The Reluctant Homefront

Winter, where are you?

2012-01-15T14:56:00.005-05:00

My friend Kallay has been taking part in a blog link-up hosted by all.things.fadra, and I couldn't help but be attracted by the thought of a stream-of-consciousness post. I don't know if I'll do this every Sunday, but for today, we'll have some fun.

Fadra's prompt today was "How does winter make you feel and what do you do with those feelings?"

My first thought is that I like winter. That's easily said from my comfy computer chair in my brightly lit, warm kitchen. Today is a gorgeous, sunny day, and it's mid-afternoon. My house is bright and cheerful, and oddly un-winter-like. I have this avatar that says "Winter just wasn't my season." Normally, winter feels just as grey to me as that avatar. I can feel myself wilt as days go by without enough sun or warmth, and on the odd chance that there has been a rash of snowfall during the month, I've moved beyond wilting to outright desperation.

Don't get me wrong, I love the snow. I love the quiet as it falls. I've always thought that the sound of snow falling is perfectly captured in the movie It's a Wonderful Life. There's a moment when the scene is Bedford Falls with the snow falling, and the audio captures this quiet "thump," like snow falling from a tree branch. I love that sound. I miss it this year...we received snow before Halloween, but nothing has stuck since.

It makes me long for a "true" winter, but in reality I can't say I'm terribly sad. I'm enjoying the warmer days and the bright sunshine. The wind is still there for a proper chill every now and then, so hot chocolate sounds just right. One day, though, I'll be needing my winter snow...I have a suspicion it will sneak up on us in March and dump a season's worth at one time. We'll see.

__________

This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

~ Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.

~ Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.

~ Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

~ Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.

~ Link up your post at all.things.fadra.

~ Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.

__________

I have to admit, I cheated on not proofreading...I'm a proof-as-I-go writer, so I couldn't not correct spelling without breaking my SOC. I didn't go back and actively proof it for grammar and making sense, though, so I hope this will do! If you're reading this, I hope you consider joining in, too.

Looking Back on a Quiet Year

2011-12-31T14:40:00.017-05:00

2011 was a quiet year here on the blog...not that life was quiet. Since it's traditional to look back at the last year before we move forward into the new one, I thought I'd bring the blog up to speed with how life went, month by month. This year has been more a span of ordinary days punctuated by the extraordinary, both good and bad, so some months stand out more than others, but that's the ebb and flow of life, isn't it?

January

We started a remodeling project that completely overhauled the "public" areas of the house. Thanks to help from friends, the work went more smoothly than it might have otherwise. In the mean time, I was starting my final semester of my bachelor's degree.

February

Photo credit: http://www.21stcenturycollaborative.com

If I'm honest, I don't remember a thing from February. Not even Valentine's Day. There are also no pictures to jog my memory. Suffice to say, life went on as usual: studying, writing, working.

March

In March we made a trek out to a maple sugaring festival, the same one my husband and I went to as children. Nothing beats watching maple sap boiled down to maple sugar, and moving to the next room for freshly fried and frosted maple doughnuts. The weather was fairly mild, too, so we enjoyed ourselves.

April

April began with a curious April Fool's Day supper: "Grilled Cheese" (aka grilled angel food cake and lemon frosting dyed more orange) and "Cupcakes" (aka meatloaf and colored mashed potato frosting). The kids loved it. Otherwise, spring was sprung, a major local history project was presented, my son and I went on a field trip to a living history museum, and we got the news that my mother's health was deteriorating rapidly.

May

May was a full month. I graduated with honors with my bachelor's in history. My brother graduated with his bachelor's in military science and psychology.

Our mother passed away.

Whether expected or sudden, there is no real preparation for that passing.

June

June was chaos: dealing with the aftermath of grief, my youngest brother's high school graduation, and the remodeling entering a more difficult demolition and rebuilding. Finally toward the end of the month, we began to see some changes for the better.

July

Two words: The Heat. It was possibly the worst summer for heat that I can remember, and work on the house slowed to a stop. Without A/C, our days were spent under the trees, searching for a breeze; lazing around the darkened house, which still reached 95* inside; and finally, breaking down and going wading in the cold mountain streams to cool off properly. We waited with baited breath til the sun went down, panting for the cooler air and looking forward to the nightly display of fireflies.

August

August brought birthdays and a new school year for the kids. It also brought my new beginning: graduate school. I am now in a master's program for education, so this perpetual student will be in school indefinitely. With a rainstorm and some hail, it also brought a break in the horrible heat we'd been surviving.

September

September came and went quietly, with school and work and the gradual changing of the seasons. Fall was around the corner.

October

Our first snow of the year came in October, just three days before Halloween. Normally October is a cool month with a slightly dimming sun in a bright blue sky...this October saw grey clouds and a white blanket on the ground over the leaves.

November

November was a month of thankfulness: thankful that my veteran came home safe and sound, thankful for wonderful children, thankful for close family, thankful for the many blessings in our lives, and thankful for the new job that has made life so much easier for my husband. Despite the hardships, there was much to be thankful for this year.

December

The year closed out with happiness, again. The semester ended well for the students. My father found love again and remarried, my brother and his fiance married, and my husband and I celebrated our 11th anniversary. This holiday season was no more perfect than any other, but it was a good one. The house is finally done, our relationship none the worse for wear, and we're looking forward to a wonderful new year.

I wish the same for you, this New Year's Eve. Blessings!

New Year Musings

2011-12-30T13:22:00.005-05:00

I'm borrowing this Fill In the Blank Friday from my friend, Kallay. If you're not already reading her, you should...she is a barrel of laughs wrapped in a heart of gold. Or something like that.

1. New Year’s is a breath of fresh air, a randomly chosen time of new beginnings, hopes, and dreams. It's interesting that New Year's isn't on the first day of Spring, when you would think "new growth" and "new beginnings." Then again, I don't understand the decision behind fiscal years and having them start in October, so maybe logical timing isn't the key here.

2. One of my New Year’s resolutions will be...I'm not sure. There are many things I could improve in my life...my efficiency, my study habits, my reading habits, my organization, time spent with family and friends...wait, what am I saying?

Bill Watterson really nailed New Year's, didn't he?

3. A New Year’s resolution (goal) I’ve made in the past was to read 100 books in a year. I more than made that goal. This year was 50, and I'm at 41, so I may or may not make it.

4. The most time consuming resolution (goal) I ever made was I honestly can't remember. Possibly becoming organized, because I'm still working on it. I believe that goal was made when I was 14.

5. This year I will be spending New Year’s Eve with the kiddos and the hubs. We have nothing particularly earth-shaking planned.

6. If I could wish one thing for my new year it would be peace. I'd like to feel at peace with my decisions, and with how life is playing out.

7. 2012 is going to be a year of love, and a year of loss. A year of hope, and a year of despair. A year of growth, and a year of death. A year that holds the best of times, and the worst of times, as Dickens so aptly put it. No year is particularly different from another across the board, although events mark them differently for each of us. I wish everyone a year of blessings and joy to leaven the sadness and hardships we all face. Happy New Year!

Thankful Moon

2011-11-23T21:22:00.005-05:00

I've found myself feeling more and more drawn to watching the moon this fall. Life is simpler under the moon. The night is quiet, with only a few sounds that don't seem to fit in with the natural rhythms of water rushing down the creek, the whir of insects in the grass, and the whisper of wind through the trees. My canine companion disagrees with me, perking his ears and swiveling his head at every sound I can't seem to hear.

Sometimes I just want to sit down on the damp moss underfoot and lean against a tree, gazing at the constellations and feeling the cool light of the moon on my face. It's a calmer light than the rush-rush-rush of the sun. The daylight calls to me gaily, inviting me to dance, to run, to plant things and grow. The moonlight seems to pat me on the shoulder, slowing me down to appreciate the silvery beauty of a darker night.

Tonight there isn't a moon in sight, and I'm a bit saddened by this. Things are all rush-rush-rush, even after daylight fades away. The blessings of having family close in spirit and in mileage do require a bit more work, but it's worth it. I miss the moon telling me this, reminding me to slow down and appreciate the beauty as I prepare for visitors.

I know she'll be back. In the mean time, I'm counting my many blessings...there is much to be thankful for.

I hope everyone has a blessed holiday. Happy Thanksgiving!

In Remembrance

2011-09-11T14:51:00.003-04:00

Thank yous, Shout-outs, and Book Reviews, oh my!

2011-08-31T08:53:00.007-04:00

For everyone in Pioneer Woman land, this weekend was a pretty big to-do: Ree Drummond (aka "The Pioneer Woman") started her new cooking show on The Food Network a day after appearing on Good Morning America to hurriedly cook some Peach-Whiskey BBQ Chicken before Hurricane Irene could blow into town and leave her stranded. If you're not familiar with the Pioneer Woman, I strongly suggest you go to her blog. Ree has a memoir out about how she became an "accidental country girl," as well as a wonderful cookbook and a children's book about a ranch dog named Charlie. (I'll let you hunt those up on your own, too many links spoil the blog. Or maybe that's cooks and broth, but you know what I mean).

After reading Ree's blog for a while, particularly for the photography, and after breaking down and buying the cookbook (again for the photography as much as the recipes), I was pretty excited to read her book about how she and her husband met and fell in love. Even a cursory glance through her "Confessions of a Pioneer Woman" part of her blog will tell you that she adores her husband, which is pretty impressive after four children, a ranch, ranch-hands, in-laws, and over a decade of marriage. I wanted to know how that had happened, and I knew Ree would spin a good yarn of a love story. When I saw that The Real Farmwives of America and Megan at Gal in the Middle were hosting a giveaway of the book, I excitedly entered...and watched "Black Heels to Tractor Wheels" on the shelf every time I went to the store.

It sat there, all bright and cheerful, the orange calling out to me, the vintage cowboy and his girl saying, "We're so in love, and you know you can't wait to find out all the ooshy-gooshy details! Buy us!" I fingered the cover, then pushed my buggy away and thought, "As soon as I find out I didn't win, I'm so coming back here and buying this sucker."

I waited patiently, and I stared down those two on that cover.

Then the post I'd been (not so) patiently waiting for came across my feed. I was sure that it was someone else, and I'd finally be able to go buy that book. Yes, victory and an afternoon of reading were at hand!

And then I saw my response had been the one chosen by the random generator. I had won the book.

*gasp*

I scrolled back up, then back down. Yes, that was my screen name, my comment to enter the giveaway. I had won the book.

I HAD WON THE BOOK!

I jumped up from the computer and started doing the happy dance around the kitchen: iwoniwoniwoniwoniwoniwoniwoniwon... I think I scared the dogs a bit.

I've finally gotten around to reading "High Heels to Tractor Wheels" while Irene blew some rain our way, and I was right: I spent the afternoon laughing, reading parts out loud to my husband, and laughing some more. Ree has no problem sharing her gaffes with the world, as only a middle child would do (see PW for more on that). She brightened my dark afternoon just as her blog does whenever I start reading.

So THANK YOU, Megan and The Real Farmwives, for hosting the giveaway, for sending me the book, and for loving PDub as much as I do. Even though my closest tie to being a farm wife is a garden and cows pastured over the fence, I enjoy your posts so much. Thanks again!

The great thing about August...

2011-08-26T14:24:00.005-04:00

...is that autumn is so close, but summer is still with us. It's also a big birthday month in this household, which means lots of cake and ice cream and good things. The heat changes toward the end of the month, not feeling quite so oppressive despite the humidity. Some trees decide they just can't wait another second and begin to change their leaves, hinting at the glorious fall to come. School is back in session, and the excitement of new notebooks and pencils, textbooks and crayons seems to electrify these first few mornings of the new year. I welcome this wonderful influx of vitality before the seasons begin to withdraw into another winter. For now, birds are bobbing on branches and vines, crickets are chirping a chorus from the grass, and I'm basking in the sun of the last days of August.

Sunshine after the Rain

2011-08-18T12:53:00.004-04:00

Some things are so difficult to put into words that you aren't sure if you'll ever be ready to share them. Other things roll off the tongue like raindrops off a freshly waxed car.

These words are more apt to roll like teardrops down a cheek, but they're spoken in the sunshine after the rain.

My beautiful mother loved rainbows. As I looked through her jewelry box when I was little and though all things sparkly were beautiful, I would stop and gaze at her rainbow pins. One was a heart with her nickname and a rainbow on it. I can't remember her wearing it now, but then she had never liked anyone but close friends and family to call her by her nickname.

Another was an enameled rainbow with clouds at either end, reminding me of a bridge for my favorite cartoon character at the time, Rainbow Brite. My handy-with-a-needle mother had made me a beautiful doll to match my Rainbow Brite books and dish set from "Monkey Wards." My daughter has enjoyed reading those same books, and although the dish set has long been lost to yard sales or the childhood sandbox, the doll is still reverently held, testament to the careful stitches of Mama's hands.

The final one was my favorite. I loved when she would pin the "Noah's Ark" rainbow on her navy blue sweater with the rainbow neckline. The blue brought out her eyes, and the rainbows brought a smile to both our faces. Even without pictures, I think I'll always remember how she sparkled when I told her how beautiful she was, as only an adoring child can see their mother.

That loving memory came back to me on the day we laid her to her final rest. The sun tried fitfully to force its way through the clouds scudding heavily over the sky, and the wind whipped us from time to time as we spoke of a life cut short by illness, so full of love and hope and the promise of fulfillment through her children and grandchildren after her. Raindrops fell, and tears fell. Hugs and kind thoughts passed around the mourners. After all had slowly meandered away from the graveside, we silently said our parting thoughts and left ourselves for more family gatherings, a way of gathering strength and hope in the face of loss. Then we finally prepared to head home and bring the day to a close.

Before getting into the car with the kids, I happened to look up at the sky, which was still loosing scattered drops every now and again. Blue sky was peeking from behind the clouds as they passed, and my heart swelled as I saw a perfect rainbow seated above the pillow of clouds. My husband and I exchanged a look of understanding and peace. It was as though somehow my mother had found a way to paint a message across the sky for us...a message of hope, love, and fond memories.

Things you may or may not know about me...

2011-07-19T11:58:00.003-04:00

1. I'm not rebellious, I'm independent. For instance, this list is supposed to be titled, "101 things you may or may not know about me." By that point, I'll be repeating the same ten items, so I've changed it. I'll decide when it's complete. Not being rebellious, just realistic.

2. I have kids. This should probably fall under "super easy choices that are {thisclose} to cheating. But it's true, I do.

3. I have a short, obsessive attention span. My hubby and I are always amazed that I've stayed committed to our marriage this long...my storage containers are a graveyard of half-started, unfinished projects. I get all excited about a new venture...annnnnd then I find something else more exciting. My entire life is lived this way. Fascinating, yet frustrating.

4. Although I am a self-professed history lover and history was my major, AND I plan to teach history/social studies to elementary schoolers, I don't read history-related books for pleasure. It's true. A friend was trying to read history books with me over the summer, but I just couldn't do it. My guilty pleasure reads are non-fiction science or environmental works, not history. I'll now hide my "historian-in-the-making" head in shame.

5. I fear failure more than anything. To the point that it's debilitating. For instance, my job search: "Oooh, here's a job...no, wait, they want someone with strong computer skills, I don't have strong computer skills." "Yes, honey, you do." "No, no I don't, not like what they're looking for. I'd screw up the first day." "You graduated at the top of your class...all. three. times. You can handle some basic computer skills." "No, I'm sure someone else is better for it..." It drives my husband insane. True story.

6. Most of the time I'm winging it. Ever have those, "I'm not really an adult, I'm just a five year old in an adult's body, aaah, let me out of here!" moments? That's me, most of the time. Everyone seems so much better adjusted, so figure I'll fake it til I make it to 70. Then I'm breakin' out of this joint and back to kindergarten, where I belong.

7. I can't think of No. 7 right now. Sorry, I've got housework to do...maybe I'll think of something later. ;)

Strength

2011-05-18T09:29:00.005-04:00

What is strength?

Is strength making the decision that is best for you, or best for all involved? Is it making the decision that is best for the most fragile, the "least of these," at the expense of others?

Is strength in holding all concerns inside, never letting others know the hurt or pain or struggles? Or is it in reaching out, knowing that as you do, some will offer true help, while others will be self-serving or give unintended slights that sear the soul?

Is strength in choosing to end the fight early, before the final bell has rung? Or is strength in staring down the inevitable, knowing the fight was lost before it was begun, and yet refusing to give in until the last dying breath?

Is strength in the easiest way, or the hardest climb?

Is it the fearless, muscled warrior, or the trembling, bowed sufferer?

What is strength?

Some projects could be the death of you...

2011-05-05T07:11:00.008-04:00

Since January I've had dead people hanging around. Not that I don't normally, since history is usually about the dead, rather than the quick, but treading through old cemeteries brings that home in a more basic way.

Some, like William Luther, died in the prime of life for a cause that would be lost. "If to die for liberty be right, remember me, if wrong, forget me."

Others, like Archibald Hamilton, lived to a ripe old age, glorying in victory with their last breath.

Some were honored with monuments, as seen above. Others were not so lucky.

Each one lived, each one died, and each of them tug at me, asking to be remembered. I only wish that we could learn as much about the members of a small country church as we can about those buried in Westminster Abbey. Their importance to history's lumbering march onward is questionable, but their importance to the family and friends whom they loved was immeasurable.

The greatest lesson I've learned in my soon-to-be finished undergraduate career has been that history isn't just about the monument-bearers...it's also about the lives of quiet desperation, or unanswered hope. Ordinary people, with ordinary lives who change things in ordinary ways. Like the thoughts of a student, a century later, quietly treading through an old cemetery.

First Snowfall

2010-12-04T16:09:00.003-05:00

Photo courtesy of Photobucket

It started as a huff. Then came the quiet whistle that slowly escalated into a soft whine. When that didn't work, he pulled back and then pushed out a long, low groan and several more whines.

This was not conducive to writing, which is what I was attempting half-heartedly to do when Wishbone decided he couldn't sit still in the house a moment longer. I looked over at those pleading eyes and realized that even if the kids were occupied, I wasn't going to get any more work done until the fur-kid had gotten this out of his system. So I bundled up and out we went.

At first we braced for the cold and walked with determination, stopping for a couple doggy breaks where we could see our breath released into the still air. Then there was a squirrel, which as every Jack Russell knows is as good as catnip to a half-crazed housecat. Finally we settled into a steady walk, beating out a rhythm between grey asphalt and grey skies. Even the birds were silent, as if waiting. And then it happened, suddenly--an easily explained trick of the eyes, perhaps.

But no, there was another, and another...snowflakes, more than the previous flurrying. These were the first real snowflakes this winter.

We continued down the road, both of us feeling a spring in our step as if there were a lightening in the air. As we drew parallel to a field, a horse galloped from behind some trees into view. He stopped short and gazed at us as we gazed back, a woman and her dog out for a brisk walk.

A brief gust of wind swirled snowflakes through his mane, and he shook his head and took off again, lifting his tail to trail majestically behind him as he frolicked in the falling snow. Parallel, we walked behind him, all of us feeling a lift of the spirits that was needed this dreary day.

Now we are back inside, warm and cozy as I take up writing about others' lives again and Wishbone curls contentedly into a snooze. The snow continues to fall, slowly coating the landscape in a fluffy blanket of white, clearing away the past for a time, and brightening the future.

Thankfulness

2010-11-26T08:42:00.002-05:00

It's a day late, but after spending a day cleaning and cooking for the family, I'm just glad I still got up this morning. :) One of the military wives I've met online issued a challenge/suggestion on November 1st: take time each day to think of what you're thankful for, and list it for everyone else to see. Here is the list I made day by day this month:

Day 1: I'm thankful to live in this beautiful area.
Day 2: I'm thankful for wonderful family who are so supportive.
Day 3: I'm thankful to live in a country where we are free to say what we think, and responsible to respect that right in others.
Day 4: I'm thankful for wonderful friends and great memories together.
Day 5: I'm thankful for my adorable children. ♥
Day 6: I'm thankful Lil'est Bro got us a Thanksgiving turkey (especially after seeing what the store-bought ones are like, from raisin' to carvin').
Day 7: I'm thankful for the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the smell of the leaves in the air, and the roar of the motorcycle under me...and for the heat of the stove when I'm back inside, lol. Last ride of the season!
Day 8: I'm thankful for all the little luxuries we have, and that all our true needs are met. We may not be rich, but we're blessed.
Day 9: I'm thankful for good health. My headache is *only* a headache, not a brain tumor. My children are healthy and happy. My husband only needed readjustment, not treatment for PTSD when he redeployed.
Day 10: I'm thankful for my wonderful husband who has supported me in everything, including watching a sick little boy while I attend class, presentations, and meetings. ♥
Day 11: I'm thankful for all the veterans who stepped up to be counted. Thank you to the veterans reading this!
Day 12: I'm thankful for wonderful neighbors who make this a cheerful and welcoming place to live. I love living in a small town!
Day 13: I'm thankful for the change of seasons in these beautiful mountains.
Day 14: I'm thankful for great memories of childhood that come back when the old-time country is on the radio...and that I can share them with the kids when they do.
Day 15: I'm thankful that *normally* I am able to have coffee at home, with a real, tasty creamer. Even if that's not today.
Day 16: I'm thankful for the warmth of the stove and rain boots on this cool, wet morning.
Day 17: I'm thankful for my sweet puppies (even when they get themselves into trouble, Rustle!).
Day 18: I'm thankful for the big yellow bus that takes the bickering away most mornings.
Day 19: I'm thankful for THANKSGIVING BREAK! (Except that I'll be spending it writing papers, but ya know. ;)
Day 20: I'm thankful for schedules and kids that allow me to sleep in (0730, finally!)
Day 21: I'm thankful for a healthy body to get all the clean up and work done to prep to have family over on Thanksgiving.
Day 22: I am thankful for perspective and compassion. No matter how long a loved one is gone, be it a weekend or a year, separation is hard. Thank you to everyone who helped support me when I needed it...I hope I have given that in return. *hugs*
Day 23: I'm thankful for living in a country where we are free to read what we wish, say what we think, and enjoy a little magic to cheer up our days.
Day 24: I'm thankful for time spent with my dad, even when it's difficult. ♥

Day 25: Happy Thanksgiving! I'm thankful for every one of my friends and family...that's y'all!

I hope everyone had a good holiday, whether you were traveling or at home. Please keep those who have been separated over this holiday weekend in your thoughts and prayers. If you're getting ready to travel home, stay safe! Happy Thanksgiving.

I wrote you a blog post, but I eated it.

2010-11-23T07:37:00.003-05:00

Ever notice how hard it is to get the motivation to actually sit down and write sometimes? I run into this with my research papers, my blog, sometimes even with letters to friends far away. Either too much is going on in my life, or nothing is going on in my life and I'm close to achieving a catatonic state, but blog ideas run through my mind at inopportune moments, only to sound boring or already-done later. Or I forget them, as I do so many things.

Like the blog post about my father's sudden brush with death in the form of a brain tumor. His surgery and recovery took up most of my September, and I found dozens of ways to write about it while driving hours on the road to and from school and the hospital (neither of which are near home). I just never found the time to actually put the thoughts to keyboard, and the moment was lost.

Or the blog post about my mother being hospitalized for a few days last month with blood clots. I thought of how her early-onset dementia has affected so many of us, and how on visits to her I feel like I'm a porcelain vase, falling apart and then afterward piecing myself back together until the next visit. But I never sat down, willing to put that out there, however true it feels.

Or the blog post about Veterans Day, my yearly appreciation of my husband, brother, friends, and everyone else who has ever "written a blank check payable to the United States of America, up to and including their own lives," as the saying goes. But although we celebrated Veterans Day, I never came to the computer to share it. Some military wife blogger, I thought as I scrolled through so many posts from other military bloggers.

Instead, I post that I'm feeling prickly, because really I'm feeling overwhelmed. And irritable. And in some ways, hurting. And of course disappointed with myself as yet another day passes without posting.

So, my apologies to you, my readers, for not doing a better job of finding interesting ways to share my life. My many thanks to the veterans...even though it's not Veterans Day, your service continues to be remembered and appreciated. And to keep myself accountable, I'll be posting a project I've been working on with some military wife friends on Thanksgiving: finding something to be thankful for, each day this month. Yes, I've kept up with at least one. ;) I hope everyone has been doing well this fall, and I look forward to catching up with y'all soon! If you're traveling this week, happy and safe travels. And enjoy that turkey/ham/BBQ/fish/steak/hamburger, however you celebrate the big day.

A Little Bit Prickly

2010-10-28T16:37:00.005-04:00

Photo courtesy The Reluctant Homefront

In elementary school science we were taught that animals with bright colors such as poison arrow frogs and monarch butterflies flaunted their coloring to advertise that they were poisonous. There are times when I wish I, too, could show a little flash of color as a warning. Like this not-so-friendly caterpillar we found in the woodpile a week or so ago, I want to let the world know that a chance encounter with me could be unhealthy or leave a sting.

For animals the poison is a way of protecting themselves, but it doesn't quite work that way for people. When I'm at my most prickly is usually when I am most in need of a hug, and when I am least able to receive it gracefully. I'm lucky that I have someone who avoids the prickles and gives a tap on the shoulder to remind me to let down my guard, and let others in.

Grandma's Hands

2010-10-02T13:13:00.003-04:00

Photo courtesy of Photobucket

Little fingers lined up on the edge of the counter, pushing just a little to raise my upturned button nose above them. Blue eyes watched the rain of grated cheese sprinkling down onto softened macaroni noodles, and the wrinkled fingers above dancing from bowl to casserole dish again and again. I leaned into the aproned hip next to me, enjoying the closeness I felt with my grandmother as she created my most favorite dish of all, her macaroni and cheese. I thought it was so special the way the noodles were just right, not mushy; the cheese was browned and a little crisp on top, but oozed in long strings from the fork as it was cut; the sparkles on top hinted to the sugar that had melted within; and the little specks of black pepper scattered throughout just waited to warm the tip of my tongue.

What really made the dish special, though, was that my grandmother made it especially for family occasions. I could count on her long macaroni noodles to warm get-togethers ranging from reunions to Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve dinner, and know that she put her love into the work of her hands. I still miss my grandmother, as we lost her over 15 years ago this month. I wish she had had the chance to meet her great-grandchildren, to see her grandchildren grow into the adults she would have been so proud of. Even though she's gone, the memories she imparted remain. Whenever a black and blue butterfly floats past on the breeze, I remember how she loved them and told me that butterflies share the love of those we have lost with us. When Halloween comes around, I remember how she loved to greet children at the door with bowls of candy, oohing and aahing over the many different costumes. And whenever I bake this macaroni and cheese, so different from my mother's recipe, I'm reminded of the different love that danced with the cheese through my grandmother's hands.

Nanny's Baked Macaroni and Cheese

*This recipe is one done largely from memory and "feel," so amounts are guess-timates and may not be what is actually used.*

1 box (16 oz) standard or large macaroni noodles
1 lb grated mild cheddar cheese
sugar to taste
dash (< 1 C) of milk
black pepper to taste
[sprinkle of onion powder, optional addition]

1. Preheat oven to 350*F. Boil macaroni noodles until just softened.

2. In a large casserole or baking dish, either spray non-stick cooking spray or spread butter/shortening over bottom of pan, as desired.

3. Layer macaroni noodles lightly over the bottom of the pan. Sprinkle a layer of cheese, followed by a light dusting of sugar and black pepper. Add sprinkle of onion powder if desired.

4. Continue to layer noodles and other ingredients until noodles are used up, being sure to leave enough cheese to cover final layer of noodles.

5. Add dash (approximately 1/4-1/2 C) of milk, being sure to pour over all noodles and cheese, but not filling pan beyond 1/4 of height.

6. Place baking dish in heated oven for approximately 30 minutes, allowing more time for deeper dishes. If cheese on top is browned before cheese has thoroughly melted and milk has been absorbed, cover with aluminum foil and continue to cook until done.

Although the recipe is simple, it is the love with which it is made that adds the defining ingredient. Make it in good health!

A Lighthearted Friday Fill-in

2010-08-20T11:10:00.003-04:00

I found this Military Wife Friday Fill-in through Julie the Army Wife. If you'd like to see more, it's being hosted by Wife of a Sailor.

And now, on to the questions!

1. If you could be a fugitive from the law for whatever reason, what would your crime be? (from It’s a Hooah Life)

Hmm...tough one. Hopefully something exciting that would result in my being filthy rich. Being on the lamb doesn't come cheap.

2. How long do you think you will be a military family? (from Julie the Army Wife)

Hard to tell. We go back and forth on the getting out question, which will be revisited next January. I could see the hubs staying in for his 20, though.

3. What’s your favorite recipe? (from Keep Calm and Soldier On)

Hands down, my grandmother's macaroni and cheese. It's simple, but so comforting.

4. What would you want your last five words to be when you leave this life? (from My Goal is Simple)

"Take care of yourself, babe." Love you just doesn't quite cover it.

5. Where do you hope to retire? (from Pennies from Heaven)

Right here in our hometown would be fine. We love this area, and our families are all around.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Check out the military bloggers listed above, and join in the fun if you're of a mind to...the more, the merrier! Hope everyone has a great Friday.

Awash in a Sea of Words

2010-08-19T11:22:00.004-04:00

Black letters march across white paper...Rebecca Wells knew what she was talking about in Little Altars Everywhere. The letters do seem to be on the march, stamping out the beat of an old manual typewriter even though we are long past those days. Or perhaps those marching symbols are really breaking waves. This house is awash in a sea of those black letters, forming words like "bill due," "course schedule," "parent signature," "depression or recession," "PTA," "Veterans Affairs," and "milk chocolate." Talk of politics finds itself face down on the floor, settling to the quieter bottom in favor of letters welcoming children back to school, bills waiting to be paid, and a chocolate bar wrapper. We all know that chocolate makes everything better, doesn't it?

Sometimes the tide rolls out, and the sound of birds calling or crickets chirping pushes the letters into a dusty corner. A quick rub of the ears of an old friend, followed by a nudge from a wet nose sends them flying under the refrigerator, peeking out in consternation. A break in the clouds lets sun shine in, drying off the inky mess for a while.

Then slowly the tide rolls back in, papers shift onto the desk into ranks of "to do," "read," "pin up," and "recycle," on the march again. Once more the waves of words lap at my heels, and I dive back into the ocean, hoping to make headway. It's obvious from the breakers that school is in session for another year.

Plink, plink

2010-07-13T09:48:00.005-04:00

Plink...plink...

Plink...plink...

The rain dropped steadily onto the surface of the pool as we peered out at it.

Plink...

The drops hit the blue surface and leaped up a bit before dropping back to the surface and below.

Plink...

We turned from the window to our indoor activities. The kids started coloring in coloring books, I was looking at pictures of "organized" houses online. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Square boxes containing living spaces shot through with light, perfectly organized and promising to motivate me to do the same. Purge this, sort that, clean your way to an inner nirvana. The articles were more suited to New Year's resolutions than a summer day, although the photos shouted of beach houses and clear summer sun.

Plink...

Summer sun that wasn't hanging around outside my window just then. Disorganized me, and disorganized weather...cool temperatures, rainy day in July. Life couldn't exist in a perfectly organized box shot through with light, the weather outside knew that. The disorganization fed the creative energies of grass and tree, leaf and flower. I turned from the perfect pages and looked back outside at the greening plants to watch the water running in rivulets.

Plink...plink...

What a perfectly disorganized summer day.

~~~~~
This post was written for the One Word at a Time blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. Please visit the carnival for other takes on the topic of "Summer."

Photo courtesy of Photobucket.com

Days of Summer

2010-07-01T11:16:00.004-04:00

Things have changed a lot since I was a kid whiling away the hours of summer vacation. Take, for instance, my son's artwork above. Still the bright sun and rainbow, still the green mountains we all love...but that's not a Magic Marker drawing. It's from my Paint program on the computer. Who would have thought that kids would be drawing on computers just a couple-three decades after I was banging on a manual typewriter?

Not to worry, I don't give up my computer easily. Thus, the children must still express their creativity through the time-tested methods of Crayola, sticks, or mud. With the semi-drought conditions our little corner of Eden is experiencing, there is plenty of dirt to go around for stick drawings, maps of forbidden lands, or just throwing at each other until they are both browner from dirt than from the sun.

I'm just thankful that classes are behind me and I've had the chance to decompress a bit. It always takes a week or more to slip into the hourless routines that make up vacation time, but we've finally reached that enviable point when sunshine sets the day and time loses its meaning. Except for meal times, which seem to be announced with astonishing regularity. Like right now. Amazing how the kids find a way to drag me back to reality for a bit.

The Flag for Which We Stand

2010-06-14T09:05:00.005-04:00

Photo courtesy of Photobucket.com

Today is a special day, though most people won't know it. It's a national holiday that no one expects off, a birthday that only a select few will remember.

Last month Americans celebrated Memorial Day with picnics, swimming, or maybe a parade and visiting a veterans' cemetery. My children celebrated differently from the norm thanks to the Blizzard of '09, the Blizzard of '09 II, the Blizzard of '10, and the Blizzard of '10 II and III. (Actually, all of that runs together now in a haze of white, grimey plowbanks, and water-logged mittens. They missed weeks of school, we do know that). Because of the [*cough*pain-in-the-neck...and back...and fingers and toes*cough*] snow, the kids celebrated Memorial Day in school. Some of the local residents thought this tantamount to sacrilege, children missing out on a day to sleep in and watch cartoons before pigging out at a barbecue. I'd have to beg to differ with them. Our school has always been an extremely patriotic and supportive school, so it was no surprise that a month or more before Memorial Day, the kids were chattering about wearing red, white, and blue ("Don't forget, Mom, I have to wear that on Memorial Day!" "Oh, no, hon, I won't forget in four weeks. Got it!" ) and singing their favorite songs from the Veteran's Day program last fall. A personal favorite: "A-M-E-R-I-C-A." Until the little man had sung it ten times in a row, several days in a row...then the little lady threw in the towel and howled for mercy. After she had the little man on the floor, howling for mercy. But I digress.

On Memorial Day, they trouped onto the bus to attend school on a national holiday. I didn't mind, though. They talked about sacrifices made on shores far away. They learned that Memorial Day was more than just another day off, or the opening to summer, or the day to finally get in the pool. They learned that it is different from Veterans Day. Even though my children are Army brats, I don't think those are things that they can be reminded of too often. Thankfully, the kids' school thinks so as well. So rather than have another regular class on a snow make-up day, they remembered. They honored. They appreciated. And they enjoyed it, knowing that this day was still special. I thank our school faculty and staff for making it such a wonderful learning experience for them.

Today's lesser remembered holiday had me mulling this over again. Some people choose especially to fly their flags on Flag Day...I know I grew up in a family where the flag was flown on three days: Memorial Day, Flag Day, and the Fourth of July. I think it meant more in a way, bringing the flag from the coat closet and listening to the fabric rustle with purpose as we hung it. I'd gaze on the plastic eagle at the top of the pole and feel proud to be an American. Flag Day wasn't a picnic day like Memorial Day or the Fourth of July, and we didn't spend all day talking about how the flag was designed and how many metamorphoses it has been through over the past two hundred-plus years--but it was a day for the flag, and only the flag. That made it special.

This year, though, the flag shares its day. Today is also a pretty special birthday...

So happy birthday to the Army, and every face that makes it strong. Happy adoption day to the Flag for which they stand and fight. And hey, everybody...since it's a birthday, maybe a cookout tonight? I'm thinking a green cake with 235 candles...outside, on the deck...with a waterhose at the ready. After all, it wouldn't be a celebration without some fireworks.

It's Chancellorsville for this Computer

2010-05-28T09:37:00.004-04:00

My old computer has nearly given up the ghost. He started by becoming slower and slower...maybe because the newer computers around him were faster to begin with, or maybe because he kept finding himself burdened with new files and programs. Then he started sending out error messages and shutting down programs without warning, despite all the newest anti-virus and anti-spyware/adware scans. Then it happened. Stonewall (my computer was much like General Jackson...a hard-headed southerner who would die defending his right to tell me when to shove off) told me he couldn't accept my photos anymore, despite the added storage space two years ago.

It was time to take drastic action: I went to buy a new computer.

The helpful tech guy was jaw-to-the-floor shocked that my computer was nearly 6. Apparently this is old in tech years. I did the right thing in naming it after an historical figure. Fortunately, I didn't tell the tech guy that. I just smirked. Where's the fun in being a history geek/nerd if you don't have inside jokes?

So now I have a new, sleek model that should last another few years into old age. Stonewall is understandably depressed, but is soldiering on as I move files over. Poor thing. He's trekked nearly as many roads as his namesake, so he deserves a rest. I hate that he's being taken out by his own side, though. He's seen me through myriad college courses, the babyhood of one and toddlerhood of both children, four dogs, a graduation, and a deployment. Oh, the emails he's seen! Rants, laughs, gleeful news or sad, Stonewall was there to pass them along.

Goodbye, Stonewall. You've served well.

Unfortunately, the new computer may look nice, but has no personality. It's merely "Rebecca's PC." How quaint.

Happy Military Spouse Appreciation Day!

2010-05-07T10:23:00.004-04:00

"Every year, the Friday before Mother's Day is designated as Military Spouse Appreciation Day. This year's celebration on May 7 is a time to recognize and applaud the selfless contributions and daily sacrifices our Army spouses make.

"Army life is challenging. The heart and stamina of our spouses are the core of the Army Family and provide an essential source of strength to our Soldiers. Spouses routinely put the welfare of their Soldier, Family, and Nation above their own. We are proud of all Army spouses and salute your efforts."

For the rest of the proclamation, please visit the Army website's Military Spouse Appreciation Day page.

This is for the husbands and wives who wake up early when their Soldier leaves for PT.

This is for the fathers and mothers who hold their children tight when they cling and cry for a parent overseas at night.

This is for the men and women who avoid the news, watch the news, or are glued to the news every day for months on end, hoping for good and not bad.

This is for the cooks who learn the gobbledygook acronyms and threaten to serve MREs if they are faced with a caselot sale on a payday at the commissary again.

This is for the lovers who touch photographs and hold back tears.

This is for the actors who put on a happy face when their soldier takes one more look over a shoulder while the transport is moving out.

This is for the comedians who crack jokes on the phone or over webcams, just to see their soldier smile thousands of miles away.

This is for the tired whose hearts break at the thought of just one more day alone, much less several more months.

This is for the strong who keep moving when all they want to do is stay under the covers curled into a ball.

This is for the "dependents" who know that a greater oxymoron was never coined, who rise to the call of independence in order to keep the house running smoothly, or to move it across the country alone.

This is for the proud, whose hearts are full to bursting as their loved one steps off that plane, that bus, that boat to stand in formation and affirm that they have served and will continue to serve their country.

This is for those who also serve, by making their own sacrifices and supporting their military loved one on the homefront, giving them assurance that all is well and that they can focus on the job at hand until it's time to come home.

This is for us, military spouses! Appreciate yourself today.

Photos courtesy of Photobucket.com

Rain

2010-05-03T08:45:00.004-04:00

The curtains billowing in the breeze last night woke me up several times. The scent of rain wasn't quite in the air yet, but it was cool and moist, just waiting for the right moment to break from suspension into droplets. By the time the skies lightened to a dull grey this morning, the pattering had commenced.

The first comments I heard from the little ones were "I hope it stops raining today! I hope the sun comes out," looking from the skies to me with hopefulness, as if I had any control over the weather.

Even if I did, though, I'm not sure I would change it today. At least, not just yet. Right now the leaves are dripping and swaying under each dollop of water as it works its way down the tree from tip to root. The rain has abated for the most part, and doves are cooing quietly while songbirds tune up. A jay is calling from across the field out back, and over it all is the quiet sigh of the breeze.

It's not really warm, it's certainly not dry or sunny. But it's a quiet, introspective kind of morning, one in which you could hear yourself think, if you wanted to. But I'm not listening for that. After so much busyness the last several weeks, I'm rocking in my chair and listening to something outside, watching the drops fall down.

"What if?"

2010-04-23T08:38:00.004-04:00

Let’s swap stories. Serve up your shot of faith by writing about: The What-If Challenge.

1. Write 300-700 words about what happened when you tried to follow through on one What If.

2. Keep it real.

Last week Bonnie, The Faith Barista, issued a "What if?" Challenge that you can find here. As usual, I'm a little behind the times. I got the message last week, but I shrugged it off. Too much to do, too many chores piling up, too many deadlines hanging over my head.

This morning I opened my email to find a note from Bonnie asking me to check out a short video she had created (watch it here). I won't give away the premise of the story, but I will say that it is an amazingly touching story that you don't want to miss.

Her story got me to thinking again about her "What if" challenge, and I decided that it was time to break the blogging drought.

What If?
I was a strong student in high school, but the paperwork began pouring in from colleges across the country after I took the PSAT and SAT. "Visit us! Look at our pastoral setting! Look at our urban hipness! See how many activities we support! See how close-knit our diverse student body is! Imagine yourself here! Take the next step in your life!" With enough pamphlets, brochures, letters, and applications to fill more than one large black garbage bag, I was overwhelmed. No one in my family had graduated college before. In fact, no one had even attended a four year school. I would be breaking new ground, forging my own path, shaking free of the past...

Or would I?

I know that measure of those mailbags-worth of material because that's exactly what I did: I tossed every last one of them--Harvard, Bryn Mawr, Northwestern, Randolph Macon Women's, Tulane, Emory, St. John's, Barnard, Dartmouth and more--into the big black bag. I tied it closed and hefted it into a dumpster. And I said goodbye to that dream.

Why?

I knew we were poor, but not so poor that I would qualify for enough aid. My parents weren't willing to help me with loans, although we may have figured something out if we had looked harder. For a family that had never been through the Big Game before, it looked insurmountable. Impossible. Out of reach.

So I closed the door on the "what ifs," graduated in the top of my class, and went to work.

.

It took several years, marriage to a wonderful man, the birth of a precious daughter, before I saw clearly what I had been too burdened to see then. I had doubted my competency, my ability to work through the hard times. I had thought that I wouldn't miss much by not asking "what if" and following through. I realized after our daughter was born that I was missing something. The "what ifs" were pulling on my sleeve, tugging at my shirt tail, asking a stream of questions:

"What if you had gone to college?"
"What if your daughter looks at you and doesn't go because you didn't?"
"What if you believed in yourself again?"
"What if you looked into going back to school?"

Finally, I listened to the "What ifs." A friend was starting classes at the community collge, so I decided to take a baby step. I sent in the application, knowing that they would accept me, but still afraid that for some reason they wouldn't. What if they didn't?

Of course, they did.

I took another baby step. I went to the learning center and took a placement exam with my daughter teething on cookies at my knee. I worried that I had been away from school too long to pass my math exam. What if I didn't?

Of course, I did.

I took a third baby step. I took my results down to the guidance center and spoke with a counselor to set up my first semester's classes. At the time, I still wasn't completely sure what direction to take, but thought that teaching would be something I could feel good about. So I was registered into a teacher education learning community. Then I worried I wouldn't receive financial aid and be able to attend. What if I didn't?

Of course, I did.

It took twice as long to receive my associate's as most traditional students, because I took classes part-time and took a sabbatical year after the birth of my son. But I am the proud holder of an Associate of Arts...the first in my family to graduate from any college. With support from my husband, who always ground the negative "what ifs" into the dust, and help from my family, blood and adopted by marriage, who stepped up to watch babies whenever I couldn't work class schedules around his work schedule, I did it.

And since then there have been more "what ifs": "What if I attend a four year university? What if I receive a degree? What if I find a professional job in my area of interest?"

But there are always "what ifs" in life. We'll never know the answers, unless we take the challenges.

Induction Honors Given

2010-04-10T16:32:00.003-04:00

Induction to the Scraped Knee Club, Order of the Scraped Elbow and Hand.

Let it be known that on this day, Saturday, April 10, 2010, G has been inducted to the Scraped Knee Club, Order of the Scraped Elbow and Hand.

By virtue of an accident involving a bike, gravel, pavement, and high velocity, G was given the opportunity to sustain serious scrapes with effusion of blood. Said effusion did nothing to slow his determination to clean his wounds and return to his aim, a two mile bike ride down the road.

In light of the fact that G did in fact sustain such injuries as allow his induction to the Order of the Scraped Elbow and Hand,

And in light of the fact that G did in fact allow cleaning and binding of said injuries with minimal emotional display,

And in light of the fact that G did insist upon returning to his bike and the road,

We are happy to present this honor of induction, and the award of a cookie for his hard work and worthy courage.

Sealed under my hand this day, April 10, 2010.
X Rebecca, Officer at Large, Veteran of Scraped Knees and Elbows X

It's a Mandi Giveaway!

2010-03-29T07:15:00.004-04:00

My good friend, Mandi, is such a loving, giving person. She works as a nurse, she volunteers time and money as best she can, and she always gives everyone a smile and some joy in the day. You really should get to know her over at her blog if you haven't already. Today is an even better time than usual, because she is having a giveaway to celebrate her 300th blog post! There are all kinds of goodies, but the best part will be reading her thoughts in other posts, so head on over. ;)

Sometimes it hurts

2010-03-12T14:45:00.003-05:00

Over at Bonnie's Faith Barista blog, there's a bit of a carnival going on. Bonnie writes inspirational faith messages to recharge readers for daily living...as she puts it, "a double shot of faith." Today she not only brewed her own faith-espresso, she invited readers to become lay-baristas and write their thoughts on the same topic.

The topic for this week: Rejection.

I've known this was coming since she left me a comment days ago. Originally I thought to myself, "oh, rejection. That's an easy one to write about. So many topics!"

Yesterday I thought to myself, "guess I'd better get thinking about that topic."

This morning as I washed dishes I thought, "hmm. Not being asked to a dance by the guy who was giving me mixed signals? Nah. Being dumped by boyfriends? Too obvious. My first rejection of a story submission? Too done by every writer on the web."

Honestly, does anyone want to own up to being rejected? It cuts a soul to the quick. We are told that we aren't good enough, that we don't measure up in someway to what the rejector was seeking. Even if it is our work that is sent back, we see it as a personal failing.

I put all that time and effort into that submission. Those were my ideas from my deepest heart of hearts. And they didn't want them...they didn't want a piece of me.

We lose sight of the fact that everyone is rejected at some point, on some level. We forget that this is the way life is lived: by putting ourselves out there, for better or for worse, to see what the world thinks of us. It's how we learn to work harder, reach further, strive longer. We see what we are capable of, we learn what others are capable of, and we are the better for having experienced that momentary loss of self. It teaches us compassion for others, patience, and to find joy in the journey rather than the destination...if only we allow it to.

To fly, we have to have resistance.
Maya Lin

The Meaning of Goodness

2010-03-09T09:05:00.003-05:00

Even on a chilly day, with rain clouds scudding across the sky and a breeze whipping up the few dried leaves still clinging to the trees, people came. Some came in tour buses, others came in pairs. A solitary few walked with themselves and their ghosts.

Snow still lay on the ground of shaded slopes, the only bright note in a day of brown and grey. Silence reigned for some, broken only by the click of cameras capturing the "nation's shrine." On a hilltop a restless crowd shifted from foot to foot, from step to step, a susurration. The cameras clicked without pause, following the echoing footfalls of a man in uniform.

He is not there for them.

Just as the grave stones are only the cover of the lives, once lived, held beneath them, this soldier's vigil only appears to be performed for the witness of the living.

He does not dress with precision for those who will view it.

He does not carefully pace measured steps so they won't see him falter.

He does not keep a straight face as a posture of solemnity others can be touched by.

He was chosen and answered in service not to his country, not for his fellow citizens, but for his brothers and sisters in arms who lay beneath the snow. He is exacting in their memory. He does not falter to continue their strides. He is solemn out of respect for the sacrifices made by others just like him, who served and who died for their country, but even more for each other.

Goodness is found not in the act, but in the meaning. Goodness is in his quiet determination to give meaning to the lives lost, and to find his meaning in theirs.

This post was written as part of Bridget Chumbley's "One Word at a Time" blog carnival. Please visit her to read others' thoughts on Goodness.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-03-03T15:33:00.003-05:00

March must be the time for us to visit DC. Just last year the kids and I took an impromptu trip with my best buddy and saw DC at Night . This year hubby and I had a wonderful gift of the opportunity for a weekend as a couple in my favorite city. Hope you enjoy. Compare the cell-phone pics of last year with this year's...it is the same difference that can be seen between the haze I was in emotionally during the deployment and the brightness that is our time now. What a wonderful way to experience DC.

What are you hungry for?

2010-03-02T19:01:00.003-05:00

I could hear the conversation over the grinding and crunching sounds of my poor printer. It had bitten off more than it could chew, and apparently so had my four-year-old son. He came in to ask me for dessert, and as I gritted my teeth and wrestled a piece of paper from the maws of ink destruction, I growled at him to go away.

His shoulders slumped as he shuffled off, and a stream of muttering hung in the air. The printer sympathized with its own whining and groaning, and I glared at them both for being difficult. As he rounded the corner into the family room, the muttering turned to whining, which turned into fitful tears.

Another country heard from: "What are you cryin' about?"

"Daaaaaddddeeeee, I huuunnngrrrrryy!"

I could hear the irritation building over the racket of the machine. "Then why don't you eat more of your dinner?"

"Noooo, I hungry for rock caaaannnddyy!" And the little man emphasized his point to the big man with a stamp on the floor for good measure.

"Then you're not hungry. You just want the candy. Hungry is different. Hungry is when you have a hole you need to fill..." and with that the printer gave up the fight and loosed the paper I had been sawing back and forth on as I listened. With a sigh of relief and a malevolent glare at the beast, I reset my document's printer settings and settled in to listen more to the philosophical discussion around the corner, but it was done. The gentlemen had moved on to more interesting pursuits, wrangling bathtime.

So that was it. "Hungry is when you have a hole you need to fill." How many times do we realize that we want something, but not enough to fight for it? We're just not hungry for it. On the other hand, how many people do we know, maybe even ourselves, who feel a hunger gnawing away a hole that we just can't fill? When does hunger fuel our work, and when does it burn away our hope?

Yes, there is a difference between want and hunger. What are you hungry for?

Winter Silence

2010-02-24T08:06:00.004-05:00

It has been a quiet kind of winter outdoors. The sounds of everything were muted by multiple snows. On the inside, things were less quiet as the kids moved from shrieks of glee over the snow, to bickering over toys and movies, to out right fighting and wails of frustration as activity after activity has been cancelled.

The frustration even further within has been mounting, as deadlines approach, plans are put on hold or need to be rearranged, and the dead dull of winter has pervaded my soul. It seems as if many people are feeling the same angst, with the job markets remaining down, the weather snarling every day life, and sad news coming across the wire with daily repetition.

I haven't been blogging or reading blogs as I should, but some times it's better to hold silence, rather than let the negative feelings run amok. As we prepare to move into March, I hope the coming change of seasons will have a brightening effect on us all. Soon the snow will have drip-drip-dripped away, and the rivulets of water will knock on roots and bulbs, awakening them to the warming sun. The dark clouds of winter will begin to be pushed back by rays of warmth and hope.

So here's my hope: that spring, like water, will knock on our roots and remind us to reach to the sun. It was always there, waiting for the right moment in our lives to bring us back to life.

Just a Little Effort

2010-02-01T17:29:00.005-05:00

Photo courtesy of Photobucket.com

I was at the store today. After the snow over the weekend, the local kids had been released from that horrible drudgery that is school. Apparently, visiting Walmart continues to rank at the top of the list of "Things Smalltown Kids Do When Bored," just like it did when I was a teenager. All I can say on that subject is, I hope I wasn't as annoying a teen as some of the ones I crossed paths with today! Maybe the list is the only thing that stayed the same...we'll hold that thought.

While I was waiting to check out, glancing over magazine racks full of glossy, smiling faces, one of the shift supervisors came by and asked that I be the last customer in line so that the cashier could have her break. Could I place the "LANE CLOSED" sign on the counter and ask others to find a different line? Sure, I could. (I was just thankful she hadn't asked me to find another line myself).

So I continued moving through the line by inches, never needing to warn anyone off. The teens were only there to see and be seen, after all, and who has spending money anymore? Everything was fine until an older man with a cart piled full of groceries got in line behind me.

"Um, Sir, this is the end of the line...she needs a break."

He looked from me to the sign and back again, shuffling closer."Oh...well, she can take me," he said and glanced to her, "can't you?"

The cashier sighed quietly and nodded. "Sure, I can take you, sir," she answered. She turned to continue sweeping groceries across the scanner and I noticed her downturned expression. I smiled at her and murmured, "you're too nice."

She glanced at the old man shifting his groceries onto the belt and shook her head. "I've heard it doesn't take much effort to be kind to someone, but it takes a lot to be mean," she said. "And if it comes back to me someday, great. But I'll still try to be nice."

What a great way to look at the world...it only takes a little effort. And with her effort in answering me thoughtfully, she's passed on that kindness to me as well. Whether it's karma, positive thinking, or the Big Guy taking notice, I hope her kindnesses return to her a hundredfold. After all, it would only take a little effort...

New Comment Policy In Effect

2010-01-27T09:11:00.005-05:00

I hate to have to instate a spelled-out policy and use comment moderation (which means your comment won't be visible to yourself or others til I get the opportunity to hop onto the email and check it), but y'all know the sad story of the bad apple ruining a whole bushel's worth.

That said, The Reluctant Homefront has a new comment policy in effect:

Comment Policy:
The Internet allows for wonderful connections and a wealth of knowledge to become available at the brush of a fingertip. Although this is a great boon, it can also lead to abuses. This blog, while open to public comment, is not a forum for visitors to air grievances or stand on soapboxes. Rather than viewing this as a street corner, consider it my front yard. While you are welcome to chat over the fence or walk through the gate as I invite you, I do not allow solicitors to bang on the door.

He doesn't like it, either.

Please feel free to voice an opinion on the topic at hand that is different from mine...I love to hear others' thoughts as long as they are

♥ Respectful
♥ Relevant
♥ Not blatantly self-promoting or proselytizing

If your comment does not meet these requirements, within my view, it will be removed. My apologies for any inconvenience, but I reserve the right to sweep the dust from my porch. I do try to keep things tidy.

With all that said, hope I haven't scared you off! I promise, he's friendly...most of the time.

Peace

2010-01-25T11:53:00.003-05:00

And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1863~

Peace at times seemed like an unintelligible word from a foreign language. Generator motors hummed, truck engines coughed and roared to life, Humvees rumbled over sandy rocks and pitted roads. Small arms fire chattered and every so often mortars echoed over the city. Even without the sounds of an unended war, the shuffle, hustle, and bustle of thousands of small and large feet, the whispers and rustles of clothing, the shouts of anger and laughter added to the cacophony.

Could peace be found in the shrapnel scars of a truck?
Could peace be found in the whines and growls of scavenging wild dogs?
Could peace be found in the rush of adrenaline once the team realized they were trespassing on forbidden territory and ever more risking life and limb?
Could peace be found in the pulse of rock or hip-hop vibrating from laptops and iPod earbuds?
Could peace be found in the face of a child living in a mud hut with too many family members for such a small space?

Peace was found in the knowledge of survival in the split second delay of detonation.
Peace was found in seeing pictures of well-cared for and loved pets waiting patiently at home.
Peace was found in returning to a temporary home after a strained patrol.
Peace was found in shared smiles over shared music and memories.
Peace was found in the face of that child, clutching a new soccer ball with glee, racing barefooted through the rocky dirt to start a pick-up game of football with a brilliant white grin gleaming through the dust.

Peace was found in the dawning of a new day, the sounding of waking birds, and the knowledge that he was one day closer to home, where he would feel true peace in the arms of family.

This blog post was written for the One Word at a Time "Peace" blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley and Peter Pollock at Peter's blog. Please visit for links to others' thoughts on "peace."

A Wish and A Prayer

2010-01-21T15:29:00.002-05:00

Photo credit: Mandi Morgan

If it seems that my blog is filled with links to other blogs lately, that's because it is. If you think that's because I don't have the time and mental fortitude to write an honest-to-goodness blogpost right now, you're right. Since we've gotten that out of the way...

Haiti is in the tops of most people's minds lately, especially since yesterday's 6.1 earthquake followed the original 7.0. Although we're giving our thoughts, prayers, and hopefully funds in order to help a hurting country, there are some who are going above and beyond that call in order to put their feet on the ground and help in a palpable way. One of those people is my good friend, Mandi.

Mandi traveled to Haiti and lived there for six months after high school, helping the people and sparking a life-long love and desire to return. Between the Army, marriage, and two gorgeous boys, she hasn't been given the opportunity she's hoped for. Now, with this horrible catastrophe, Mandi believes that she has the preparation (through nursing school), the blessing, and the heart to go to Haiti. All she lacks at this point is the funding.

If you feel that Mandi would be a benefit to the people of Haiti (something which I am very sure of, knowing her heart), please donate to her funds. After her travel expenses are paid, all funds exceeding that need will be donated directly to Heartline Ministries to further aid the Haitian people.

Please go over to Mandi's Blog for more information and to listen to her heartcries for Haiti. Thanks!

The Lights

2010-01-18T14:27:00.004-05:00

On a few nights in the last week I've been out after dark. For several weeks in December the roads were lit up with lights in all ranges of color and design, some twinkling, some dangling, some sitting silently, emitting a bold glow.

Since the days after Christmas, these lights have begun to disappear back into their worn cardboard boxes or twisted in ropes to fit into squeaky-new plastic containers. Only a very solitary few are left. The blinking ones were the first to go, followed by all the bright colors. Now in the middling weeks of January all that are left of the profuse holiday display are white candles in windows and white icicle lights on eaves.

The local paper said our heavy fall of early winter snow stuck around past a proper snow's welcome. I suppose that might account for the length of time some of these lights have been up. I disagree with the paper's assessment of an appropriate amount of time for snow to settle over the landscape, and I'm not sure that that is the true reason the last vestiges of holiday cheer are hanging around, either.

Despite the horrible news coming from Haiti in the aftermath of the earthquake, there are still points of light and grace coming out: people gathering money to purchase aid, others gathering themselves in order to sacrifice their time and energies on the ground. Just as the lights continue to hang, emanating their bright glow against the pressing darkness of the night around them, so too does everyone who prays, gives, and hopes for the future of Haiti shine against the darkness which is pressing ever more down on her people.

We are ever in need of them. Thank you for being a light.

Help for Haiti

2010-01-15T08:40:00.003-05:00

Unless you've been living under a rock (or trying to, like I have), you're probably aware of the horror that has been unfolding in Haiti since the earthquake. So many bloggers are reaching out, posting links, and crying out heartfelt prayers for the safety and needs of the Haitian people.

Because I thought it was a lovely thing to do, I'd like to use this Friday to highlight what one of my fellow bloggers is doing to raise awareness and send aid to Haiti.

Beki at The Rusted Chain is a talented Etsy craftsperson. Please visit her blog to see the "Blessed" necklace she has created. For every purchase of this necklace, $10 will be donated to the Haiti relief effort by Beki. For more information visit her blog.

Our hearts and thoughts are with the people of Haiti. Thank you to everyone who is working to help them through this traumatic time. Please continue to pray for Haiti.

Taking the Oath

2010-01-14T15:10:00.006-05:00

Photo courtesy of Photobucket

After months of could he, should he, would he, it was time. The appointment was made, the papers were filled out and prepared for signatures. He walked through the doors a free man, able to walk out again without a thought or obligation. But he walked on.

He moved down an institution-style hallway, all fluorescent lights and painted cinder block walls. The light cast had a sickly greenish hue which lent itself well to the corresponding greyish tan walls and tannish brown trim. Sheets of paper fluttered from the bulletin boards in his wake, reminders of one requirement or another, contact information for finance or promotion. The halls created echoing footsteps until he turned the corner into a similarly non-descript room.

The whiteness of the paperwork on the desk highlighted the dinginess of the color scheme: brown desk, brown chair, tan walls, tan carpet, tan ceiling tiles, greyish-greenish-brown uniforms. The room was a study in Middle Eastern natural, all except the glaring white papers and a brightly colored flag behind the desk. After a tour overseas, the colors were almost welcoming, or at least accustomed surroundings. He would never call the office "home," but in an odd way it was similar. He had spent plenty of time in the building over the years. Now, with these papers, he was choosing to spend at least another more.

The sergeant settled at the desk and took out a pen. They bent their heads over the words, double checking names and dates for accuracy. With a final assurance that all was as it should be, the lieutenant signed the forms and the sergeant passed the papers to him. No second thoughts, no misgivings, no hesitation slowed the path of the pen through his scratchy signature.

He straightened, and with squared shoulders raised his right hand. Repeating after the sergeant, he swore once again to defend his country from all enemies, foreign and domestic. He swore true allegiance to the same. He swore to obey his commander-in-chief, the President of the United States, as well as his superiors in the chain of command. Non-verbally he swore to place his country before his wants, his needs, his loves, and his hates, as his country required it.

He swore to leave his family when called.
He swore to protect the freedom of those who would malign him for doing so.
He swore to lay down his very life if it was required of him.

He reenlisted.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-01-13T20:52:00.002-05:00

Raising a Glass

2010-01-11T07:45:00.005-05:00

We drove. And drove. And listened to MapQuest when we shouldn't have. Checked into the hotel and slept.

We got up and registered for the conference, snagged a wonderful breakfast and found our table. We settled in, looking over agendas and sighing over the schedule. We listened to speakers, shifted in our seats, passed looks over the table, and had a working lunch.

Finally we were released for an hour's break in the mid-afternoon, and it was time. Husbands went to rooms to sleep or play computer games or just veg out. Children were checked on, babies fed. And the quiet bar wasn't quiet anymore.

I know many people wonder how accurate the Lifetime show "Army Wives" is, and I've commented on it in previous blogs. I have to say I'm thankful that for once my wifeys and I were able to live a moment from the show gleefully: We settled around a table and had some stress-relief, Hump Bar style. We giggled over missteps, grumbled about a set of orders our husbands had been given, and reconnected as battle buddies from the homefront. The ice in glasses clinked and we laughed harder, settling in to share in some fun and some tears, hugs and raised eyebrows and one cherry stolen.

Yeah, that was me. I couldn't help it, it looked so lonesome sitting all alone in the glass. And we just can't have a lonely cherry, now can we?

One of the harder things about being a Guard or Reserve wife is the lack of close military community. We come together for events and then disperse across the state till the next time we're told to meet. Thank goodness for the shift toward family involvement in the military community, because it facilitates conferences and support like what we had this weekend: a chance to do more than just touch base through email or Facebook. We were able to voice concerns, share problems, and give each other the support we need as we continue to make adjustments and reform our families, post-deployment.

We were also able to laugh ourselves silly in an empty bar during the early afternoon. Thank you to the National Guard for making that possible...and thank you to my wives for being there. You're unforgettable.

Follow Friday for the Twitter Impaired

2010-01-08T09:52:00.004-05:00

Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to be #FF on Twitter and not Blogger, but I haven't visited Twitter in a while. Facebook is distracting and time-consuming enough. Instead, I decided to institute a Follow Friday feature on my blog, just because I come across so many fun and lovely bloggers I'd like to share. :)

Today's edition is the "I *heart* Bloggers who share photos of their cooking, step-by-step" edition. [applause]

Our first blogger is the gorgeous and talented Kallay of Kallaydoscope. Her thoughts run the gamut from sweet to tart, but always with a dash of lively fun. Her most recent cooking post featured "Baked French Toast," which looks absolutely delightful.

Our next blogger likely needs no introduction, because she's extremely well known: Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman. Just in case you haven't been to visit her blog before, I really must insist you make the time for a stay...her blog is a visual treat as well as wonderful to read. The cooking post which caught my attention today was her Dulce de Leche coffee...absolutely mouth-watering, hip-widening, and I can't wait to try it!

My final bloggy pic of the day is a dear friend and compadre, Mandi. If you ever need a pick-me-up, Mandi is ready and willing to supply it with her frequent posts on family, her faith, and all things crafty. The wonderful cooking post she offered was Rainbow Pancakes, sure to be a favorite of children young and old.

This is only a short list of the wonderful bloggers I know, so I hope to continue this feature every other Friday or so, with more! Hope you enjoy my bloggy friends as much as I do. Dig in!

Odd Goings-On Under the Stove

2010-01-05T10:15:00.006-05:00

You learn interesting things when on a cleaning spree, at least in this house. For instance, I just learned...

...that our resident mouse did not, in fact decide to vacation in Bora Bora this year, but has retired to a quiet life under the oven drawer.

...that we actually have five dogs...one is very flat, eats dust bunnies, and stays under the stove. (When we joke about the dogs shedding enough to create another one, well...let's just say the joke's on us).

...that my son's desert camo action figure has had enough of combat against puppies, Matchbox cars, and ants, and decided to commit death by chocolate bar.

...that I missed out on said chocolate bar, which apparently snuck under the stove around Halloween, before meeting its GI Joe demise.

...that the afore-mentioned Matchbox cars have been holding demolition derbies without proper permits. They were served papers and sent to the impound (also known as my son's room).

...that dust bunnies are appropriately named, because they do in fact breed like rabbits. Didn't I just clean under here?

...that even Super Mommy can't identify all of the myriad pieces of colorful plastic that have managed to sneak into cracks and crevices between the stove and the cabinets.

...that the disappearing knife or spoon trick really was just the black hole's way of feeding itself. There goes the magic in that one!

...that my darling daughter was right...it's not always her fault. (That, or the spiders actually walked off with her pony-tail holders, the jury is still out).

Now I'm a little afraid to clean behind and under the fridge...who knows what lurks there?

Painting Around the Lines

2010-01-04T21:08:00.004-05:00

It has been entirely too cold for the kids to play outside lately. The wind whips around corners, stealing any hint of warmth with it. Icy air sears throats and noses turn to ice chips before we can skip inside to the warmth again. This is the time of year for indoor activities, and no activity is better than making a mess in the name of art. That's how I found myself sending two kids scurrying for "old, ratty-tatty, wouldn't wear to school" clothes while I added dabs of color to plates-turned palettes for them.

My perfectionistic self focused on forming perfect circles with the paint, spaced a just-so amount of surface apart. A whirl and dab of viridian, a whirl and dab of ochre, a whirl and dab of cerulean, a whirl and...well, no, the black wasn't coming out. So I squeezed from the tip of the paint tube down, hoping it was simply blocked at the opening or something, until instead of a creamy dollop I received a crunchy-looking squirt of what might once have been paint.

Wonderful.

The less-than perfect palettes didn't deter my eager artists from starting on their work: a majestic unicorn on a rainbow, and a dog and her frolicking puppies. Out came water cups to swirl used paint into, and paper towels to blot the brushes before they were returned for fresh paint.

My daughter carefully took her time, gently brushing stroke after meticulous stroke across the canvas. Her brother, on the other hand, took to the work with verve, dabbing his brush enthusiastically from one color to another, then flinging them onto his canvas with strong, passionate strokes. Each child worked diligently to finish the paintings, imbuing the work with their own personalities. They each knew something I'm still working to learn: those lines on the canvas are just guides to flesh out the ghost of an idea. It is the artist who decides where to place the paint, and it is the way the artist approaches the painting that embodies its uniqueness.

When I look at the paintings I see my daughter with her desire for neatness. I see my son with his zest for life. But I don't see the lines, because neither one of them allowed the lines to hold them back.

Rustlin' in a New Year, a New Decade

2010-01-01T09:18:00.003-05:00

It's hard to believe that not only have we seen another year's end, but that we've also put the cap on another entire decade while we're at it. On the other hand, once you've seen the end of not just a year, not just a decade, not just a century, but a millenium, it all begins to pale, doesn't it?

It's been an extremely full decade for this household, though, so I thought I'd review the craziness that has been our lives.

~2000~
This was the year: Y2K, the big change-over, a presidential election...a high school graduation and a wedding? Yes, this is the year that started it all for this little family. My husband and I met, I graduated from high school (gasp! No wonder I feel so young sometimes!), and we married in December.

~2001~
In a follow up to the previous year, my husband graduated high school against the odds laid by friends and family. It takes an iron will to be a married adult, working full-time, and still complete a high school diploma. Thankfully, my husband thinks of himself as Iron Man, so he had this mission well in hand. This year also carries over into the next because...

~2002~
I found out the day after Christmas that our little family would be growing. Although she was unexpected, our beautiful daughter was a welcome surprise. Our apartment was full with a Pak-n-Play, swing, bouncy seat, and all the other little not-quite-necessities that babies attract these days. We spent the fall and winter bundled up cozily in our nest, but knew we would soon be outgrowing it. The house hunt began in earnest this year, and two 20-year-olds found out very quickly that finding a place to call their own within a shoe-string budget would not be easy. In the mean time we built relationships with our neighbors in the apartment complex and watched our little one learn to crawl and walk beneath the sheltering branches of old oaks and new friends.

~2003~
In spite of quitting work thanks to a particularly nasty bout of sickness during the first part of my previous pregnancy, we were able to slowly sock away funds toward a place to call our own, and our dreams began to come alive this year. In July we closed on a little house that needed (and still does) a lot of work. In August I reawakened my desire for a college education and started classes at the community college while my mother happily indulged her grandaughter's every whim. In December, after much wrangling discussion, the hubby signed up with the National Guard to pursue his lifelong dream of military service. And so a new chapter began.

~2004~
This was a trying year for many reasons, some apparent then, some only seen in hindsight. I continued to take classes and found them a welcome break from the loneliness of life at home once my husband left for Basic Training on March 24th. That morning was seared into my memory as one of the most difficult of my life, although there have been others that were just as hard. The rest of the semester is a blur in memory, shot through with small shafts of sunlight: my daughter sitting on the counter in front of the mirror for her first hair trim, sparkling with laughter; the green of the cornstalks in our summer garden; the moment when I recognized my husband amid that sea of brown and green uniforms and flew across steps and into his arms. We found ourselves making new military friends and surrounded by the love of our old friends and family. If only we had seen then the struggle that was being waged within my mother's mind.

~2005~
My mother's troubles with sleep and emotional stability began to insert themselves ever more into our lives, disrupting our family and concerning us all. A bright spot in her year as well as mine was the birth of our little boy in August. Along with an SPCA adoption of our first puppy, the growth of our family again brought hope and cheer to what was becoming a dark, nightmarish struggle. I took a sabbatical from school to care for a colicky baby and reassure a sweet preschooler while her beloved grandmother became more and more distant.

~2006~
The year rolled through unremarkably. Both my husband and I took night classes and cared for our family, worked more on our house, his vehicles, and our lives.

~2007~
The National Guard, in its unknowable wisdom, transferred the hubs to a different unit and sent him to yet another school for recertification. Although our daughter had a vague recollection of a length of time without her father, our son had never known more than two weeks' separation as a baby. We weathered the time apart in order to watch our soldier march across the front of the chapel and receive another certification. The man whom everyone doubted would graduate high school had now graduated from not only that, but also Basic, Advanced Individual Training school, Air Assault school, and now a secondary Military Occupational Specialty. To say we were and are proud of him is a gross understatement: he may as well have hung the moon and stars. His pride was just as large as we sent our daughter off to her first day of kindergarten, full of wishes and hopes for her future.

~2008~
This year brought my own graduation as I finally received my Associate of Arts. The entire family claims they've never seen me smile so largely as I did on my graduation day...I'm sure they just missed the smiles when reality hit on our wedding day and after the births of our children, but this was certainly a high-water mark for my life thus far. The smile may have been so large because my husband was present to see it: he received definite orders to deploy this year, and our summer was spent with him at various prepatory schools and temporary duties. In August the unit left the area for a full preparation period. In October they were able to come home on leave, and we received a gift from the hubby in the form of a new puppy: a mastiff-airedale mix. Imagine the joy as I stared down a deployment with a first grader, her border collie-chow mix, a preschooler, my year-old Jack Russell, and a horse.

~2009~
Our decade draws to a close. I transferred my credits to a nearby university and whiled away the long hours of deployment with research, writing, blogging, and packing a care package every time I turned around. My birthday present was the hubby coming home for R&R, as we took our little ones to the beach, up in the mountains, and wading in rivers to catch crawdads. The little man began full-day preschool in the fall and his sister became a second-grader. The dogs grew, as they're wont to do. In September our family turned red, white, and blue with glee as our soldier returned home, and we began the work of becoming a family once again. We brought our year and this decade to a close with one last event: the adoption of another SPCA pup into our family pack. [Not so] little Rustle is our New Year's boy, a lab mix with paws the size of Texas. What better way to bring in a new year than by spreading a little more love around?

May each of us have a renewing, refreshing, rejoicing, and regenerating New Year!

Happy New Year, 2010!

Love

2009-12-29T10:57:00.004-05:00

He was just a little thing, black and fuzzy with perky ears and liquid brown eyes. She was just a little thing, too, with curly strawberry blonde hair and pink cheeks and shining blue eyes. They tumbled one over the other, flashes of black and blonde and blue jeans rolling over the grass. Quiet little yips and boisterous giggles abounded as they played together with abandon. Finally they both came to a rolling halt, breathing in huffs and gasps, one with her hands resting on her heaving stomach, the other's tongue lolling out of his puppy grin.

A girl and her dog, love at first sight. He was rescued from the local SPCA shelter, just a pup reaching the leggy, playful stage of youth. Why had his family given him up? Such a beautiful, shiny black coat, with a bushy, curly tail and those soulful eyes. His chin had a small patch of white fur just below his lip, as if he had been dipping into a bowl of cream and was caught just after licking his upper lips. Such a sweet puppy, not wild or nippy with a grasping preschooler. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged with all the love she could hold, and his jaw opened in that familiar grin before he licked her cheek full-on. She pushed back, giggling and sputtering and wiping her face with an "ewwww, pup!" They played for hours outside, simply entertained with chasing and wrestling each other.

She was so used to his friendly, easygoing nature that it came as a shock when one day he grabbed her shirt and pulled hard against her. Chubby hands pushed against his clenched teeth, but a low growl sounded instead of his usual yips. Her face showed shock and dismay, eyes wide open and pooling with tears as she tried to pull away from this new and upsetting animal. As hard as she pulled, he pulled harder and more insistently, twisting and turning to gain purchase against the ground. She didn't know what to do, what was wrong that her playmate had become so angry, so she stopped where she stood and let out a wail. He took advantage and let go, pushing his muzzle against her back and sending her over her feet in a heap. Then he ran to the mound she had been advancing toward and began to bark frantically.

It was only after the barking and the following yelps of pain that we understood what had happened to change our playful puppy into an unyielding sentinel: a nest of yellow jackets was waiting in that mound which she nearly had stumbled upon. It wasn't irritation with her childish play that had caused his change of attitude, but the presence of danger to one he loved so much. The pup took stings to the snout and ears while trying to chase off the bees and protect his charge, no matter what the cost.

People may talk of "puppy love" derisively, but in this family we know what true puppy love is. The forever-bent ear of our family dog is a testament to his love for his girl, who still curls up next to him, buries her long fingers in his thick black fur, and lays her head next to his, a picture of love and devotion between guardian and precious kept.

This post was written for Bridget Chumbley's "Hoping To Make A Difference… One Word At A Time" Blog Carnival on "Love." For other bloggers' thoughts on what love is, does, or means, please check out the links and Bridget's own post here.

Buried

2009-12-29T10:08:00.004-05:00

This last month has been a swirl of things to do, places to go, people to see, and snow, glorious snow. I don't remember when the "Blizzard of '09" hit, but it left us buried more than two feet deep. Thankfully, unlike the snowstorm that came through a week or so before, the power stayed on the entire time, so I didn't have to cook on the woodstove. It is only when the power goes out that one can truly appreciate the wonders of woodheat...otherwise I mutter and glower about bringing wood up in all kinds of cold and messy weather, or poke and prod the less-than-enthusiastic embers and kindling viciously. But when the power is off and silence covers the house inside and out, the woodstove takes its place with the oil lamps as a connection to times past and a much-loved method of survival.

Although we were literally buried in snow, I've been feeling figuratively buried this past month as well. The beginning of the month was filled with a flurry of papers and exams as the semester wound down. A bout with stomach and cold viruses left us up to our eyeballs in chicken soup, crackers, and tea. The bad weather caused a switch to the night shift at the shop for my darling dear, and left us all feeling a bit out of sorts and mentally foggy for days. Candlelighting bled from one night to another, somehow the tree was set up, but none of us could tell you how or when.

And then there were the gifts. The mail carrier knew our house very well. I felt so bad for her that I was compelled to clean the leaves and flower debris from the porch, as well as the detritus of children playing and dropping things where ever they may. When we weren't inundated with packages from online retailers and the National Guard, I was sorting through giftbags and piles of presents meant to bring a smile to the face of teachers, neighbors, friends, and the children. The teetering top of this tower of mayhem was found on the kitchen counter: bags of flour and sugar, chocolate morsels and marshmallow creme, shortening and evaporated milk tins, and the sweetly decorated gift boxes which would house cookies and fudge.

The flurries of fluff whirled into a blizzard of bundling as we hosted a friend for dinner, then braved the wet and wild to three separate family get-togethers over Christmas. Food was shared, children ran and giggled and cooed and were cuddled, and presents found their rightful homes.

Although the month has been full to the bursting with events and deadlines, the final product has made it worth all the hustle, bustle, and fuss. What could be better than being buried in a pile of hugs, smiles, and love...along with the deepest snow in over a decade?

I hope everyone had wonderful holidays and made a mound of memories to carry them through the winter months. Happy New Year!

My First Bloggy Award!

2009-12-19T18:07:00.007-05:00

It's been entirely too long since I've blogged...I've thought about it, I've started a dozen blogs in my head while getting ready to leave or driving or washing dishes...but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to the keyboard. I had planned to finally compose something today, when I checked my email and found a sweet message from a dear friend of mine. I've never received a blog award before, although I love to admire the interesting and original ones that are floating around the blogosphere...but lo and behold, my good friend Sarah thought I was deserving of the "Happy 101" award! Apparently, I brighten her day...I hope I manage to do that as well as she brightens mine. ;) Since I can't regift this award to her, I have a special message: Sarah, you are my honorary Happy 101 awardee. You never fail to brighten my day with your beautiful smile and wonderful attitude.

Believe it or not, bloggers don't get to rest happily on their laurels when they receive an award! So here are the (not quite) legally binding rules of the Happy 101:

1) list 10 things that make you happy, and try to do at least one of them today.

2) tag 10 bloggers that brighten your day.

3) if you are one of those 10 lucky (happy) bloggers who get the award, link back to my blog and create your happy list!

Without further ado, here's my list of ten things that make me happy:
1. Literacy
I would say "books," but without being able to read them I probably wouldn't be quite so happy about them! I love how I can become immersed in such a large variety of topics so quickly. I can never be bored with a book by my side, even if the most interesting part of it is the binding. I've traveled the world, committed great feats of derring do, made new and exciting discoveries, and experienced wonderment and amazement over and over again, thanks to being able to read.

2. Children
Specifically my children...although they do have their moments when I'm straining my patience to its absolute limit, my life wouldn't be complete without my children. They teach me to be more open-minded, less structured, more whimsical, and less hurried. I'll never get over the thrill of seeing my child grasp something new, or the bubbles of laughter I feel when they share their quirkiest thoughts with me.

3. Nature
Living in a rural area makes this one a bit of an easy choice. I feel soothed and refreshed when I'm out and about, listening to the trees murmur in the wind, watching the grasses wave, hearing the cheerful chattering of birds, or smelling a scent of flowers floating on the breeze. I feel embraced by the folds of the mountains and showered with jewels by the changing leaves. Water flowing down its little passages in the woods rushes by with abandon, and the sun's warmth on my face is happiness distilled.

4. Love
Not just the love my husband and I share, but the love I see in my father's ministrations to my dementia-afflicted mother, or the love of a community reaching out to its weakest and most hurt members. I never fail to smile and feel joy when I hear of neighbors helping each other, or when I'm the one who is able to give or receive that expression of love. Love is ever-growing, and is found even in the hardest of times.

5. Friends
They know your story without needing it spun out all over again. They share experiences and pass on new knowledge. They listen through the tears and know when to dispense a close hug or swift kick in the britches. Best of all, they know just what will make you fall down, gasping for breath after laughing a full belly guffaw together.

6. Pets
Of course, for me this means my three compadres, the dogs. Each one has his own unique personality: the independent Jack Russell with an adventurous streak, the sidekick SPCA mix who sticks closer than a brother, and the block-headed, leonine Airedale mix...as blonde as they come, more brawn than brains. Together, they're the perfect storm of flying fur and twisted leashes, but each by himself is ready with a doggy grin, a leaning "hug," or an energetic air kick.

7. Mail
I know, it seems the oddest choice imaginable, but I do live for the connection to the outer world that mail represents. The snowstorm of the weekend has brought that to a screeching halt, and the feeling of being cut-off from letters, cards, even bills, is very disconcerting. That short jaunt down the drive to the mailbox is a miniature moment of anticipation and excitement, never knowing exactly what might be lurking within the metal box. It's like a present to open every government business day.

8. Hot Drinks
It's just a little bit of warm homeyness that can relax, refresh, or reenergize. Fixing a hot cup of coffee in the morning sets a tone of preparedness to meet the day. Brewing a mug of chai tea with milk in the evening warms and soothes away the day. Mulling a batch of spiced cider during the holidays brings back childhood memories with a cheerful scent and taste. A toasty mug of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows or whipped cream is the perfect thing to wrap cold hands around, getting a little sweetness on the tip of the nose and a sparkle in the eye during the cold winter months.

9. Bread
The crust is golden and crisp, the center warm, soft, and holds a hint of flakiness. Whether it's a braided loaf, rounded rolls, or even puffy biscuits, nothing beats a good piece of homemade bread. I've blogged before about the therapeutic powers of kneading bread; that process is the perfect preparation to the denouement: taking in the swirling tendrils of yeasty-scented steam and drawing the final product from the oven. Too hot to touch, but beckoning with the promise of melting on the tongue...the perfect bit of bread.

10. Change
I'm often afraid of it, fighting it, or ignoring it, but without change I would be bored out of my gourd. Even though change can be negative (bringing loss, hurt, or heartache), it is also positive (bringing excitement, new experiences, and new friends and family). Since we're barreling toward the new year, change is an especially appropriate end to a happy list. Who knows what it will bring next year? Not only can change itself bring happiness, its forerunner is anticipation, and cheerful anticipation can make anyone happy.

Now on to the fun part, my top ten pics to award "Happy 101":
1. Wendy over at Weight...What?
2. Mandi of Mandi Speaks
3. Joyce from This Side of the Pond
4. Katdish with the ever-fascinating Hey Look, a Chicken!
5. Tina of The Homestead Heart
6. Annie, who would love it if you Buzz by Annie's
7. Sherri (who is always) Matter of Fact
8. Dani of Divulge with Dani
9. Julie, another Army Wife
10. Jo over at Mylestones

There are so many more bloggers I would love to give this award to, but then no one else could pass it on! Even if I haven't listed you here, know that reading your blog still brings me joy. Have a heaping helping of happiness!

The Great Escape

2009-11-24T07:18:00.003-05:00

We walked into the darkened room, trying not to stumble over our own feet. Slipping into a comfy seat, tension flowed out and excitement bubbled up. A flutter in the film projection on the wall above gave a sign that the magic was about to begin, and like that we were transported to a scene very much like the one we had just left outside the door: still green, still wet and rainy.

And then the music swelled, the vampire walked onto the scene, and the transition was complete: we were in Forks, Washington, in an alternate existence. Here there is no war in Iraq, no children to care for, not even a dog to put out. For two hours there is only the story of a girl who fell in love with a vampire and the repercussions for friends and family.

My husband and I went to see "The Twilight Saga: New Moon" yesterday. As an adult fangirl myself, seeing other adults at the matinee showing was a bit of a relief. A good friend had purchased tickets to the opening show on Friday for a girls' night out, but a bad cold had other ideas for me. In a way it worked out well, because I received a peaceful date with my husband rather than having to sit through a movie of teenage squeals. That's not to say that the older fangirls didn't titter over shows of skin, but the reaction was more muted. It was a theater of adults who wanted to be transported to another place for a while, suspending our day to day dealings and allowing a little belief in magic and myth into our thoughts.

Although many readers and writers have criticized Stephenie Meyer's writing skills, especially considering the phenomenon her series has become, I won't be adding my voice to that chorus. For me, Meyer's work has been a form of therapy. I first discovered it last year during my husband's deployment, reading through the four books as quickly as I could get my hands on them. Being able to escape into another world has always held an allure, especially during times of stress. I found myself rereading the series last month after the loss of my grandfather.

Despite not being John Steinbeck, Meyer has created a lovable cast of characters and an engaging story line. She interweaves love and loss, selfishness and sacrifice, intrigue and gentle romance. Yesterday we saw that creation on the big screen.

There's really nothing like a fantasy escape, even when it's across town or just to the easy chair.

The Calm Before the Storm

2009-11-20T13:56:00.003-05:00

It seems to come sooner every year: the shiny bows, the imitation greenery, the colored lights, and the baking goods aisle setting up an outpost in the middle of the store where it doesn't quite belong. The encroaching red, green, silver, and gold sidle up next to autumn's oranges, yellows, and tawny browns, pushy in their overshadowing.

Thanksgiving has done its noble best to remain the last bastion of non-materialistic holidays. Despite some leafery and pilgrimage that appears every year, between the fantastical flash of Halloween and the glitz and glamour of Christmas, Thanksgiving doesn't have to work very hard at being a quiet time for family and food. It's happy with the pie crusts and tinned pumpkin filling, the fat turkeys, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Even the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is filled with Christmas music and costumes, capped by the appearance of that jolly old elf.

Other than the head-bobbing turkey, where is Thanksgiving in all of that? It's sitting at home, pushing back from a table laden with goodies, groaning with appetite satiation and basking in the warmth of family togetherness. Thanksgiving turns on the tv to watch football or waits till after dinner to put heads together over Black Friday strategies.

When and how to begin the holiday swirl varies from person to person, community by community. Some of us groan when the first tinsel is hung from the store wall, others dance with delight that they can put up lights and a tree in November. For me, I'd rather hold off on all the decorations, music, and activities until the holidays are here in earnest. This time of gratefulness and gathering is a calm before the storm, one I hope to hold onto and cherish.

Before we're swept away by yet another "best season ever," let's take some time to review what we have, who we are, and why we're grateful. Let's be thankful for this time for quietude and reflection, family and friends, food and football and hunting.

Then let the season begin.

Putting on the Uniform

2009-11-10T14:59:00.003-05:00

After a frustrating search through storage, they reappeared: the dust-hued boots, the tan undershirt, the digiflage pants and blouse. In honor of Veterans Day, the school held a program to recognize local veterans and to allow the children to listen to the stories of service and sacrifice.

Hair left to grow long was shorn into a high-n-tight. The mustachioed man became the clean-shaven soldier once more. Feet grown accustomed to sneakers or walking around sock-footed slipped back into combat boots. A hip no longer bruised from bumps from the heft of metal felt the lack of a sidearm. Dogtags once again were lifted over the head to fall against a broad chest, giving off a delicate clang and reflected light.

Other, less welcome, things returned: a sensitivity to movement and sound, a feeling of discomfort in a crowd, heightened alertness to the gentle bumps of children edging close to ask questions.

"Did you kill anyone?"
"Did anyone shoot at you?"
"Do y'all still use cannons and cannonballs?"
"Did you fight in the Civil War?"
"What's that pin above your name for?"
"Did you drive a tank?"

At first the questions were hesitant, but soon they came fast and furious from children bouncing on their knees, their hands shooting into the air as soon as new thoughts occurred.

And one little boy, crying during the program, stood out on red alert. Was he missing someone? Had he lost someone? He soon was whisked out of sight in the shuffle of classes returning to rooms, a reminder that not only veterans serve or make sacrifices for their country.

Thank you to our veterans who gave loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.
Thank you to the families and friends who supported them and sacrificed time and love in that effort.
Thank you to our communities who continue to rally together to recognize, honor, and care for those who made these sacrifices for the benefit of all.

Happy Veterans Day.

Take Me Home

2009-10-30T10:47:00.002-04:00

His face was tanned and wrinkled, looking just like the walnut hulls that littered his shop floor. He ran his thick fingers across the block of wood, brushing chips off the surface and feeling where the contours would develop. Around him were various pictures of his subject, just as there had been for years with every new project he undertook. Smile lines creased even deeper around his eyes as he looked up with a grin and cracked a joke.

I quietly sidled up to him, not quite daring to touch the worn blue jeans or faded flannel shirt whose sleeves he had rolled above his elbows. This was my grandfather, a man who was at turns loving or strict, joking or deadly serious. "Yeahs" were turned into "Yessirs" in his presence, as he muttered about the rudeness of today's children. I leaned in to inhale the mingled scents of wood, Irish Spring, and Marlboros, thinking that it was the most wonderful mix of scents in the world.

Then a heavy, muscular arm fell across my shoulders and he asked, "Becca, what do you think about it?" As always, I was mesmerized by the process of pulling an image from the wood. I ran my own small fingers through the grooves and looked up at my grandfather, my grey-blue eyes locking onto his pale blue ones. We smiled companionably and I hugged him, my grandfather who was more than a man to me. He stood on a pedestal just like his works of art, flawed but above things. I was in awe.

~~~~

Time passed, my grandfather aged. My memories shift to his contribution to family reunions, always red-eye pork. The smell rose off the grill as he poured coffee from his mug, sizzling on the strips of pork, adding smoke and steam to the breeze. His flannel shirt was still rolled up, now on less muscled arms. His hair had greyed and thinned, but he still smiled and poked fun at the relatives gathered around. "Hey, Ruh-buck-ca," he called, waving a grilling spatula at me and holding an arm out for a hug. Later he egged my father and aunt into playing some hometown tunes for us, starting with John Denver's "Country Roads." I'll never forget that day, with the sun shining between moving clouds, swinging on the park swing on top of a hill that seemed to look out over the world, smelling the wafting scents from the grill and listening to the gentle sounds of my father playing guitar and harmonizing with my aunt singing in her beautiful, mountain-tinged voice. I was at home, surrounded by happiness and love.

~~~~

Our family has lost several members since those times. Reunions are sparser, and now will be missing one more colorful character. My grandfather, the man with the broad grin and fearsome glares, passed away Wednesday morning at 80 years old. I'm sure my grandmother is waiting to fuss at him for not taking better care of himself, just as she did every morning when she fixed his coffee, eggs and bacon, and biscuits. My country grandaddy has followed his "Country Road" home.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-10-28T15:16:00.007-04:00

Things You Might Not Have Known About New Jersey...

2009-10-27T17:19:00.004-04:00

In order to encourage everyone to go to Joyce's blog about New Jersey, I'm snitching one photo to share with y'all...otherwise, you might not be coerced into going. If you're anything like me, you hear "New Jersey" and picture traffic, pollution, and Yankee accents. If you're not like me, you might have other negative thoughts on it. But we are here to disabuse you of those ideas! So please head over to Joyce's blog and see why Jersey really does deserve the moniker, "The Garden State."

While you're over there, maybe you'd like to take part in the meme she's posted. Mine is below, with similar questions to the 'one word' meme, but with fuller answers. After all, I'm not limited to one word!

1. Where is your cell phone? I wasn't sure until I searched around, but it's by my side. For once.
2. Your hair? Long and blonde, but it used to be longer and blonder.
3. Your mother? Lost in a world not of her making, and dearly missed.
4. Your father? Amazingly strong, loyal, and trustworthy, yet still human.
5. Your favorite food? Impossible for me to decide, because my cravings change by the day. Currently it's cold and rainy, so I'm craving homemade soup.
6. Your dream last night? I believe it had something to do with school work and an assignment to complete. Care to theorize on why that might be?
7.Your favorite drink? Cold, clear water. Followed by coffee and hot chocolate.
8. Your dream/goal? Both are still nebulous, but at some point I'd like to feel I've contributed something to the lives around me, in whatever form that takes.
9. What room are you in? The family room, toasting quietly by the woodstove.
10. Your hobby? Reading, writing, thinking, talking, dreaming, seeking, hiking, picturing, and creating.
11. Your fear? Failure and loss. I think those two things cover nearly any situation.
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Farther along the path in this life we've made in our hometown.
13. Where were you last night? Sitting in a comfy chair and traveling along with the Donners as they began their ill-fated voyage. Also known as doing my homework.
14. Something that you aren't? Quiet and uneventful.
15. Muffins? Blueberry with streusel.
16. Wish list item? A family cabin in the woods on the mountain.
17. Where did you grow up? Nowhere, Virginia.
18. Last thing you did? Registered for spring semester classes and hoped that I won't be found buried under a mountain of course work at the end of the year.
19. What are you wearing? Sneakers, jeans, t-shirt and university sweatshirt. I'm showing some school pride.
20. Your TV? Off at the moment. I'm wondering if the beetle that crawled behind the screen is still back there. It makes me miss the days of the vacuum bulb just a tad.
21. Your pet? Sleeping; lolling; and galumphing through the yard, spraying rain and mud with every toss of his ears and tail.
22. Friends? Many and interesting, from all walks of life, nationalities, and creeds. I learn something new every day.
23. Your life? At turns romantic, thrilling, or hum-drum. In general, good.
24. Your mood? Introspective
25. Missing someone? Thankfully, not at the moment. All the players are backstage, practicing their lines before they burst into the wide world once more.
26. Vehicle? Quietly planning a revolt through clutch slippage.
27. Something you're not wearing? A smile...I have headache at the moment.
28. Your favorite store? For anything and everything, Walmart. For craft supplies, Ben Franklin Crafts. For my reading needs, Amazon.com.
29. Your favorite color? Blue
30. When was the last time you laughed? This morning during a discussion of that quintessential children's computer game, Oregon Trail. They didn't typically die of dysentery, honest.
31. Last time you cried? It's been a while.
32. Your best friend? A handful. I'm very blessed in that department.
33. One place that I go to over and over? There are several of those, but I'll pick one that's by choice and not necessity: a library. I have two I visit on a weekly basis, and several stacks of waiting books by the desk.
34. One person who emails me regularly? My father and brother. They both love to share updates and forwards.
35. Favorite place to eat? Right here at home...as long as someone else does the cookin'.

From the Heart

2009-10-26T17:05:00.004-04:00

Photo credit: NASA

My brother and I always bickered as children. I was older and larger for most of our early childhood, so I managed to visit many different tortures on him: rolling over him down a hill, causing a bloody nose; twisting my fingers in his blonde hair and grabbing him up by his head; and convincing him that it was a good idea to experiment with cinnamon gum in his nasal cavity. He repaid my good intentions by cutting a bracelet to use the beads for pirate treasure; tearing the heads off my Barbie dolls; and breaking into my room whenever I had friends over, embarrassing the daylights out of me just by existing in the same hemisphere.

In the end, we still love each other. Now as adults we're able to look back at those times and laugh ourselves silly.

I'm an unaffiliated believer at this point. Neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, I'm in the middle ground. From this vantage point I listen on all sides, and I hear bickering, constant bickering. If I felt I knew more about the entirety of our world, I might feel as my mom must have nearly every day: exasperated, but sure that it would pass. Unfortunately, I can't say that for sure. I see accusations thrown around about "real" people: who is a real Christian? Who is really a Jew? What makes a true Muslim, or Buddhist, or whomever?

Yes, there must be lines drawn, or we're all one and the same. How can one know who is right and who is wrong if we can't place ourselves in boxes for God to pull off the shelf and hold to His chest, saying "these alone are really mine. The others were merely clay fired and broken in the kiln."

Is that really God's will? When children bicker, do our parents choose sides and toss the other out in the cold? When a child paints a picture, is it less important than an artist's rendition done in the "right" way? To our eyes the artist's work may be more technically correct or beautiful, but to a parent the child has done the more praise-worthy thing.

I don't claim to know the will of the Creator. I do have a feeling, though, that He is waiting patiently for the day when all His children stop the bickering and laugh over the foolishness.

Because that's when the family suppers are most worthwhile...when we can laugh over the past together without hurt feelings or pride standing in our way.

Twitter Ho-Down and a Soldier Update

2009-10-23T09:32:00.004-04:00

If you'll remember, I posted about this young man several months ago. He was involved in an explosion in Afghanistan, lost several friends, and was hospitalized for serious injuries. Thank you to everyone who clicked over to Sherri's blog and sent well wishes, cards, and prayers! Here is an update on Tyson:

His Dad says he is doing well and his back doing his job and he plans to come home in April. Thanks to everyone who sent prayers, cards and gifts to him while he was recovering from his battle wounds. I was OVERWHELMED by the tremendous outpouring sent his way! Please keep him in your prayers as he did lose several friends in the explosion that he miraculously survived. I'll be sure to get pictures of his heroes welcome when he returns.

And now for the Twitter Ho-Down: Harry Potter Edition

We join the Twitter in progress as Wendy reveals she was imperiused, Nick the Geek shows his true geek prowess, and Katdish is the center of attention...all is right with the Twitterworld.

Has Wendy Joined the Death Eaters?
I'm afraid Amazon reads my mind...they sent the notice I could preorder #harrypotter :HBP the same day I was thinking of looking for it.

Weightwhat: @becca_homefront Maybe they're practicing occlumency on you. It could happen.

PuriChristos: @weightwhat I think you mean legilimency, occlumency is how you prevent mind reading.

Weightwhat: @PuriChristos I couldn't help it. I'm being Imperiused.

@weightwhat LOL, what Nick said...I think. ;) They definitely have some sort of power!

PeterPollock: Mornin' @PuriChristos , what's been happening around here?

PuriChristos: @PeterPollock swine flue and I think @weightwhat might be a Death Eater

PeterPollock: @PuriChristos Figures.

Weightwhat: @sarahmsalter Well, I am Sweetness and Light™.

PuriChristos: @sarahmsalter Don't believe @weightwhat I strongly suspect she is a Death Eater

Weightwhat: @PuriChristos I'm not a Death Eater. I've just been Imperiused. @PuriChristos is clearly working for Valdemort!

Weightwhat: @weightwhat Um Voldemort maybe? No I work for Vader. He could kill LV easy.

@weightwhat @PuriChristos I'm pretty sure she *is* a Death Eater...but at least the dark side has cookies.

PuriChristos: @becca_homefront and Dark Chocolate, but thats Star Wars not Potter. I'd kill whiny butt Luke for some cookies.

@PuriChristos @weightwhat Voldemort versus Darth Vader...interesting.

PuriChristos: @becca_homefront LV would be al, Avarda Kadavera, and DV would be all, due I survived LAVA ... LAVA!!! now eat light saber.

PuriChristos: @weightwhat Also, an expeliarmus charm wouldn't kill him like a punk

@PuriChristos HAHA! Would *LOVE* to see Voldy eat light saber. Priceless.

PeterPollock: @PuriChristos I've been thinking, 'might be' is a bit ambiguous. Is there a standard test to see if someone is a death eater or not?

@PeterPollock @PuriChristos Isn't the standard test that death's head tattoo on the forearm? Who's willing to run over and check?

PuriChristos: @becca_homefront I'd rather not have her use crucio on me when I try to look at her arms.

@PuriChristos is she advanced enough to do it without a wand? Expelliarmus could do the trick.

PuriChristos: @becca_homefront Always seems to work for HP ... how do u kill the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time with a spell u learned in yr 2?

@PuriChristos He obviously underestimated the use of a simple spell. Also helps that HP had most of LV's powers to develop. And hardheaded.

Katdish can't leave the Twitter for a minute...
PuriChristos: I just looked at my key words searches and found this "bearssex" um ... what?!?!? how did that get to my blog??

@PuriChristos That's just downright frightening.

PuriChristos: It's @katdish's fault. If you search bearssex on google you will find http://is.gd/4r1Cp on the second page.

@PuriChristos You're right, it's all thanks to @katdish. She was right, though...that was gold!

PuriChristos: @becca_homefront hey careful, you don't want @katdish to hear she was right.

@PuriChristos Good point. On the other hand, I'd rather not face the wrath of @katdish, either. I understand she yodels.

PeterPollock: RT @becca_homefront: @PuriChristos Good point. On the other hand, I'd rather not face the wrath of @katdish, either. I understand she yodels

Katdish: @PeterPollock @becca_homefront @PuriChristos I can't leave for a moment, can I?

@katdish Nope, you can't leave for a moment. Otherwise the inmates take over the asylum.

Thanks for joining me on this Friday's Twitter Ho-Down. Please #FF these wonderful people or tune in next week for the Twitter Ho-Down: God Only Knows What Edition. Check out the other entries and more shenanigans at the Fellowship of the Traveling Smarty Pants Blog!

A Ribbon of Trust

2009-10-20T16:09:00.007-04:00

Everything takes a leap of faith. We unknowingly put our trust in our parents the moment we draw breath. We trust that the teacher will take care of us in preschool or kindergarten. We trust that the food we buy at a restaurant or store is safe. We trust that the person we hold our heart out to will carry it in safe keeping.

At any point along the way, that trust may be misplaced, be abused, or become broken. But our lives are about trust, so at some point we must pick up the pieces, cradle the bruised, or draw back that which was lost, and begin our journey anew.

One of the highest forms of daily trust is marriage. We trust that our partner loves us for who we are and not what we look like, how much money we make, or the power we might wield. They in turn trust us to love them just as unconditionally and fully. It is as if each partner holds a ribbon in one hand. The other grasps it, agreeing not to shred or unravel it, but to wrap it around their hand ever more tightly as the years pass, pulling each other closer together.

What happens when those ribbons must stretch across time and space? They become taut, strained, sometimes they break. But partners continually hold out their ribbons, asking someone to take hold and not let go. After a time of stretching, the ribbons have become a bit longer and may take some time to draw back to that same closeness as before. And yet we hold on, gently twirling our hands, encircling our children between the strands, enacting a quiet dance of trust and love.

This post was written as part of the "Trust" blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley at her "Making a Difference One Word at a Time" blog. Please visit her at bridgetchumbley.com, and the blog carnival specifically at Trust Blog Carnival to read more posts on "trust". Thanks!

Autumn Thoughts

2009-10-18T12:07:00.004-04:00

The kids were visiting their aunt and uncle. The man of the house was out cutting firewood with a neighbor. The coffee was gently releasing wisps of steam, and I was comfortably curled in my easy chair with a textbook. Other than the hum of the fridge and a few crackles and pops from the woodstove every so often, the house was silent. Golden, peaceful silence.

That is, until the dog decided he wanted to go out and started into a high-pitched, feline whine. The call of the wild had interrupted my beautiful quietude.

I didn't mind so much. As the queen of procrastination, what's one more break among many? So I laced up my shoes and we headed out the door.

The air bit at my cheeks and I shrugged closer within my sweatshirt as we trotted and stopped, trotted and stopped down the road. After that first chill passed and the exercise started warming my limbs, I noticed that the world around me was alive. Often in literature and movies Autumn is seen as a season of decay or loss, but I see it as a season of in-turning. The trees are drawing within their trunks and roots to wait out the cold weather. The squirrels are gathering their nuts into burrows and shallow cellars. The birds are watching some compatriots move south to warmer habitats and scouting out the freshly replenished birdfeeders they remember from the year before.

I listened even more as we went on, hearing the chittering shudder of dry leaves in a gust of wind and the faint padding of Wishbone's feet on the ground. Dry grass stalks shivered in a wheaten wave and fallen leaves skittered before us on the pavement. It's strange how the wind seems to find a voice in the fall that it didn't have in the spring or summer: a hoarse moan that bears a hint of winter menace on its tail. The poor dog flinched and glanced back furtively as we turned bends and the wind followed us. It almost had a substance this morning, and chilled his little heart.

With each twist of his head back, I began to realize it was time to turn home. We circled in the road and headed face-first into the wind, hearing a more distinct howl in our ears. With a little urging, he picked up his pace and we hustled ourselves back up the road. Normally I question the sanity of anyone running when no one is chasing them, but in this case I allowed for the wind chasing my poor, scaredy-cat dog. We kept a swift pace for a while, then took a break to catch our breath. We had left the wind behind us, howling at someone else on that bend in the road.

A grey and white bird sat perched in a flaming red bush as we walked on. He turned his head and blinked his eyes at us, first one glassy black eye, then turning, the other. I'm sure he wanted to know what would possess any animal to walk attached to another, and in this weather. I thought he might take flight as we drew close, but he just continued to watch and blink, cocking his head in wonderment.

What would possess an animal, indeed, I thought as I headed in the door. With the leaves and the wind behind us, I had to draw the same conclusion as usual: why would anyone run when no one is chasing them? Must have been that breath of fall air shivering in our thoughts.

I Love Pumpkins...almost as much as contests!

2009-10-17T18:07:00.004-04:00

I remember the tall stack of magazines sitting on my grandmother's kitchen table. Her friend had read them all, Architectural Digest, Better Homes & Gardens, and Southern Living, so she decided to pass them on. The Depression Generation believes strongly in "waste not, want not," and my grandmother wouldn't simply throw away this windfall of several subscriptions' worth. She wasn't interested in the lovely houses of people who had money and time to spend on inconsequentials, but what to do with those magazines?

For some reason her granddaughter came to mind. Thus was my introduction to the world of creating a comfortable, fashionable, shabby-chic, urban, mod, cottage-style home from the largest to "most charming" of establishments. I spent a summer paging through the magazines, stack after stack, reveling in the beauty of a winter garden or the stunning simplicity of a beach house built to swoop like a seabird over the sea. Finally I had read and reread them all, and wanted to clear out the feet-high stack to make way for the new semester's notebooks and texts, as well as my old yearbooks to bring all those old classmates to mind and figure out which ones I had promised to call and forgotten.

The need for space brought a purge of all but the few magazines which were easier to keep than tear each well-loved page and recipe from. The ones which made the cut were almost all Southern Living. (Sadly, Architectural Digest wasn't pillaged much at all).

This brings me to the point of this post: I love Southern Living and Sherri of the Matter of Fact and Everything in Moderation blogs just happens to be giving away a FREE year's subscription to Southern Living!

If you want me to win, don't go over there. It ups my odds. If by chance, though, YOU would like to win, please click the link in my sidebar or go to the contest post here. Best of Luck!

Button, button, who's got the button?

2009-10-16T21:00:00.003-04:00

I could have done a Twitter Ho: Back from the Dead Edition post, but even coming back from the dead (or the death heap that was my husband's laundry), I didn't have enough posts to write home about.

However, I did want to share my latest, greatest achievement: my new blog button! After thumbing through old pictures, deciding how best to feature the one I chose, and picking a catchy phrase to put on it ("Honey, how would you describe my blog in one sentence?" "Uh, about you and the kids?"), I was set and ready. I edited it down to an approximate bloggy button size and was ready to tackle my arch computer nemesis: HTML.

Once upon a time I took a class on HTML and computer code. It was on ye olde green-screen computer, and I remember something along the lines of algebraic equations. Needless to say, math is not my favorite subject, and I promptly forgot how to make the computer add without using the calculator as soon as I was through with that class.

Then there was the college course in Information Technology and Computer Basics. I mainly fiddled with PowerPoint (what can I say, I love pictures!) and again forgot anything that was taught about the finer points of Excel or Access.

My best friend is a computer whiz who writes her own codes and creates nifty things out of numbers and symbols. It's really like magic to me, and I'm no magician. Words I may tinker with every now and again, but numbers? Symbols? Unthinkable! Unfortunately, embedding an html code as text to be copied is a whole 'nother can of worms from just posting pictures in a margin, and I could have used some of my friend's computer dust to work a little magic on me.

Instead, I tried to cobble together every script tag known to man as I attempted to tell the computer that I wanted it to read a box with this script inside, hopefully scrolling if it was longer than I wanted. Time and time again the preview showed me nothing new, a blank space where my code should have been. I Googled, I Yahooed, I eHowed, and could not get that nonsense to turn to the gold I needed from the straw I was shoving at it hand over fist.

After a couple hours of this (I may not have a head for math or computers, but a hard head I do have!), I realized I needed a key to unlock this mystery: a keyword, to be precise. That key happened to be "disable," and from there I found a lovely person who posted the answer I needed to adapt from. Thank goodness for computer geeks who share their wealth of knowledge!

So now I have this beautiful bloggy button. If you collect them, feel free to collect mine. If you have one, give me a shout-out so I can add it to my collection (I do love me some buttons!).

Maybe this should have been titled "The Hard-headed Button that Could." Who knew so much went into a button?

Turning Over a New Leaf

2009-10-14T10:50:00.002-04:00

If this isn't your first visit (and it probably isn't), you might have noticed that there have been some changes around the ol' blog spot. When I first started this blog my husband was deploying and I wanted a way to keep him up to date with what was going on back home. Once he arrived at his final destination we realized that he would not be able to get online frequently, but the blog had already become an outlet for me. I tried to keep focused on the positive throughout the deployment, which might be why some months were particularly sparse for posts. Every deployment has its down times when the soul is becalmed and time doesn't seem to be moving at all.

Thankfully, I survived those times and found many more things to blog about as the weather warmed and time grew shorter. I also allowed a little more of my real self to shine through, instead of trying to be a Pollyanna. Many of you have been with me through this time, and I appreciate all of your support, both during the deployment and for my writing! I can't say that I've found a writing voice, but I've certainly found a community that keeps my wheels turning and my mind full of new things to say when I can catch a moment.

Now that the deployment is complete, we've entered a new phase: readjustment. Not only are we figuring out what works for us as a family now, we're also looking to the future and making decisions about where we'll go from here. To reenlist or not to reenlist, to apply for an internship or not to apply, to ask for a position or not to ask. Life continues to flow.

So thank you to everyone who has joined me on this ride. I hope I can adapt this blog to our new lives, whether they include the military or not. We will always be a part of that community, regardless. Now to look forward to turning over a new leaf, or watching the old leaf change color...it's fall, the season of change!

"How do you feel?"

2009-09-29T17:11:00.003-04:00

"So your husband is home from a deployment to Iraq. How do you feel?"

The reporter stood in front of me with his pencil poised over his spiral notepad, waiting expectantly for a take-away quote for his article. I glanced over at my newly-returned husband as the din of the soldiers, families, and community members reverberated around the gym.

How did I feel? Desperately tired after several nights short of sleep. We had been up late the night before decorating the armory in an explosion of red, white, and blue, followed by writing a paper for my class that morning. Sleep was as elusive as it had been on Christmas Eve as a child with my mind running in a thousand directions, trying to gather the loose ends of a thousand trailing thoughts and to-dos.

How did I feel? Relieved that after all the errands had been run, the chairs and tables had been set up, the balloons blown and tied, the food set up and the house cleaned, the time had finally come to allow my thoughts and worries to relax. My husband was safely home after one last plane ride, one last over-the-road haul.

How did I feel? Nostalgic for this armory, where we had spent so much time over the last several years. During the commander's address I ran my eyes over the flags hung to recognize battles long won, the foreign names as familiar as those of the towns all around. I wouldn't miss the separations, but I might miss the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging to something important, the feeling of a place and time in history.

How did I feel? Anxious to find out how much we had grown together and how much we had grown apart as a couple and as a family. Four hundred days is a long time to pass without each other, and facing the unknown together again was as new as a first date and as old hat as a worn, comfy sweatshirt.

How did I feel? Disappointed that things hadn't all gone to plan, that we hadn't been able to gather more of the community to welcome our soldiers, that there had been delays, that some things had gone undone. Even when the largest and most important things were taken care of, the voice of perfection whispered that it hadn't been just so.

How did I feel?
I glanced from my newly-returned husband back to the reporter as the excited, weary, aching grin on my face stretched even wider with the recognition. "I am thrilled to death," I drawled as I reached to slip under my husband's arm.

And I still am. My husband, my hero, is home!

A Lengthy Salute

2009-09-23T11:37:00.004-04:00

If you haven't clicked on my list of friends' blogs, you might not be aware of Divulge with Dani, a blog written by...you guessed it...my friend, Dani!

We met online several years ago through a military-related forum, and I've enjoyed getting to know Dani through many changes in both our lives. Although she lives in Canada and I in the U.S., we still share many of the same interests and viewpoints. When we don't, we broaden each other with new thoughts and perspectives. I respect Dani and count her as a true friend.

She has given me one more reason to admire her, though: from now through November 11th, Dani is celebrating an extended salute to military members. Her blog is dedicated to sharing the military experience with those who haven't been there, as well as to show respect and honor to those who have. I think it's a wonderful project she's embarking on, and I hope you'll join me in following Dani's thoughts in the next month and a half. Please feel free to link and pass her posts on to any military members or family members you know, as I'm sure Dani will share many things they'll appreciate. If you have any suggestions or would like something featured on her blog, contact Dani. She is open to all suggestions!

Kneading the Cares Away

2009-09-18T17:09:00.004-04:00

Instead of buying the "artisan" breads at the store on Fridays, I took up a new tradition: making my own. At first I was just hoping to make something close to the same heavenly tasting loaf as the congregation's favored baker, but along the way I fell in love with the process.

Baking isn't something that can be done in the microwave, and although many people enjoy using breadmakers, for me they leave something to be desired. Bread takes time, it takes energy, and to a point it takes skill. Ask anyone who's over-kneaded, or over-heated or under-sugared their yeast. The perfect loaf really is a work of art.

Like any artist, half the fun (or more than half) is the process. I have made bread before in my life, and the most I remembered was aching hands and tired arms from wrestling with that dough. Knowing what awaits, I sometimes sigh at the thought of making bread. Once I begin, though, the artist takes over. As I mix the flour, yeast, eggs, sugar, salt, and warm water, I focus on this bowl, stirring ingredients together into a foamy mush that transforms into a thickened mass. Finally, a slightly crumbly mound forms and I take it from the bowl.

This is my favorite part of breadmaking. One hand sprinkles and spreads flour across the smooth surface as the other sets the mound down and presses it. Then hand-over-hand I fold and press, turn and push, flattening a ball into a platter and doubling it into a sandwich before rolling it into a ball again. As my hands work an almost mechanical dance across and around the surface of the dough, my mind does the same. Thoughts from the day are pressed and squeezed, flattened and smoothed. I think about worries, I think about cares, I think about joys, and I think about God.

Then the extra flour has been soaked up into the dough and it sits, an elastic ball. I can't rush it into the oven yet, because like me, the dough needs time to rest. So I put it aside and rest as well. In time I wrestle with it again, and finally it will be ready for baking. There is a rhythm to breakmaking that is soothing and therapeutic. Much like the wisdom of Solomon, there is a time to knead and a time to rest. A time to bake and a time to eat.

Baking bread reminds me that we all need that rise and fall, ebb and flow in our lives. Sometimes we must work, sometimes we worry...but there are also times we must rest and times we must release the worries. Making bread is an excellent way to prepare for rest and peace. Hopefully, between the stretching and the growing, something edifying comes of all that work. Then the cycle is finished until next time, when I'll solve more problems while working the dough.

In Remembrance

2009-09-11T16:59:00.000-04:00

They say it's your birthday...

2009-09-02T17:09:00.002-04:00

Today is Helen at Random Musing's birthday, so Happy Birthday, Helen!

In honor of Helen's birthday, I'm posting a meme I found on her blog. Like her blog, it is random and may incur musing...most frequently musing over whether I've lost my mind, but that's not the point of Helen's blog.

USING ONLY ONE WORD! It's not as easy as you might think! Copy and change the answers to suit you and pass it on. It's really hard to only use one word answers.

1. Where is your cell phone? time-out

2. Birth order? first

3. Last thing you ate? words

4. Your mother? beautiful

5. Your father? impressive

6. Your favorite? books

7. Your dream last night? nah

8. Your favorite drink? cocoa

9. Your dream/goal? off-the-wall

10. What room you are in? living

11. Your hobby? obsession

12. Your fear? crazy

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? dunno

14. Where were you last night? Mosul

15. Something that you aren't? brunette

16. Muffins? blueberry

17. Wish list item? peace

18. Where you grew up? hometown

19. Last thing you did? comment

20. What are you wearing? lunch

21. Your TV? off

22. Your pets? barking

23. Friends? crazier

24. Your life? fantasy

25. Your mood? cantankerous

26. Missing someone? Hubby

27. Car? loud

28. Something you're not wearing? CrownJewels

29. Your favorite store? Walmart

30. Your favorite color? cerulean

33. When is the last time you laughed? yesterday

34. Last time you cried? yestereve

35. Who will resend this? None

36. One place that I go to over and over? restroom

Lacing up the Skates

2009-09-01T22:03:00.006-04:00

When I was in elementary school the local skating rink would host school nights once a month. I was so excited when my mom would drive me into town and give me two dollar bills...one for my entrance fee, the other for my skate rental. I'd walk in the door, smell the stale odor of popcorn, pizza, and leather, and breathe deeply. Then I would head over to the counter, stand on tippy toe to see over the ledge, and after removing a shoe to give to the employee I would receive a set of leather rollerskates, my prized possession.

I scuffed my way along the dirty carpet, worn thin from years of wheels clicking and clacking over it, to an alcove where the mom of one of my friends was guarding jackets and shoes. Once I dropped off my own pair of sneakers and shoved my feet into those unforgivingly hard skates, I jerked on the laces and painstakingly tightened each loop until I had reached the top and tied off both sets. Then straightening my pants back over the hightops, I would push to my feet and feel a slight rush in my head as I adjusted to being a wheeled creature instead of a sure-footed one.

Clumsily I pushed one foot and then the other, holding onto the rink wall for dear life until I was swinging myself up the ramp and out onto the varnished wood surface, trying to find my way into the swirl of skaters as the music beat into my brain. Eventually I let go of the wall and began to roll around the circuit in earnest, swaying my arms out for momentum and keeping an eye out for the students I envied most: the speed-skaters.

Most of us were mediocre or decent skaters, but a special few had an aptitude for taking flight like a duck low over water, and these were the ones that would create a breeze as they flashed past me. They were also the ones I had to be careful to avoid while trying to get out one of the many exit ramps so I could hobble over to the snack counter for a drink. But I loved their special, personal skates made of blue or pink or black leather, the in-line wheels instead of the traditional four rollers. I begged for and received a set of skates to practice with on the ten-foot-long sidewalk at home...the metal slip-over-the-shoes kind, not permitted on the skating rink surface because of the possibility of scratching. But I worked for hours at home, skating back and forth, trying to become a speed-skater, too.

Then one skate night I was sure I was ready. The DJ called for a break in order to clear the rink for the speed-skate competition, but I pushed my way onto the floor and managed to keep up for a good five feet...before the DJ requested that "the little girl in pink please leave the skate floor."

It broke my seven-year-old heart with a rush of shame and anger. Why wouldn't they let me try? I could do it! And that other small voice saying "you knew you weren't in their league. What were you thinking?" I had a hard time enjoying the rest of the skate that night, but I did go on to more skate events. I made sure to take a snack break when the speed-skate competition came up so I wouldn't embarass myself again, even years after.

Sometimes I still feel that way. I may be an adult, but the seven-year-old with the wild blonde hair escaping its braid whispers to me "what are you thinking? You know you're out of your league." She tells me that one day soon some adult will tap me on the shoulder and say "get off the floor...this competition is for real adults. Real mommies and wives, not little kids play-acting."

My adult self knows better than to listen for long, because there is so much to be done and so little time. But maybe it's time to listen to the little girl and allow her to be heard. Like an ignored child, she continually returns, repeating her complaint. Maybe it's time to take a break and allow the kid out of the box for a bit. A cry for attention will only get more insistent if it isn't answered.

No, I won't be trying on my skates. The last time I did I was unknowingly a month pregnant, and banged and bruised myself well and good. But maybe it's time for a walk in the park to feed the ducks, a bike ride with the wind in my ponytail, or a roll down a hill in the grass. Hopefully the little girl will know that the woman hasn't forgotten her...but she's no longer out of her league.

A little Pollen with your Coffee?

2009-08-31T14:00:00.000-04:00

What do coffee and pollen have in common? That's such a good question, and you'd never guess: my kids have made brilliant comments or observations about each. (Depending on your definition of brilliant, of course...we have lower expectations around here).

Our most recent FRG meeting was more of a conference affair, as I posted last week. Because it was out of town for the majority of the families, and the pleasure of our company was requested at 0800 on a Saturday morning, the National Guard kindly saw to our stay in the hotel where the meeting was hosted.

The sun was just peeking through the gap in the curtains as I was toweling off my hair and getting ready to put on a dash of makeup. The princess was still sleeping, stretched out under the duvet with a relaxed toss of her hand over one pillow. The little man, on the other hand, had hopped out of bed, ready for anything, and was wandering around the hotel room taking stock of everything.

I had already dressed and started the coffee in the in-room coffee maker before he rose, so I listened to his chatter while I took my time finishing my toilette. He would appear behind me in the mirror like an imp, and then disappear as his voice trailed behind, trying to catch up as he bounced from one interesting thing to another: the pool outside the window, the TV with the Weather Channel on, and my mirror, questioning what I was doing while he waited.

I glanced into the mirror to answer yet another question when I saw him look to the side, his eyes widened, and then look back at me. His reflection grew bigger as he bounded behind me to grab a pants leg and ask "Mommy, does this room have coffee?"

"Why, yes it does, little man," I answered.

He looked at me rapturously and said in all seriousness, "But Mommy! We could stay here!"

Who knew that all it takes for the care and keeping of a family is a room, beds, and a supply of coffee?

My daughter, the princess, is a little more down-to-earth than her brother. An in-room coffeemaker isn't such a curiosity, and she's more connected to things in nature than in the house. The princess has an eye for the details around her and a way with description that I sometimes envy.

On her birthday we were driving down one of those fun country roads that wend their way all over the hills and woods around here, if you're willing to leave the main thoroughfares. The road was gravelly and vegetation was preparing to overgrow it from the banks on either side, so even in a compact car we were travelling slowly and had a close-to-hand view of the flora around us.

The princess looked out her window, taking in the grasses and bushes and wildflowers as we passed them, then turned to lean toward my shoulder and say, "Mama, the flowers smell yellow."

"They smell yellow?"

"Yes, because I can see the yellow dust on the air around them, and I can smell it. They smell yellow."

I had to smile, because I could picture perfectly in my mind's eye what she was describing. I didn't have the heart to tell her, however, that it was that "yellow smell" that was giving her the sniffly nose she now has. Maybe I should...she might have a more imaginative way of explaining the yellow smell then.

"I don't know how you do it..."

2009-08-30T21:02:00.004-04:00

If I only had a dollar for every time I've heard someone say this to me since the beginning of the deployment...or really since the beginning of our split civilian/military life nearly six years ago. It's one of those phrases that is meant to express admiration for how well a person is surviving, but also conveys that the hardship is simply unimaginable to the speaker. It's hard for me to find an answer to "I don't know how you do it..." The thought trails off as I search desperately for something to say. In all honesty, as hard as a deployment is, I can think of others who are going through just as hard a time or harder. My father, caring for a wife with early-onset Alzheimer's. A friend whose daughters have severe medical problems that have required multiple surgeries and hospital stays. My neighbor, whose father has a degenerative brain disease. Another friend with four children, hospital bills from pancreas and gall bladder surgeries, and a husband nearly out of work. How do they do it, I want to ask.

I can look back at the time passed and realize that we've survived, but most of the time I don't understand anymore than anyone else exactly how. Maybe with a dash of thankfulness for all that we have, hope that we will continue with this life, and the love that sustains us through long separation. And of course, hot fudge sundaes.

There are always the down times, when I'm feeling as wrung out as a dishrag and don't think I can make it. That's when my wonderful husband steps in. Even from Iraq, he can sense when my strength is flagging and patiently reassures me that we can do this. One of his thoughtful emails contained a mention of the song below, which has been on heavy rotation in my car's CD player for a couple months now.

How do we do this? Because we hold on to the knowledge that the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss.

The Longer The Waiting [The Sweeter The Kiss]
Written by Pat McLaughlin and Roger Cook

Oh, the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss
It's better my darling, I promise you this
The next time I hold you, I'm not letting go
Will you wait for me darling, I need to know

Well, you know I'm a sailor and tomorrow we sail
It's a hard way of living but I know it well
And if I surrender my life to the sea
You can marry another, it's all right with me

Though we won't be together again 'til the spring
Just imagine the treasures I'll bring

Come lay with me, stay with me, soon I'll be gone
I will remember you all winter long
And when I return to the one that I miss
Oh, the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss
The sweeter the kiss

When the mornings are warm and the valleys are green
I'll come back from wherever I've been

Oh, the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss
It's better my darling, I promise you this
The next time I hold you, I'm not letting go
I will give up the ocean forever, I know
Forever I know

Oh, the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss
It's better my darling, I promise you this
The next time I hold you, I'm not letting go
I will give up the ocean forever, I know
Forever, I know

Kickin' it Old School

2009-08-29T10:07:00.005-04:00

The little man has been home from school the past couple days with an apparent reaction to his chicken pox vaccine. Just as a precaution, the school nurse sent him home, so we've been hanging out together. I have to admit, it's been fun to have him here to keep me company, but not being able to get on the bus and go to his class has broken his heart every morning. Even with this being Saturday, he pounced on me in bed to make sure I looked at his skin and gave him a clean bill of health..."for school today?" He was a little cheered by the fact that he wasn't missing anything on a Saturday, despite the bumps still being present.

With yesterday's rain, we've kept ourselves occupied by watching the first season of The Incredible Hulk, starring Bill Bixby as Dr. David Banner and Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. The little man has swung from hero worship of the Hulk to Spiderman and now back to the Hulk, thanks to this DVD gift from his grandfather. I have to admit to being thrilled with that change, because I identify with the Hulk. The intro to the show is a flashing red light that first appears to read "ANGER," but when the camera pulls back actually reads "DANGER." Being someone with a bad temper myself, the line Dr. Banner says to the reporter McGee tends to resonate: "Mr. McGee, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

I don't really like me when I'm angry, either. Unlike Dr. Banner, it doesn't take a thug punching me or tossing me into a wall or through a box to set off that Hulk instinct. This morning all it took was a shade of green and some pent up frustration mixed with a little loneliness and impatience.

A friend's husband will soon be returning home from Iraq. We considered ourselves battle buddies through this deployment. It's sad to say, but I am a bit jealous. I'm thrilled for her, but hurt for myself. That's part of this life...people are constantly coming and going, and different missions last different lengths. There's no faster way to start the hair flying than to cast aspersions on the Navy, Air Force, or Marines for not having 12 to 15 month deployments like the Army does. More mature wives will remember the mission differences, but frustration and loneliness make for good blinders on anyone.

Add to that swirl of green a bit of red: my husband's unit has sent their Con-X's home, but they will still be twiddling their thumbs in the sandbox for a few weeks yet. Why? Because that's how it is. I'm sure it's due to travel orders and logistics of space for returning units, but that doesn't make a forced separation for no good reason any easier. Having him home this close to the end only to send him back just makes that extra wasted time more galling.

So instead of looking on the bright side, that we're nearly done and (knock on wood) all has gone fairly well thus far, I'm having a Hulk day. The mix of frustration, sadness, loneliness, and emotional exhaustion is too deep-seated to be able to plumb its depths verbally. Instead, I feel myself mentally turning green, going primitive, and flexing my muscles while I release a deep, pent-up growly howl.

Once it's over, I'll slowly calm down and metamorphasize back into the mild-mannered wife, mother, and college student, wondering what happened and how I can get a better handle on it. But for now, I'm crashing through bars, throwing tables, and kicking around all the irritation that I've felt through this entire time.

Hey Army, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Army Wives, part-time.

2009-08-24T15:43:00.005-04:00

If you watch the Lifetime channel, you’re probably aware of the tv show “ArmyWives.” Based on the book Under the Sabers: The Unwritten Code of Army Wives by Tanya Biank, republished as Army Wives after the release of the show, it attempts to show the behind the scenes interactions of several soldiers’ wives at fictional Fort Marshall, SC. The show has hosted actual Army wives and uses Ms. Biank, an Army wife herself, in order to try to keep as realistic a story line and background as possible.

When it first aired, all of the online wives’ forums were abuzz. Some commented on the apparent mismatching of the Sherwoods, others on the hairstyle and lack of cover on Lt. Col. Burton in the premier episode. With developing storylines, even more irritation has been caused by infidelities and the concern that anyone watching the show would take away the view that typical Army wives are either overbearing, dependent and abused, catty, or unfaithful. The category that caused the most worry was, of course, “unfaithful.” Marriages struggle enough through the stressors of military life without any shadow of a doubt being thrown on a waiting wife or a spouse overseas. All adults are aware that such circumstances happen all too frequently, but to have such a blanket generalization thrown at us was intolerable to many in the military community.

In the end we all simply hoped the viewers would realize it was only a tv show…based on reality, but not actually real. The reality is that military wives are just like anyone else would be in the same circumstances, both good and bad.

The other day our Family Readiness Group (FRG) held a reunion briefing. Since the deployment is winding down, it’s time for us to begin mentally preparing for the changes ahead. Although not all of the topics covered were light-hearted, I was lucky to be seated at a table of wives who did our best to support each other and see the bright side of everything.

In other words, we were those wives, wise-cracking and joshing with our presenters, making light of unbearable subjects so that we could handle them. Most of the presenters were thrilled with our involvement, although I can’t speak for everyone. Each wife came from a different perspective: the mature leader who has been through military life and is ready for her husband’s imminent retirement; the wife who has been married only a couple of years, but is directing her boundless energy and talents into soldier support; myself, the wife who has been in the game long enough not to be a newbie, but has struggled with military life and tends to be the one looked to for taking a stand and making herself heard (also known as troublemaker-in-chief); and the long-time wife with her plate full, quietly directing the lives of three children with a steady hand while they wait for their daddy’s return. We each shared the common ground of children, husbands, and the deployment. We also shared our stories, our hopes, our thoughts, our fears, and most importantly, our laughs.

At the opening of the day with a “you might have Post Iraq Deployment Stress if you go into your local 7-11 with a hunting rifle slung across your back,” we laughed ourselves silly and one snorted, “Rebecca, that’s normal where you come from, anyway!”

Later during a discussion on marital communication, we gave thumping approval to the presenter’s assertion that women tend to expect a man to “know what’s wrong, if he loves her.” A chorus of “well, yeah” and “that’s right” was met with the father of a soldier laughing and admitting, “I learned years ago, you just listen, and when she’s done, you say ‘I’m sorry.’” We were ready to take him home…or set up a time for him to give our husbands a lesson.

The meeting wasn’t all light-hearted, as we also needed to cover domestic violence and suicide prevention. After the suicide presentation, we caught one wife wiping her eyes lightly with a napkin. The rest of us leaned in as one to ask what was wrong. She sat back, her eyes gone wide, and answered, “Nothing!” Then she realized how it looked and burst out laughing, saying, “I just yawned!” We all sat back, laughing together…and then laughed harder when we got strange looks for that out-of-place levity.

Our group has come through some tense times and had leadership struggles, miscommunication, and out-and-out verbal catfights, sometimes very similar to those shown on “ArmyWives,” but without the vicious subterfuge. Just like on the show, though, several of us have bonded closely through the deployment, and we support each other through laughter and yawns. Military life really does give the chance for special bonds through difficult circumstances.

Unlike the show, though, we’ve all been faithful. Some misconceptions we just can’t let go uncorrected. ;)

Photo credit: publicity still, Lifetime television

525,600 minutes

2009-08-20T14:18:00.019-04:00

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?

As of 8:20 this morning, it has been one year since my husband left home. Honestly, it's been longer if we're counting the schools and training last spring and last June, but the official pre-deployment training took him from home for good on this day last year.

So how do you measure a year? I measure it in the times when I was happy and when I felt the love of family and friends. This is my measure of the last year:

I hope this next year will be filled with even more laughter and love.

Lyric credits: The musical RENT, "Seasons of Love," lyrics and music by Jonathan Larson.

One For the Road

2009-08-19T18:50:00.003-04:00

"Uh, honey?"

"Yeah?"

"We're supposed to be going that way," I said as my gesture turned an arc to follow the direction we were supposed to have taken down the road...the one we weren't following.

He answered me with a nod and an untroubled gaze over the steering wheel, "I just wanted to come out this way."

I looked from his newly clean-shaven face toward the road curving back and forth in front of us, and a knowing smile tugged at my mouth.

"You wanted to see the mountains one last time, didn't you?"

He smiled at me and nodded again. We were leaving on time, which in Rebeccaland means without room to spare for traffic, road work, or meandering down country lanes to gaze at the mountains one last time. For some reason, perhaps because I was already full to bursting emotionally, I took this turn of events with unusual calm. Then again, the mountains have that affect on both of us..."our" mountains, we call them.

In the fall they are a checkerboard of colors, sometimes dingy from poor weather, sometimes brilliant in the bright sunlight under a jewel-blue October sky.

In the winter they sit there cloaked in grey-blue, sometimes smudging into the heavy clouds above, reminding me of feet under a heavy quilt, trying to stay warm on a bitter cold morning before the fire is lit.

In the spring they take on a pale green-grey misty appearance, sprinkled with light pinks and the off-white of the dogwoods and the faint hints of fuschia from the redbuds.

In the summer they are a brilliantly deep green, even when the valley below is looked peaked and parched from lack of rain. This is when they are most soothing to us both, our favorite time of year. We seek out their solace from the heat, from people, from busyness...from life so far removed from our yearnings for communing with nature and the God who breathed life into it.

We both breathe more deeply, feel more alive, and are visibly more at peace with ourselves and each other in the mountains. On a trip to the dusted and yet humid area around Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I could feel myself shriveling, unable to really breathe away from my natural habitat. He has experienced that same fish-out-of-water life for even longer while deployed to Iraq. There were three things he wanted to see more than anything when he got back for R&R: his family, his vehicles, and his mountains. It was his request several times, and we were thrilled to honor that desire. On the mountains we found late blueberries, cool streams, and silence from man and machine.

It came as no surprise to me that he wanted to soak in that emerald feeling one more time before leaving. He was having to say goodbye to his mountains just as he said goodbye to us.

But only for a short time. He'll be back in time for the next season to bask in their glowing embrace. Until then, he'll do as he did before, and soak them in through pictures and memories...especially that last lingering gaze. It was one for the road.

Mid-R&R update

2009-08-11T21:42:00.002-04:00

I know it seems like it, but I promise I have not fallen off the face of the earth. Just over a week ago I had the great joy of driving to Richmond to pick up my husband for his R&R...after the great frustration of deciding whether to trust MapQuest or VDOT. Life is a learning experience; this one taught me not to go halfsies on anything. I tried to do both sets of directions and only managed to get myself off track and headed into BFE, Southside. With a minimum of vituperation (mainly because I couldn't text all those thoughts to my husband and drive at the same time, so they were held mental hostage), I managed to un-lose myself. Since then we've had a series of adventures which have had me desperate to blog more than once...but this is the first time I've had to myself, and I've been enjoying every shared and un-solitudinous minute of the last week and some.

Just at the moment I'm listening to the gorgeous sounds of crickets chirping, cicadas buzzing, and the gentle undulating hum of the voices of my husband and children as they discuss everything under the moon. They are relaxing out on the deck as they wait patiently for the beginning of the meteor shower to appear through patches of cloud cover. It has been so long since I've been able to just sit and listen to them all talking as they ply him with their higher pitched questions and he answers them with his deep, reassuring rumble. All too soon R&R will be over and school will start, but just for tonight there is starlight and the night chorus, a beautiful backdrop to this beautiful moment with the cool blanket of night air wrapped around us.

Just in case you were wondering, I haven't disappeared, died, or desisted from blogging...just a short sabbatical to enjoy a dose of normal summer before the hard grind begins again. I promise I'll be back with more of the weird, goofy, sometimes thoughtful posts...but for now I'm loving the night, loving my children, and loving my husband. Happy R&R to us!

Picture credit: Cool Cakes by Lindsay

You Are My Sunshine

2009-07-31T13:02:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-29T14:01:00.006-04:00

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...

2009-07-28T15:36:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-25T08:00:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-24T13:47:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-23T21:40:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-07-22T14:01:00.004-04:00

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!

2009-07-21T18:20:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-19T11:00:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-07-17T17:21:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-07-15T22:12:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-07-14T22:02:00.010-04:00

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!

2009-07-12T16:41:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-07-09T19:54:00.006-04:00

"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

2009-07-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

2009-07-07T12:07:00.005-04:00

Every country boy and girl, and many who are not, has heard this imperative somewhere along the line: "Make hay while the sun shines!" If you're not familiar with the origins, you might wonder what on earth the speaker is talking about. Make hay? Is that sort of like a roll in the hay? But I thought hay was for horses? Then again, maybe I'm a hayseed and just don't know my hay from my wild oats. Or was that barley? Of course I could always reread Catcher in the Rye and see if Holden Caulfield knows more about these things than I do.

Being as how I'm a country girl with a farm to my back, though, I do know how to make hay. Not to say that I've done it, although my dad threw hay in his younger days to earn extra money. The closest I get to hay is rolling down the windows of the car and watching the wind blow through the grasses the same way it blows through my hair. I love to watch the whorls and waves of the breeze in the grass. The heads of grain hang heavy and bob up and down. Looking out over a field, it's almost as if an invisible hand is brushing across the tops to feel them tickle.

And then the farmer comes. Blades cut the grass at the ankles and all those tall shafts fall to lay on one another in the sun. Later the farmer will go over the field again, this time to churn the cut hay so that it will dry evenly and be prepared to bale. The farmer's partner in this venture is the sunshine which warms the grass and dries it, lifting a heavy green scent that the breezes carry all around to remind everyone what time of year it is. If the sun doesn't shine, the hay doesn't dry, and the farmer will be hard up for feed in the winter. Thus, we make hay while the sun shines.

I'll be the first to admit, I'm not a morning person. I can frequently be heard to allow that even God isn't up yet, so I shouldn't be either. (God and I will straighten out my theology one of these days. Until then, we're sleeping in). Because of this, I'd much rather make hay well after the sun has set, when the moon is out and the stars are glittering. Unfortunately, the moon does not make hay. Sometimes I have to be up at an ungodly hour to go about my day.

Isn't it always like that, though? We have to do what we can when the time is right for it, not necessarily when we're ready. Time waits for no man. Neither does the hay.

Daddy's Little Girl

2009-07-06T12:12:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-04T15:55:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-03T10:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Neighbors and Waves

2009-06-30T12:19:00.000-04:00

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?