Fresh Bread and Soft Butter, Highland Down & Childhood Laughter

One of the things I have recently realized as my oldest daughter discovered baking, is that I have an intense desire for sweets.  Something that is not second nature to me, nor did I really know what to do with.  When you practically ignore sweets for 47 years, except for the occasionally Sour Patch kid, or Starburst, there are so many, many copious amounts of sugar coated in bright colors, in lovely bags that are created by people in some marketing company thin as whistle, eating non-fat crackers.  I however, am beginning to look like a Skittle and this has got to stop.  My daughter's baked goods scream my name through the freezer door, teasing me.  It reminds me of my childhood memory that I've tried to create for them without much success.

One of my most favorite memories of 45 Highland was the occasional visit four houses down on the same street.  From outside my front screen door I could smell something strong.  It would beckon me to the door, the yeasty smell, rising, literally, through the air.  My front door would slam, as I went running down the soft grassy hill of our house, my feet barely touched the ground of the front stoop.  The gate with it's rusty hints would swing open and shut quickly, as I hit the lightly paved road, and made the quick short turn right.  Past the red house.   My hand would fly up in greeting.  The next two houses were usually empty, either childless or gone off to work I suppose.

Buy the time I reached my friend, Jennifer's, door step she was greeting me at the door, bread knife in hand, laughing in anticipation of our afternoon soiree. I was completely connected to her mother's baking of bread that she did every single week of our childhood for their sandwich bread.

We would sit at the table and I would eat two large pieces of bread, slathered in soft butter.  It soaked in to the crevices of the pockets of air of the bread, melted and gooey.  The butter would roll down our chins, and we would laugh like no other visit of the week.  My attachment, of course, to her and her family, was no great surprises, but amazing ability to know exactly what day her mother was baking was wonderful.

I woke today at 4 am, wishing for a piece of Mrs. Trueman's bread.  Remembering that Jennifer and I would laugh os hard in those days we would fall on the floor in laughter.  I have never been able to re-created the bread, though I've come close.  But the reckless freedom of being to ally silly with no repercussions are hard thing to come by theses days.  I am so glad of those stories that I pass along to my own daughters.  May they two have the butter dripping down the chin kind of laughter.  I will always recall those memories as ones that got me the through these last nine months of sobriety.  A sobriety that has lead for much more appreciation for laughter, melted bread and butter.  May my own daughters know the sheer joy of this type of simpleness.

The Muggy Air, the Crickets are Gossiping, and AA

Again.  It's almost the end of August, and still the humity hasn't let up.  But as my sister in Boston reminds me with a smile in her voice, this is South Carolina.  So I sweat along and know that when she's buried in snow, I will be outside in my light sweater, enjoying the crickets, only slowing because I'm not so panicky about the heat.

I decided back in January, the 15th, 2011 actually, that alcohol and I not longer were not a good mix.  I wish I had a wild story.  Something really stupid -- I mean, colossally stupid.  I don't.  It was merely a weekend my husband had gone away to see his football team, the Steelers, play in Pittsburgh and i was home with the kids.  I had my double of bottle of wine.  I was going to put my youngest to bed early and crack up that cold Chardonnay.  The morning came.  I was in bed.  My computer was closed, safe placed upside down so not to block the fan.  There was nothing intriguing in my history -- I hadn't "gone" anywhere I shouldn't have (well, except to shop for that great corner fake fire place for our bedroom...).  I even checked my cell phone.  Good thing here -- I couldn't actually find my cell phone.  But it apparently had been safely tucked in my purse in the car. I did plenty of other outrageous things, but I was quite at home kind of drinker.  I was always the designated driver, but you can be sure I had my cold bottle of Chardonnay waiting for me at home.

I didn't walk through the doors of AA for many, many months.  I did okay on my own, and we even had my husband's beer in the house.  It didn't bother me.   Since my sister had recently become sober I thought I'd go to an women's meeting  It was great.  It was amazing!

But January 15th, I knew that was the end of the drinking line for me.  I wasn't sure how I was going to face that evening, nor the next.  But at the moment, I was facing that moment.  That entailed putting up the "evidence" so the kids didn't' see, throw out the empty double bottle of wine.  Trying to pretend you don't drink when you live with teenagers is a totally and complete joke. But I go through the motions because it makes me feel better.  They both have sworn off drinking even though I've explained that many people can drink and just merely enjoy the good wine or beer.  Nope.  They'll not have it.  That's okay too.

So, today, I set three goals.  Very simple ones.  Very achievable ones.  I was going to clean out the coat closet --  but here in South Carolina our coat closets are about 2 inches square, apparently there was only real room for four size 6 cutes, an old computer some odd pieces of games, and some paint samples.  Done.  Guinea pig cages.  Austen did the water bottles and the food, I did a quite scoop of the three cages. Done.  But then another goal snuck up on us -- the room was beyond repair and since we've been trying to redo her room, cleaning was imperative.  A few baskets and we were on the path to somewhat of a temporary recover.  A lot of clothing for Good Will, as she will only wear boys clothing.  We were done.

The other goal was 30 minutes journaling or writing.   So here I sit at 11:41 pm writing, the back door open listening to the crickets who can't come in here and complain some more.  It's quiet.  College starts tomorrow.  Hayden finished her last book of the series.  Austen and Bob are asleep and I am still awake.  But this okay.  I had been getting up early -- taking my pills at 4:30, resetting the alarm and getting physically out of bed at 5:30.  The alarm -- my phone.  My husband -- one unhappy soul after two or three  of these disruptive wake up calls.  Austen is in our bed, I think I'll go sleep in her room..

I accomplished my goals.  I wrote in my journal.  I emailed my sponsor.  I memorized the Serenity Prayer, which today I really, really, really needed....


God, grant me the serenity to face the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

So, what will be, will be -- my husband will be what he will be.  I adore him, but after 22 years we have our moments too.    Just need a lithe serenity, courage and wisdom.  There will be another challenge around the bend, and God -- or my higher power will give me the strength to remember the Serenity Prayer and I'll keeping hanging in there, one day at a time..  Hopefully, making good choices.  Good or bad, I have a great support group, sponsor and family who helps me end every day.

Now if I could get the crickets to tone it down as well as the humidity...

2 am - Chaos Under Control

I brought my younger girls to their friends house today.  My friend was working but I was going to watch the kids at her house because according to my girls "they have way cooler toys".  At least this is when you're six, and the coolest amount of toys you have is the amount of monster trucks, of which we have known.  Case in point.

I brought my computer knowing that I was feeling 100% and I would probably lay on her bed and watch a movie on the Great, Invincible Netflix (I know, I know -- it's chewing up Mom & Pops, but really I think Blockbuster did that years ago -- so I try and let the guilt go).  Now laying on someone else's bed might seem like an odd and quite a personal thing, but there is something about Renee and her home that make you feel nothing is sacred.  I know this because we've laid on her bed talking about life, the kids, the husbands.  Other people have joined in, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the bed.

So, I settled myself down to "Precious", which with the interruptions was the only way I was going to watch it, because I had heard it was sad.  (After I watched it, I realized that sometimes sad needs to open our eyes a bit more.)

In between interruptions I noticed how much laughter there was.  How everything belonged in its place.  It was ultimately peaceful, and I was immediately thrown into the silent mode of "how can I make my house this way, etc.  Never, mind she's spent years purchasing baskets, etc, organizing.  She ran a day care for almost 20 years -- of course, she's organized.   "Here, Mr.  Smith, I know you came with a daughter, but we're unable to locate her, and this little boy is only two year older than her so you'll avoid the potty section -- after Annabelle was only 2 mos."  Either that or I'd find poor Annabelle in onto of the chinchilla cages.

So, when I couldn't sleep tonight, instead of laying there stressing about how dirty my kitchen was and how I had so many knick knacks and how my six year old had treasures of all sorts, I got up, stopped complaining, and cleaned the laundry room.  I cleaned the kitchen.  I washed the floors (don't be impressed -- it was just swifter stuff!), and watered the plants.  Among my finds was some older incense which I am burning in the family room, which will be the room that will be hit up tomorrow.

I don't have to live in this chaos.  I do have to teach my children how not to thrive in their chaos, but I actually, though it's completely sexist, find comfort in cleaning for my family.  Knowing that they will wake and instead of my 19 year old starting her day at a crazy hot dog joint in dirty kitchen, she'll smell the clean floors, and see the wiped down counters.  Even if it doesn't make a difference in her day -- it will in mine.

It May Not Be Perfect, But It's Always Good

It was the last attempt of prolonging our stay at my grandmother's house.  Her only son, and his three children -- my sisters and I -- and her only daughter-in-law, my mother.  We'd slowly eat our afternoon dinner, making conversation, as most of us slowly finished off our lunches, my grandfather and I raced to the finish.  The only evidence that he'd finished first was that he'd push his plate just slightly to the right so that he could pick up the tiny, tiny bread crumbs with his forefingers.  He'd raise his eyebrow at me, noting that I had come close, but, in reality, he had, indeed, once again, finished first.  I would give in, silently noting his advances.  After all, it was a fight to the finish, and it occurred every time we had our afternoon soiree.  It wasn't truly a "soiree" because it didn't truly happen in the evening, but it had that same ambiance.  The same seriousness an evening meal might hold.  We met every six weeks or so, at my grandparents house, only about thirty five minutes or so away.  Nonetheless, it was a calm, uneventful race to the finish.
Coffee would follow.  I would, inevitably, go into their bedroom and use their pink dial telephone to call my boyfriend, at the time, a local yokel soccer player, who lived thirty minutes away from them.  It was cheaper to call him from their line than mine an hour away.  They were nothing, if not frugal.  Never mind that he never actually was home, and if he was, he never actually wanted to speak to me.  But I would hole myself up into their bedroom, between their twin beds and make that phone call.  The one call I had waited to make every six weeks.  Now, thinking back, I never realized the more important things..  Like my grandparents beds were set up -- two twin beds.  Two four poster twin beds, with one mahogany bedside table.  A doily, a pink telephone, and a marble lamp between them.  They had heavy bedspreads, deeply embroidered, and tasseled, with bed skirts to match.  It was so oddly different than the way our lives were now in this millennium. On the wall, hung a beautiful portrait of my grandparents on their wedding day, April 13th, 1932.  He looked so handsome, and she so peaceful and lovely.  In this room, he had his dresser, void of any personal items, no dust would dare to settle there.  She had her own dresser, with a large mirror above it.  On it was a blue jewelry box that rested on, of course, a doily.  A few perfume bottle decorated the sides.  But other than that, it was absent of that might signify that someone might use that dresser in daily life.
She was German fried potatoes.  She was green beans that had been purchased 4 years, and 5 months ago -- you knew, because she had written the date of purchase on top of the can with permanent magic marker.   She was egg noodles and "brown stuff" -- which was browned butter with bread crumbs.  She was chocolate cookies with a recipe she had copied prior to World War Two.  She could can gooseberries, and currants.  She grew them in her garden here in the States because they reminded them of when she was a child.  She remembered crossing the border in Switzerland when she and her sisters had similar names.  They were questioned for their similiarities.  But yet, she was still jello, with canned fruit cocktail, and ultimately, if you so desired, she was Cool Whip. She was Christmas tins filled with cookies.  She was over-sized underwear, so that you thought there might have been a bra built into the original panty.  She was jealous of the sweetness and glorious loveliness of my mother, yet she was no less deserving of the same.  She was the youngest of eight.  That's a lot of talking to be heard among seven before you.  I don't think she understood that she was unique, special, funny, lovely and kind.  I think my sisters and I were the ones who got to see that amazing side of her.  I wish the rest of the world had gotten to see the side of her that would grab our sweaty socked feet, and squeal with joy "Eww -- stinky toes..." just to hear our laughter, because it brought her sheer joy.Yet together, they were Grandma and Grandpa. 
Together and separately they brought joy in every moment we were there.  They were every single, solitary, Sunday morning, when I phoned from college at 10 am, Grandma and Grandpa.  They were never judging, though they knew better than to ask.  They were ever present.  They listened.  It didn't matter what you said.  Every single month he sent $25 from his income check, until I got married -- when he said to my husband, "She's yours."  He fixed everything.  If  you brought him something you "found" -- he either fixed it or made it better.  She always found a comfort food out of something in her cupboard.  She kept her hand held mixer in a hand-made wooden box, made, of course, by my Grandfather.  I sat at her counter while she cooked our typical every six week Friday afternoon lunch of chicken noodle soup, waffles, and, of course, jello with or without Cool Whip.  I sat in the seat, with the steps that folded up under the seat.  The seat had an odd aqua color.  Her small kitchen matched the aqua color and the oddly shaped handmade box for her mixer.
I still have that mixer box, though I don't have the mixer.  I expect it would be close to forty years old now.  I wish I had the bowls for the jello.  Every time I pass the fruit cocktail in aisle three I think of her.  I take a deep breath, and I'm okay.  But then again, in aisle ten, I'm in frozen foods, and the Cool Whip calls my name.  I think of fruit cocktail, wooden boxes made for hand mixers, pink telephones, and whose going to beat Grandpa to the finish line.
To me, my grandmother was lovely as every Grandmother should be perceived.  My grandfather was just as handsome, and helpful, perhaps more helpful now, that he maybe realized all that being a grandfather might bring.  He was everything to me.  He was a carpenter.  He could fix anything. He was varnish, and stain, and pine shavings, and small nails in tiny baby food jars, with the tops nailed to the shelves.  He had "coveralls", and rags, and a sink in the basement, which I thought was magnificent.  He listened, he argued.  He argued some more, and then, inevitably, he argued even more than that.  He didn't like any boyfriend.  They were never good enough.  One was too dumb, one was too smart.  One didn't talk enough.  One carried a gun -- never mind that he was a police officer.  But the last one.  The perfect one, in his, and my, eyes -- well, he was... good.  "Good" was the ultimate compliment to me.  My father was "good' in my grandfather's eyes.  My husband was "good".  And it was going to be alright.  Not perfect. It may not always have Cool Whip, and grapes in the jello, but it was good.

Dance to the Credits

There's nothing like a movie with a Van Morrison song behind the title.  I will always, without doubt, watch the movie, and if I'm lucky enough to have my husband with me, dance to the music when the credits roll.  This has been something that we've done since we met in 1988.  That's a long time to be dancing to movie credits.  But there is nothing like a Van Morrison to bring nostalgia, romance, and sadness.  I can watch the same movie over and over and over... and inevitably, I cry at the same time.  And of course, there is Van.  Coming right along behind those credits.  But there my husband is, sweatshirt, socks, cute in a dorky kind of way, waiting to dance because that's what we've done for 21 years.
This week a woman I that I only knew for five years lost her husband of many years.  He was a young man, only 46, and they were a very close couple.  They had no children, and were each others best friends, in a way that was different from those of us who have children.  They didn't seem to have find each other after raising children, they just seemed to have that continuium.  They just seem to have that relationship that continued on after the romance of their early years. Perhaps the romance continued on past the dating stage.  They just always seemed to be together.  I'm sure they had their differences, as all people -- even roommates -- do.  Now, tonight, I think of her, as she must grieve her loss.  I ache for her, and wish that I could ease the pain that I can only imagine she must feel.
Tonight a movie with a Van Morrison title caught my eye, and of course, I convinced my husband that we should watch it.  Have we watched it?  No less than ten times?  But what's another time on a lazy Friday night... actually, early a Saturday night?  So, we watched the movie, and of course, we danced because it is what we do... and it eases whatever the day may have brought on.  It sweeps away the differences... even if the differences weren't between he and I, but between myself and the kids, or the guinea pigs, or the horses, or the dishwasher, washing machine.. well, you get the point.
So tonight, at 2:21 am, I am grieving the loss of a gentle soul, and the terrible grief his partner must feel.  It heightens my awareness of my love for my husband, who can drive me crazy like no one else -- but can make me laugh like no one else.  It makes me want to write down all the things I think I might not get to say to my girls... Like kiss your babies on their lips -- there is no sweetness that will ever match that.  Rock them, swaying, making nonsense sing songy lullabies.. .because ultimately it's your voice that will sing them to sleep, no matter what the pain.  Always open the door for someone -- whomever it is.  Always offer to carry the bags for someone -- regardless of the gender or age.  Kindness has no boundaries.  Let your children sit in your laps until you are there no more.  Force them to sit in your laps even when they are hysterically laughing teenagers, just to remind them that you are always there to catch them.  Climb in bed with your children to say goodnight-- at all ages.  At some age, they will slip away to go to bed and you will miss that moment before sleep when they are most apt to open up to you about their days, their thoughts, fears, worries, and joys.  Kiss their soft cheeks -- whether they are 3, 8, or 18, even, 38.  Let them know that it's okay to laugh, cry, and giggle...Regardless, you'll always be around to laugh, cry and giggle with.
Tonight I went to the grocery store with my almost 13 year old.  The young man who bagged our groceries chattered on and on.  It was obvious it was not me he was trying to impress.  Yet, here was this young, innocent 12 1/2 year old girl walking alongside me.  I'm not sure if she noticed, but she pretended that she didn't.  For a short period there was a freshness in the air, a sense of hope.  Not between these two young people, but that sense of hope that lingers between people who are happy, at that moment, and can be relieved of whatever may weigh heavy on them.  Do I think an encounter with a bagger at the grocery store will shift your life?  No.  Do I think it will provide you with a giggle?  A laugh? Even a relief to not have to lift the groceries into the car?  Absolutely.
So, if you cannot dance to the credits.  Make sure you get the little stuff along the way occasionally.  Watch a new mother.  And if you see a new mother -- or an old mother -- struggling with her child, offer to help.  Offer to lend hand.  "What can I do to make your life easier right now?" goes so much further, than those judging glances, or even worse, those steps that just echo as they walk by the mother struggling.  Laugh -- make light of it.  Tell them you've been there -- and if you haven't, remember that you've had bad days.  Offer to help, in whatever way you can.  Sometimes a smile goes so far.
Perhaps there's somone who hasn't had children and never wanted to have children.  But my guess is that they have always wanted a smile, and can always share a laugh over something.  Everyone can use a bit of spirit in between the rest of the crap of the day.  No one wants to feel alone, so never underestimate the small efforts that you make.  You will be surprised how far that goes, somewhere along the line.
So the basics... dance to the credits if it's romance.  If it's action -- have another glass of wine, and then giggle and dance.  Kiss your babies lips.  "Chew" on their chins because there is no other laughter than a babies.  But there is no other safety than being in the arms of someone who has been there.  Who has seen you at your best, your middle, and surely, your worst.  If it's a girlfriend, a sister, a mom, father, or husband.  There is nothing like the connection to another human spirit.  Never underestimate what a human connection, even just verbal, can do.
Dance to the credits -- with someone, or alone.  There is nothing like it. Maybe you can't or wouldn't dance to the credits (it's somewhat inappropriate at the grocery store) but make the connection, because that's what we're all here for.

We Really Are That Different, Those Darn Homeschoolers

At first, when my oldest was about 2 years old, I thought I'd start researching homeschooling because the schools "in the South" (as a generalization") were thought to be bad, among other things.  But the more I researched the more I found that I really liked the homeschooling mentalitiies.  Learning on the level of the child.  Following their passions.  Letting them learn on their own level, with certainly a little push towards subjects that we as parents/ teachers thought important at that particular age (science/math).  But for the most part, I couldn't find a reason why it didn't work for us.  I had two girls -- they were two years apart.  We joined a homeschooling group and had regular field trips, play dates, more social events to the point where we had to squeeze in our library time and our "school" time.  But it worked out.  Then along came daughter number 3.  Still it worked out.  She wasn't that far behind that there weren't things that couldn't occupy her time while we worked with the older two.  The older two were unbelievable readers. Anything I gave them -- they read.  The third daughter, why I wasn't sure she could read until one day she started a 300 page novel, and hasn't stopped reading since.  I can give her anything and she reads away. 
We've opted for a virtual school for her in 6th grade and my kindergarterner because at this point it seemed easier.  And to a certain extent it is easier.  The kindergartener is far ahead of her class, but not quite enough that I would feel comfortable pushing her ahead to first grade.  I cannot figure what is the rush to push our children through school.  They have the rest of their lives to be overachievers, to meet the Jones', to make mortagages, to have their hearts broken when we can't fix it.  If they can stay on target for their age -- have at it.
But after working at a day care, with parents with careers that they trained for, or even just dreamed for, I sometimes don't get it.  I want to.  I want to understand how they can go crazy after being home with them a week.  When they say to me about my homeschooling, "Oh, I don't know how you do it?"  This implies that I'm not hanging from the ceiling fan some days... or my laundry isn't backed up for a week.  But still, when my 18 year old needs something, for the most part she comes for me.  And if she doesn't come the first time, ultimately, she comes for me.  The other three girls and I have unbelievable relationships.  Do I think you can have great relationships with your childern without homeshooling?  Yes.  Do I think homeschoolers have an advantage of the rest of the parents/children -- no doubt.  Sheerly based on the time we've put into one another.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  I'll have a career some day, but truly nothing that could replace what I had with my girlie girls.

So, I'm sorry that I saw a side of the other side of parenting... I kind of wish there was another way they could see the side of my side of parenting and truly weigh it's options ... because I would never ever pass up this time with my girls for anything, at all in the world.  As I'm sure they feel the same way.

I Dare You -365 days of "good deeds' Just Because... Easy Peasy...

I've read so many post regarding the expectations for the next year.  I've read about resolutions, non-resolutions.  I've read about how we should not buy into the consumerism of every typical year, when the new ads come out and are advertising for organizing containers.  I have read about challenges about how we should make it different next year about that.  I'm wondering how if we make these promises, 12 months in advance will we still stick to this lack of consumerism.  This year, for the first time, I was able to get a part time job to buy our Christmas in cash, and not go over board.  Not buy too many electronics, too many things.  I was not enticed to buy more holiday products to make a more glittery holiday season this year.  This year I was left with the feeling that we had achieved our goal of not putting anything on credit, and because of that we didn't go overboard on the gifts.  Sure, we had one child find the "truth" about Santa, and that was a little bit hard to take, after all, she is my third of four.  But ultimately, we did pretty well, and we didn't fall in the consumerism of the past years.  I know many, many families who didn't fall into the prey of that this year, and so the ads for additional storage items did not tempt them into further purchases.  A few years ago, I did fall prey to the ornament separators of the holiday ornaments.  I coveted, I mean really COVETED those containers for no less than four years before I finally succumbed.  Actually, it saved us quite a number of ancient, old ornaments, and so I'm glad for those flimsy cardboard separators. 

However, this year I am challenging my daughters and even my friends to do a good deed every day.  This doesn't count if it's making your own  bed.  It does count if it's helping someone with an extra project.  Or walking someone to their car with their groceries... I am challenging my children to make one difference to someone's life every day.  Not something like making your bed -- that surely doesn't count -- that's a given... Neither does shaving your legs... putting the trash out... But things that are for someone else just because it's something nice to do for someone else, and it make their life a tiny bit easier..  And the  key to this deed -- is you cannot tell anyone what the deed is.  You must admit that you did something, but you cannot tell details -- unless they are so special that you cannot stand it, in which case -- please share. 

So, I dare you -- one good deed a day... it's only 365 of them... What's say you?