Why I love country living. . .

I don't know how you qualify country living, but I consider myself a part of the club for five reasons.

1. I can go outside looking like this without fear of embarrassment.

Yes, those are pink and green frog socks.

In my defense, my sweet Jenny-boo left her lights on all night and I had to go out and find jumper cables and recharge her battery.  (All country-girls can do this without blowing themselves up.)  I was in a hurry.  I won't mention that it was 11:30am and I had been sitting at the computer playing on Facebook.  No, that's too much information.

And, I had to beat the dogs off me just to get this picture.  Not literally. . .in the country we use the word beat alot.  We wear wife-beaters.  (tank tops)  We're often beat.  (tired. . .or if you are a UT fan this year, you can use the more literal term)  If we don't like you, we tell you to beat it.  (leave)   And some country people pickle beets and actually eat them.  I am not in that club.  But I digress. . .

2.  Speaking of dogs, in the country, animals just show up at your house and decide they live there.  Here is one example.

Meet Auggie Doggie

This guy showed up at our house last year just before Christmas and hasn't decided to leave yet.  He obviously wasn't raised here and you can immediately tell because he is well-mannered and doesn't think the study is a place to do the doo.  I wasn't too keen on keeping him and called him "brown dog" for the first three months he resided on our porch.  (I was in denial.)  But he won me over and can often be found lounging on our futon with his head on a pillow like he owns the place.

He joins two other canine companions that were brought here against their will, but they seem to like it ok.

Meet Ellie
(named for Cinderella, but more closely resembes the step-sisters. . .I'm just sayin)

This poor, sad looking thing is Ellie.  The dog who craves eye contact so much that she will sit and stare at you until you give it to her.  She is only 2 years-old, but she acts like she's a geriatric.  A very slow moving old soul who likes to jump up and wipe her feet on you, especially if you are wearing white.

And if we lived in the Land of Misfit Dogs, this would be its leader.

Meet Tuco. . .there are just no words for this dog

My tail-less wonder. . .Tuco is a schipperke - the only animal with lineage at our house.  And his story is a tale of a moment of weakness and pity.  Usually, in a marital relationship, at any given moment there is at least one person who exhibits some form of common sense and self-control.  This was not one of those moments.  After going into a pet store to buy some food for a hermit crab (who bit the dust some time ago,) we ended up leaving with THIS.  Ok, so I have to plead our case.  He had been in that store for 4 months living in his own excrement (literally) in a tiny cage.  And he was U-G-L-Y.  He had even been discounted twice - they were that desperate for some suckers to take him.  We looked at him and said, "No one in their right mind will EVER buy THAT dog."  Then, we bought him.  And he was sick and a mess and the worst dog on the planet to ever house train.  Even the vet thought we were insane.  But, he actually fits into our family quite nicely.

Three dogs. . .and in the country, we let sleeping dogs lie.

3. Yard concrete.  Need I say more?

This is not a real goose.  I know you thought it was.

Even though their legs are amputated and they look very sad, I love these frogs.

Both of these works of art belonged to my grandparents, so I am very lucky to carry the yard concrete tradition into the 21st century.  And yes, that is a mostly dead plant in a pot that never made it into the ground. 

4.  Country people have gardens.  Yes, I have a garden. . .of weeds.  But I do have a couple things that refuse to die and I like them alot.  Here's one. . .

Lambs' Ear rocks. . .and they used to use it for toilet paper.  Did you know that?

Oh wait, what's this?

A shrinking violet?  I think NOT.

I grew this hardy specimen right in my front yard!  Right in the middle of that beautiful grass!  Sometimes I really amaze myself. . .

But mostly, I have a garden of trees.  I highly recommend that.  They are very low maintenance.



This is my masterpiece. . .Dang, I'm GOOD!  :-)

But what about this?

A dead tree?  Oops. . .

Yes, it is a real shame that I don't know anyone who could cut this dead tree down for me.  It's like the old saying, "A cobbler's kid has no shoes."  Yep.  True with tree guys, too.  Those of you waiting for my hubby to cut your trees will be serviced WAY before me.  But its still pretty in its own way.

5.  Last but not least. . .septic tanks.  Yes, you KNOW you live in the country when you have great septic tank stories.  Remember that one time when it rained for 5 days straight and the septic tank. . .you get the point.  And I couldn't leave it out of our picture montage.

No, this is not a grave.  Yes, that is a basketball.

Country people often have random dangerous holes in their yards.  After my hubby had to dig to get to the entrance to that enchanted-world-of-septic-tank-wonder one too many times, he refused to fill it in again.  So, there it is.  We find lots of cool things in it - toys, tools, small children.  And I personally love mowing next to the edge.  It's so exciting.

So, yes, I think we qualify as country people.  And I love it.  There are few places where you can find beauty everywhere you look. . .even in a septic tank hole.  And you can be proud of chunks of concrete in your front yard.  And not mind that you have more weeds than grass.  Because its all good.  Even the septic tank stories.  One day I'll tell you the one about the lady who came to pump our septic tank and it had rained and it was slippery and. . .

It's a good one.  City people don't know what they are missing.

Order v/s Chaos

Order            v/s          Chaos

I am in a constant battle with myself.  I crave order.  (Really. . .I do.)  I love lists and organizers and calendars.  I love having a plan.  I love knowing what is coming around the corner, having something to look forward to.  It makes me feel safe and in control.  (haha. . .it is just an illluuuuusion, but I pretend.)

And then again, I love chaos.  I love surprise and spontenaity.  I love throwing it all into the wind and seeing where it lands.  I love messes.  I love not knowing what is coming next.  It makes me feel free and wild!  It inspires and invigorates me.

Until I crave order.

And then I get bored and crave chaos.

So, what does this battle look like in my life?  This structured-randomness?  Most days it looks more like chaos on the outside.  Sections of my house are ordered.  I said 'sections.'  Don't go into the basement.  That is like the giant garbage pile we live on.  (I'm sure some feng shui expert would have an opinion on that.)  But ask me to show you my newly organized gift wrapping drawer and you'd be quite impressed.  My ever-expanding bead collection, my shoes, clothes (when clean), the spare room (that is not occupied), my books, the linen closet, and my laptop can all be included in my ordered list.   

But my kitchen = chaos.  I blame that on losing half my cabinet space when we remodeled and not the ridiculous amount of kitchen items I believe I must keep.  You know the story.  "As soon as I throw that 3rd can opener away, I'm gonna need it." or "Yes, I need 14 mixing bowls and 27 storage containers with lids."  And the study, oh I try.  I really do.  But having a home business and the insane amount of paper involved (see previous post) is so overwhelming that I surrender most of the time.  And the bathroom.  Forget it.  Teenage boy = soggy towels on the floor and unscooped cat litter (his chore.)

I go through phases where I PURGE.  I get out the black garbage bags and I throw it away or bag it up for my one-day-make-believe-yard-sale that I'm gonna have.  No, really, I'm gonna do it.  One day.  Or I throw it into the van and stop by Goodwill.  After the purge, things feel so nice and I'm satisfied with that.  For awhile.  Then I start collecting more stuff to replace the stuff I got rid of until I have to do it again.

And that's just talking about the order/chaos that you can see.  There is also another covert battle going on - the internal battle.  In my life, this is the constant quest to do things better, to be a better person.  You know, the 'if-I-could-only' stuff we torture ourselves with on a daily basis.  If only I could be more productive.  If only I could stay focused.  If only I could find more time in the day to do blah-blah-blah.

Order in this world is a mom who follows a good diet (and is a healthy weight).  She also keeps her son on task with homeschooling and limits video game playing and even organizes 'social opportunities.'  She cooks dinner and doesn't leave dirty dishes in the sink.  Oh yea, and she e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e-s.  (Sheesh, that was a hard word to type, much less do.)  She also stays close with her older daughters and makes time to touch base with her hubby daily.  She takes care of her spiritual needs and reads the Bible.  She makes it a priority to enjoy life - and plans time to do it.

Then there's Chaos and she eats what she wants.  This girl doesn't need to exercise because she is too busy having fun. (Well, she probably does, but she isn't bothered with such mundane tasks.) She is kind and doesn't fuss over the details of stuff.  Dirty dishes don't bother her.  She's always in the moment.  She notices those little things that too often get missed, those special moments that are meant to be savored.  She doesn't like being Julie from the Love Boat (if you don't get this reference, ask someone who watched TV in 1975) and doesn't want to organize activities.  She is spontaneous and schedules just get in her way.  She plays videogames with her son, and daughters, and hubby, even when there is homework to do.  She is wild and unpredictable. 



Spygraph!  Another showing-my-age moment. . .



Just like my house, you'll see a little of both going on at any given moment.  Hopefully there is a balance because too much of one is not a good thing.  When I was in my 20s, I thought that by now I'd have it all figured out.  HA!  Now, that is truly the illuuuuuusion.  All I have now that I didn't have then is a measure of respect for my own crazy process.  And acceptance.  Well, sort of.  Depends on who is in charge that day.

Order is telling me that I need to wrap this post up with some witty quote.  But Chaos says that you guys all have Google and you can go find one if you're needing a cool ending. . .

Chaos wins.

Teachable moments

Can you homeschool in the car on the way to Target? Yes, you can. In fact, I think that a large portion of those magical 'teachable moments' when I know Colton is actually listening and getting what I'm saying - when we're having a REAL conversation - are in the car. Er, van. And usually they occur when I'm most distracted and secretly wanting to turn on the radio and just veg out. THAT is when he wants to learn. Go figure.

This happens so often that I am starting to count them in my day. The trip to band practice last week (about a 40 minute drive) was spent discussing what kinds of things you would need to survive if the world was suddenly overtaken by zombies. (13 year-old male. . .need I say more?) This conversation touched on everything from where you would want to live, what tools would be essential, how you could build traps and weapons (13 year-old male, again) and what BOOKS (surprise!) you might want to have with you. He read Hatchet last year and has been currently reading the sequels The River and Brian's Winter, so he thought those books would be particularly useful. He didn't mention needing his X-Box, but did acknowledge that his video game experience could be helpful as preparation for living in Zombie-land. We both enjoyed the conversation and I found myself feeling a bit proud that my son said that I might also be a pretty good zombie hunter - or at least be handy at stitching up everyone else's wounds from their late night zombie encounters. (He could have suggested I would be great bait for a zombie trap. So, I'll take that compliment.) But in that 40 minute conversation we touched on 6 or more subjects: reading comprehension, physics, nutrition, general science, math, and home economics. (haha)




On the drive home, we discussed if it could be possible that every person sees colors differently (I see purple where you see red, but we don't know it because we just know what we're "told" the color is.) In this discussion, we went all the way into how the brain perceives colors and how cones and rods work in the eye. We decided between ourselves that this is indeed possible, but we'll probably never know for sure. We also talked about black holes (Mom, there could really be a blackhole in your purse and you wouldn't know it! Yes son, I know it's there. It's called the VISA card.)





So, why does this happen in the car? Why not at the kitchen table when the books are open and the lessons laid out? Maybe it is the experience of the shared destination that opens the door. Maybe we're just trapped in the same small space and bored. Maybe it is because it doesn't "feel" like learning, or teaching for that matter. I'm thinking it's a little of each. Maybe it is how children all over the planet learn most of the time. . . when we're not looking.

My love/hate relationship with paper

I imagine that the person who first figured out how to create paper was very excited at the possibilities of communicating in this new and exciting way. But could that person have ever imagined what our world is like now with paper EVERYTHING?

Paper towels, paper plates, toilet paper, printer paper, paper-wrapped food, paper bags, newspaper, paper napkins, paper cups, paper envelopes, paper inside paper envelopes, and of course books, magazines, newsletters, flyers, sales circulars, checks, BILLS, notebooks, folders, cards, photos, and don't even get me started on cardboard.

I am so overwhelmed by paper that if I were to strike a match at this moment, there would be plenty of paper fuel around me to keep the fire burning for a day or so. I was so excited the day I got my laptop because I realized that this could potentially reduce the amount of times per day I pick up a piece of paper and wonder what the heck to do with it. Do I recycle it, throw it away, shred it, burn it, file it, read it, or send it to someone else (in a paper envelope or cardboard box?)

But take me to a bookstore and I can't get enough. I tried to use my handy-dandy laptop to read a book and it didn't go so well. Maybe it was the fact that you can't read a book lying on your side in bed with it, or that it got too hot, or that I hated "clicking" through the pages, I don't know. I think it was the smell. Nothing smells better than a new book and nothing feels better in your hands than a new paperback with the spine all shiny and smooth. Also, nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing a book after I've read it, all bent and ugly. It feels like devouring a good meal and looking at the leftovers.

One thing I know is that this aversion to paper does not translate to other things that occupy too much space in my world - like yarn. I could have a million skeens and still buy more. If you knit or crochet, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said, "If yarn was like meth, I'd be toothless." Yep. That would be me.

I started to wonder if this aversion started because of what the paper represents - bills, statements, taxes, all that grown-up stuff we're forced to contend with. Paper, in its weird way, represents time and work. In a good way, the more you work, the more paper you generate. In a bad way, the more paper you generate, the more you work. At least that's how I see it.

(If only that were true with the yarn/knit/crochet scenario. With yarn, the less work you do, the more yarn you have to store.)

Does this post have a point? Nope. Just sitting here within touching distance of three bank statements, a Charter bill, 2 birthday cards, a paper cupcake wrapper (which was delicious, by the way) and a magazine order from my cousin's daughter in Georgia. How many magazines did I just order? THREE.

::sigh::

I surrender.

Why I love camping. . .

Sherri's Top Ten List

1. Fire. I love fire. I love the satisfying feeling of building a fire. I love baking my front and then my back (not necessarily in that order) in the heat. I love the smell of smoke. I love feeding it and making the wood stack like a log cabin when it really gets going. And I love s'mores.

2. No electronic devices. I love "bored" kids who make stuff to entertain themselves. I love watching them trying to sail their boat and catching it before it sinks.

3. The sound of the river.

4. The Scenery

5. Watching Bill try to make cool camping perks, like a shower hanging from a tree. Look closely. He's climbing that tree wearing flip-flops.

6. Having my three babies in the same place at the same time.

7. Yawning trees

8. Wasting time

9. Hillbilly Hot Tub

10. Making Rock People

Fifteen years ago, we said hello. . . and goodbye

*note: this post discusses pregnancy/infant loss.



I sat looking at a blank screen for quite some time before I could start typing today. It wasn't because I was afraid or sad. I think it was just so I could feel the weight of it. You know, that feeling you get when you know you're going some place you don't go often. It is a place that I carry with me everyday, but I rarely dive in. I prefer to skim the surface. Today, I'm jumping in with both feet.

Enough riddles. . .on August 26th, it will be fifteen years since I met my third daughter, Madison. It is also fifteen years since she left us. I have to say it like that because to just say that I lost my baby that day would leave out an even more precious moment - the moment of her birth. This is her birthday, too.

I was 27 years old, still a young'un as my Mamaw Holt would say. After an (up to that point) uneventful pregnancy, my husband and I walked into an ultrasound room expecting to find out whether we were going to have a boy or a girl and walked out wondering what the hell just happened. It was surreal. Like stepping into the Land of the Lost and seeing your first dinosaur. With teeth. And hungry. You can't breathe. You can't even think about running. You just freeze.

That moment was monumental. If some corporate guy made a chart of all the events in my life, that moment would look like the plunge in the stock market on Black Monday - or flipped upside down, kinda like Mount Everest. And when you're either facing a precupice or at the base of the mountain, the only thing you can do is to move forward. Falling or climbing. It's all the same.

The time that passed from that visit with the apocalyptic ultrasound (you know, I still hate those things) to the moment when we finally met her was like walking around in a daze. But that time is also a part of her story. We had to do things. . .things you'd never imagine in a million years you'd EVER do. Like buy your child a dress to wear one last time. Sorry. I had to say it.

Even though it sounds horrible and you're probably ready to exit off this page and go back to reading your Facebook status updates, let me share a story. Bill and I were instructed to purchase a very small dress, a doll's dress. Ok. Kinda weird, but ok. (Go ahead, smile. That's ok, too.) So, off we go to the Super-Special-and-Even-More-Expensive-Toy-Store (you know the one) because its special and we're going to go all out and find something that is just right. If you've ever been there, you know they have this incredible doll section with dolls and clothes from France and England and Russia and everywhere else. Apparently, they make dolls better than we Americans do. I don't know.

When we get there, every single employee in the store approached us at least once to ask if they could "help" us. (At one point, we considered telling them how they could help.) We're picking up doll dresses on hangers and looking at each one. Then Bill finds one and shows it to me. It's cute and soft and has a little hat. We liked it. But when I take a closer look, I notice two holes cut into the hat. And we're looking at it and wondering why the heck are there holes in the hat? And then we realize it was made for a bear. A toy bear with ears. Then we notice there are also matching panties and there is a hole there as well - for a tail. I can't fully describe what happened next, maybe it was just the insanity of the moment, but we both looked at each other and burst into hysterical laughter, complete with tears. It was that fall down, pee your pants, totally embarrass yourself kind of laughter. And we couldn't stop. We had to leave the store, empty handed.

That moment was also monumental. It might look like a small blip on the corporate chart of events, but it was just as important. It was in that moment that I saw the first glimmer of hope in a place that was so dark . . .and hopeless. I laughed. I didn't know I was capable of it, but there it was and it was real.

I can't say I laughed alot in that year after we said goodbye, but I know I laughed. And lived. Family and friends came to the rescue and helped us muddle our way through. Every year since, it has been a continuing education course in living-life-without-her. Some years I failed miserably (F---) and others I did better (B+) but I never missed a class.

I discovered a few truths during my education. While I spent most of those early months wailing to God that He should give her back to me or just (mercifully) take away the pain, I learned later that the very same pain that would physically send me to the floor was also a gift to me. Today, I wouldn't trade a second of it. It became a part of her story. A part of how her life changed me. A part of how her life changed the world through me. Changed the world? Is that just some romantic notion? I can tell you that it is true. You're reading this, aren't you?

Ta-da! You are changed.

Now, fifteen years later, I don't cry on August 26th. I am grateful. I feel special. I don't have all the answers, but I do know that I am better for having known my Madison. She is integrated into every single thing I do, every single day of my life. And just so you know how real that is - I never wrote a word that I shared publically before I lost her. The week after I left the hospital is the week I started a journal. 2 months later, I wrote an article on loss for a parent newsletter. Then, it just grew and grew.

So this. . .this thing here. . .she planted it in me before she left.

Not for me. . . for you.

School starts today. . .naaa, next week.

I'm new at this homeschooling business. Now that we have one whole year under out belts, I'm feeling the need to reflect on the experience. I had always been fascinated with parents who chose to homeschool, but never felt the need to do it with my daughters. They always did well in public school.

But my boy. . .well. . .not a round peg, this guy. And when it was suggested that we needed to sand him down, making a square peg into a round one, let me just say that I realized how much I loved my square peg. His edges make him who he is. So, we just carved out a square shaped hole for him. (aka: homeschooling)

In the past twelve months, I think I've probably learned more than Colton. (Ask me about sodium acetate reactions. . .go ahead, ask me.) And I've probably read more than Colton. (Those Apologia texts really are interesting.) I know I've done more math than Colton. (It is necessary to work several problems yourself when you have to break it down and teach it.) And I definitely made more lapbooks than Colton. (Not a scissors-and-glue kinda guy either.) We didn't do alot of test-taking or grading, but trust me, his mother knew exactly how much work he put in and whether or not he "got it." My goal was merely to discover how my boy learns. And to listen. And adapt. And then stand back and watch him grow. And you know what? He did. . .over 3 inches this year. LOL

After so many years of struggle in both public school as well as private, I can not express what this past year has meant to us. Aside from getting incredible support from the most excellent homeschool community, it has also involved some emotional healing - for Colton as well as his parents. We didn't know how much we were missing until our cup was filled. Ahhhhh. It feels nice.

We had the child who came home everyday from school with a note. Yes, the dreaded NOTE. Colton didn't pay attention. Colton won't memorize his multiplication facts. Colton fell asleep in class. Colton broke a crayon ON PURPOSE. Colton spent 18 minutes in the bathroom. Colton asked to go to the school nurse for the 4th time this week. Colton played with his eraser. Colton didn't eat his lunch. Colton doesn't keep his hands to himself. In the end, all this just equals, "For God's sake, would you people PLEASE drug your child?" Now, I don't say that as a judgment. I am a nurse and I understand the diagnosis/medication algorithm. I know that it can be helpful. It just wasn't an option for us. (personal confession: We did go as far as to ask the pediatrician, get a prescription, fill it, and then look at it for many weeks as it sat on the microwave unopened.)

Deciding to homeschool was also a scary leap for us, but I knew that I couldn't do any worse than what he'd experienced so far. I gave myself at least that much credit, but not much more. I was terrified. I really, really didn't want to screw up my kid.

My confidence in homeschooling grew in tiny steps. He started to enjoy reading again and was doing it "for fun" and asking for specific books that he'd researched himself. Even though he is an all-out-lover of X-Box, I found him playing physics computer games on a regular basis. He loved his enrichment classes each Monday (loved? school-like atmosphere?) and looked forward to them. I also realized that his reading level was WAY above what I thought it was and had to go get more advanced books. He asked me to teach him Algebra. He asked to learn more about the Vietnam War. He wanted to do a science fair project. He became more interested in politics, and drilled me about the candidates when we went to vote. He asked me more and more questions that I didn't have the answers to. I love that.

And then came band. Yes, there is actually a homeschool band. I wasn't sure about it at first because I didn't know how he'd do in such a structured atmosphere. But we went for an instrument fitting and the band director was incredible. (If you were ever in a school band, then you know how rare that can be.) He picked an Alto Saxophone and we started band and private lessons. And he LOVES it. He really struggled at first and I thought he'd give up, but he didn't. We just started our second year of band and several parents came up to me and mentioned how impressed they were with how well he was playing - and he has even been invited to play in the Jazz Band, which is usually reserved for students with at least 2 years experience. I am a very proud mama.

Has it all been easy? Heck no. There were days when I threatened to call the yellow bus to come to our house and take him to school. (several) He had trouble accepting that I was "mom" and "teacher" and that if he didn't do his "work," he couldn't "play." There is no place to hide or manipulate a Mom-Teacher. We know ALL. Oh yes, and he knows how to push my buttons, too. So it works both ways. We can really drive each other nuts if we want to.

All the planning, and worrying, and time management (or more accurately, lack-of-time-management) has been worth it. My boy is doing well and he's happy and he hasn't asked to go to the school nurse in 12 months. Or broken crayons on purpose.

If only I could get him out of the bathroom. . .

Remembering Papaw. . .

Remembering my Papaw today. . . This is a copy of what I read at his funeral, one year ago today.

I am one of five people in this world who are lucky enough to call this man my grandfather. Everyone here knows what a special man he was, but take that man and put him in the grandparent role and you get something even more remarkable.

There are so many stories I could tell you right now. All of them funny. About how he used to make up rhyming songs with our names in it. My songs were all about Sherrilee, Calico Flea. Ricky’s had something to do with falling over a hickory stump. And how he used to always give us a dollar whenever we had to go home to Georgia. I guess it was used to lessen the blow of leaving them. It never worked. We still cried.

My mom said to me once that she didn’t know what love was until she became a grandparent. (I asked her, “What am I? Chopped liver?”) But I think I understand what she was saying. Because having a grandparent love you that much. . . that is just as special. Papaw loved us that way, no doubt about it. And he taught us a few things about how to be a grandparent that I want to share with you.

Remember to laugh at yourself – and sometimes its even okay to laugh at other people.

One of my favorite stories Papaw told me was about a trip he took with Mamaw to WalMart. It was the old WalMart that had the little snack bar at the front door. Mamaw would often sit in the snack bar and rest while Papaw shopped. On this trip, he had to use the restroom in the snack bar. As he walked out and started down the big aisle, Mamaw caught a glimpse of him and hollered his name, but he ignored her and kept walking. The next time she yelled it and he turned around and she was motioning for him to come back to her. When he walked back, she pointed to the back of his pants where a paper toilet seat cover was hanging out. Most people would never tell a story like that about themselves. But to my Papaw, it was golden comedic material and he used it often.

Once when my children were little, I took them to the local Kroger pharmacy to get flu shots. We ran into Papaw at the store. When I told him what I was doing, he followed me to the pharmacy and sat in a chair. I told him that he could go finish shopping and that I’d find him when we were through. He looked at me and said, “No. I think I’ll sit right here.” Then the shots came out and one by one he watched as I wrestled with each child, hearing their screams echo through the store, and even chasing one down the freezer aisle. And he could not stop laughing. That became one of his favorite stories to tell about me.

Papaw loved practical jokes. You could always tell when one was coming because he’d flash those blue eyes at you and give you a grin and you just knew. He thought that the greatest thing added to a Ford Van was the alarm system. He wasn’t afraid of it being stolen. He loved sending people to the van and waiting until they got close and then setting off the alarm. He never got tired of that one.

But once that practical joke backfired on him. One day Papaw drove to the post office. As he walked in, he noticed that there were hundreds of birds in a tree over the van where Mamaw was sitting. On his way back to the van, he pushed the alarm and the birds took off in flight. . .and dropped hundreds of little gifts all over him and his van. That became one of Mamaw’s favorite stories to tell about him.

No diet restrictions for grandchildren at their grandparent’s house.

Our summers were spent living off and endless supply Little Debbie cakes and RC Colas. Me and Traci were the ones who thought up eating cookie dough and cake mix. Papaw would always be excited because he thought we were making a cake. But we keep the dough and batter in the refrigerator and eat it with a spoon. There is no way we’d have gotten away with that at home. If that wasn’t enough sugar, Papaw would take us to the market in Walland and give us his change purse that he always carried in his pocket and let us spend it all on candy. There was a day when you could get a TON of candy for a bunch of quarters. And I never thought about it until now how much time I spent in the dentist office as a child.

Marry the person you love and stay with them no matter what.

My grandparents were married over 65 years. And considering that my grandfather had a lot of Irish and my grandmother had a lot of Cherokee – put those two volatile personalities together and see what happens. That’s a whole other group of funny stories. But they showed us by their example how to love and support each other, through thick and thin. All five of their grandchildren are married to their first choice. Between us, we have over 75 years being married and we’re not THAT old. I think that’s pretty amazing.

Take all of your vacation days.

Papaw got several weeks of vacation every year and he always had a plan where he wanted to go. My brother and I had the pleasure of many trips to Florida with Mamaw and Papaw when we were kids. We still did it the economical way back then – one hotel room with 2 double beds for 6 people. My brother got the cot and I slept on the floor. The last trip we took together was to Panama City Beach. When I asked how long we were going to stay, Papaw said, “Until your Dad’s credit cards wear out.” We stayed about a week. But we did everything – amusement parks, water slides, boat trips, seafood dinners. Anything we wanted to do, they did it. That was also the trip that a huge wave ate Mamaw’s new wig.

Papaw also loved to camp and fish and take us to the Y and Hesse Creek to swim (always being our look-out for snakes.) Almost every 4th of July was spent in a camper at Douglas Lake. And once he even made a trip to Hawaii where he discovered the most amazing food in the world – macadamia nuts. He couldn’t get enough of them and he bought a couple cases to bring home with him to share with family and friends and gave them out like blocks of gold. And then he discovered them again. . . at the local Food Lion.

The last and most important one.

Always be there for your grandchildren – even when they aren’t so cute and can’t fit on your lap anymore. Even when they’re moody, self-centered, complicated teenagers who listen to weird music. Even when they get married and have children of their own. They still need you. Sometimes even more than when they were little.

I lived with my grandparents for some time when I was in high school and I’m sure that wasn’t in their retirement plan, but they always rose to the task and provided me a stable and loving home at a time when I needed it the most.

As adults, they continued to be there for us. We always knew that all we had to do was ask, and they’d help any way they could.

I think that as we lose our grandparents, we all feel as though we just didn’t do enough to show them how special they were to us. To let them know just how important they were in shaping the people we are today. But maybe that isn’t the point. Maybe they just show us the way. . .so that when we’re grandparents ourselves, we know EXACTLY how to be one. It is, after all, one of the last jobs we have the chance to do really well. And then we get the opportunity to pour all that love and wisdom into our own grandchildren. I know that I had the best teachers. I just hope that I can do half the job they did.

There are no dollar bills to lessen the blow today. But I am so grateful to have been loved by such an incredible person. I am so happy to know that Mamaw and Papaw are together today. And I hope that we can make them proud of the people they left behind.

Walter White
December 18, 1919 - June 20, 2009

Mamaw's Magic Sewing Box

My Mamaw loved to sew. Well, it was a love/hate relationship, actually. She loved to pick out patterns, buy fabric by the bolt-load, and plan what she was going to make. It was the sitting down at the sewing machine that gave her trouble. She had the best Kenmore sewing machine you could buy at Sears, but it was still not good enough to escape her anger (and a few choice curse words.) As children, we learned quickly to be very quiet and stay away from Mamaw when she was sewing. That fear was as much from her as it was the pins scattered in the plush carpet.


She made me several dresses as I grew up - a flower girl dress for my uncle's wedding, a dress that matched a big rag doll that I used in a talent show, matching dresses for me and my cousin for Christmas, and many more. I have pictures of them all and I still get that sweet Mamaw feeling when I see them and know she made them for me.


When she died several years ago, the amount of fabric and patterns found in her house was astronomical. Some of it was passed to family and friends, but much of it was thrown away or burned. Not much demand for green plaid polyester nowadays. But a few very special items survived and I have two of them. They are both on my grab-first-if-there-is-a-fire list.

This sewing box is special. Super special. I was excited when I got it just because I realized how handy it would be for mending things - everything in one place with lots of thread colors to choose from. But I didn't realize its magic until years later when it hit me that every single time I've used it, I've always found the EXACT thread color I needed to mend a shirt, dress, stuffed animal, whatever had some new and unexplained hole. Every. . .single. . .time. Its one of those things that I don't question too much. (Don't want to rub the magic off.) But when Caitlin came home last weekend and asked me to repair two dresses - a navy one and a goldenrod yellow one - I pulled out the box and there they were. Navy, no big deal. Everyone has navy. But goldenrod yellow? It was there, too.


And if you look closely, you can find spools of thread that cost 18 cents. If you sew, you know that thread has apparently been hit HARD by inflation. There is even one with the old WalMart label on it, and the spool is styrofoam. Cool.

Those little bobbins are magic, too. They have all fit in every sewing machine I've used them in, including the one I borrowed from a friend a few weeks ago. That is pretty magical if you ask me.

The other sewing box I have is one that used to sit next to the couch.

Mamaw would fuss at us for trying to sit on it.

Inside the lid are pins and needles, just as she left them.

What makes it even more special are the random items I found inside it.

Buttons, an empty "Honey Do" list - Papaw would really appreciate that, an unopened crochet hook, a hat pin, some yellow rick rack, paycheck stubs from Levi Strauss for Mamaw, stubs from Alcoa Aluminum for Papaw, a bank deposit slip, and folded up in the bottom, a tiny piece of a newspaper. When I opened it, it was a newspaper clipping about me. That really got me.

I have always been a collector of things. I admit it. I will probably be on the show Hoarders at some point in my elder years. But there is just nothing like touching things to bring back sweet memories. Those little sewing boxes are like treasure chests of memories - and its all magic to me.

Celebrating the 4th - aka: Blowing stuff up

I believe myself to be a patriotic person. The sight of a flag rippling in the wind really moves me. Add to that a veteran in a uniform and I'm ready for tears. I even cry at fireworks shows (as well as weddings and graduations and marching bands in parades.) Even with all this emotion, there is another that goes hand-in-hand with the 4th of July. . .fear.

You see, my husband is a pyromaniac. If there is a fire, his only desire is to make it bigger. And if he has fireworks available, his goal is to create some explosive monstrosity that will make all his spectators run away in fear and fuss at him afterward. It is his art. And he is good.

Much to my dismay, he has spent many years training our children to keep the family tradition. The first year my son-in-law, Eric, spent the 4th with us, he was blown away. (like that pun?) Now every year, they get all giggly as they plan their trip to the fireworks store.

Friendly Warning: If you happen to see our car driving down 411 on Saturday, I suggest you keep a safe distance. We probably qualify for some TDOT danger rating.

Eric's official initiation into our family came the moment my husband decided it would be more efficient to light several of his monstrosities at once. . .using a spray can of FIRE. The worst thing was the look on Eric's face. . .it was a look of awe. Bill now has a willing follower and the two of them together? It's double-scary.

He is so serious about his craft that we have several homemade fireworks platforms in the garage - pvc tubes mounted to boards. Noooo, we don't lower ourselves to use mere glass bottles. And if you're really feeling brave, you can try out one of the handheld launchers that Eric created last year - pvc tube in HAND. Oh yes, moms just love that idea.

I should have realized this the first 4th of July we spent together, the moment a bottle rocket zipped through my hair. Every year since, our "fireworks fund" has increased exponentially. Last year, no kidding, over $350. Most of them were buy one, get one free. You do the math. We were still shooting fireworks long after our neighbors were trying to go to sleep - or considering calling the police.

So, what do I do on the 4th when the sun sets? I usually try to shoot off my favorite picks (probably some purple flames spewing out of a box) very early before they start to get brave and wreckless. Then I retreat to a safe spot with my happy little sparklers and wait for someone to get a flesh wound or blow off a finger. At last, my nursing skills come in handy.

And the next day, I look out at my backyard that will no doubt look like Christmas morning with burned papers and tubes on the ground and little parachutes hanging from the trees. . .and know that I have 364 days left until next year. Just enough time to save up that fireworks fund.

Happy Independence Day everyone!

It finally happened. After 22 years, my first chick has left the nest. I am still processing what this means to me.

When people say things like, "just yesterday she was a little girl with wild curly hair who liked to make up plays in the garage," they are right. It was just yesterday. . .and today, we are here.

I am so very lucky to know that my daughter is with a young man who loves her (and who we love dearly.) He is the perfect addition to our family.

I mean, look at him! He is adorable! And trust me, he is the perfect calm to her storm. We couldn't have chosen a guy more suited for our daughter. But we didn't choose him. . .

. . .she did. . .

As a mom, you think of this day so many times as you watch your babies grow. And you always wonder, how will I feel? Will I be sad? Will my heart break to see her go? As I sat there in that chair in the front row, I cycled through every emotion imaginable. And when I saw her coming down the aisle with her Dad by her side, I thought I would crumble into a heap on the grass. . . but it wasn't because of sadness. It was nothing but pride. I was so proud of my baby, proud to be a part of getting her to this point in her life, and happy beyond belief! I happened to notice a dear friend of mine and she had her hands triumphantly in the air and was saying, "YES!" And that was it. That was exactly what it felt like.

Very proud Mom with her boy. . .(who isn't getting married anytime soon)

and neither is this one. . .
a mom can only stand so much happiness at once, afterall.

More photos will follow as they trickle in. Yes, I was the mother-of-the-bride and I didn't take a single picture. I was busy fussing with DJs, feeding bridesmaids, and helping my bride keep her witts about her in 97 degree heat. There is so much story to tell. . .I'll save that for another day.

For today. . .thank your moms, hug your babies, and keep plowing your row!

Thanks Jessie and Jessica for sharing your beautiful pictures!

The beginning of a garden. . .

The decision to start a blog has been an interesting process for me. In the end, I realized that it would be a fun project for me and possibly something that may interest my children as they grow older. I spent a few minutes worrying about whether anyone on the planet would ever be interested in what I have to say and quickly resolved that even 1 or 2 people would be enough to make the effort. I count myself as number 1. If you are reading this, assume you're number 2.

The title came from a quote I read sometime last year when I was feeling overwhelmed with life. "I can only plow my own row." Simple, yes. I think that we often get off track with the everyday things in our own lives because we are either trying to plow someone else's row (leaving our plow to head off on some crooked path to nowhere) or we pay too much attention to how other people are plowing, or not plowing, their own rows. This blog is just me attempting to plow my row. I may end up with a spectacular garden or a compost heap. But like Forest Gump's Momma always said, "You never know what you're gonna get."