thoughts. Just yesterday, a family a few miles away had to walk away from a housefire without a mother and some children. A few days before that, a boy shot the principal and assistants at a school in my area of the world. One of them died. Did that make national news? His family won't have a dad walking in the door for supper anymore.
So today, I kissed my husband a little longer, and hugged my children a little tighter. My losses are far outweighed by my abundant life.

it's my house and I plan to live in it

My House
Nikki Giovanni

i only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
when you need to be kissed
where i want to kiss you
cause its my house and i plan to live in it

i really need to hug you
when i want to hug you
as you like to hug me
does this sound like a silly poem

i mean its my house
and i want to fry pork chops
and bake sweet potatoes
and call them yams
cause i run the kitchen
and i can stand the heat

i spent all winter in
carpet stores gathering
patches so i could make
a quilt
does this really sound
like a silly poem

i mean i want to keep you
warm

and my windows might be dirty
but its my house
and if i can't see out sometimes
they can't see in either

english isn't a good language
to express emotion through
mostly i imagine because people
try to speak english instead
of trying to speak through it
i don't know maybe it is
a silly poem

i'm saying it's my house
and i'll make fudge and call
it love and touch my lips
to the chocolate warmth
and smile at old men and call
it revolution cause what's real
is really real
and i still like men in tight
pants cause everybody has some
thing to give and more
important need something to take

and this is my house and you make me
happy
so this is your poem


If you didn't listen to Nikki recite this poem aloud last night on PBS, you missed somethin' worth hearing. I nearly missed it, but I caught the tail end of her program just on before the children piled on my bed to watch the sacred concluding episode of Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Nikki struck me as a fast talking, well spoken, proud, elegant writer whom I admire greatly. She's captivating and had me talking out loud back to her with my boys pointing out, "She can't hear you, Mommy. She's on television, not in our room."
The truth of the matter is, I feel like I *know* her, because I love her work. Just like I feel like I know the weather man on Channel 10 News Straight from the Heart when I see him with his children enjoying the fall festival at a local school. Nikki came to Knoxville to spend her childhood summers with her grandma (I think it was her granny?), so we are practically neighbors except for the time space/continuum issue; this may have been before I was born, so, of course, it's hardly fair to say I know her at all.
I remember the feeling of horror and of wanting to run out the door once when I realized a room full of people, peers, I'd never met had read something I'd published about my work. A lady announced in front of everyone,"Are you the Truevyne who wrote..."? Blush, awkward wiggle. It's an uncomfortable feeling to be known by others and know absolutely nothing about their lives. I recognize my work as out-of-the-box, because I strive to make every idea a part of myself. However, this may greatly offend one who goes-strictly-by-the-book. Thus my impulse to flee the scene. Looking back, I believe I wanted to remain anonymous, so I could decide if I liked them *before* they decided whether or not to like me. I wonder if Nikki feels like flying away when she's recognized after hoping to simply remain one of the crowd?
She's a one of a kind. The kind I like.

My Nemesis- The Cautionary Tail of Osama Bin Kitty

Trust me. I do like cats. You already know I'll drop everything and look for a prodigal feline inclined to joyride. I tolerate Janet the cat jumping in my lap and kneading my belly everytime last time I sit down. I get up out of a dead sleep to let a cat meowing, "Let me in" while clawing on the window screen outside my bedroom window. Why don't those cats go to one of my son's (the owners) and jerk them clear out of dreamland instead of me?
However, there is one cat at Truevyne Farms which has become my nemesis. The mother ferrule cat, named TINO by my children and short for "This Is Not Ours", moved under our out building without permission and left a legacy of trouble when she departed our farm. Peace rescued one of her kittens from smothering under a pile of rubble, and as a result, felt he had a special life bond with the wild kitty. A few months later, this same kitten got stuck in our garage and against my severe warnings to let it be, he took it upon himself to "rescue" the cat again. I went to the garage several times and told the cautionary tale of the boy who got bit by a ferrule cat and had to get terribly painful rabies shots for weeks in a row to which Peace replied, "I won't get bitten." So, I directly addressed him, "Stop trying to catch the cat. I'll see stars if I have to take you to the ER tonight." I was certain he got my point and I walked back inside the house.
Not long after my departure, I heard a scream and then cries making their way towards me, "He bit me!" sob, sob "He bit me and after I saved his life! How could he?"

Sigh...

I immediately called a friend who is an ER doc. She gave me the skinny that in order to avoid rabies shots, one must find the offending cat, have its head chopped off and sent to Nashville to have its brains tested. Ewwww. It's rare for a cat to have rabies, but it is always fatal to humans and can only be treated by a series of expensive and not easily obtained injections. She recommended either catching the cat ASAP or getting to the ER.

Really big sigh...

My country neighbors (honest to goodness farmers) came over with a shot gun; the man whom I called couldn't resist bringing along the whole family. He camped out like a sniper until my dh arrived, so I could drive Peace to the ER. The innocent cat turned nemesis escaped capture and certain death by disappearing for the evening.

My doc friend set up our trip to the ER, and we received the most excellent care. However, after the third horrid shot into the wound on my son's finger, my son, myself and the nurse cried. She said my son looked just like her grandson. After two more gigantic shots in his rear, we made our way home at 1:00am.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we sought to capture the villain and end the series of rabies shots to follow; each injection cost much pain and $400. This is when the evil cat became known as Osama Bin Kitty. We caught *all* of TINO's other kittens, but never Osama. He was redubbed Mrs. Osama Bin Kitty when several more kittens appeared this spring.

Mrs. Osama's kittens have been spotted chasing our beloved free range chickens lately, and Buck decided to begin trapping these critters. First, he caught a skunk. A former wildlife officer had to take care of that nasty problem. Next, we captured a cat or two, and finally an opossum. All these creatures were released to more friendly environments than our farm. But today...

OSAMA was finally trapped. She definitely didn't have rabies or she'd have been dead a long while ago. Grrrrr. I gloated over her cage in the picture below before Buck hauled her off to Guitmo.

Noone expects the enemy to be a really pretty gal with beautiful green eyes and sleek coat.

Osama before deportation

Captured!

Pooh Bear digs through her purse to pay off the high priced bounty hunter(me).

When things come together

Lane is one PROUD grandma and whips out photos and conversations about this precious new bouncing baby boy with anyone who'll listen. She resides here in TN and I've known her for about 15 years. I ran into her not long ago and inquired about her treasure, "How's that baby boy?". A solemn look crossed her face, and she lets out a long sigh, "True, I'm going to tell you the truth. He's got a rare genetic disease, and my daughter is fixing to take him from her home in South Carolina and live in the Ronald McDonald House in Minneapolis. The doctors up there will do gene replacement over the course of several months. One of the weeks she'll be there, he will be kept in complete isolation, and she won't be able to see him. Her husband must remain in South Carolina to work and fly up to see them when he can. My daughter is a brand new mother and knows not a soul in Minnesota. Under all these circumstances, I am at peace. I am trusting God to get us all through."
A lump rose in my throat. Why a baby? Let it be me or at least someone who'll understand when they are being endlessly handled, poke, prodded, monitored by strangers in a hospital. I shook off my angry questions and searched my heart for answers. One of the practical sort came to me quickly.

"Lane, I believe you've shared this with me for a reason. I have something I'm going to work on for your daughter. I'll call you when things come together."


On a LISTSERVE I co-own, I'd read Myla's posts without knowing Myla in person. I've found her writing to be insightful and inspiring over the years, and hoped one day I'd have the chance to get to know her. The opportunity came in spades during my time in California this past summer. She attended the same training, and the small group size and presentations for one another created instant intimacy. Sometimes in evenings, Myla and I would cook dinner for one another. She suggested we go whale watching and we had lots of talking time on the trip. This I know about Myla- she is a the kind of person who actively seeks good for others, and a PROUD grandma. She enjoys her new bouncing grandson thoroughly. She and her daughter find joy together in the simplest of coos and kicking of chunky cherub legs.
Myla, her grandbaby, and daughter live in Minneapolis fifteen minutes from the Ronald McDonald house.

You've probably figured out my practical idea for Lane.

Myla and Lane's daughters, though complete strangers, have spoken over the phone a number of times now. Myla's daughter is on the hunt for an extra baby snow suit which are unavailable in South Carolina. The two have plans to meet as soon as the time comes for the trip. The world isn't such a lonely and unknown place when a friendly face is there to greet you.

I do love when things come together.

Everlasting Mercy

To get the whole world out of bed
And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed
To work, and back to bed again,
Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain.

John Masefield

Does any other mother relate to this quote like I do this morning?

Attention all cooks

Anyone have an excellent chili recipe to share? It's such a great time of year for that sort of comfort food, and I haven't ever found a recipe to stick with. I need vegetarian and carnivorous suggestions please.

Joy Ride

I,not my husband, own a 1959 red Ford truck. I named her Sally. Some of the red is the actual manufacturer's paint on her body and rust makes up the rest. I've mentioned before she's quite difficult to drive mostly because the brakes have never quite worked and a tire is always going flat. There is no inner tube in the tire and one has to fervently pray filling it with air. One must plead with the Almighty that the tire won't explode and kill the poor soul watching it expand to it's drivable round shape. While we've had both the brakes and tire have been repaired, no permanent fix has taken hold. I love the romantic country way the Sally looks, but she's not a practical vehicle since she's rarely ready to roll.

The tow truck pulled up today to drag my old girl away to the garage again. The driver asked a question which caused to me to laugh out loud. We'll keep that question a secret till the end of this post.

This particular tow truck driver must be assigned to our house specifically. The same large tattooed man has lumbered to our farm several times for Sally and other times for another vehicle in need of repair. One can distinguish the big black towing monster's rumble as it winds up our long gravel driveway.

Last year when Sally was towed away for repair at Carter's Garage in Sweetwater, TN, I got a phone call.
Mr. C: "You missin' a cat?"
Me: "Pardon me?"
Mr. C.: "You missin' a cat. When me and the tow truck driver done opened the truck's hood, a big ole'cat jumped outta the engine."
Me: "There were some wild cats living under the shed where the truck stays parked. Maybe one of them jumped in there and took a ride to your garage."
Mr. C.: "It was wild. Cain't catch it."
Me: "Don't worry about it Mr. Carter. I'm glad that wild cat's gone then. Thanks."

I hung up and casually went about my daily business. I began a reading lesson with Wise One and I spied Janet, our pesky cat, out of the corner of my eye. Noticing her gave me cause to poke around and find our other cat, Patches. Patches is Peace's best friend in the world. After I searched inside and out I asked the children, "Have you seen Patches anywhere? Help me find him." After a while of looking, the color began to drain from my face with the sad realization that Patches may have taken a long free ride from home.

I phoned Mr. Carter.
Me: "Mr. Carter, what color was the cat which jumped out of the truck?"
Mr. C.: "White with brown patches like."
GULP!
Me: (trying to keep panic out of my voice) "The wild cat was grey and black. The white and brown one you saw is a family pet, my son's cat. He loves that guy more than anything in this world. Can you try and catch him again? I'll be right there to pick him up."
Mr. C.: "I done tried and hit won't come nigh."

I dashed around the house scooping up children, shoes, jackets, and began shouting orders,
"EVERYONE in the van now. We have to go look for something really important."

Tator asks as we clamber into the van, "What is it mom?"

I mustered a happy mommy voice to say, "Don't worry now. We will find what we are looking for. It seems Patches got in the hood of the red truck and hitched a ride to see Mr. Carter at the garage."

"Dear God, pllleeeaasssee let Patches be okay." Peace cried out in terror. He caught the seriousness of the situation immediately. He knew Mr. Carter's Garage sits on a terribly busy highway, and his best friend was horribly lost and in danger.

The children literally prayed for safe keeping for the cat, and we all tried to comfort Peace's broken heart on the fifteen minute drive.

When we arrived, Mr. C. Pointed yonder and told us, "I ain't seen that cat nowheres since hit jumped and tore off thataway."

The children and I called his name, "Patches, Patches, kiiiittttyyy. Come, here boy. Paaaatccchhhes" as we hoofed the surrounding neighborhood in the direction Mr. C. indicated. We went to dozens of peoples houses and knocked. We talked with anyone who would answer the door. We pleaded our "cat finding case" and left our phone numbers for anyone who would take it. After an hour of traipsing about Sweetwater, I announced, "We will not give up until we find him, but we're going to drive around instead of walk for a while."

As my bunch headed back to Carter's parking lot/junkyard to our van, Pooh Bear, who was three years old at the time giggles, "There he is." We all turned our bodies to locate what on earth she saw, and there, lo and behold, the wayward cat proudly emerged from under the wrecked heap of a torn up car. Peace ran to scoop up Patches while sobbing with relief. "I was so worried about you. Please don't you ever leave me again." He buried his tears into Patches fur. Mr. C. Stepped out of his office overhearing the commotion and spoke, "Son, you don't have to cry. He looks like he ain't hurt or nothin'. Gracious, such a fuss over a feline."

Patches, who doesn't enjoy car rides, mewed nervously the whole ride home. My clan returned home with hearts and cats intact. In fact, our hearts expressed thanks for answered prayer about a prodigal stowaway.

This is why the tow truck driver's knowing question about the old red truck today produced laughter from me.
"Got any cats in there?"

Sudoku

Bright Minds Publishing Company has successfully convinced me that my children need to think critically. Most days my children have logic puzzles as an academic assignment. Not owning the most logical of brains, I muddle through with the children. However, at times, I am forced to ask them to wait for Buck to come home and tell them how to proceed. I just can't always figure things out. This is precisely why Hillary Clinton wrote the book _It takes a Village_, which I never intend to read. The title tells me what I already know. My brain cannot do all things on its own; I NEED other folks helping me and teaching my children.
My husband found a website which has an array of logic puzzles- www.krazydad.com. He handed the boys new sudokus (number squares puzzles)each day. Wise One loves this type of thing and asks for more at every turn. Friday Buck printed up an easy one to have us all race filling in the numbers. Buck finished light years ahead of us all, me second, and Wise One third. Peace quit before he was finished. Little did Buck know that he'd unleashed a sudoku passion in me when asking me to race. Since Friday, I print up a new easy sudoku in every spare moment. While dinner cooks, I work on these sheets. After picking the garden, I puzzle. I do a sudoku between brushing my teeth and flossing.
I'll know I'll quit after I get past the easy puzzles, because I'd rather read. I just haven't found the right book to start just yet. I like book my husband would deem "girl books"- Amy Tan, Barbara Kingsolver, Jane Austin, Gene Stratton Porter. Any suggestions for my next book? I've got to wean myself from these sudokus somehow...

Our new chicks growing into hens

For Thicket Dweller

Finally a veiw from the front porch.

Wise One Picking Peppers

I took this photo in the garden. Butterflies are all over the second batch of zinnias.

Logic verses Truth

An illuminating conversation with some excellent thinkers yesterday led me to these comments.

Logic eludes me at times. I become stubborn and unteachable. I don't remain open to different ways of learning. However, I do value logic. Logic is a great path for a bright mind to follow, but I recognize its limits. There is no inherent beauty in it. In fact, the path can even conclude at nothingness, harshness, even stark despair. Someone I love does not love me. I hurt and there is no way out of this pain. I envy. I can't change. Sometimes logic lacks something essential at its core- mercy.


There is an alternative with exceeds logic. Truth. Truth has a fundamental beauty. In truth there is purpose, meaning, love. Even if the truth is difficult, one will find hope linked alongside it. Someone dear does not love me, but I can still freely and deeply love. I will not hurt forever. I have all I need; I lack for nothing. I can find the help I need to change.
Truth offers hope.

Buck and his fancy MiMi knitted hat.
True Vyne Garden, on this late day of the season.

Another Secret

I'd like to become a famous movie critic, but I'm not so sure I have the talent for it. You decide...

A Very Long Engagement=A Very Long Movie

Ordinary Day

The sky is almost white today from the bright light of fall.
Why does fall produce such a brilliant shimmer and not as much heat as the summer sun? I do understand our position on earth is farther away from the sun and not as warm, but why am I blinded by it's light in the fall like no other time of year? It has not been cold enough here in Tennessee yet to wrestle the green out of the leaves and splash the landscape with egg yolk yellows, blazing reds, and bursting oranges. The burn of summer is on its way out the door so far leaving behind a fading green. The bell peppers and tomatoes in my garden still produce daily; so far we've experieced no freezing temperatures at night. New volunteer seedlings spring up from the ground- zinnias, dill, tomatoes, melons, beans because of the plants which I allowed to go to seed. It'll be a little sad to see all those cute babies wiped out from the first frost. My lettuce has rejuvenated in the cool, and our family will have some nice salad if the bugs don't beat me to it first.

The sweet smell of baking fills my house. It's a cooking day. Have I mentioned before that I love to grow food, but I don't like to cook? In fact, I'm a bad cook. Though my step father while I was growing up was a chef(!), I was too full of attitude and arrogance to learn anything from him. Flavoring food does not come naturally to me. I don't know how to pick recipes from cookbooks or magazines which will taste good. I don't have a knack for inventing or following recipes. I secretly pick my friends on the basis of the excellence of their cooking skills- the better the cook, the closer the friend. I even keep friends who won't read my blog (Helen)if they invite me over to dinner now and then.

I'm forcing myself to cook for three reasons today. I'm making a meal for a friend's family of six boys while she is out of town for a week. Six boys will be too hungry to care about the quality of the food as they gulp and guzzle. I'm baking cookies to benefit a bake sale for another friend's trip to India. She'll interpret sign language for a doctor on a medical mission for the poor in April. If I adhere strictly to the instructions on the Nestle's chocolate chip package, I can make a mean Tollhouse cookie someone will actually enjoy. I'm also cooking for my own family. Please never let the proverbial cat out of the bag that other children do not have to suffer through such bland and tasteless meals. They'll find out soon enough on their own that their mother lacks gourmet talent.

In the evening, I'll meet my Uncle W at soccer practice for Wise One. I'll take him a plate since he works here during the week but lives out of town, and he'll compliment my supper. He's a kind man. His wife, my Aunt Gaye, is one the best southern belles and southern cooks of all time. She, however, does all her cooking after midnight and I couldn't possibly stay up that late to learn the fine art of frying chicken and canning apples.

I don't want to leave the impression that my shortfalls inhibit me from inviting people over for dinner. I don't let burned buns and boring casseroles stand in the way of time with dear friends. Stop on by when you're passing through TN. I'll serve something, and we'll spend the rest of the night emmensely enjoying ourselves together in conversation.

random

I thought I'd share a few things from this day.

While I'm getting my blog and chocolate fix this afternoon I have this little converstation as my little girl twists herself up in the long linen tan with roses curtain on the window next to my computer.

Pooh Bear: "Mommy, will it ever be night in heaven?"
Me: "Dunno, but I sure love stars."
Pooh Bear: "The stars ARE the light for heaven, mommy."






Earlier, I found Peace off task from his homescool again. He's eleven, but I practially have to stalk the boy to keep him on track with his academics. Peace is the kind of guy who would rather build forts than perform fractions, make a sword from cardboard and masking tape than sit write a paragraph. Around noon, I found him sitting with Pooh Bear going through Brain Quest for kindergardeners. I kept out of sight and listened.
Peace: "How many legs does a spider have?
Pooh: "I don't know."
Peace: "Eight, say Eight."
Pooh: "Eight."
Peace: "Correct. What's wrong in this picture?"
Pooh: "Humpty Dumpty is on a log not on a wall."
Peace: "Correct. You get a star!"
He leads her to an envelope he'd prepared with stars he cut out for her.
Peace: "What's missing on this picture?"
Pooh:"The horse doesn't have it's tail, silly." Giggle.
Peace: "Correct. You earn another star. Let's count how many stars you have."

He stayed guiding Pooh gently through fun and learning activities for half an hour.
I certainly did not interrupt to redirect Peace back to his lesson list. It felt like I was smack in the middle of the Priceless commercial.



Wise One happens to have the dream personality for the homeschooling mother. He gets his work out the night before it's due and begins. "I want a day off tommorrow, so I'm doing my homeschool tonight." In the morning, before I'm out of bed, the boy is handing me his completed lessons for checking. He's spent this day building with the erector set after he made his corrections.

Tator moans when I assign his language work. He grunts and sighs when he's working on math. "Why do I have to take another spelling test if I took one with Dad yesterday?" and "Why does anyone care about denominators anyhow?" He'd rather be running the United States of America than doing schoolwork. I ask him to put down Peace's copy of _The Hobbit_ and later Wise One's _Mrs. Piggle Wiggle_ and get back to HIS assignments.

I've spent the day successfully pushing the nagging thought from my mind, "I should get everything out for an early dinner." We're taking the boys and some friends to see Matt Redman and Chris Tomlin in concert. I would much rather and willingly make a home cooked meal for Matt and Chris then gather in our living room with instruments than rocking with 2,000 other people in a crowded auditorium. Since we actually don't know these men, but just feel like we do through their music, we'll have to settle for the latter.

Contrast

It's a fact that mothers can tell the difference in the cries of children. One cry means "I'm mad", another "I'm annoyed". Still another means "I need to be close to you." I recognized right away yesterday when I visited Nadine, my 43 year old cousin in a persistent vegetative state, that she was in pain by her cry. Her body uncomfortably curved in a parentheses to the right. Her face, resting on a towel to catch drool and tears, nearly touched the bed rail, and her blood shot eyes squinted and strained in the opposite direction. She grunted and slightly verbalized a puff of the sound "bbbbbuuu"- a sound I've heard from unattended children in a crying spell. Her ruddy expression drew all her facial features tightly together and nearly matched the color of the short auburn curls on her head.
"Nadine, can you talk to me with your eyes? I want to help. I'll ask as many questions as it takes."

Pause.

"I can see you are really hurting, but I am willing to try anything if you can blink for me to tell you what you want."

No change. My plans instantly blown to really give her some time the way she might like it. She was hurting too much, been like that so long, she couldn't or wouldn't respond.

On the hundred mile drive to the nursing home, I lectured myself. Nadine has no choices about her own life, and today I will try and give her something she asks for. I will put aside my inadequacies and insecurities and find a way to be with Nadine for the afternoon. I carefully constructed sentences I hoped to convey to prevent rambling on nervously as I had last visit. I drew deep breaths thinking about the tension I'd feel with simply sitting and being with my friend. I will simply ask yes and no questions until...

I packed a fingernail kit, a Countryside Magazine, _Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul_, _What's so Amazing About Grace?_, _Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe_, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance_, and lotion into my deep purple Chinese silk book bag. The Plumeria lotion, a special gift from my workout buddy Cecily, had been given to me just for Nadine. Cecily had massaged her own dying mother with this particular brand, and Cecily couldn't since bring herself to use the lotion herself due to the memories which flooded her when she opened the cap. These tools were specifically selected in hopes for me to connect with Nadine.

I visited with her mother, Willa, first and asked if she'd like me to wheel her to Nadine's room for the visit with me. "True, they've moved Nadine to the room attached to my bathroom. I go sit with her all the time. She's going to get better. In fact, she has more feeling in her limbs than ever. She can't talk, but she grunts now." This was great news to me. Before,though they were placed in the same nursing home, Nadine and Willa could have been miles apart because of the long hallways Willa was physically unable to navigate through to get to Nadine's room. Nadine now has the tender and constant love of her mother just beyond that wall every single day. It also occured to me that Willa's generous spirit might draw kindness out in the staff tending Nadine.

I'd snuck in some contraband homemade chocolate cookies for Aunt Willa, because she's on the diabetic diet, and she savored each one. Willa, and probably everyone else there, hates the nursing home food. I don't blame her one bit; the stuff on her lunch plate didn't look more enticing than what I feed my dog everyday. Aunt Will offered me pale greens and diabetic fruit punch a number of times. "No thanks. I've eaten." I was thinking that what I ate yesterday counted as "I've eaten" as I spoke the words. I cut and filed Aunt Willa's nails and read a passage from a book she wanted to share with me. We talked about family members and our lives with one another. Then I walked the ten steps to Nadine's room.

That's when I found Nadine sobbing. My plan failed so quickly, and I sat there wishing I could do something, anything, to ease her pain. A nurse's aide entered, and queried the normal,"You her sister?"

I asked, "Cousin. Last time I visited she didn't seem like she was in so much pain. Is there anything we can do?"

"No, she cries like that all the time. She'll get some pain medicine in her IV when it's scheduled."

Huh?

The nurse mumbled something about me leaving the room for a few minutes, and I obeyed. I moved next door back into Aunt Willa's room who matter-of-factly answered my inquiry, "She cries like that, because she wants us to know she's still all there and trying to get back to us." My aunt is one of the kindest people I've ever met, but I was terribly uncomforted by this reply. Nadine wants us to know she is hurting and can nothing about it.

When the aide opened the door again, Nadine had been straightened from her curve to a more upright position, and the nurse was dragging out a garbage bag. Nadine wasn't sobbing anymore, and it was obvious to me her crying had been a way to ask for repositioning or a change of pads! I flashed with anger thinking how the caregiver couldn't or wouldn't make this simple deduction. Nadine held a squinted gaze on some dorky daytime soap opera on the television above, a show neither she or her roommate could have chosen to watch. I moved to make eye contact to communicate with her again. If I wasn't not terribly mistaken, Nadine looked miffed. I tried to meet her pupils with mine but she looked beyond me with her the slit of her one open eye.

"I can tell you aren't hurting anymore. Would you like to try and talk with your eyes? I've brought some books and I wanted to know if you'd like to listen as I read one?"

No response.

I open _Chicken Soup for a Mother's Soul_ and read a sappy story. I tried two more hokey stories as I watched for Nadine to look my way. Again, no response.

I chided myself for reading such dumb material to her. The stories were about mothers who could get out of bed, feed themselves, go to the grocery store while Nadine unwillingly required all this and much more to be done for her. She couldn't will her own twelve year old daughter Rose to visit much less bake cookies for her.

"Nadine, I'm going to read from one of my favorite books now. I wonder if you've read this."

I lifted the cover to her and cracked open _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. I jumped in reading in my excellent theatrical voice with Chapter I "Lucy Looks into a Wardrobe". When I looked up for a response this time, Nadine was staring directly me at me. She didn't look mad anymore and her eyes were opened much wider than they had been. I lost my place in the book as I quietly celebrated joy and relief that I finally found a moment directly with her that day. I skimmed to find my place and continued reading about Narnia, fauns, lampposts, snow, sleighs for quite some time. I placed my hand on Nadine's arm and stroked it gently as I read. A nurse stuck her head in the door, and blushed that I noticed her. "Uhhhhh, hello" she stammered and quickly popped her head back out the door. Nadine listened intently and never averted her gaze from me. I paused as another nurse came into remove Nadine's feet and hand splints. These were on her to help prevent the natural atrophy which occurs in paralysis over time. It was the opportunity I'd prayed for to massage Nadine with the lotion. "May I put some lotion on her hands and feet?" I asked permission from the nurse.

"Sure. I bet she'd like that."

I uncapped the bottle near Nadine's nose and said, "This is Plumeria scented. I hope you like it."

No response, but she didn't turn her eyes away either. First, I noticed all Nadine's nails had been recently neatly trimmed. Nadine's limbs jumped a bit sometimes as I rubbed in the cream. I took a while lingering on each joint remembering a yummy hand massage the manicurists gave me last time I got my nails done. The Plumeria scent mixed in with the not-so-pleasant nursing home smells stayed with me until my shower the next day.

I leisurely finished another chapter of Narnia after the massage, and offered my love and a kiss on Nadine's forehead.

I stepped next door to gave my goodbyes and hugs to Aunt Willa. I promised to bring my children and dear husband to see her soon.

The nursing home took me to another world very outside my own. The time there always seems to stand still, and yet it feels sacred. It is my joy to step out of the chaos of four children, a farm, being a wife to simply chat in the calming presence of my dear Aunt and share a story with my cousin.

On the long drive home, Buck and I talked on my cell. He explained a crazy water leak in the yard, and I jolted back into my daily grind. Not to worry, I'd escape the daily grind again and enter another world with my own children when we snuggled together on the couches under the cover of comforters to read another chapter of _Christy_.

Fives

This blog is part of an idea found on Thicketdweller's blog- todaylesson.blogspot.com. I don't know enough blogs to tag yet, so I just gave the questions a whirl...

What were you doing 10 years ago?

In '95, I blundered my way through the first year of my son's life as a brand spanking new stay at home mother. I'd never been so flabbergasted by an occupation. Previously I tutored twenty energetic children from project housing and dragged them on field trips all over creation. Somehow I managed fine. When one wrinkly newborn birthed to me, I fell to pieces. Thank God for a dear friend, Anita. It was her first year of motherhood too, and her steady hand guided us both through the great turmoils of babyhood. We joined natural food co-ops, cooked almost every meal together, and made up workout classes for moms with babies.
Buck and I decided it best we find another baby (I never wanted to give birth again), so I wouldn't focus all my neurosis on just one poor creature, our son Peace. So, we began and completed foster-to-adopt classes ending with a foster newborn in our care.

What were you doing 5 years ago?
2000
Our family moved from the downtown city to try out the 'burbs. We bought the most gorgeous cedar shingled home with stained glass windows, fantastic landscaping, hardwood, front porch swing on a the dead end of a perfect street. Perfect lasted a month or two... I also discovered true love that year with the birth of my daughter Pooh Bear, my fourth. I think an article of mine "Catechesis of the Good Shepherd- a work of joy and wonder" may have been published in Montessori Today and Tommorrow's Child that year.

What were you doing one year ago?
Two years ago we fled the 'burbs and bought a little farm. Soon after I hopped when I should have hipped in my dance class and ended up tearing my knee to pieces. I ended a loonnggg rehab from that incident last year. I also took up the creation of Truevyne Garden- a home to many fairies, organically grown veggies, and fragrant flowers. I also acted as midwife to my first goat kids ever.

5 snacks
chocolate chip cookies
apples
bananas
milkshakes
smoothies

5 songs I know all the words to-

My husbands wants to know if I have to know all the RIGHT words to the song for this to count?

White Coral Bells- Lori Berkner
Secret World- Peter Gabriel
We Belong Together- Rickie Lee Jones
Been a While- Stained
Stronger Than Pride (entire Sade album)



5 things you would do if you had a million dollars
HARDWOOD FLOORS all over my house
build a guest cabin and fancy barn
pay off debt
live in Xian, China for a year and buy plane tickets for family and friends to visit
fully support TRIBE ONE of Knoxville's staff
invest

5 things you like doing-
reading
something physical
CGS with the little ones and adults
writing
watching great movies

5 bad habits
biting my nails
being short tempered with those I love most
making up words when I can't remember the right one
judging harshly
never checking my cell phone voice mail


5 things I would never wear again
Goth duds
Puffy lavendar bridemaid dress
Spiked heels
Jumpers with watermelons embroidered on them
Size 5 ANYTHING

5 favorite toys
ipod
computer
children
art supplies
books

I ask a dangerous question

I've asked the question of my children, "What makes me different from other moms?"
Here are their unedited (yikes!) answers.
1. You don't let us watch tv.
2. You don't let us have game systems.
3. You homeschool us.
4. You make us eat broccoli, but we like it.
5. You've been China without getting arrested.
6. We have to get our academic work done by 12, or we don't get special privileges like computer time.
7. We don't get real allowances from you. We get money for work when most kids get allowance for things like getting up in the morning.
8. When you do let us watch tv, it's Extreme Makeover Home Edition, but not to mention we haven't seen it in five weeks.
9. You took us to see Star Wars episode three on opening night.
10. You know how to milk a goat and taught us how to.
11. You let us have the second biggest dog in the world- a Great Pyreneese. Most moms would freak out when they see our dog Ripley.
12. You're so good at gardening we've still got tomatoes today, October 7.
13. You get drunk from half a glass of wine, but I've never seen you do it.
14. You bought soap molds a long time ago and have never made soap.
15. You told us not to name our chickens, but Dad named a few.
16. Your son is a Star Trek Nerd.
17. You always change the color of your hair.
18. You go the gym.
19. You cry at every single movie, including the previews for Narnia. I saw you cry at the ballet The Nutcracker.
20. You won't let me get a paintball gun.
21. You laughed the whole movie of Elf.
22. You let us go to Dollywood, and you'll go on every ride.
23. You are a daredevil.
24. You like to bake chocolate chip cookies.
25. I can't remember a meal you cooked that I didn't like.
26. You're really bad at baseball.
27. You make the best Shepherd's pie.
28. You always ask me to fix the eyes on the electric garage door openers.
29. You always wreck the lawn mower.
30. You love a clean house.
31. You allow swords in our house but no real guns (or cowboys).

Riding the relative circuit

My family attended the christening of our new little nephew over the weekend in Cincinnati. Buck was honored to become the godfather of the sweet little pumpkin, Baby Peter. Peter is the kind of infant who is mostly content and smiles at the slightest possibility of love. I bet he even smiles when a cat accidentally brushes its tail up against his chubby cherub legs. I swallowed a giant dose of cuddles and snuggles to ward off the nagging "I want another baby" monster. Simply smelling soy formula again worked magically to keep the dreadful beast in its iron cage. The odor triggered sickening memories of the gallons I spit up I swiped off my boy, my back, neck, hair, ears, floor, ceilings, cats etc. during my own Boodle Tator's foster babyhood.

I took up some toddler chasing with my two year old cutie niece, Meg. She's obsessed with how all things work. It took quite a bit of coaxing to lure the girl out of the gargage before testing the gas cans, weedeater, bike tires and gears, tools of all sorts. The grand finale ended with her climbing upon Uncle Jake's Harley and annoucning, "MINE!".

Our children enjoyed the heck out of their cousins, and I recognized my 9 year old niece, Beth, truly loves spending time with my daughter and myself. Beth has entered the developmental stage of loving horses which seems to always precede turning utterly boy crazy.

Our oldest nephew, Jake, cracked us up with his fourteen year old answers.
Me: "What do you like to do all summer?"
Jake: "Talk to my friends all day on computer."
Buck: "What was your homecoming date's name?"
Jake: "Logan."
Buck: "Logan is a boy's name. Was your date a boy?"
Jake: "NO!"
Buck: "What was her last name?"
Jake: casually "I don't know."
Buck: "Don't know your date's last name. How do you know she wasn't really a boy?"

Buck and I swam our way through the tensions and turmoil of extended family time. We wrestled our way to setting a half day limit at a relatives house bringing to a minimum exposure to the nutso elements such as sharp tongues or skewed opinions. While Bucks family would amuse most any sociologist, if Jerry Springer met me, he'd sink down on one knee and humbly beg me to round up my relatives for his show. The man would get top ratings and at least a year's worth of material from anyone with my genetic make-up. Both our families put the FUN in dysFUNction.