Neighbors and Waves

I grew up in a fairly insular family. We spent a fair amount of time at home and didn't do a lot in the way of entertaining. It wasn't until I finished high school, started working, and met my husband that I realized people spoke to strangers! After I made this astonishing discovery, a further development unfolded: they weren't actually strangers in this small town. People chatted at the grocery store, at the Dairy Queen, at the post office. Whether they knew each other through school, activities, religious communities or volunteer groups, or even by being a friend of a friend, anywhere you went in this small town, someone was bound to know you.

I rediscovered this the other day as I walked across the street to get my mail. An older gentleman was walking a young boy down the road, but when he saw me he turned to backtrack. I halted by the mailbox, wondering what my kids or dogs had done this time, since I knew the run-away runt was safely in the house. Turns out this man used to work with my father-in-law and even though he and I were perfect strangers, he asked how "D's son" was doing. Somehow the town rumor mill had given him to know that my husband was overseas, and he wanted to check on how we were doing. After reassuring me that we were in his prayers, he continued back down the road, and the little boy waved at me and smiled as they turned to go.

That wave. Whether you're known by name or not, you're known on sight with that wave. I've become a bit of a student of the wave because I'm fascinated by this piece of country or Southern culture that seems to set outsiders off kilter. More men than women make use of the wave. More older than younger people do, but that changes based on what vehicle you drive. Trucks give and receive more waves than cars. I found that out by driving my husband's truck around B.C. (before children). Driving an old beat-up pick-up will get you a grin and a wave every time.

We're so enamored of the wave around here that one business in the town up the road has a mannequin dressed like a road worker or landscaper, giving a wave to motorists who drive by. (It gets me every time...I startle and catch myself getting ready to wave back. The first time passing it I actually did, and the kids and I laughed uproariously at that faux pas for the next couple miles).

So what is the point of all this talk of waving, you ask? Well, I could tell you about my husband's favorite prank: waving at an empty field just to make his passenger blink and wonder who they missed. But my favorite wave is the one my husband gives an older man every time he drives by his house.

On the main street in our town, there's a house with a wide front porch. An elderly man tends to sit on the porch for stretches of time during the day and evening, watching the cars go by. Naturally, he will give a little wave to those he knows. My husband doesn't know him from Henry, but every time we pass that house he will give that man a big "how-do" wave. The man smiles broadly and waves a wrinkled-parchment hand back. I asked my husband one time who he was, since the Hubs knows just about everyone, including their relations and possible kinship with him if applicable. He glanced over at me as he continued down the road and shrugged. "I don't know who he is. He sits out there, so I wave to say hello. Then he started waving back."

This is one of the small things I love about my husband. Yes, he's a goofball who waves at empty fields or at the owners of trucks he'd love to go mud-bogging with. But on top of those boyish things, he has a man's heart to brighten another's day, whether he knows them or not. I can't wait to have him back by my side, doing those small things again.

And in the meantime...Shoot, I know that gentleman through my husband. Don't you know I give a neighborly wave?

Hel[icopter] of a Good Time

"MOM! We're going to miss the helicopter coming back! You PROOOOOMMMMISED!"

With those words I looked into the rearview mirror, realized there would be no peace on the hour-long ride home if I didn't make good on whatever "promise" the little lady thought she had extracted from me, and put the turn signal on. We were going back.

Yesterday we had to travel over the mountains and through the woods to a Family Readiness Group meeting. When an FRG meeting is called by the brass, it's usually a good idea to show up, whether you normally come to meetings or not, so we sacrificed a birthday party in order to hear what the leadership had to say. This happened to be one of the better meetings we've had, as time has given the leadership a greater understanding of the specific situation facing our unit and the families, and the higher brass came in as reinforcements. For me, it was reassurance, and I feel more comfortable with the direction our unit is headed.

While I was enduring the bane of all military meetings (the always-attendant PowerPoint presentation), the kids were outside playing on a playground and noshing on Goldfish, Teddy Grahams, and juice boxes with some other kids and very kind adult volunteers. Kicked out from their feet were the flip-flops, sprayed with a Coppertone sheen was their skin, and filled with tales of the helicopter which would be picking up the brass were their heads. When I went to collect them after the meeting (with much fanfare and threatening of bodily harm if they didn't come NOW), apparently I agreed to let them watch for the helicopter's return in the field beside the playground. Personally, I don't think muttering "yeah, yeah, now let's get going because Mommy has homework on a deadline" constitutes a binding agreement, but the parental contract lines are porous for the kidlets, so in the end my opinion doesn't matter. All that mattered was that helicopter returning without them to witness it, and my, did they set up a howl when it hit them.

So yes, promise-honoring or cynical accomplice that I was, I quickly weighed the hour-plus ride with a chorus of whines against turning back three miles. Turn, we did. Just in time, too, because not a quarter mile down the road what should appear in the sky but the silhouette of a Blackhawk helicopter.

~~~~~~~~
Now, I am normally up on my military acronyms, abbreviations, and codes. I know my MRE from my LBV and my MRAP from my HMMWV, but I am completely blanking on the proper term for a Blackhawk. A UH-60 it's not, I know that. So forgive me, my military-minded brethren. My battle buddy is not watching my six on this.
~~~~~~~~

After watching the helicopter dip below the tree-line, we finally returned to the parking lot and were able to park and run to the fence that lines the field, where the children and I saw a running helicopter up close for the first time in our lives. I'm sure I had the same look of excitement and thrill that they did, because we were all about ready to jump out of our skin, just like many of the other children and adults leaning against that chain-link. We watched as the crew set the cords and whatnot, and then gave the brass a departing audience as they walked across the field and situated themselves on the seats.

As the crew pulled the cords back up, checked that all was as it should be to the rear of the vehicle, and gave the go ahead to the pilot, I felt both kids start a little pitter-patter of anticipatory jittering beside me. Within seconds the chopper lifted into the air, ruffling waves of grass toward us and sending a strong breeze through our hair. A minute later it was out of sight beyond the trees, and all of us watching turned to share our grins. We have all been connected to the military through one channel or another, and somehow the surge of adrenaline continues to affect us.

One older woman turned to her husband and asked "does that bring back memories?" He smiled at her and nodded, adding "I'm too old for that nonsense now." His time for service may be over, but he still has the heart to help those of us who are currently going through it. He smiled at my two, then moved his gaze to me and nodded again. We all smiled and waved good-bye, striking out for homes near and far.

I always need some kind of pick-me-up after an FRG meeting, because they can be so tense and filled with unmet expectations for everyone. I have to say, this is one of the best after-shows we've had. I'm glad I listened to the kids...even if I didn't really promise.






Forgive the quality of the photos. They were taken with my camera-phone, and I'm a cheapskate. As long as it rings and texts, I'm happy. Pictures on a phone? Only a bonus.

The Ask Away Disease has struck!

I know, I promised I was vaccinated against the "Ask Away" disease which is virally spreading through the blogosphere, but I spoke too soon. Thankfully it seems I have a very mild case...so Tina, thanks for the questions!

favorite ice cream?
My dad always cracked jokes about "Napoleon" ice cream when we were kids...it was the kind guaranteed to please everyone, so it's what we usually bought. Since I tickle myself to this day by calling neopolitan by its less-well-known name, I'll go with that!

dinner you'll make when hero hubby comes home?
That I will probably leave up to him. Since he's missing out on so much home cooking while he's away, if he doesn't have any specific requests I'll either make oven-fried chicken or steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, fried squash, home-made rolls, green beans, and corn on the cob. For dessert I'll do some decadent turtle brownies. Mmmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about it!

legacy you want to leave your children?
What a great question! A love for God, a love for other people, and a love of learning. I'm not sure that I always model all three, but I hope that those are the lessons my children retain over the years. I'd also like to leave them the legacy of a goofy sense of humor, a gift my father left to me. It's apparently a family characteristic!

favorite Christmas special cartoon and why?
Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer. Between Sam the Snowman, Hermey the Elf, and Yukon Cornelius..."The greatest prospector in the North!" Does any other special come close?

favorite Christmas song?
For beauty of harmony, Carol of the Bells. For beauty of heavenly tune, O Holy Night. For beauty (or meaning) of lyrics, Good King Wenceslaus or In the Deep Midwinter. For beauty of folk music, Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella. For beauty of soul and historic significance, Silent Night. For spirited fun, Santa Baby (only by Eartha Kitt, of course). Favorite Album would be "Christmas with Buck Owens" (thank my grandfather for that...it's not a down-home holiday without Buck!). Hmmm...I was supposed to pick only one, wasn't I? Oops!

Since I got into the spirit with that last question, maybe you won't feel so bad about still having your tree up! Think of it as decorating early for Christmas in July.

Titles, titles...

Who knew it would be so difficult to announce that I won something? There's a delicate balance between ingratitude and nah nah, I wooooon...so let's see if I can strike it!



One of my favorite bloggers, Billy Coffey (click the link above if you haven't read his work, you'll thank me, I promise you!), held a giveaway on his blog this week, and I happen to be the owner of the name which his children drew out of his new, black cowboy hat (Billy is apparently very proud of that hat, so it deserves a reference). The book he was kindly offering to give away is Stone Crossings by L.L. Barkat. If you, like I was, are uninitiated into the writings of Barkat, I have a poem I fell in love with that I'd like to share. See for yourself how beautiful and meaningful her writing is:

'Holy Writ'

I spied God
meddling with
my keyboard,
skipping from
a to z like He
was some kind
of Alpha and
Omega who
could ply a
whole world,
ex nihilo, presto,
from the chaos.

Thank you to both Billy and L.L. for this wonderful gift. I'm really looking forward to receiving it!

The Ask-Away Meme

As some of you may know, and I know others are simply dying to (seriously, get up off the floor, groveling is so beneath you, I promise I'm sharing the NEWS now!) there is a rash of "Ask Away" going around the blogosphere. It's not serious and is easily treatable with good answers to the questions you're not sure why you requested readers send you. However, being as how I've been vaccinated against said disease (namely by not having the courage to test my small readership that way. I shy away from competition, you know), I will only do this meme, found on the Matter of Fact blog:

1. Folgers or Starbucks?
Every morning? Folgers. Special occasions? Starbucks Grande Mocha Frappucino, non-fat milk unless I'm feeling generous with myself.

2. Cardinals or Cubs?
Um...isn't there an "other" to this? I'd rather choose between the Braves or the Nationals.

3. Morning person or night owl?
As you may be able to notice, this is posting laaaate at night. I'd rather sleep in, thanks-sa-much. However, best memories have been from summer camp drinking coffee on the back deck of the chow hall, so mornings are good if I'm prepared for them.

4. Name brand or generic?
Depends on what I'm buying. Sometimes it just has to be the brand name to get the quality you need.

5. Dylan or Rolling Stones?
Stones, hands down.

6. Mountains or Ocean?
Oh, dear. For living or for vacay? I couldn't leave my mountains for long, they're like breath to me (honestly, ask my sister-in-law. We crossed the North Carolina border after a trip down to Ft. Jackson, SC, and she will assure you the change in me was both visible and audible: Green mountains and valleys mean the widest grin this side of the Mississippi and finally being relaxed enough to take deep breaths again). But I do love the beach for a week or so.

7. Talker or Listener?
Lots of talk, a little of listen.

8. Math or Literature?
Hands down, literature. The only math I enjoyed was algebraic equations, and for the life of me I can't remember why.

9. Books or Movies?
Hmmm, another hard choice. I'm a Netflix addict (how many times has your queue refused an addition because it would put you over the 500 disc queue limit? Mine does nearly every week) but I'm also a library addict. I'd have to go with books if we're talking desert island equipment. But then, DVDs are much lighter to carry, so with a portable DVD player I could watch many more movies than books I could carry. Choices, choices!

10. Meat and Potatoes or Casseroles?
Casseroles. I'm really not a meat and potatoes kind of person. It feels like something's missing...color and taste, maybe?

11. Summer or Winter?
If those are my only choices, summer wins by a landslide. I mean, it starts with Memorial Day, includes the Fourth of July and of course mine and my children's birthdays, and ends with Labor Day...and think of all the picnics, swimming, fireworks, fireflies, flowers, sunshine, warmth, popsicles, vacations, and hikes in between! I know I wrote a post about the nice parts of winter...but who are we kidding? Hot Chocolate by any other name is a Mocha Frappucino.

12. Coffee or Tea?
No contest, I can't live without my joe.

13. Cats or dogs?
Again, no contest. Cats are nice...for other people. I'm a complete dog person, I can't even stomach the thought of a cat dwelling with me. Sorry cat lovers! It's not you, it's me.

14. Rock or Country?
Both! Ain't you never heard of Southern Rock?

15. Pepsi or Coke?
I will answer this only on condition that we add Dr. Pepper as a third choice next time. Coke.

16. Beef or Chicken?
Depends. Hamburger requires beef. Chicken parmigiana requires chicken. You see where I'm heading with this?

17. Leader or follower?
Neither. I march to the beat of my own drum, but don't want the responsibility of being in charge of anyone else. As my high school guidance counselor once told me, "You're just independent."

18. Pink or Red?
Red, but again it depends. Some things look better with pink.

19. Stilettos or sneakers?
Oh, sneakers, no doubt. I don't think I could even keep my balance in stilettos! I'd break an ankle.

20. Homebody or socializer?
Both. We live in a small town, a lot of our socializing revolves around kids in the yard, people in the kitchen, or men in the garage. All of which occur at home.

21. Short or tall? (ahem)
Well, me, I'm short. My husband is short. Soooo...I'm going to have to side with the short peeps.

Thank y'all for playing, do come again. And if you have any burning questions you absolutely must have answered, I will try to oblige. Sorry I've kept you so late! Have a nice evening and don't let the step catch you as you jump off that porch, it's hard to see in the dark.

Come to Hawaii

It started with a fun little ditty from a children's cd..."Come to Hawaii...Come to Hawaii with me..." The singer had me at "the punch is genuine Hawaiian" but I was all over it when I heard "a wading pool is the clear blue ocean..." This song was obviously written with us in mind! The kids were swaying to the rhythm in the back of the car and my head was bobbing up and down when the great idea came to me: we must have a luau!

There's never any time like the present, so we headed over to the local Wallyworld to search out the cheesy luau goodies while the kids bargained for a wading pool. With a late afternoon cloudburst threatening, I nixed that plan, but did give in on the grass luau trimmings and hibiscus-adorned straws to go with our "genuine" Hawaiian Punch, pineapple and coconut.

This shouldn't be a surprise since we're in rural, mountainous Virginia, but did you know that Walmart does not carry poi, lau lau, or oke? We had to settle for a fresh pineapple, a bag of shredded coconut, and a container of chopped, mixed melons. Not exactly the Hawaiian dinner I was hoping for, but after all, this was a luau for fun, not for real.

At home the kids and I strung the trim, poured the punch, sprinkled coconut, and ate to the dulcet sounds of Hawaii. Or something like that. Then the kids jumped up from the table to chase each other around and spray each other with water guns. It wasn't quite volcanoes, tiki torches, and surfing, but at least the price was right and the timing impeccable. I think Joe McDermott would be proud.

You've been working so hard
You need a vacation for the day
So I built a little paradise in the back yard
Where the breeze makes the cardboard palm trees sway

The neighbor girls with hula skirts a-flyin'
And the punch is genuine Hawaiian

Come to Hawaii, come to Hawaii,
Come to Hawaii with me

A wading pool is the clear blue ocean
A sheet for the white Hawaiian sand
Bring your swimming suit in case you get the notion
We'll eat pineapple fresh from the can

And if you close your eyes and dream
You'll be amazed at just how real it seems

We hear our Mama call over the ocean
We know that it's time to come in
She says "supper's ready now get your bodies in motion"
And we know that our trip is at an end

But as we see the sun go down
It casts a tropical hue over our little town

Joe McDermott
Featured on Hawaiian Playground

Cherry Picking

It was a beautiful evening yesterday. The sun had passed its zenith and was heading slowly to bed while a warm breeze cooled our skin and rustled the leaves over our heads. The kids and I had gone over to my dad's for Father's Day dinner. I wish I could say that I slaved over a meal for him, but I did the next best thing: brought tubs of store-bought potato salad, macaroni salad, and cole slaw to round out the oven-fried chicken that is Dad's favorite Sunday meal. After all, it's the thought that counts.

After enjoying the fruits of our labor (or lack thereof), Dad hustled the kids outside with the promise of blowing bubbles. They naturally followed the Pied Piper out the door and up the grassy hill behind the house, popping shining bubbles all the way, before they stopped under the cherry tree and realized that it was covered with birds and plump, red "berries."

The kids had no qualms about eating fruit that was unwashed and started picking left and right around their heads and shoving the ripe cherries into their growing cheeks. One quick bite down reminded them that with cherries come pits, which started another time-honored ritual of summer: pit spittin'. The little man gingerly pushed the pits through his lips and tossed them to the ground with his sticky fingers. The princess, on the other hand, was having a fine time marking targets and spitting those pits for all she was worth.

If I didn't know better, I'd say the best part of Father's Day for my dad was laughing at the kids and enjoying the fact that he was no longer the responsible party when they got out of hand. That's not to say that he didn't growl at them a few times for trying to climb the ladder when he warned them not to, or when they pulled new growth branches off the tree to use as "swords." But I saw a side of my dad that doesn't often come out when he fussed at my son for having a temper tantrum over climbing a tree, then heard me tell my brother that little man had been having a rough day ever since he refused to tell his dad Happy Father's Day on the phone that morning. Dad walked back to the mass of tears, lifted him up and placed him in the crook of the branches. Without making a big production of it, he reached out to cheer up a little man who was having a rough day being reminded of the dad who wasn't able to be there.

I know my dad won't live forever, but this Father's Day I'm just thankful that he is able to be the dad who is there, for his children and for his grandchildren. Whether he's giving a hand-up emotionally for me, or physically for his grandson, I couldn't ask for a better father than the grounded, down-to-earth one I have.

Missed Call

I was reaching for one kid and pulling the wrist of another when I was hit with that sinking feeling. The one that starts with what would have been a lump in my throat but fell through my chest and down to the pit of my stomach, leaving a vacuum of empty behind it.

Where was my cell phone?

A quick and half-hearted glance through my small purse told me what I already knew: the cell was at home on the stove, peaceably doing whatever it is that cell phones do in their offtime. It was decidedly not pulling guard duty in my purse or on my person, however.

It was just one more smirk from the day, which had started at midnight last night with wrangling dogs for their end-of-day business and avoiding the inevitable fight with the sugar ants who were after my son's freez-a-pop plastic, continued through this morning fussing at the kids to stay far from the ANTZONE formerly known as our living room floor by the door, speeding past another ant incident with a ready-to-seal-and-ship care package, and culminating in this, the latest in a series of small, mundane annoyances.

Most spouses are at liberty to kvetch to the other spouse regarding such matters, or even better, to pass on the responsibility for cleaning up the spilled milk that the dear little man mostly cleaned up. Yeah, you can see where this is heading, so I won't belabor the point. But it's still irritating. Make a note, I'll add it to that mother-of-all-catchups we keep promising to have after Homecoming. (And lemme tell ya, that ain't gonna be an all-night high school party. However, if someone wants to crown me Homecoming Queen, y'all go right ahead. I do have a thing for sparkles, as much as I pretend otherwise).

So what happened to this smirkful day? Well, after that stomach-churning moment I just sighed, rolled my eyes while accepting the inevitable (ie, that I am not in the possession of any great mind- or state-altering powers, so that cell phone was going to stay right where I last put it, whether I had a hissy or not. After all, if I had such powers I wouldn't be missing that phone in the first place, now would I?), and went about my grocery shopping and child corralling. Once we got home we found two messages on the answering machine and two on the cell phone's voicemail, all four from my beleaguered husband who couldn't for the life of him figure out where his family had disappeared to.

I sighed as I put down the phone and felt my lower lip start to plump out a tad. Missed phone calls, the bane of military existance. When phone service is iffy or difficult to reach regularly, those calls are a lifeline of hope on both sides of the receiver. But what can you do? So I sighed the sigh of death which strikes mortal fear in my children's hearts (aren't you thrilled they were outside noshing on BombPops, ever unaware that they and Ma had missed any great occasion such as phone calls from Daddy?) and picked up my lower lip from where it was threatening a bungee jump. Obviously this was a time that called for chocolate.

And maybe one of those phone-case belt-clip doohickeys.

Guest Post of Sorts

We know how much I love to put my words to the page, so it should come as no surprise that my daughter is a girl after my own heart. They were given a book assignment in school while they were working on learning the stages of story-writing, proofreading, editing, and all that jazz. She told me she was working on this masterpiece, but didn't go into detail about the story because she wanted me to read it first hand. I was very touched, and I hope y'all will feel the same. Without further ado, "My Dad," by the Little Lady:

The Magic of an Evening

I heard the rustles and rattling before I heard the flick of the light switch.

Groan. The little monster was up again. There should be a law that all little ones must be in bed, tucked in, and asleep prior to 9:30 pm--barring unforeseen circumstances, of course. But then my son would just be a law-breaker, and where would that leave us?

It left me trudging back to his bedroom and swinging the door open to reveal him tooling around with his Matchbox cars on the floor. His eyes opened wide when he realized the cat was out of the bag, but he didn't have time to do more than say "b-b-but Maaamaaaa..." before he found himself picked up, bounced onto his mattress and pillow, and efficiently tucked back in.

I may not be efficient with much else, but let me tell you, when it comes to getting the chilluns in bed...that's efficiency.

As soon as I turned out the light, though, his pitiful moan made me turn back. "Mama, it's daaaaark." Now, we've had the "there's nothing there in the night that's not there in the day" talk, we have the nightlight, and we have very little patience for that line. But we are also an old softy who talks about herself in the first person plural from time to time, me and the mouse in my pocket, so we scooched onto the bed to prove to Little Man that there really is nothing wrong with his bed, and nothing to be afraid of. And that's when the magic happened.

I lay there next to him, and he curled up at my shoulder with one hand resting open on it, and the other curled up with a thumb popped in his mouth. He heaved a relieved sigh and all the tension drained out of his body. After my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see his pale face glowing slightly from the nightlight and the moonlight out his window. I let myself relax into the bed a little longer, thinking that it wouldn't hurt to stay and make him feel safer...then thinking that I was breaking the rules, and wouldn't this make him a more difficult-to-get-to-bed preschooler? But the chance to love up on my not-so-little-anymore son won out.

I looked at his eyes weighted down more and more by the Sandman, fluttering those long lashes down on those freckled cheeks, and listened to his breathing. I looked out the window at the stars glimmering and remembered what it felt like to curl up with him as a newborn, and how he would place his hand just below my clavicle back then, too. For just a minute I was transported back a few years, with this brand new baby sighing into my shoulder after finally falling asleep with a full belly. I miss those days, and the chance to recapture that feeling for even a minute was too tempting to resist.

After a while I withdrew from his tanned little arms. He only stirred a little, eyes fluttering open and thumb popping out of his mouth while I pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered for him to go back to sleep, because all was well. He rolled over and did just that. I walked slowly out of his room and thought what a priceless gift I nearly had given up by rushing him to bed.

And for the record, he didn't need me to fall asleep tonight. What a mixed blessing.

It's a gorgeous day out there...

...and I'm trapped inside. It's all my fault, I promise. I'm taking summer courses at the local university, and today is the last day of the last week of the first class. Meaning I have a paper on Slavenka Drakulic's How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed due by 11pm tonight, and I just can't get into it for the life of me.

In case I've forgotten to mention it previously, I'm a history major. I love learning history because of the fascinating stories that are so often over-looked, along with being able to understand why So-and-So saying such-and-such is such a big deal in the news (for instance, the photograph of President Barack Obama with his feet up while on the phone with an Israeli official: talking with Israel: Good. Soles of Feet: Bad. It's a Middle Eastern thing. Beats me, too.)

The only downside to being a history major is all that reading and writing. Our professors are thrilled to tell us that we won't be having a midterm or a final...instead, we'll be producing 20 to 40 page papers. It's all fun and games until someone gets hit with a book in the library stacks, know what I mean? (And before you ask, yes, that chick with the stack of books as high as her eyebrows? That was me).

This inane rambling brings us to today. A paper to write. The call of birds and buzz of bees and whisper of the wind in the trees outside. The sun-warmed grass beckoning with dappled shade. Aaah, just this side of heaven.

Unfortunately, I will be going nowhere near that grass, because duty calls. Anyone have a set of jumper cables? I may need them to get this assignment completed by tonight.

Mrs. ArmyPants

I read a great book last week, I Love a Man in Uniform by Lily Burana. In it she discusses her marriage and life with her husband, an Army Officer, along with the trials she had after he returned from deployment and they moved to his new assignment at the military academy at West Point. (For the military wives reading this, I know that sounds like a cushy assignment and the first thought crossing your mind might be "what on earth is she crying about?" I promise there is more than meets the eye, just as there is with anyone. You never know what's in that sack someone is hoisting).

Now let me tell you why I love her.

Lily had a hard life, is a proud former stripper, and still has a beautiful soul despite the rougher patches she endured. Her light of life shines through in her writing, even when she's committing heart-rending thoughts and feelings to the page. Even though she came through her husband's deployment (only 15 days after they wed in a "war bride" whirlwind), it was the fallout of trying to be the perfect military wife and at the same time deal with her personal demons that was her undoing.

In case you're interesting in reading the book, which I highly recommend for its writing and for its spirit, I won't tell you how it ends. But there was something that resonated with me, and I'll touch on that.

One of the things that stuck with me was a "character" Burana creates in the opening of the book: "Mrs. ArmyPants." This is the perfect Army Wife who shadows newly minted military wives with her old-fashioned patriotism, home-making skills, and pep. She bakes for the FRG bakesale, she makes baskets and casseroles for the new moms, she hosts teas or coffees and she never has a hair out of place. This is the apparition who looks down on all of us who think we're not living up to the Army [Wife] values, arms crossed and tapping those perfectly manicured nails in the crook of one elbow while one eyebrow arches in THE LOOK. Burana had to fight her own fight with Mrs. ArmyPants as she chose what to wear, how to act, who to trust, and what self she would become in the world of officer wives she had joined.

I'm not an officer's wife. I'm not an active duty wife. In all technicality, I might not be considered an "Army Wife," but a "National Guard Wife." Yet I still fight that apparation who tells me that everyone can see that sticker on my car and know who I am and what I represent. We live in a small town, and everything I am represents the larger groups of which I am a part, for better or for worse. When I become an active participant in representing a group before others, it makes it that much more of a stress point. Mrs. ArmyPants is joined by Mrs. Religion, Mrs. Mom, Mrs. Adult College Student, Mrs. Housewife, even Mrs. Smalltown Southerner. We all have these hats to wear as we go through our lives.

The interesting thing is something that Burana learned along the way: no one can put that hat on us but ourselves. We choose to allow others to dictate who we are or should be. We choose to place importance on appearance. In some cases it's appropriate or necessary, but in others it's a betrayal of who we are as people. Sometimes we allow our own expectations to cloud what is truly expected of us by others. There may be petty people out there who will nitpick whether a cake was homemade or store-bought, but if they're bothered, who really cares? There may be someone who will comment on how many times you run through the drive-thru in a week with your kids...but does it matter? Will someone honestly notice that the chocolate brown pants don't match the tannish-brown shoes, or that you have a navy and a black pair of socks? So you threw out that box instead of taking a single piece of cardboard to the recycling center...who cares?

It's when we become that petty person we imagine is waiting for us that we fail ourselves. We can't live up to the "Ms. ArmyPants" or the "Mr. Church-guy" or the "Ms. Hadassah" or the "Mr. PTA Dad" because they aren't real. They are figments of our imagination, what we want to strive to be. There's nothing wrong with striving to better ourselves, nothing wrong with exploring an untapped talent or interest, nothing wrong with reaching out. It's a wonderful part of being human, never being satisfied with the status quo. There is always more out there to learn and do. It's when we allow that expectation to become too large, bite off more than we can handle, that we have problems. For Lily Burana and me, it's the 'perfect Army wife' that even our husbands don't expect us to be. Perfection is our kryptonite.

What's yours?

Taking up a challenge

Clickie for Quickie

Tonight I realized, not for the first time, that the kids and I use a lot of water in showering every day. Having a slow-draining tub will allow these insights...the water sloshing at your heels is a visible reminder of how much more already flowed down the drain. But I digress.

Last summer I participated in a summer shower challenge hosted by the Crunchy Domestic Goddess, and I was reminded of that tonight. I think this year I'll get the kids in on the action, too, since they've graduated from baths to showers. My daughter is at the stage where "and a half" is tacked onto her age whenever anyone asks, so being too big for baths wasn't that much of a surprise. My three-year-old son choosing to shower was unexpected, but since he still sits in the shower and puts the plug lever up, I think he's doing it as much for the "just like Sissy" aspect as anything else. The shower-bath combo is pretty ingenius if you ask me...the best of both worlds.

So now that both of them have joined the world of showering, we can conquer the five minute shower challenge together! Ok, so it's not as exciting as, say, a road trip across America or anything, but for them it will definitely be a challenge.

If you're up for a small challenge this summer, join us! You never know when being drought-prepared will come in handy.

Honeysuckle Morning

The kids were with their aunt and uncle for the day yesterday, so I got a little down time to myself. Our little Jack Russell is starting to turn into a porker (and the candy left over from the FRG egg hunt isn't doing me any favors, either!) so we went for a walk down the road.

It was a beautiful morning, especially after the rainy days we had last week. The sun was shining down warmly, and Wishbone was behaving himself, which is a rare treat. I think he enjoyed the walk as much as I did, although he wasn't up for a jog toward the end with the heat radiating off the asphalt.

I know it's disappointing to learn I don't live on a dirt or gravel road. I'm terribly disappointed myself, seeing as how I used to walk down a gravel road all the time when I was a teenager, but I'd rather have washboard abs than washboard slab, if you know what I mean.

Despite that variation in the good ol' Southern tradition, everything else was straight out of central casting. The sun was warming the pines and fallen leaves by the road, with warm scents drifting up on the slight breeze. It reminded me of summer camps with the Girl Scouts when I was little. We would hike through the woods for activities and to get to the pool, and warm pine needles brought that memory back.

Farther down the road we passed a field with horses and some woods where wild growth wasn't cut back by the owners. The scents were even better: wild roses and honeysuckle. There is truly nothing better than the scent of honeysuckle on an early summer morning. It's such a fresh and cheerful scent, and if you've ever been one to try the nectar, you know that scent means sweetness, too.

With so many wonderful outdoors smells, it's a wonder we came back to the house at all...but the poor pup and I were too thirsty to stay out that long. The best part is knowing that it's all just a few strides away, just down our road. I love summer in the country!

Home of the Brave

After joining the "silent ranks" I've had to deal with a wide range of emotions.

The so proud of my husband I could burst feeling when I see him in formation or in his uniform.

The so scared that something will happen to him and nothing will ever be the same feeling when I hear of action in theater or consider what "reintegration" (Army-speak for "you think you're ready, but buckle up because this is going to be a bumpy homecoming" ) will mean for all of us.

The hyper-patriotic, Soldiers do no wrong, we should kowtow now feeling when I'm buying a hand-made poppy from a veteran on Memorial Day, putting my hand over my heart while the colors pass in the Veterans' Day parade, or singing out "First to fight for the right and to build the nation's might..."

The peacenik, I agree with Cindy, let's bring 'em home now, how dare you war-mongerers risk my husband's life for your stupid pride, one man's terrorist is another's freedom fighter feeling I get when I'm so weary of bad press, death tolls and scenes from Arlington, and the pathetic looking civilians, collateral damage in this and every war, juxtaposed with those "win the war" yard signs and "rag-head" jokes.

And finally, the I'm so lonely, how did my life end up this way feeling that shadows every day of a deployment and only looms larger as the time ticks slowly by.

With all these feelings swirling around inside, it's hard to believe I keep my head at all. A lot of the time, I don't. There's no happy medium to be found in see-sawing back and forth, so the best thing to do is hold on tight and hope that the ride will be over soon.

Since a lot of these feelings feed on outside circumstances like news coverage or a missed phone call, adding positive news can have a balancing effect of its own. Thus I bring you a book which brought tears to my eyes and pride to my heart, and made this day a little easier to get through. Home of the Brave: Honoring the Unsung Heroes in the War on Terror by Former SecDef Caspar W. Weinberger and Wynton C. Hall is a collection of narratives which showcase the bravery and selflessness which is so often overlooked in coverage of GWOT. Featuring tales of lives saved and lives sacrificed which resulted in Silver Stars and a Medal of Honor, this book will have any red-blooded American wanting to shake the hand of a veteran, stand up and cheer our men and women in uniform, or simply let tears roll quietly down our cheeks while we contemplate the greatness of those souls who put others ahead of themselves. These reports of action on the front lines may ring bells with some news headlines, but the perspective is different.

The editorializing at the end of the book went against my mod-to-lib grain a bit, but the intent was to bolster our pride in those who have earned it in the highest ways possible. Football players and celebrities? Psh. These men and woman should have the accolades instead. Of course, they wouldn't have it, because as any service member will tell you, they were "just doing their job." But we civilians know different. So remind yourself of this...read a book, say a prayer, hold a thought, send a letter. Make sure our heroes know America needs and loves them.

Here are some sites to get you started:

The USO (United Service Organizations)

America Supports You

Fisher House

The Wounded Warrior Project

Op For: Support the Troops
(This last one is a listing of several links to ways to support, including some of the ones listed above).

Till they all come home...