You Are My Sunshine

It has been an unusually cool and rainy summer here in the mountains. My sister-in-law and I were discussing it the other day as we enjoyed a cool breeze stirring the moist air around us. It's wonderful for the plants (as long as they don't get mold and mildew), but we're missing the sun and the warmth for swimming. When your child looks up at you with wide eyes and says, "Mama, it's too cold for a popsicle!" you know it isn't really summer.

Fear not, anyone who is also missing the "real" summer: I have the explanation. The most recent cold, rainy summer like this in my memory was five years ago. They had one other thing in common: my husband was gone, then for Basic Training, now for deployment. Of course it was hot, sunny, actually downright steamy in South Carolina at Fort Jackson's training facility. If the weather reports are correct, it's also pretty toasty in Iraq right now: highs above 120*F, anyone?

I'm very sorry to inconvenience the good people of Virginia who enjoy their summers full of tanning, swimming, and grilling out. You may be in luck next week, as R&R is supposed to begin this weekend. If the next two weeks turn sunny and warm, you'll know why...it's because my sunshine is back in my life.

If not, well then I suppose we'll just have to say better luck next year!

One Touch

So often wars are seen as politics on a chessboard: this side set up against another, the players sacrificed for strategy, hopefully a quickly played skirmish rather than a drawn-out, excruciating game which costs both sides dearly.

Or they're seen as a video game: players lose health or life, but there are more where they came from. Simply hit "reset" and start the battle again with a fresh force.

We know that war is not truly like that. General William Tecumseh Sherman likened war to hell. General Robert E. Lee is said to have believed, "it is well that war is so terrible, lest we should grow too fond of it." Often it is this hell that is shown on the news. Every negative aspect is picked up for broad media coverage, while the more positive sides are seen as boring, propaganda, or simply not newsworthy.

Since my husband joined the military nearly six years ago I have read every book I could get my hands on that dealt with the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. I've taken a class on America's history in the Middle East, and plan to take a similar one this fall. All I have really absorbed is how truly complex life is, much less war. In the midst of such great suffering by so many people, I disagree with the major media outlets. I think all the stories need to be told--the horrors and atrocities, but just as much the humanitarian and the hopeful. Good things happening are not propaganda. They are the other side of human nature, love being shown to others regardless of race, creed, or nationality.

My husband shared an experience with me one afternoon a couple weeks ago. You can find my post about it over at Katdish's blog today...she was kind enough to host my guest post. I hope you feel the same brightening I did when my husband was sharing it with me.

Thank you, Katdish! My husband and I appreciate your support more than you know.

They said there'd be days like this...

Ever woke up and everything felt...off? The mind fuzzy, the body weirdly achy (note to self: hiking two days in a row when you've been a desk potato the whole spring? Bad idea!), and nothing you say or do seems quite right? Yep, it's one of those off-kilter days around here.

You may ask how I decided that this was "one of those days." Today the omen was walking into the kitchen to make coffee and instead making cereal. Then I sat down to read my book and realized that I needed my glasses to find it. Then I went to get my glasses, found the book, sat down in the chair to read...and realized I had forgotten my coffee.

Yes, one of those days.

R&R is coming up very soon, so I'm restless, irritable, and somehow missing my coffee. Another symptom is being unable to bring my thoughts together for a decent blog post...I had several ideas for posts this weekend, still have them, in fact. I just can't seem to craft anything right now. If I seem absent, it's only because I'm absent-minded. Hopefully it will return soon...I need to find my coffee!

Mama

I’ve had several reminders of childhood the last day or so. Chewing some strawberry flavored Bubblicious Bubble Gum and blowing giant, pink bubbles til they popped or I had to snap them. Being reminded of the comforting sound of my grandmother’s chimes tinkling in the wind as I sat on her back deck and stared at the squirrel figures that were forever climbing the same width of siding on her house. And for some reason I’ve been mentioning my mother more frequently lately, and even had a dream about her.

From the way I sometimes speak of her, you might think my mother is deceased. There are times it nearly feels that way. The woman I knew, who raised me, loved me, and supported me, is gone. The woman who remains continues to love me and support me as best she can, but now it is she who needs the caring.

My mother had always fought with depression, sometimes more than others. We had wonderful bright spots when she would have good days, but my childhood was filled with “if I can do it” rather than “yes,” or “We’ll see how things are” instead of “we’ll plan on it.” Instead of “Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” it was, “I don’t know.” A full week of good days seemed like a blessing. A month of “Sun”-days? Impossible. My brothers and I watched her inward struggle without being able to understand what was wrong, why she was so fatigued or so frustratingly uncertain about things we thought were so simple.

As a teenager I found myself drawn into that emotional swamp, too. At the time I had no idea how my mother suffered on top of my own, but looking back I remember her tight hugs, the pained look when I was hysterical with frustration, teenage anguish, and doubt. As adults we all wish we could go back and replay a part of childhood with the greater wisdom we now have. If I could replay this stage, I would know to quiet myself and pay attention to my mother. I would still cry, but thank her for being there. I would try to be less of a burden on someone who already had so much to bear.

I grew past that time, even though tendrils of black vines and dark thorns still linger. I married, had children of my own, and watched my brothers come up behind me. Our mother seemed changeless, a melancholy but sweet and loving presence in our lives. She supported my return to school and offered to watch her granddaughter so I could do it. Slowly I began to notice changes, minute and illusory. She was more forgetful and her dark days seemed to multiply. Since she wasn’t sleeping well, we attributed her other problems to that and thought little of it except to hope that things would get better with a little more time.

Soon we realized it was much more than that. Her moods began to swing rapidly and widely. The torment was becoming near constant. She was so distraught that she sought out an exorcism, thinking a demon possessed her. Visits to the doctor led to trying different prescriptions, hoping for a cure. She was diagnosed with depression; bipolar disorder; and finally, after six years, dementia. She is 56.

After more medicine trials than a pharmaceutical lab, she is now kept heavily medicated in order to stop her sometimes aggressive behavior. She wasn’t able to recognize me dressed in black with a witch’s hat last Halloween, and was frightened enough to order me to leave several times within the span of a couple minutes. She sometimes remembers that her son-in-law is deployed; others she forgets who he is.

Traces of her true self still linger, though. My son and I visited her with the first daffodil of the season plucked from our flower bed. My mother was always an avid flower gardener, and I knew the first daffodil would cheer her. We sat in her nursing home’s reading garden because the day was warm and she wanted the sun and air. The little man raced around the circular path, coming back to Grandma to say hello or point out something nice in the dirt, the plants, or the air. It was a good day, and the three of us hated to see it end. A nurse walked us out in order to guide Mom back to her room on the closed mental wing.

Standing there waving goodbye, Mom shakily supported herself on the nurse’s arm and repeated herself: “That’s my daughter. That’s my daughter. That’s my daughter.”

The nurse nodded and hmmmed, having already been struck by the resemblance on meeting me. Then Mom added a postscript that rings in my head with its clarity and its loving pride.

“She’s going to college. I wanted to. She has kids, and she’s going to college. I am so proud of her.”

Even though it feels like all is lost sometimes, Mama is still there. And she’s proud of me.

The Brand-Spankin' New to Twitter Post

OMGoogle, I've been sucked into the Twitter vortex! I've been watching other bloggers' Tweet boxes for months, but never thought I could get the hang of Twitter myself. Also, I'm on a dial-up connection, which makes any instant messaging platform atrociously slow, and I wasn't thrilled with the prospect of staring at a loading screen constantly.

The curiosity got the better of me, though. After reading Katdish's Twitter posts (and a little friendly persuasion on her part), I finally joined Twitter. Today's Twitter Ho Carnival post will be dedicated to the fun that is starting a Twitter account.

First, the Persuasion:
katdish said...
Nice to meet you, Rebecca (even though I already knew that, cuz I'm special)

Now get on the twitter so we can really chat...

July 22, 2009 6:11 PM

~*~*~*~*~*~
Rebecca on The Homefront said...
LOL, I am soooooo tempted, Kat. I even find myself thinking in tweets after reading everyone else's.

July 22, 2009 6:37 PM
~*~*~*~*~*~
katdish said...
Do it, do it, do it! I dragged Billy into it kicking and screaming, and now he's a twitter ho.

July 22, 2009 6:47 PM

Then, the Twitter:
Hmm...on Twitter now. Curiosity got the cat, didn't it?
6:08 PM Jul 22nd

If I didn't know everyone else in the blogosphere was doing it, this would feel distinctly like stalking.
7:19 PM Jul 22nd

Note to self: don't expect kids to listen to requests that end in "et cetera."
7:22 PM Jul 22nd

@katdish I'm on and already can't shut up. How did you talk me into being Twitterfied?
7:28 PM Jul 22nd

@katdish Thanks for the welcome!

@emptynestegg, @buzzbyannies Thank you, thank you! Or maybe I should be scared...haha.
8:12 PM Jul 22nd

And I found out about skanks on Twitter...

@emptynestegg Oh dear, are those different from Twitter Hos?
8:14 PM Jul 22nd

@emptynestegg Thanks for the heads-up. I'll keep an eye out.
8:18 PM Jul 22nd

Candy offered to protect the noOb from Katdish and her posse...

@CandySteele lol, I think you're too late. Katdish is the reason I'm on Twitter in the first place. Who can tell her no?
8:27 PM Jul 22nd

@CandySteele Hahahahaha...oops. Why, of course not! We left the asylum a long time ago.
8:38 PM Jul 22nd

Obviously, it was getting late.

@weightwhat I think the Taco Bell Chihuahua could be a great post for you, if you haven't already done it. ;)
9:34 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat @emptynestegg I'm not sure if that's a conspiracy theory or a freak show, but the taco bell bird would be a great post!
9:40 PM Jul 22nd

@emptynestegg parrots>pirates>Pirates of the Caribbean, new Taco Bell mascot. I'm likin' this.
9:43 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat We're brainstorming for you, be amazed!
9:46 PM Jul 22nd

Or be frightened, ya know, your choice.

@weightwhat can't wait to see it. Our perfect storm did some good, right?
10:05 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat with the TB Chihuahua, what could go wrong?
10:10 PM Jul 22nd

(Montezuma's revenge, perhaps?)

@weightwhat spewed tea on the screen...too possible. Poor TB Chihuahua.
10:14 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat Nah, my one and only TB experience was with a spicy cheese quesedilla. I'm burger girl, myself.
10:19 PM Jul 22nd

Final semi-normal convo of my first night of Twitter:

@weightwhat Awwww, I love the first love story.
10:20 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat Oh, I remember my first crush. It was pretty boring, though, I tagged him, he wouldn't chase me. Kindergarten was brutal.
10:23 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat I guess you could say so. Unrequited 5 year old love. haha
10:27 PM Jul 22nd

@weightwhat that's a good answer to most kindergarten problems. Pulled hair, gum in the hair, bugs down the shirt. Blame boys.
10:32 PM Jul 22nd

Well, I need to get some sleep to keep up with the munchkins tomorrow. Have a goodnight, all!
10:55 PM Jul 22nd

~*~*~*~*~*~

Thus ended my first night of Twitter. Young grasshopper has much to learn. Especially among friends who tweet about beating a dead hore.

Ice Cream is the Answer

I was just sitting down to my computer to check the Twitter after putting the kids to bed. All was quiet, and I was looking over the posts on sweet tea when I realized my sweet tooth was calling for something sugary, too. So I got the carton of Edy's out of the freezer, taking one longing look at the hot fudge sundae my daughter hadn't finished before closing the door and dishing up some "Red, White, and No More Blues" ice cream.

When dishing ice cream with a spoon it's easy to use your thumb as leverage to keep the spoonful in motion between the carton and the bowl, instead of ending up in the floor (like one of mine did). Of course, that leaves you with an ice creamy thumb. This is not good if you're hoping to escape a child's eagle eyes when they pitter patter down the hall to tell you one last thing.

I could hear the quiet padding and the creaks of the floors, but she was too fast for me to have clean hands when she popped around the corner into the kitchen. I was still guiltily sucking the ice cream from my thumb when I looked down to see tear-filled eyes above the Daddy-Doll she was clutching.

Then the strangest thing happened.

I took my thumb out, careful to position myself in front of the offending ice cream carton and bowl, ready to ask what was the matter...when she giggled.

What on earth? Which is exactly what came out of my mouth, truth be told. She snickered and took one hand from the Daddy-Doll to point accusingly at me and say gleefully, "You were sucking your thumb, Mommy!"

Whaaa...well, yes, I guess technically I was. So we both giggled as I walked her back to her room. She flounced onto her bed and I asked what was the matter. She cheerfully tossed off, "I miss Daddy," and tucked in with her pillows and stuffed animals. Her smile broadened when I told her in a week, more or less, he would be home for a visit. I told her goodnight, shut the door, and marched back out to my ice cream.

That was the easiest "I miss Daddy" conversation I've ever had! All thanks to some ice cream.

What's in a Name?

If you look, you may notice that I have made a small change to my Blogger profile. When I first set up this blog I was only planning to use it to keep my husband updated when he could get computer access and to give myself a sort of outlet for whatever venting or silliness I felt like putting on the record. After a while I began broadening my blogging connections, following others and commenting to their blogs, and bloggers began responding to me.

Even though it's only a little here and there, I became "Homefront," thanks to my signature screen name. It's fine for signing a blog, but I feel too anonymous when I'm commenting to a Tina, Sherri, Billy, or Helen as "Homefront," and it began to be a little annoying. We get to know each other through our blogs, as much as we're willing to open up. It seems a little unfair to be nameless when others aren't, so I thought I'd open myself and my blog up just wee bit more.

So nice to meet you! I'm Rebecca, as yet still on the Homefront.

It's ALIVE!

I received a text around lunchtime.

What u doin

I waited until after I was through eating to respond, because I'm like that. I'm not quite a Luddite, but I do believe that there is such a thing as too much technology, mostly when it wants to interfere with my three loves: reading, watching movies, and food. Especially food.

After finishing last night's leftovers I texted back,

Heading to pick up the part. You?

I herded the kids out the door and into the car before they could escape out the back and into the wilds of the Great Beyond, better known as our backyard/junkyard/lumberyard/field. It's really not that big, but it really does answer to all those titles. Who knew a third of an acre held so much promise?

While tossing my purse into the front of the car and my kids into the back I received a reply:

Nothin im goin to meet u there

This has all the makings of a bad film noir...or rather, a film apres-midi. What on earth are we up to?

My partner in crime and I were up to no good. We were playing Frankenstein and Igor to a monster of mammoth proportions, and there were kids involved, yet! We skulked around the local Advance store, eagerly awaiting our promised components, having to force ourselves not to rub our hands in greedy anticipation, and plying the children with bubble gum to keep them quietly entertained.

After obtaining our parcels we took ourselves back the lair, where I passed cold metal implements to my partner as he tinkered with the beast, hoping to coax a gasp of breath out of it still. He called for sustenance to be given to it, which I procured at no small cost. Another devious mission for a final ingredient, and the work was complete. Now to see the results of our afternoon's dark endeavor...







It's ALIVE!

My brother-in-law came over to help me get Hubby's truck running again before his return for R&R...but really, how boring a story is that? I much prefer Frankenstein and Igor...mmwwaaahahahaha.

The View from Up There

It was the first thing the kids saw when we arrived at the parking lot where the Fireman's Carnival had set up. The one ride that stood above all the others, reaching up into the blue sky. The Ferris Wheel, the one thing they had to ride.

Every year we have parades and three nights of cotton candy, funnel cakes, games, and rides to generate funds to support our volunteer fire department. It's become a tradition for the three of us to go for the cotton candy and a ride or two, since without fail the carnival manages to fall during the National Guard's summer Annual Training (those "two weeks a year" that used to be touted before they realized that nearly eight years into Afghanistan and six years into Iraq, no one was buying that line anymore). When Hubby had a camera cell phone, we'd take pictures of the parade and the carnival to send to him, a virtual "wish you were here." This year those photos will be flying over email, a reminder of home and how the more things change, the more they stay the same.

If Hubby had been home, we would have stood and watched the parade, laughing at the antics of the participants, oohing over the horses and riders, and pointing the kids toward the candy thrown from the smiling "float" riders. "Float" is a generous description; I could count on one hand the actual float trailers with themes and decorations. There was the VFW Ladies' Auxiliary on a small trailer, the Feed and Seed float, two Vacation Bible School floats with camping themes, and our champion softball team float. The rest of the parade was made up of our rescue vehicles from miles around, setting off a few sirens and flashing their lights; a long line of towing company vehicles; a set by a local lawn care company complete with zero-turn mowers spinning around the parade route; local Republicans stumping for votes (apparently the Democrats were AWOL, more's the pity), and of course the horses: hoofed and horse-powered, riders cantered, screeched, did wheelies, and rumbled down the main street.

One vehicle in particular caught my son's eye: a monster truck my husband helped work on when he was a little boy which he salivates over every year. The year he was away in Basic Training and AIT, I mailed him pictures: our daughter, me, and the monster truck on display by the rescue squad. Apparently the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I foresee truck-building in our family's future, between the two of them. Hubby has already promised me mural-painting rights for the sides, and he's mulling over names as we speak.

After the parade, with him home we would have let the children ride one or two kiddie rides, bought our cotton candy and sno-cones, and headed on home to chase fireflies and sticky our fingers. On my own, though, I must have let caution fly to the wind. I bought a long strip of tickets and we got in line for the Ferris wheel.

I'm not an amusement park rider. I've never been to King's Dominion or Busch Gardens, and one of my dad's favorite memories is of me riding "The Octopus" with an elementary school friend: her arms were flying as she screamed with joy; my head was just barely visible over the side of the seat, as I hunkered down and white-knuckled my way through the ride. Things really haven't changed over the years.

In spite of that, I helped my son situate himself on the Ferris wheel seat and felt my breath catch as the attendant clipped the safety bar across us. Then we were jerkily lifted up into the air as my daughter and her friend sat in the next seat. We found ourselves swooping up into the air above the carnival, my son getting ready to hunker down just like his mama used to do while I swept my arm across his mid-section to keep him in the seat as we swayed while other riders were boarding. We looked at each other and I realized now was not the time to let my fear get the better of me: his little saucer eyes needed reassurance, not a muttered "Please God, don't let us roll right off this axle and die!"

I glanced back at the next seat and saw my daughter and her friend with the same look of misgiving on their faces as we swayed up in the heights. Then I grinned and said, "Hey girls, how's it going?" They glanced at each other and looked back at me, impish smiles starting to cross their faces. Then from nowhere came an echo piping up "Hey girls! Hey girls!" I looked down to see my son had overcome his fear to crane his head around and peek up at his big sister. We all exchanged grins and then gasped as the ride began in earnest, bringing us back down to the ground only to circle up again.

Later my sister-in-law told me I looked stiff as a board the whole time. She had no idea that I was stiff as a board because I was doing my best not to hunker and white-knuckle it like the old days, but I managed. I took pictures of the amazing view and pointed out our family and friends down below. The girls chattered with excitement and my son held on for dear life with a panicked grin plastered on his face. But once we got back down, I knew I was in for it:

"Mama, can we do it again? Can we, Mama, can we?"

~sigh~ Maybe next year. This year I'm just happy to walk away with my life...and with proof that I pried my fingers loose just long enough to snap a photo.

The view from up there, still on my camera.

Could you help this Soldier smile?

It's pretty obvious from my blog, but my husband is deployed. Military families know what a deployment means for the soldiers better than just about anyone, and we try to prepare ourselves for the worst that they'll face while they're gone. We try to stay upbeat on the phone, send packages carefully chosen to bring out the best memories or soothe the hard spots of being away from everything they know and love. In the end, all we can do is try to understand, knowing that we will never tap that place where they've been, even in memories.

They share that place with their buddies, the ones who have been with them through it all. To lose a battle buddy is like losing a brother or sister, one of the few on the earth who know exactly what you mean about "that time at the showers" or "remember the face Mom made when..." So it's even harder to stand by while they experience that hurt of loss on top of the hurt of combat, knowing we can't really help. We can only try to support them and let them know we care.

With that in mind, I'd like to pass on a request from Sherri (she of the Matter of Fact blog) to help out a soldier in need. Here are her thoughts and the request:

This is a photo of my youngest son's friend Tyson Serles. A private first class serving our country in the US Army.

I remember the night of the Senior Awards, My son Jon and Tyson shared an award for their achievements in Art. Tyson was also honored when he and a few other boys from Jon's class, received large bonus checks from the different branches of service as they signed on to protect their country. When he and the others walked on the stage to receive their awards, I said a little prayer for them, for their protection and wisdom and guidance for whatever would lay ahead of them.

I watched Tyson accept his check with that contagious mile long grin of his, and he practically skipped back to his seat and he was applauded by those in attendance.

Last week we received news that Tyson had been critically injured in a roadside bombing. Sadly, the entire group of soldiers he was traveling with, except for his Sargent, were either killed or critically injured. Tyson bravely tried to pull his fellow soldiers from the wreckage and witnessed one friend take his last breath.

Tyson is 19 years old, and has already lost an entire group of buddies. One soldier who passed away asked Tyson to start the prayer chain before he passed on.

What a load for a young man to carry. He is without family , in a foreign land (Afghanistan) , with no familiar faces to be by his bedside while he recovers and grieves for his friends and fellow soldiers. What if this were your son, or brother or friend?

According to Tyson's father Tim, his condition has now been upgraded to stable.
Tim is asking for cards or letters to be sent to Tyson to encourage him as he recovers.

What a small task for us...what a large impact it can make on Tyson.

Would you please send something to this precious young man who has already sacrificed more than most of us will ever be asked to give. He bravely moved out of his comfort zone on behalf of others. Let's do it for him.

It will take 5 minutes for you to fill out a card, and a very small amount of money to mail it.

Please do this small gesture. I'm counting on you. I'm hoping he gets a room full of cards and letters from all over the world!

Feel free to re-post this, pass it along in an email, put it in a church bulletin, or pass along to any other group that would be willing to take five minutes to help lighten someone's load.


Start your weekend off by doing something for someone else. Whatta' ya' say? Can I count on you?


Mail to:

PFC Serles, Tyson
FOBTF Sparta
HHT, 1-40 CAV (ABN)
FOB HEIRERA
APO AE 09354

Thank you so much for your thoughts, prayers, and help!

Is there a cook in the house?

I have a confession to make: as I mentioned in the post yesterday, I'm no kitchen Picasso. Dinner time is the bane of my daily existence because I actually have to decide what to cook and then cook it. This doesn't seem like an insurmountable challenge, and other than the grill I'm fairly proficient in the kitchen. But I will find any excuse to get out of cooking if I can help it, and having a husband gone and college classes to attend seemed like as good excuse as any when he left.

Last August.

In the meantime I've been using frozen dinners, frozen pizzas, spaghetti and canned sauce, the breakfast-for-dinner and lunch-for-dinner tricks, and my perennial favorite: frozen chicken patties heated with melted provolone cheese and laid on a bed of spaghetti with sauce drizzled over it.

Hah, thought you had me pegged as a McDonald's freak there for a minute, didn't you? We-ee-eell, actually you had me pegged right, but I can fake it when I need to.

While searching for a delicious, semi-nutritious, and most importantly easy and fast meal for every day of the week, I came across Bertolli's frozen dinners for two. Heat them in the skillet for 10 minutes and you have a pseudo-authentic meal that serves all three of us. Slap-dash never had it so good.

Unfortunately, the pseudo-authentic part did me in. Tonight the kids were asking what was in our dish. I answered noodles, chicken, spinach, alfredo sauce, and spices.

My brilliant young scholar asked, "What kind of spices?"

I looked down at my plate, raised my eyes to hers, and shrugged. "I dunno."

She raised an eyebrow, narrowed her eyes, and said pointedly, "Well, you made it!"

Hmm. Incisive, darling. How to answer? Yes, but I still don't know, or, not actually, I just heated it up? Which did I want to be, ignorant mom or incompetent mom?

In the end I just cocked my own brow back at her and shoveled a forkful of unidentified-spice-sauced noodles into my mouth.

If there's one thing my mama taught me, it's that you can't talk with your mouth full.

What's that you do, now?

Sherri over at Matter of Fact asked what we do all day with ourselves. This should be fascinating, right?

1. What is your job/career and your responsibilities at the moment?

My job is Mom and my career is student. My responsibilities are: provide sustenance to myself, two children, and three dogs; keep a reasonably clean house; keep a reasonably passable yard; keep vehicles maintained and ready to run at a moment's notice; take children to all manner of sundry appointments, meetings, activities, and the like; support as many homegrown businesses and the local library as often as possible; send care packages and stay upbeat for the hubby overseas (HAH!); write papers, take quizzes, discuss on discussion boards, etc.; READ. (For serious, you should see my reading list. I may well make it a part of my sidebar for kicks...but then I have to add to it. That would just be another job, wouldn't it? Hmm...); make sure bills are paid on time and all accounts are in order; run around wondering what it is that I'm forgetting about today.

Would you like a moment for an intermission before we go on? Getcha some sweet tea or some chocolate or make a last call, I'll wait...

2. What is the best part about your job?

Setting my own hours, being my own boss. I love that most of all! Of course with kids setting my own hours is relative, and I'm on call 24/7, but there you have it... Flexibility. That's the word.

3. What is the worst part about your job?

Fussing at kids. Figuring out what's for dinner every night. I mean come on, what am I, a culinary Picasso? Some people have writer's block, I have cook's block.

Researching and writing papers is up there. I love having a finished product, it's that whole "getting there" process that's a drain. Creative license doesn't really exist in the history department unless you're a big name and can get away with inventing history. Maybe some day that will be my goal...

4. Have you ever been self-employed? If yes, would you do it again? Why or why not?

Technically I suppose this is as close as I've gotten to self-employed. I would prefer not to have that pressure over me, though. I like a support system.

5. What was your first paying job?

I was a cashier at the local DQ. I still miss that job, believe it or not. Maybe I'm really missing the simplicity of my life back then.

6. What was your most fulfilling/rewarding job?

My current position. I am most fulfilled and rewarded by having two positions: being a mother and being a student. If I can find a way to continue in the academic world, I will be living the dream.

7. Ever had a job you detested?

Working in "environmental services" at the local hospital. Between the chemicals making me sick with headaches and being restricted from talking with the patients, I was miserable for the one week I worked. From there I went on to work in an assisted living facility, doing much the same work but being able to have relationships with the patients. It was two different worlds.

8. What would be your dream job?

That's a toss-up. Either a book editor, a librarian, a museum curator, or a research fellow. Have I mentioned I live to read?

9. Have you ever quit a good paying job because you were miserable?

The best pay I've received was in housekeeping at the hospital. I made more than I had as a supervisor at DQ. I just couldn't handle the lonely situation. I'd rather be poor and happy than wealthy and miserable, and I've lived the life to prove it!

10. Which job stretched you the most and why?

Because each job came at a different time and stage, I really can't say. My first jobs were while I was in high school. Others were either while I was a newlywed or when I found out we were having our first child, and I started back to school only months before my husband joined the military. I have always been stretched by multiple things at the same time. I think they all were learning experiences in different ways, either by showing me how capable I could be or what I wouldn't put up with.

11. Who would you consider to be your best "boss" and why?

A professor I had at the community college. He set high expectations and would accept nothing less, but he was more than willing to give praise when it was due. He pushed me to work harder and learn more than I would have otherwise. I enjoyed the work I did while in his class, and looked forward to his lectures.

12. Ever had an extremely annoying co-worker? How did you handle them?

Can I count my kids? ;) The most annoying of any have been the teenagers, either the ones I was supposed to supervise at DQ or the ones I'm in class with now. The best way to handle them is to work around them and ignore them to the best of my ability. I'm too quick-tempered and sharp-tongued for anything else.

13. Has there ever been a job you turned down that now you wish you would have taken?

No, although I often wish I had gone to college straight out of high school. I know I wouldn't have gotten everything out of the courses that I am now, and I didn't know what I wanted to do back then, which was the main reason for not going in the first place. But sometimes I do wonder...

14. Is there any job you would refuse to do? Why?

I really couldn't say...I don't know what I would do if I were hard up enough. Kids gotta eat, y'know. Hopefully nothing that I couldn't be proud to tell my family about. If it makes me ashamed, I want nothing to do with it.

15. Would you love to retire RIGHT NOW or do you think you would miss working at your job.

Considering my "job," I would miss both the kids and the classes desperately. I do have moments when I wish they were older or out of my hair, but they'll get there fast enough. In the mean time I want to enjoy them as much as I can. As for school, while I will be thrilled to graduate and hope I'll find a career that I can enjoy as well as do well with, I will miss class then. So no, I'll live happily in the moment. Retirement can wait. (Easy for me to say, right? ;) )

Bonus question: Do you think I'm getting too nosy with all these questions?

Why, Sherri, it's not nosey, it's interested! And we can never be too interested in people.

SCHOOL'S OUT!

School is out for the summer!

Yes, I know it seems like I'm over a month behind schedule, but I promise you I haven't lost my mind. I have been taking classes through the university during the summer semester, and just moments ago my final exam paper flew on virtual wings (I hope!) to the desk of my professor. I am FREE...for the next month or so.

I love being a college student. I've threatened to make it my life's vocation more than once. Although a worthy goal (considering I'm not an enebriated frat boy singing that I love college), I don't believe that's the best use of the resources of this family. A degree, yes. A life of unpaid archival work and paper authorship? Ok, probably not. But at least I'm able to show my kids that learning truly never ceases, and it is fascinating. If you don't want to discuss the latest historical theories on whatever piece of real estate in whatever century I'm currently learning about, don't ask how my studies are going. I love what I do, and I love to learn.

That said, everyone needs a vacation. Even my darling husband overseas has apparently detected that I am exhausted and burned out, which in and of itself is cause to worry, since I thought I was surviving pretty handily these last weeks. But praise God and pass the Oreos, I'm done with another semester. Let's party!

It doesn't get better than that.

"Bookbag...We need a bookbag!"

Strawberry Shortcake appeared. Not what I wanted, but it would have to do. We'd be in the pink.

Water bottles...one, two, three, launched into the bag. "How many do we need?" my son asked. "One for each of us," I answered. "One, two, three," he replied. He's sharp as a tack.

Camera. Zip-Loc baggies (Two. I pondered with my hand hovering over the box whether we needed three, then with a wave of the hand and roll of the eyes decided I'd be too busy to hang onto a bag of my own. Two would do).

First aid kit. Knock on wood.

Keys. Cell phone. Good to go.

We piled into the car, rolled the windows down, and drove off into the sunset. A couple miles away and nearly noon. That sunset.

We were going hiking and blueberry picking. Every July our little family has a tradition of meandering down a path through the woods, across creeks and rock slides and what all else, till we reach a steep slope and start feeling the pull of the climb in our calves. Once the water is behind us and the mountain looms over us, we know we're nearly there. Our special blueberry patch which I will share with you over my dead and cold body...because by then I suppose I won't much need it. But on the other hand, it's a beautiful spot for haunting, so I might not share it with you then, either.

Handling two excitable young children alone is a little different from meandering as two young adults or tag-teaming the children. As I planted my feet on rocks and leaned against trees to steady myself and then haul the munchkins across running water, at the same time yelling for the first one not to move one muscle until I get there, I rolled my eyes and thought I should have skipped this year.

After swallowing a fly/gnat/skeeter/thang while taking a breather (if your definition of "breather" is "haaacccckkk! Coff coff coff! CCCCCCHHHHHUGH! ~Gasp~ COOF COOF! Hack!"), I was cursing my husband for joking about bugs being extra protein just the other day.

After grabbing an arm to swing an adventuresome preschooler away from a drop-off and back to the path while intoning "Do you want me to break every bone in your body? Because I will do that before I see you fall and do it for yourself!" I was thinking it might be time to gather strength and high-tail it back home. There is only so much a mama can take, especially when threats of mortal danger come into play.

But then the kids spotted the blueberries and fell on them like a swarm of locusts, which gave me a chance to sit down and just observe, with a few pointed interjections of "it's not a contest, don't worry about who has more" and "Not the green ones, not the ones with holes in them, not the purple ones...just the blue ones!"

I took a deep breath of piney, moist mountain air. Craned my head back to look at the overcast sky through the interlocked tree branches. Felt the crispness of dry, grey pine needles covering the path under my hands as I leaned back to relax. I listened to the birds calling, some with chirps, some with trills. They had gone silent as we crunched and hollered our way up the path, but now that we were hunkered down over the berry patch, they were calling to each other again. Probably something along the lines of "can you believe the gall of those Peoples, eating our treats? Shoo, shoo!" At least, that's where my mind was wandering. Maybe the birds are less like Beatrix Potter's animals than I thought.

I took the time to notice the beautiful green expanse of fern farther up the slope, and smiled at the beauty in the ripening berries by my head. For just a minute I was out there enjoying nature, communing with life around me, relaxing with stillness.

But then the kids moved past me on the path, arguing over who got the patch by my feet and stuffing little blueberries past their lips as if I couldn't see them. When I called them on it, they pled hunger, so I gathered the baggies and put them in the backpack. After telling them they could eat the ones they saw on the way back down, I prodded them away from the bushes and we began our descent. With only a minor mishap involving water, sneakers, and lost balance, we made it back to the car.

It might have been harder than other years, but the trip was well worth it. The kids exclaimed over all the little things I'm normally too busy to stop and notice. I slowed down for just a minute and remembered why I love the mountain so much.

And when we got home, we fixed homemade blueberry pancakes. It doesn't get better than that!

Stone Crossings

The other day I received a gift in the mail. I had stumbled on a giveaway held on Billy Coffey's blog, and as it turned out, mine was the name picked out of his hat by his children. I was excited to find L.L. Barkat's Stone Crossings in my mailbox only days later, and immediately settled in to read. I'm not sure what I expected when I first cracked the pages, but what I received was certainly beyond my expectations.

On her blog Seedlings in Stone one can frequently find L.L.'s poetry, one poem of which I shared when I learned I had won the giveaway. It shouldn't have surprised me that even her prose is poetic, but somehow it still did. Her grounding in the world of creation around her drew me in the same way her words did:

The ravine has, on one side, exposed roots that hang in thin air or cling to stone and crumbling earth. On the other side, a vast forest slumbers over needle-feathered bronze. At my feet, a silver-green ribbon winds and disappears past ancient tangles of swaying firs. I wonder how long the creek has been here to cut a path so deep, to dig this secret place where water babbles to bending reeds and crystal fish dart from shadow to shadow.

(Stone Crossings, p 11)

Barkat then moves from her memories to things she has learned in life and through scripture, weaving each thread together into a chapter that seeks to impart knowledge through experience, both hers and others'. In this way Barkat is able to gently touch hurt places and push the reader to reach farther within him or herself, finding knowledge and healing.

I already have several people in mind whom I believe will enjoy and gain something from this book. I strongly encourage reading it, whether for the beauty of the written word, the depth of the thoughts, or the grace of the spirit. Stone Crossings is well worth the time spent immersed in its pages.

Thank you again to Billy Coffey and L.L. Barkat for this wonderful gift.

Daddy's Little Girl

From the time she could curl her little fingers around his pinky, she has been Daddy's Little Girl. Since he joined up when she was a year and a half old, she hasn't known a time when Daddy wasn't a soldier or didn't have to leave for days, weeks, or months at a time.

While she waits for her hero's return, she has a small place-holder. Before he left on these orders last August we took a picture and had it made into a doll-sized pillow for her to hold while he was gone. Her 'daddy doll' goes everywhere with her, to sleep-overs, on long car rides, even outside to play. During the school term he would wait patiently on her bed for her to return to him, but always he was there for her to count on when she needed something to hold onto while her emotions whirled around her. Until the other night, when he was nowhere to be found.

It only took a moment after being tucked in for her to realize that her favorite person was missing in action. After rustling through pillows and sheets without luck, she tiptoed down the hall and began shuffling through books and toys in the family room. It was when I heard the sniffles that I realized this was more than an average toy hunt.

The sniffles turned to a wail as she explained, "I can't find Daaaaddy!"

With some further exploration, "Daddy" turned up on the bookshelf under some papers. Her tearfulness wasn't over yet, however. After giving her a retucking I turned to my emails, only to hear more sniffles which were quickly evolving into sobs. With a sigh I slipped through her door and settled onto the corner of her mattress.

Clutching the daddy doll tightly, she turned pained eyes to me and haltingly gurgled, "I-i m-miss D-daddy."

My own father worked out of town, but normally returned on weekends. I had hoped my children wouldn't know that sense of loneliness in their lives, but they have had it even more than I did. The times when they admit defeat in their fight for normalcy are the ones that pierce my heart, but they are also the ones that show me just how strong my children are.

My son rarely mentions his father, but when he is near exhaustion he will look up at me with droopy eyes and quietly confess, "I miss Daddy. I want him to come home now."

My daughter is more open with her feelings, but even she doesn't cry for her father every day the way she did when he first left. They know as well as I do that we are helpless to bring him back any sooner. We will have him when the Army no longer needs him. Until then all we can do is hold onto each other and know that we are in this together.

So as she cried I brushed a lock of hair from her damp forehead to behind her ear and told her that I understood. I miss him too. And he misses us.

The time is passing, and soon he'll be home. While we wait, we work. We play. We hope. We hurt. And sometimes we cry.

Then we hold our Daddy dolls a little tighter, slip into sleep, and know that tomorrow we will be stronger, we will start again, and we will be closer to our goal. Joy comes with the morning.

The Rockets' Red Glare

The man stretched his legs and shifted his weight onto his other hip, trying to get comfortable. It was difficult to do when a free man found himself imprisoned. Day in and day out he sat leaning against the hull of the ship, every now and again getting up to look out the porthole, see the sky, and breathe something other than the stale air in his cramped quarters. He heard enemy forces moving to and from the ship, clattering up and down the steep steps from the deck to below and back. More prisoners arrived, more men left for the fight.

The man worried about his country, worried that the enemy was better equipped to wage this war. To keep himself busy he composed lines, lyrics about his trials. Then the worst time came.

He heard the boom of cannon and the crack of gunfire move closer to the ship. He rushed to the porthole to peer out and around the harbor, hoping for something to show him what was happening amid the smoke and noise. His eye glanced past a flash of color and shifted back: the flag. His country's flag. It was smoke-grimed and bullet-ridden, but it still held its position on the mast.

The booms of the cannon and the rush of incoming rounds continued. Slowly the haze grew dimmer as night fell. The man couldn't make out the stars, but with certain blasts he could peek over the rim of the porthole and still make out a fluttering shape--or what he hoped was something still whipping in the gusty breeze. His anxiety over the fate of his country and his people grew as the night wore on and he worried a button on his shirt as he waited in sleepless anticipation. Could anyone outlast such a show of force as this? Finally the haze began to lighten, until a thin yellow dawn covered the land outside. Wearily he forced himself back to the porthole one last time, hoping against hope that the city had not fallen in the night.

He scanned the skyline once more with a growing despair as he failed to see anything but burning buildings and puffs of gunsmoke. But wait...that scrap of color...could that be the flag? YES! The flag was the worse for wear, but it still blew in the wind over the ramparts of the city. The city had not fallen. His country still lived.

Francis lowered himself down to the boards beneath him and searched for something to use to write. In his head were those lyrics, but coming bolder and clearer with his joy. He had to put his memories and feelings into words for others to understand what he felt this morning...beginning with the sight he had struggled to make out through the dawn's early light, on to the rockets' red glare...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The man stretched his legs and shifted to a more comfortable position as he listened to the boom of the mortars outside. The munitions made no sound as they passed through the air, but they more than made up for it when they landed. After so many days of being under fire, he had grown accustomed to the sound, only irritated by it when he had to take a break from a well-deserved swim to wait till all was clear for a while longer.

It was also irritating when he tried to talk over the booms and listen to the quiet voice of his wife on the phone. After experiencing the profound sonic experience of an IED blast months before, one ear could only hear what sounded like a whisper if she didn't speak up. The mortar fire outside only compounded the problem. He shifted the earpiece to the other ear in order to hear better and listened to her tell of other mortars sending sparkling rain into the sky, the squeal and crackle of fountains, and the pops of firecrackers in the street.

Someone was playing a new arrangement of the Star-Spangled Banner in the MWR, and he thought about what truth lay behind those words that went in one ear and out the other of so many at this time of year back home. He thought about another man in another time, listening to mortar fire and the cracks of small arms fire, knowing that his life and the lives of others were on the line. The fireworks weren't so beautiful when they were utilitarian. They left more behind than simply ashes and spent tubes the morning after, as well.

After this Independence Day, he would have a new appreciation for the words of the national anthem. He'd also have a new experience with fireworks, and could show a thing or two to the guys back home.

Until then, he'd listen to the booms bursting in air, knowing that he and his brothers were the reason that flag was still there. Waving over the land of the free, the home of the brave.

Have a Safe and Happy Independence Day!

Of Mice and Me

It started with the quiet skittering at night when the rest of the house was still. Then there was the small stash of dog food that mysteriously appeared in the drawer under the oven. Then the tell-tale droppings which made me cringe looking under the sink.

But the last straw happened when I sat curled up in my recliner, reading my textbook and sipping a cup of coffee yesterday morning. The children were quietly playing (quiet being relative around here), and I was actually making progress on the "human rights violations in the Southern Cone during the latter half of the last century." Military coups and whatnot.

I glanced up from my coffee mug to see a brown streak brazenly crossing my kitchen floor.

I have a rule in this house, which considering we live with a farm abutting our backyard is pretty reasonable if you ask me. If it doesn't bother me, I don't bother it, and we can live in harmony. However, this mouse was obviously getting too big for his britches, and it was time to take action. Out came the industrial strength glue traps. While placing one under the oven, I found the little snit had gotten into something and ripped the stuffing out to redecorate his pad along with the growing mound of dog food. (For future reference, this mouse preferred Puppy Chow. I don't blame him, the Dog Chow doesn't appeal to me, either).

So with less than great confidence I placed the traps. And I waited.

I didn't have to wait long, as Mousey decided to make an appearance under the sink at about half-past nine last night. Poor little thing was stuck like glue...oh, wait, it was glue. Well, you get the drift. Now our house has one less mouse. And this ol' softie is almost wishing the mouse had found another place to skitter last night. Let's all take a moment of silence for Mouse.

Now to clean up after that little skitter-scatterer. Dadblameit.